I walked heavily to the bathroom, slammed the door, heard Biddy and Josh giggling outside, left the bathroom, went out into the backyard.

Josh laughed. ‘Wow, brother.’

It was nice to see him happy – good meds, good. He’d been relaxed to the point of indifference on finding out about Biddy and me, Sarah and her fledgling fleet. Live and let live, he’d said.

Biddy turned, eyes popping. ‘My god, Chris, you look amazing. Ah. Mayz. Ing. Fuck, that’s so sexy.’

‘You don’t think it’s too much?’

‘Uh … no.’ She passed me the joint, exhaled. ‘Do you?’

‘Well …’

Josh pointed at a pair of pinstriped boxers on the line. ‘We’ve been laughing about the fact you and me have the same undies.’

‘Oh, they’re Zac’s,’ I said. ‘Long story.’

Biddy stood inches from me, examining my work.

‘I was just going to wipe it off.’

‘Do not wipe it off,’ she said. ‘It’s a bit smudged, though. Come into the bathroom with me, I’ll help.’

‘You coming?’ I said to Josh.

‘Nah, all good, brother. I’m enjoying myself out here.’

We were going out dancing to celebrate Zac’s first full week at Kiki & McCall but, really, any excuse would have done.

I sat on the toilet seat, winced.

‘Just relax,’ Biddy said, closing in on my eyelids. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’

‘I won’t hurt you either.’

I’d texted her a selfie of me getting changed at the Brunswick Baths that morning, and she’d immediately replied HAWWWT!!!. I’d sent the same picture to Sarah and she’d replied, eventually: Can you get some bread on the way home?

‘Yeah,’ Biddy said, stepping back, pencil in hand. ‘It’s really good. Want to see it?’

* * *

Six hours later I was –

‘Uh,’ I said, ‘there’s more, move out the way.’

Warm, gushing, acrid, foul. We were in My Aeon, the nearest nightclub to our house – I’d taken a second cap.

A hand on my back, sliding up towards my neck. Another on my thigh, holding tight. Four arms, maybe more, touching me in some capacity. Sitting on a sticky floor, against a wall, eyes closed, legs apart, head down, music thumping.

With my father once on the freeway, inching slowly past a car crash: two bloody heads, slumped shoulders. Me, five years old, head swimming – get it down between your legs, breathe.

‘Fuck, watch out.’ Another gush, hot and watery.

He’d been stronger, my father, was no longer.

My mother, on a drip with what looked like pomegranate juice, one of seven people on leather chairs reading books, knitting scarves, on their phones. ‘Just look at us all, Chris – young, old, rich, poor. It doesn’t discriminate.’