He ground out his cigarette in the saucer he was using as an ashtray. Mandy had used him, he could see that now. She’d wanted out of her marriage. Grounds for divorce. She’d probably timed the whole thing so Steve would come home and find them like that. Just as he’d started to get sweet on her. Next thing he knew, he was getting thumped and she was standing there holding a baby, someone else’s black baby, telling him to go home. He’d thought he was going to die. He undid his collar and rubbed at his neck. Shame his right arm was out of action. He could have hit the bastard harder.

They’d been jumpy about the baby. It was one of those kids that Steve had to remove for work. It had to be. Steve must have liked the look of it and decided to keep it for himself. It probably wasn’t official. It was outrageous when you thought about it. He knew he’d get away with it because he was a copper and he knew the right people. And the kid’s family had the whole system stacked against them.

Joe stood, shut the back door behind him and reached for the whisky. Poured it quickly, a big one, hand shaking a bit but this wasn’t too early in the day. Almost five-thirty. He’d put a full day’s work in – his first in over a week – and he’d earned a drink a dozen times over. The others would be in the bar by now, downing the schooners before they went home to the wife and kids. The second glass was smaller and he didn’t rush it. Even found some ice. Steady hand. No need to get drunk.

The lounge room was a tip. Dirty plates on the coffee table and a stain on the carpet where he’d knocked a bottle over. The ashtrays were all full. He disgusted himself. The whisky was no solution but it was all he had to lean on, now that Mandy had let him down. The evenings were long and it was too quiet; even with the TV on he couldn’t forget he was on his own. The house had an echo to it. Every footstep was amplified.

He sat down on the couch, leaned back and looked at the blank TV screen. Stan had taken some of his workload off him. He’d been good about it and his kindness had made it worse somehow, more humiliating. It was a challenging job, Stan had said. It was looking like the architects had changed their minds again and the proscenium arch in the major hall would have to be dismantled. It would be an Opera House whose major hall was a concert hall, not suitable for opera. The men were complaining, walking off site saying they’d had enough, and a few months back he might have joined them. He’d been an idiot to think he could rise up the ranks on something like this.