Instead, he navigated to a job search site and scrolled through the current vacancies in the area. There were a couple of warehouse and labouring possibilities, but even the thought of clicking APPLY NOW exhausted him. His first job out of prison had been up at the mines. Just labouring, but better money than you’d get doing the same work anywhere else. Plus there’d been room and board provided, every second weekend off to do what you liked in town. It’d been hard work but an easy life and he’d managed almost four years before he’d pushed his luck on the detox time after a weekend bender and returned a positive alcohol test on the Monday morning.

  The best job he could get after that was collecting trolleys at a shopping centre in town, but that ended when the HR department followed up on his non-supplied police check and he had to admit he’d been in prison. They said it wasn’t his record that was the problem but his lying about it. Always be one or the other, though, wouldn’t it?

  Mercy was furious on his behalf. They’re not legally allowed to ask, she reckoned, unless it’s a place where you need a Working with Children Check, and even then a drug offence isn’t necessarily a deal breaker. She said this like it was helpful, though she knew that the only job he’d ever wanted to do absolutely needed a WWCC and that given the choice between an employee with a drug conviction and one without, anyone with half a brain would pick the second. Not to mention the fact that the question’s illegality was a technicality at best. What was he going to do? Drag the centre through the courts for unfair hiring practices? ’Scuse me while I withdraw the ten thousand bucks to pay my lawyers.

  Her righteous anger on his behalf was pretty bloody great, though. They’d been seeing each other for a couple of months at that point, having first hooked up at the shopping centre Christmas party, and he assumed she was in it for the sex, because, let’s be real, what else could a gorgeous, super-smart pharmacist mum-of-two want with an uneducated, bogan, ex-drug dealer trolley boy? But when she went off her head about his getting fired and got her dad to help him find another job, it was honestly the most loved he’d felt in years. Maybe ever. He grew a whole foot taller just listening to her defend him. He’d moved in a week later, adjusted easily to life with two sweet, funny, needy little kids. Which is not to say he didn’t look forward to the one week a month they were with their dad and Mercy ground him almost to dust (happy, grateful, lovestruck dust) with all the fucking.

  Anyway, turned out his initial instincts were spot on and the happy family bullshit was, well, bullshit, and here he was now, retrenched from the warehouse and fired from his role as Mercy’s fuck toy/live-in babysitter and therefore unable to ask her dad to help sweep his past under another HR rug, and so it was back to sitting across from blank-faced recruiters buzzing with anxiety about if and when he should disclose that he’d been locked up.

  Lena’s name popped up on his screen and he clicked through to the new message:

  Shit. Maybe you’re the one who’s dead and rotting and that’s why you’re ignoring me. Soz if true. My bad

  That one he heard. It made him laugh out loud (like a self-talking lost cause?) and it gave him the next step. He took a gulp of lukewarm coffee, dug his nails into his palms while the wave of tooth pain crested, navigated away from the job ads, then used almost every dollar left in his account to book a one-way ticket to Sydney, leaving that arvo.

  Meanwhile, old mate in the corner had switched up his routine: No rain on the radar, he reported. Hot, gusty winds forecast across the state. No relief in sight.

  LENA

  Three hours into Lena’s Friday night shift, right when she was due her tea break, a man buying a kilo of extra-lean pork mince and a four pack of top-of-the-range toilet paper asked her if he knew her from somewhere.

  ‘Don’t think so,’ she said. ‘Do you need a bag?’

  ‘Yeah, give us a bag, thanks. I do know you, though. I’m sure.’

  Lena made herself look him in the face. Early twenties, pale skin, dark-blond goatee. Could be a student. Or just the kind of bloke who spends time swapping amateur porn with other blokes on the internet. ‘Probably seen me in here. I work a lot. That’s eleven forty-five. Cash or card?’

  ‘Nah, I never come here.’ He put his head on the side. ‘You on Tinder?’

  ‘No. Eleven forty-five.’ She pushed the EFTPOS machine towards him.

  He slapped his card against the reader, looking down at her chest. ‘How come you don’t wear a name tag?’

  She resisted the impulse to cross her arms over her breasts. ‘Lost it.’

  ‘So you’ll have to tell me your name then.’

  ‘Jane. Is there anything else? I need to close my register.’ She turned to her cash drawer, never wished so hard in her life for a queue to form.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Jane. I’m Zac.’ Out of the corner of her eye she saw him pick up his bag and then hold his phone out towards her. She would not look.

  ‘I’ll keep an eye out for you,’ he said. ‘Message you next time you pop up on here.’

  She was going to throw up. Or scream. She pulled a Handi Wipe from the container under her counter, wiped up the moisture that had seeped out of his meat pack before she’d bagged it. It wasn’t much. A patch of sweat. She scrubbed at the belt, taking off months-old grime. Kept going until she could be sure he’d left.

  In the tearoom, she told Barb about the man. Laughingly, like it was a clumsy pick-up attempt because probably that’s what it was.

  ‘I dunno how you do it, you young ones,’ Barb said. ‘All this online dating palaver. I’d never have gotten hitched if I’d had to do all this selfie swiping stuff, worrying the next customer coming through has already had a good look at me and my proclivities on his phone.’

  ‘I don’t do any of that,’ Lena said. ‘He didn’t know me at all. Just being a creep.’

  A couple of shelf-stockers passed by. One mumbled something to the other and they laughed, side-eyeing Lena. The taller one saw her looking, stuck his tongue through a V of his fingers.

  She stood, fire all through her. ‘You got something to say?’

  ‘To you? Nah, love.’

  ‘You sure? Because it seemed like you did just now.’

  ‘Calm down,’ the other bloke said.

  ‘Let ’em be.’ Barb touched her arm.

  ‘I’ll let ’em be when they stop talking shit and making obscene gestures.’

  ‘Obscene gestures?’ He threw his hands in the air then brought them down in a chopping motion on either side of his crotch, pushing his groin towards her. ‘Like this, you mean?’

  ‘For god’s sake,’ Barb said.

  ‘Get the fuck away from me.’ Funny how easy it was to say now. It was as if saying it to the RA had unstopped the bottle and all the fuck-offs fermenting inside were bubbling out. ‘Just fuck right off, I mean it.’

  ‘Could report you to management for talking like that.’

  ‘Report this.’ Lena stuck her finger up.

  They left, laughing. Barb said something about not rising to the bait. Lena couldn’t listen. The whole world was bait. She couldn’t move without getting hooked through the guts.

  I think people at work know

  What happened? from Annie.

  Just comments and looks and stuff. Sleazy shit

  Fuck em, from Lou.

  Go to Human Resources, Annie wrote. Tell them you’re being harassed #metoo. They’ll shit themselves

  Human resources! Would that be ancient Yvette who still collated the timesheets by hand, or the snappy bitch of an office assistant who spoke like organising the electronic funds transfer was fucking rocket science, met any questions about late or wrong payments with an exasperated sigh and a lecture about how complicated the system was? Maybe it was the store manager, a man Lena had never seen let alone spoken to, or his 2IC, who was known to the women of the store as the Creeper?

  Nic would get it.

  Nic was not an option.

  Think I’ll just quit. Like right now. Just walk out

  That’s what I’m talkin about! Fuck. Them. From Annie.

  That’s my girl. Walk with your head held high, said Lou.

  But later that night, Lou texted again: Sorry about the work sitch. That must suck

  What doesn’t these days?

  You, girl. You do not. Hang in there

  Back at Nic’s, three hours earlier than she should have been and with a whole new series of messages to delete—these from her manager—ex-manager—she turned on the TV, watched without registering what she was seeing for a long while. Slowly some of the content leaked into her consciousness. A reality show where old English people brought fancy shit down from their attics and presented it to other old English people who declared it was worth hundreds or thousands of pounds and then, as often as not, the owners declared they would keep it because of its sentimental value and Lena thought, Bullshit, that ugly fucking figurine will be up on eBay before the credits roll.

  Oh. An obvious solution. She’d always been a bit slow. Not stupid, though. She knew there wouldn’t be any items worth thousands in this mess, but there were so very, very many items that even a buck or two for each would add up nicely.

  It took an hour or so to figure out the best way to go about it. The hallway was the only clear space so that was where she worked. Spare light bulbs seemed to be the one consumer item Nic didn’t buy in bulk, so Lena had to pull one out of a bedroom lamp and then risk ending up beside her aunt in hospital by standing on her toes on a rickety chair to change it. Light on, body in one piece, Poison sing-screaming, she got to work. Wet wipes and phone (on airplane mode) on one side, garbage bags on the other, she started on the first crate, pulling out an item at a time. If it was unbroken, untorn and unfaded, she wiped or shook it clear of dust, laid it to best advantage on the actually pretty nice retro-looking floorboards and snapped a photo. These items made a neat, single-depth line against the wall. Broken, torn or faded beyond repair went into a garbage bag. Those items needing a button sewed, a crack glued or other minor repairs went back into the crate or box of origin to be dealt with later.

  Much of what she photographed was, in her opinion, useless crap, but she’d spent enough time scrawling through Gumtree and eBay and Etsy to know that people sold and bought useless crap all the damn time. The key was to make the price low enough that people felt they were getting a bargain, but high enough that they didn’t realise they were actually doing you a favour by getting rid of your garbage for you.

  When there was no more room in the line across the wall, she started on the other side. When that was filled she moved to the armchair, disconnected from airplane mode and created a new web-based email account and vendor profile. She uploaded the pictures and descriptions, making sure to note that pick-up was free, delivery would be Australia Post rates.

  Yellow t-shirt, ladies, size S. Good condition. $3

  Orange terry-towelling shorts with white racing stripes, men’s, size 34. As-new condition. $3

  Red-and-white-striped sundress, ladies, size XL. Never worn. Tags still attached. $5

  Canvas tote bag with retro-style drawing of a cat in sunglasses. Good condition. $2

  White leather handbag, 80s-style with tassels. Leather in good condition, zipper broken. $3

  Dark brown teddy bear wearing red bow tie, 45 cm, brand-new, tags still attached. $6

  Original Cabbage Patch Doll, red curly hair, very loved, with some smudges on cheek and one shoe missing. $4

  Little Bo-Peep plastic toy. Teeth marks on staff, otherwise good condition. $1

  Set of four blue-and-white-gingham cotton placemats, never used, labels attached. $2

  Set of twenty-four Cleo Magazines from 1980 through to 1990. Make an offer.

  Child-sized pale blue plastic clothes hangers. 50c each or 10 for $4

  25 jam jars, various sizes, some with labels attached, all with lids. Clean. $6

  Kmart-brand white canvas shoes. Ladies. Size 9. Never worn. Tag attached. $5

  Girl’s summer nightie. Cotton/polyester blend. Pink with Frozen picture. Good condition. $2

  Pet rock, light brown, 3 cm, plastic eyes. $1

  Pet rock, dark brown, 3 cm, plastic eyes. $1

  Pet rock, dark brown, 5 cm, plastic eyes. $1

  Pet rock, white and brown marble effect, 3 cm, plastic eyes. $1

  Pet rock, red and brown marble effect, 3 cm, plastic eyes. $1

  Pet rock, tan and black marble effect, 3 cm, plastic eyes. $1

  Mousepad, 35 cm x 30 cm, cartoon mouse print. $1

  Mousepad, 35 cm x 30 cm, cartoon kangaroo print. $1

  Mousepad, 35 cm x 30 cm, cartoon duck print. $1

  Mousepad, 35cm x 30 cm, Rubik’s cube print. $1

  Mousepad, 35 cm x 30 cm, Disney princess print. $1

  12 Officeworks-branded mousepads, still in original wrapping, 35 cm x 30 cm, light grey. $1 each or 12 for $10

  Red, patent-leather dress shoes, 4 cm heel. Ladies. Size 7. Good condition, slight scuffing on sole. $2

  Lanyard holder (black plastic) with retractable 45 cm red strap. 10 for $3

  6-piece bone-coloured plastic chopstick set, new, sealed plastic box. $5

  Christmas tree brooch. 5 cm x 5 cm. Plastic front, gold pin backing. $1

  Jumbo box of 100 multi-coloured hair ties, never used. $3

  She didn’t judge, didn’t assess in any more detail than was necessary to communicate the condition. What she couldn’t help doing, however, was adding up in her head the amount of money she would make if every single item sold. Chump change. Keep her in 7-Eleven coffee but not much more.

  When Annie’s grandma had died earlier this year, the family auctioned off her estate, which did not mean—as Lena had stupidly, embarrassingly thought—a block of land, but all the shit inside her Paddington terrace and Milton farmhouse. The proceeds were put into trusts for Annie and her siblings and cousins. Lena didn’t know what trusts were either, had to google it when Annie went to the loo. She still didn’t understand, really, but the gist was a heap of money gets planted somewhere to grow into lots more money and then you can have it. It was a big family, but still, Annie’s share would buy her a house on the North Shore once she finished uni and moved on from her city pad.

  What would Annie say about Aunty Nic’s estate? Yeah, Lena could tell her, I’m thinking of investing in a large cappuccino next week if the estate sale goes to plan. I think the interest will be strong—I mean, look at this beautiful artefact: an early twenty-first-century mass-produced office stapler, blue plastic, standard-sized, used, but works like new. Likely to fetch as much as $1.

  A message pinged into her vendor mailbox.

  HeelMan94: tell me about the red shoes

  Lena retyped the description she’d already used.

  what do they smell like?

  Like nothing. They’re barely worn, very clean

  do you have some that smell like your feet? any colour but lots of foot sweat smell please. i’ll pay double

  Then, before she could answer: actually i’d prefer to wait for a few days so you can wear the red ones for awhile. tell me how much. i’ll pay extra if you send me pics of your feet in them while i wait

  Lena hit the block button. Went back and deleted the shoe post, but not before she saw that twelve people were ‘watching’.

  Exhausted, hands red raw and itchy from handling dust and polyester and rubber and plastic, aching from cleaning and folding, Lena walked up and down the hallway, surveying the goods. What would it take to pack up and post this shit even if it did sell? Inviting all these dicks to creep onto her alternate online identity in the meanwhile, risk having someone like HeelMan94 turn up at the door if she arranged an in-person pick-up.

  She deleted all the posts she’d made, deleted the account. Took out a new roll of garbage bags and filled one after another after another, placing each newly swollen bag against the wall until there was a satisfyingly neat row, three bags high, ready for the skip that was coming tomorrow morning. She’d had to use Nic’s credit card to pay for it, which she felt shit about, but the bloody thing cost four nights’ work and since the Mastercard had literally fallen into her hands while she’d been searching for Nic’s Medicare card, as requested by the hospital, she figured it was a sign.

  Finally encased in her sleeping bag, Lena steeled herself to scroll through all the messages that had arrived since she’d last looked. She should forward some of these dick pics to the shoe creep, that’d be fun. Or maybe forward them to each other, a dick exchange, though most of the dick senders blocked their numbers.

  Better idea: Think these came to me by mistake, she wrote to Josh, then forward forward forward every last unwanted cock.

  Closing down all the apps she noticed it was 3.25 a.m. The row of bags against the wall was less satisfying now she realised it was the result of six goddamn hours of work.

  On the other hand, she felt even better about bombarding Josh with penises since he would either be woken by all the pinging dicks or wake up to a phone turned filthy with them.

  NIC

  ‘Lena not coming today?’ Kon asks while checking Nic’s bandages at the end of his shift.

  ‘Don’t think so. She’s got a lot on.’ Nic wonders if he knows what the social worker said, what Lena promised. It seems to her that nobody communicates with each other here except for notes about dressings and medication scribbled on a chart. Every nurse or doctor she speaks to seems not to know anything about her circumstances beyond the chart. Except Kon, who is either the only human on staff or, if she’s being fair, somehow has fewer patients or less admin work to attend to and so can spend a few minutes chatting every time he comes around.

  ‘I bet. I don’t think any of my nieces or nephews would be able to find five minutes to visit me in your situation.’

  ‘You have nieces and nephews? How many?’

  Kon pretends to count on his fingers, throws his hands up when he reaches ten. ‘Dozen or more. Lost count. I’m one of eight and the rest of them have been breeding for Australia, so it’s hard to keep track.’