He stayed where he was. She drew in a deep breath.

‘All right. Jesus.’ He stepped into the sun beside her and stooped down to speak into her ear. She heard him swallow, the muscles tensing in his throat. ‘I don’t like being lied to,’ he said.

‘Go away, Joe.’

His lips brushed her ear. ‘I’ll see you soon.’

He straightened up, unsteadily, and walked down the steps to the gate.

She fell into the house, shut the door behind her and put the safety catch on. Her hands were slow and clumsy. She stood with her back to the door, tried to get her breathing steady. She could still smell him: sour skin, stale smoke. Jesus, he was only next door. Yards away.

In the kitchen she took the back door key from its hook. She locked it, put the key on the kitchen table and sat down. Could he force the door? Would he do that? The pane was cracked anyway, it was hardly secure. She sat where she was, facing the door, and cried. The sky outside was cloudless, the trees lush and green, the vine heavy with fruit for the first time in years. She watched a lizard run along the windowsill. If she turned her head she’d see Joe’s yard, the edge of his deck, his shrubs.

She went to the sink, turned the tap on full and put her head and shoulders under the cold water. She filled a glass and drank it down. It occurred to her to call the police. She could speak to Ray direct and tell him – what? The bloke next door was blotto, he’d refused to leave and he’d scared her. She knew she wouldn’t do it. Not because Ray wouldn’t listen but because she was to blame.

The envelope of cash Steve left her was still on the table. It was heavy-looking, full of notes. She counted it twice, sorting it into tens and twenties. The house was quiet, just the rattle of the fan, a dripping tap in the bathroom. Three flies circled the room, trapped and stupid, throwing themselves at the windows.

41

Sydney, 1997

Isla knocks on Douglas Blunt’s front door. She stands up straight, runs her fingers through her hair and smooths it down. She cups her hands around her mouth to test her breath. Today she is holding onto the wagon by her fingernails. A part of her sits in a bar with a whisky on ice, waiting.

‘Isla?’

Doug is standing in his front yard, wearing his low-brimmed sun hat, despite the chill in the air. His shorts bulge at the hips where he’s tucked his shirt in.

‘Thought I heard you,’ he says.

She walks back down the steps to meet him. ‘I need to know what you told the police,’ she says.

‘If you’re going to lay into me again—’

‘I’m not. I won’t.’ She holds her hands up. ‘I need to know what happened.’

‘I think you should ask your dad.’