‘Did you see Mandy again?’ She hears how desperate she sounds.

‘No, love. A day or two later, you and your mother came back.’

She covers her mouth, swallowing bile. ‘Didn’t anybody wonder where she went?’

‘I know I did. It never sat easy with me, that she didn’t say goodbye.’ Doug smiles weakly at her. ‘Nobody wanted to upset your mum, Isla. She had a new baby soon after she got back. Nobody wanted to tell her that her husband played away, God love her. We didn’t mention the Mallories and we got on with our lives. You know how it is.’

‘I think I do.’

He scratches his head through his hat. ‘Sorry.’

She lets herself out of his gate, leaving him kneeling on the grass, gathering leaves and twigs into a bucket. She stops at the corner where Bay Street meets Dawson Place and vomits into the roots of a lemon tree. Across the street, someone pulls the roller blind down in their front room. The houses are smug looking, she thinks, with their neat exteriors, dark windows reflecting shrubs and hedges. This is the community she grew up in, where people know everything and say nothing. A man can kill a woman and his neighbours will look away. She vomits again, wipes her mouth and sobs loudly for her dad, whom she no longer believes in, whom she still loves. She turns towards town, where she will find her seat at the bar and she will stop thinking and remembering. It will all stop, finally. She quickens her step.

42

Sydney, 1967

There was an inch of instant coffee left in the jar. Joe filled the kettle and lit a cigarette, sat at the kitchen table waiting for it to boil. He didn’t want coffee, but he’d poured all the alcohol in the house down the kitchen sink half an hour ago. He was shaking a little and his bones were aching. Chattering teeth. He’d have to take a shower before he went anywhere, find a clean shirt.

He went to the back door and found himself trying to catch sight of Mandy. She hadn’t come outside in a while to hang out her washing or sit under the vine. He didn’t like that he was standing here hoping to see her. It was getting to be a habit.

She’d got under his skin. He could think of nothing but how to make up for that day he went over and outstayed his welcome. A dark shame washed through him at the thought of it. He remembered her face, the way she’d looked at him. He hoped it wasn’t as bad as he feared. Hard to know, with his memory shot to pieces and the constant shadow of self-loathing, the sweaty distortions between drinks. But he had a feeling he’d scared her. He’d been a fucking creep. He clenched his fist, the not-quite-healed one, and the pain was a brief distraction. He would make it right. He needed to wipe the slate clean, to overlay that day with a new, better one.