I hurried through to the kitchen, yanked the iron from the cupboard under the sink, saw – was that a used condom in the rubbish? Had Sarah taken it home to bin it? Had Assi been to the house without my knowledge? Zac reckoned Sarah and Assi were falling in love – in love! I’d only met him once, at My Aeon, his eyes and hands on Sarah. I threw my shirt onto the floor, fucking come on. Damp and therefore pointlessly ironed shirt – check. Went back into the bedroom, grabbed a hoodie for the evening just in case I wasn’t coming home – check. Two pairs of pants rolled into tight bundles – check. Knelt on the backpack to squish everything down and get the zip round. Jesus, come on, fucking come on – check.

Keys? Where had I put them? Running from room to room, no, not there, not there, not fucking there. Back into the bedroom. Had I put them in the backpack? I dragged everything out, found the keys under the toiletry bag, rammed everything back in, knelt on the backpack, forced the – come on! – zip, got the pack onto my back, got my bike, walked it onto the veranda, closed the door, made sure it was locked – check.

The bike path was busy. I stood on the pedals, overtook frequently. A man with arm-warmers swore at me as I swerved in front of him to avoid a head-on crash. But fuck him – it was the wrong time to be giving me anything but friendly vibes.

At the next lights he drew up alongside me. He was in his forties, flabby. ‘You could ride a bit safer, mate. It’s not a race.’

‘It is for me.’

‘You nearly caused an accident back there.’

‘Yeah, nearly. But I didn’t, did I?’

‘That’s no excuse, mate.’

My legs were shaking. ‘Sorry, who are you – the neighbourhood vigilante? Go fuck yourself, you fucking prick.’

It took a while for the lights to change.

When they did, I accelerated, dropping my aggressor, who, for fifty metres or so, had been trying to prove he was faster than me. Ha. Get some aerobic conditioning, you fucking arsehat.

Another man riding a hundred metres ahead. I chased him, reached him, passed him. Then two women up ahead – the same. Thirty metres from the intersection, the lights turning amber – fuck it, yes, just steam ahead, mate, full noise, yeah.

At work, I dried myself with the T-shirt I’d been wearing, got dressed, things falling out of my backpack, rubbed moisturiser into my face, cleaned my hands with paper towels, rolled on deodorant, arranged my drenched hair, stuffed everything back into the backpack, my fucking backpack, so I could get to my desk from the bathroom in one journey.

* * *

Aidan’s counsellor had encouraged him to make a list of his positive qualities, to use as an aide-mémoire whenever his anxiety peaked and his thoughts started spiralling.