‘I know where I was though.’

‘Yeah.’ I nodded and looked at the phone again. Those were some pretty interesting numbers he had there.

I was stuck on a detail. ‘Oh my god,’ I said. What hangs limply in the afternoon but by dusk billows free? Vivian’s gauzy curtains. His window had been closed when Dan and Lachlan dropped me off in Richmond after lunchtime but, when I’d left that evening, the curtains had waved after me. Hadn’t they? I tried to picture it . . .

‘Chris L, do you trust me?’ I said.

‘No,’ he said.

‘You’re meant to say yes,’ I said. ‘You’re just in shock. I have to get you home. Here.’ I drank the rest of his beer for him, warm and displeasing, stood up, lifted his arm until he followed me to a standing position. I picked up the wet boots and handed them to him, he collected them in his arms, then I scooped up Vivian’s wallet, keys and phone and shoved them in my pockets.

When we got to Chris L’s place, which was just a street away, he looked pale and soft the same way as he had at the beach house yesterday morning. I wondered if he’d managed to get very much sleep. I wondered if he knew about Dan’s plan to move in with him, which I had a bad feeling about, and knew that he should too. I knew it could not work, sharing a place with Dan and Lachlan. He’d be pushed out by February. Poor Chris L. I saw it all.

He did not trust me, and in fact he could trust no one. ‘Will you be okay upstairs?’ I said. I knew that Dan and Lachlan would not have made it home yet.

He took a step forward and kicked me.

I stared at him.

‘Ow,’ I said.

He looked stunned by his action. ‘Sorry,’ he said.

‘That’s okay, Chris L,’ I said.

I backed away and left.

Every traffic light on the way to Richmond had it in for me and this taxi. We stopped and started, chugged and stopped, I watched the meter rise. It finished at a dollar under the amount I had, so I was screwed until payday. But I’d made it, I was here.

I left the cab.

My phone buzzed.

‘WHERE R MY SHOES.

DAN.’

Not now. I was panicking. ‘I have them now!’ I wrote.

Another buzz; it was a picture message of the plastic bag, torn open, gutted, with the awful proof laid bare.

‘Wow! Where did you find them?’ I texted.

‘IN LACHLAN’S BOOT,’ Dan texted.

‘Sounds like Lachlan has some explaining to do,’ I wrote. I knew this would only make things worse, but I had other problems to deal with.

I looked up at the apartment. Windows open, curtains out. No sound and no billowing. But I had been correct.