Isla thinks of her dad, out cold on the couch with his shoes on, his face alert in sleep. She sees him in the white rage of his hangover, lashing out, clearing ornaments from the dresser with the sweep of his arm. She can’t picture him sober or smiling. When she sees his face he is flushed with drink, his eyes fogged. Blood on the couch, on the carpet. Scott screaming.

She stares out the window at the white bark of the gums, their precise shape against the sky. There is an ache in her chest where something has shifted, something that has always held her upright.

‘Turn off here,’ she says, just in time.

Louisa makes the turn and the road narrows, the fibro houses appearing at the side of the road. Isla directs her to the community centre where Steve works. A few cars are parked outside already. Isla spots the woman who works at the front desk climbing the steps to the entrance and passing through the glass double doors.

They sit in the car and stare up at the building. Louisa buttons her coat and tucks the collar of her pyjamas out of sight. A red ute parks across the street and a man gets out, opens the boot and lifts out a crate full of files. He is short and broad, bald-headed, in the same blue checked shirt and jeans.

‘That’s him,’ Isla says. ‘That’s Steve.’

Louisa leans forward. ‘So it is,’ she says. They watch Steve walk up the steps into the building. ‘Are you sure about this, Isla?’

‘No. But I don’t know what else to do.’

‘He was always such a decent man.’

‘I’m not sure about that.’

‘He had a horrible job to do. He always hated it.’

‘I don’t think that lets him off the hook.’ Isla unfastens her seat belt. ‘Come on.’ She gets out of the car. Behind her she hears her mum slam her door shut, her thongs slapping against the bitumen. She waits, and they walk together into the reception area. The rows of plastic chairs are empty.

The receptionist swings around, considers them both, unsmiling. She runs a hand over her bleach-blonde hair. ‘We’re not open yet,’ she says.

‘I wondered if we could speak to Steve Mallory,’ Isla says.

The receptionist leans forward, elbows on the desk, her hands clasped in front of her. ‘Did you make an appointment this time?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘He’s busy. Staff meeting at nine for an hour. Sometimes overruns. Could be a long wait.’

‘I think Steve will want to see us,’ Isla says.

‘Don’t tell me, it’s urgent.’

‘It is.’

‘You gotta get back to London.’

‘I do.’

Behind her, Louisa clears her throat. ‘Do you mind if I use the bathroom?’

The receptionist takes a moment to respond, taking in Louisa’s outfit; reaching around her molars with her tongue. ‘We’re not open,’ she says, finally.

‘We’ll get back on the road once I’ve been to the loo,’ Louisa says. ‘Only I really need to go. Sorry.’