‘Cattle?’ asks Benny.

‘I don’t know, Benny. Swear to God.’

Could Dad have some reason I haven’t thought of for wanting to see Abby and me at his place? Maybe it’s to show off the farm, but what if it’s something else? What if he’s run out of money? What if he needs to sell up and live with one of us? I’d sooner kill myself.

A wave of nausea comes over me. I’m too harsh on him. What if my father is sick? What if he’s lonely and that woman with Mum’s ring has been taking advantage of that? That dead woman. Sweat beads form on my forehead, nose, and under my moustache.

‘I run a restaurant in Bali,’ I say. I have to think about something else, anything. No dead women, trapped babies, sick fathers, shitty sons.

Reg raises his eyebrows. ‘Do you now?’

I swivel so my back is against the bar. I watch slashes of rain hit the stained-glass windows. The world on the other side of the glass is black. By day, the coloured glass will make everything easier on the eye, tolerable for the mind. Rose-coloured.

‘Where’s Bali anyway?’ Reg asks, as he rolls off his stool and yanks up his shorts. ‘Are you a wog? You look like a wog.’

‘Bali Hai, Reg,’ says Mick. ‘From the movie.’

‘Don’t you ever watch the news, Reg? They had a plane crash there, in Bali,’ adds Troy. ‘Plane crashed into a mountain. It was on the news.’

‘Why would I be worrying about Bali?’ Reg says. ‘Some of us have work to do,’ and they laugh phlegmy, smoky laughs.

‘I’m calling it a night,’ Mick says. ‘Clear off, all of you. I want to go to bed.’

After the three regulars bid their farewells, Mick guides me up the stairs. We walk to the end of the hall, where he opens the last door to the left. ‘The royal suite,’ he says and walks away.

The room is large and spartan, with a high pressed-metal ceiling, painted the same dusty white as the wood-panelled walls. The light bulb is so far up it’s of little use. None of the furniture holds its own: a skinny bed covered with a khaki blanket stands dead centre, next to a spindly side table gussied up with a crocheted doily and an empty vase. A lumbering brown wardrobe leans lopsided in a corner. A scrap of rug lies on the floorboards next to the bed, like a flea-bitten stray.

I left a baby to die.

I left a woman lying in mud.

I repeat the words to remind myself of what I’ve done. But I’m too drunk to make sense of it, to feel it. I sway as I stand in front of the toilet (the bathroom blessedly close), thinking about how I’ll see Sal in a few weeks, and realising I’m hungry. When did I last eat?

I think about how bizarre it is that Troy knows about the plane crash, all the way out here. After that crash there’d been a group of distraught American backpackers in KD who’d had friends on board. As people had milled around them, offering condolences, they’d lurched from highly strung to morose, unsure what to do with their grief other than pass it around in words until they’d worked the edges off it.