The kettle rumbled. He looked again across the yard into her kitchen but there was no sign of her. It was getting dark. When she didn’t appear he opened up the drawer next to the stove, the second one down with all the odds and ends: the dishcloths and the can opener, the cotton reels and paperclips. He felt around for the keys, the ones with the string looped through them, with Steve and Mandy written on a cardboard tag. He knew they were there, he’d only checked this morning, but he kept returning to them, rattling them in the cave of his cupped hand.

He spooned granules into a mug and lifted the kettle. He poured, missing the mug, and splashed scalding water over the counter and his bare foot. The pain was clean and thrilling, and in shock he thumped the counter with his broken bloody hand. Fuck it. Fuck it. He hopped across the room and back, found a damp cloth and threw it over his foot. It hurt more than his head, which was something. He sat and shut his eyes a moment, let the room spin slowly, let the worst of it pass. The cigarette he’d lit earlier had burned down in the ashtray so he lit another one and picked up the coffee, managed a sip and put it down before he burned himself again. His scalded foot was starting to blister. A livid red welt across the skin.

The coffee was harsh on his empty stomach but he sipped it anyway. He had two calls to make and he needed to make them sober, to say the right thing. He’d come to hate the phone these past few months.

He took the coffee through to the lounge room. The TV was on – Harold Holt talking about Vietnam again. He turned it off. It was dark but he didn’t want to open the curtains and look at the state of the place. There was a scrap of paper somewhere, a note he’d written to himself after he left Mandy’s place, so he’d remember what she’d told him. He felt around on the couch, found a cigarette burn and a sock. He lay down, pushed his face into the filthy cavity behind the cushions and allowed himself the darkened, private knowledge that he would go to the bottle shop after he’d made these calls. He would replace the bottles he’d tipped down the sink. He would not be able to stop drinking and the best he could do was to manage it.

Sitting up, he looked at the phone on the coffee table next to him. The note was there, where he’d left it. He picked it up, dusted away the cigarette ash. But first he dialled the UK number from memory.

‘It’s me,’ he said, when his wife picked up.

‘Joe? It’s early here. Everyone’s asleep.’

‘I can’t live without you.’

A pause. He thought of Mandy, the way she’d lain back for him on her kitchen floor with her jeans around her knees. The way she’d unbuttoned her blouse that day; the way she’d held him by the neck. Her smell.