‘You’re not close to them? The kids, I mean?’

  ‘Oh, now and then. You know how it is. You’re their favourite one day and they don’t want to know you the next. Maybe it’s me, though. I never liked kids that much—even when I was one.’ ‘Lena’s the same way. I mean, she’s fine with older kids—going to be a teacher and all, so you’d hope so. But she’s not keen on babies, toddlers and that. Says she can’t stand to be around people content to sit in their own poo for hours.’

  ‘Right? Sitting in their own poo, face covered in snot and slop and god knows what and will scream the place down if you try to clean them up. Disgusting little creatures.’ As he says this, Kon washes the hands that have just re-dressed her infected leg wound. She doesn’t believe for a minute he’d be repulsed by a messy baby. He wouldn’t know how not to be tender. Look how he’d distracted her from being swabbed and stung and bandaged! Banter as anaesthetic, Michelle used to call it. Taught Nic how to launch into a slightly shocking story or controversial opinion right before the splinter had to come out or the mercurochrome had to be dabbed on.

  ‘Not that I’ve given up on world’s best uncle title, mind you.’ Kon adjusted the blanket over her newly dressed leg. ‘Once these kids reach legal age it’s my time to shine. No PlayStation at my place, but I’ve got a well-stocked home bar and a hell of a music system.’

  ‘You have a lot of parties?’

  ‘Not formal, capital P parties. But there’s always something simmering, people coming and going. It’s a hub, I like to think. Mates know they can come and hang out, stay over if they need to. Open house, pretty much. More the merrier.’

  ‘That was my place once—but for the kids. When Lena and her brother were little. They were always around and often had a little friend along. No home bar but a truly impressive selection of sugary breakfast cereals.’ It hurts to think about it, but in a nice way. Best years of her life, those were. She could have that again, couldn’t she? For adults now, like Kon had described? She can picture it, actually: a nice little chrome and red vinyl bar up the back corner of the living room. Two or three shelves on the wall behind with bottles of whisky and bourbon, Midori and brandy and vodka and gin. She has some cocktail recipe books she can display. And all the different kinds of glasses: highballs and tumblers, flutes and coupes. Then over the other side of the room, next to the TV, a proper, grown-up stereo. And some candles—or, no, retro lamps here and there around the space making it all soft and sexy and atmospheric.

  What she can’t picture is who will be there to enjoy the soft and sexy atmosphere. It stings, the thought of all the unused space between the bar and the stereo, the sparkling emptiness of the glasses, permanent fullness of the bottles. She wants to ask Kon what came first for him: the welcoming home or the friends needing welcome? There had been times over the years when acquaintances were on the verge of becoming friends and it was her turn to reciprocate their dinner or barbecue or drinks invitations, and when she didn’t the relationship drifted back to a nodding one. Three times this had happened. More maybe, but she doesn’t want to think about them too much. It wasn’t the fault of her house. If they’d been good enough friends she would’ve made the effort to clean up for them. If they’d been good enough friends they wouldn’t have cared if she didn’t.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’

  Kon has been fiddling with her drip and jotting things down on her chart for the last couple of minutes. The pen is in his mouth as he fiddles some more. He makes a noise she interprets as yes.

  ‘Say you had to get rid of some of your things. Say, I don’t know, like a third of your stuff.’

  ‘Mmm.’ He stops fiddling for a second then continues, but Nic feels the change in his listening, knows he must be aware of her situation. Feels unable to turn back.

  ‘Out of all the people who come and go at your place, all of them and all your brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews, workmates and neighbours and just … out of everyone you know, is there anyone you’d trust to do that for you? Like, to choose what stays and what goes?’

  Kon smiles. ‘Sure. I can think of, oh, ten, fifteen people. Maybe more.’

  ‘Really?’ Does she even know that many people? If she counts everyone at work, including the casuals, then maybe. ‘You wouldn’t worry that their idea of the important stuff will be different to yours?’

  He considers it. ‘There’s this artist in London, right? He got all of his stuff together. Like, everything. Chairs and towels and empty chip packets. His own art and pieces from friends. Photos, letters. His bloody car, which was a Saab or something. And he destroyed it all. Like, every single thing he owned.’

  ‘Drugs?’

  ‘Don’t know if he had any, but if he did they’d have been in there.’

  ‘No, I mean was he on drugs? Is that why he did it?’

  ‘No, no. It was art. He did it in the middle of Oxford Street. Invited people to watch. Put on a boiler suit, played some Bowie and smashed it all up into nothing. It took weeks.’

  ‘What a terrible thing to do. You’d have to be a psychopath.’

  ‘Well, he was being deliberately provocative. Challenging people to think about consumerism and identity and all that. Like, who are we without our possessions?’

  ‘If he wanted to know who he was without his possessions, he could have given them away.’

  ‘Yeah, but that’s not art. It’s just, like, a life experiment.’

  ‘I guess. Sounds like a dickhead, though.’

  ‘Probably he is, but here’s the interesting thing: the public was mostly on board—critics, too. It was all, Down with consumerism, smash up that big-screen TV, pulverise those state-of-the-art speakers, but when it came to the love letters and photos, the art, they were like, No, that’s inhuman. Those things aren’t objects. How could you?’

  Nic is still, concentrating on her breathing. The story feels like a trap but she doesn’t know what kind or when it will spring.

  ‘I think it tells you that most people agree about what’s important. Most people found the destruction of those particular items painful, considered them a different category.’

  To anyone with a brain—with a fucking heart—it all would have been painful, she wants to say. A Saab! In her whole life she will not earn enough money to have a bloody Saab. Or a TV not from Kmart. Or half the shit the wanker destroyed.

  ‘What did he do with it all, after? The smashed-up stuff?’

  ‘I don’t know, actually. Chucked it, I guess.’

  ‘Yeah, but where? Like, it must have been a lot to get rid of. He would’ve needed a couple of trailers at least.’

  Kon laughs. ‘Big important artist. Bet he had someone else to worry about those details.’

  ‘That’d be nice, wouldn’t it? Someone else to worry about all the details.’

  ‘Ah, well, that’s the one good thing about being stuck here. You get to relax and live like a London performance artist for a bit.’

  ‘Lucky me,’ Nic says.

  She wants to know what the artist did when he was finished destroying everything. When he went home and realised he didn’t have a bed to sleep on or a plate to eat off, no toothbrush or soap or loo paper. But Kon is already wishing her a good night and saying he’ll see her tomorrow.

  WILL

  Mercy had been very clear she didn’t want him contacting her.

  Clean break. Easier for everyone.

  Walk away with sweet memories, no bitterness.

  This is exactly why we need to—

  No, I won’t get into this with you.

  I can’t believe you’re trying this, Will. There’s no such thing as access rights to your ex-girlfriend’s kids.

  Clean. Break.

  Move. The. Fuck. On.

  Which was fine. Easy. Every time he was tempted to call or message her he simply shoved his tongue as hard as he could against the screaming raw nerves around his rotting tooth and every thought he’d ever had was obliterated. If this went on long enough his brain might automatically make the connection between her name and agonising, most likely pus-filled infection sites, which would be helpful in curbing his tendency to mope and crawl and plead after a break-up.

  On the other hand, he might die of blood poisoning. Which would also prevent moping etc. Win-win.

  Whether because of imminent blood poisoning, mopiness or his usual general dumb-fuckery, he managed to stuff up his flight schedule, left himself only twenty minutes to make the connection in Brisbane, which, since the flight was delayed by an hour out of Mackay, was a big fucking problem. Of course there were no more flights to Sydney that night. Of course. The airline desk attendant was sweet and seemed genuinely sorry for him. If he’d tried he probably could have swung an invitation into the airline lounge. He couldn’t remember how, though. To try. He spent the night at Brisbane Airport’s gate 41, the discomfort of the row of plastic seats he attempted to lie on distracting him for whole minutes at a time from the pain in his mouth.

  When the airport pharmacy opened at 7 a.m. he tried to buy some codeine, was reminded he needed a prescription and had to settle for Panadol. He swallowed a double dose as soon as he got on the plane, and another two halfway through the flight. The box told him the contents could be toxic if you exceeded the recommended dose, but at least if he ended up in hospital with paracetamol poisoning he might get some decent pain meds.

  By the time he’d boarded the Sydney airport train he concluded he’d been sold a placebo. The pain was immense and he couldn’t resist sticking a finger in there every so often to try to press the throbbing down. An old lady across the aisle made a point of muttering under her breath each time and he genuinely felt bad about grossing her out, but it was that painful he couldn’t help himself.

  As a distraction he flicked through the photos Lena had sent. He focused in hard, zooming and dragging multiple times on each, feeling a tickle of satisfaction when he managed to recognise a chair or toy or framed picture in among the visual noise. He was reminded of the window of Kerrie’s Gifts back in Mackay. From across the street it was a jungle scene, but painted in gold and blue and pink and yellow instead of shades of green. Up close, you began to see where one object ended and another began and then, with concentration, you could make out what some of those objects were: garish Venetian-style masks hung off teddy bears which sat on side tables which were perched over ceramic dolls which were nestled next to wooden crucifixes and glass vases and lamps and some of all that half draped in scarves and tablecloths, and in any tiny gaps glimpses of the shop beyond, shelves and shelves of more of the same.

  Except in Lena’s photos, only a third or so of the stuff was identifiable, even when he zoomed right in. A lot of the space was taken up by bags—garbage bags and canvas shopping totes and a few of those plastic-hessian stripy things you saw homeless men dragging around at Roma Street station. He hoped the bags were Lena’s work and that they would all be gone by the time he arrived, but he knew that was unlikely. Most of them were wedged tightly against other bags, against furniture or stacks of paper. They were storage, not garbage. But storage for what? Clothes, probably, but also things with sharp angles that poked through the sides, small appliances and boxes and … and … what? He racked his brain.

  Will owned exactly the amount of stuff that fit into the backpack at his feet. He knew he was an extreme case, but still. He went through Mercy’s house, mentally opened all the cupboard doors, scanned the shelves. More pots and pans and plates and glasses than they ever used in the kitchen. Board games they never played in the hall cupboard, a drawer full of tangled cords and cables that had never been needed but seemed like they might one day. Mercy and the kids had more clothes than they wore, but no more than fit in the wardrobes. What else was there? What did people have? Books, maybe? Like, what do you call them—ornaments?

  The old woman across from him muttered disgusting and he dropped his spit-covered hand in his lap. ‘Sorry,’ he said, because he was. ‘Toothache.’

  ‘Have you seen a dentist?’ She sounded like his mum. Exasperated at having to ask such an obvious question.

  ‘Yeah, nah. Bit broke, you know.’

  The woman closed her eyes, sighed. He was in for a real lecture now. ‘You got a Medicare card?’ In a tone that suggested she expected him to say no, because that’s how evidently incompetent at adulthood he was.

  ‘Yeah. Dentists don’t take—’

  ‘Go to a doctor, love. Bulk billing. Not a dentist but better than shoving your filthy paws in there making it worse.’

  He tried to smile, but it hurt quite a bit. ‘Yeah, good idea.’

  She muttered something about common sense, went back to squinting disapprovingly around the carriage, looking for someone else to shame into taking basic, obvious action to sort out their shit.

  At the Railway Square walk-in medical centre the receptionist said the wait might be an hour. He settled into an uncomfortably soft chair and scrolled through his social media feeds, then on to the news app, where he found himself looking into the face of a fifty-thousand-year-old wolf pup uncovered after massive permafrost melts in Canada. Another day in which the Sydney skyline is invisible, thanks to unprecedented levels of bushfire smoke blanketing the city, said the breakfast program playing on the TV over his head.

  Twenty-four hours ago he’d been in a Mackay pub tasting locally produced catastrophic bushfire smoke with every spoonful of beans, and though he’d travelled almost two thousand kilometres by bus, two planes and a train, the background commentary as he held in his palm a recent photo of an animal last seen in the Ice Age was still of locally produced catastrophic bushfire smoke. Was this what vertigo felt like? Or was it simple dread, this sense of plummeting and spinning at the same time, with no surety you will ever land?

  It wasn’t just this story, this pup. All over the world things meant to stay buried were being uncovered because people had forgotten they were part of the world even as they couldn’t stop devouring it. In Russia, a long-frozen reindeer carcass suddenly thawed and the nineteenth-century anthrax that had killed it took the opportunity to infect a twenty-first-century child and not a single flight was cancelled, not a single carbon-spewing factory closed.

  Last year a Czech river revealed centuries-old low water marks made on stones. One said, If you see me, weep. Nobody did, though, far as Will could tell. They tweeted it, reposted it, reported it in the last minute of the TV news, letting the credits roll over the footage of the rock, so dry it was hard to believe water had ever touched it. The etched warning didn’t look frightening at all if you couldn’t read Czech. It could have said anything. It could have said, Everything is fine. Carry on exactly as you are. Everyone, including Will, acted as though it did.

  At the ninety-minute mark he approached the desk, waited for the receptionist to stop typing and look at him. When she didn’t he cleared his throat, asked if it’d be much longer. The woman sighed loudly, demanded his name, rolled her chair over to a different monitor, sighed again. ‘There are three people ahead of you,’ she said.

  ‘It’s just I’ve already been waiting for—’

  ‘The people ahead of you have been waiting longer.’ She slid back to her original position, recommenced typing.

  He sat back down, ashamed. Nobody else had stood to question the waiting time. Nobody else thought they deserved special treatment.

  At the two-hour mark he caved, washed down two more Panadol with water from the cooler next to the front door. The white cardboard cups were so tiny he needed to refill and tip the contents into his mouth five times before the tablets went down all the way, and still his throat felt bruised from the effort. He was going in for a sixth refill when his name was called. He dropped the cup, fumbled to pick it up as the doctor repeated his name. ‘Here,’ he called, sounding like an idiot kid in class. Couldn’t see anywhere to put the cup, scrunched it in his hand and tried to keep up with the bald, skinny doctor race-walking down the corridor.

  Before Will had managed to sit, the doctor was asking what the problem was.

  ‘Um, I’ve got this toothache …’

  ‘Seen a dentist?’ The doctor was as absorbed in his screen as the receptionist had been in hers.

  ‘Nah, um, that’s the thing, why I’m—I can’t afford to yet but I thought maybe you could, um, in the meantime, something for the pain.’

  The doctor pushed back from his desk, swivelled in his chair to face Will with widespread legs, elbows on his knees, gaze steady. ‘Something for the pain?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s, um, pretty bad. Keeping me up and that. I hoped you could—’

  ‘Tried Panadol?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what I’m taking now. I had some codeine—’

  ‘You have codeine?’

  ‘I had some left over but it’s gone so I—’

  ‘Left over from what?’

  Will’s face flashed with heat. He knew from Mercy and her pharmacist mates that asking directly for the strong stuff was a red flag. So was acting nervous or on edge. Like, say, dropping a cup of water, scrunching and un-scrunching a bit of rubbish in your hand and turning red when questioned. He focused on breathing slowly, relaxing his shoulders.

  ‘My girlfriend had them left over from something. I haven’t been prescribed anything.’

  The doctor kept watching his face. Didn’t move.

  Don’t babble. Don’t fidget. You haven’t done anything wrong. ‘The pain is sort of here.’ Will cupped his cheek. ‘It’s been a week or so, getting steadily worse.’

  ‘But you haven’t seen a dentist?’

  ‘No, like I said, I don’t have the money right now. I’ve just, um—’ Stop! ‘I was retrenched last week and my financial situation is …’

  The doctor flicked his eyes at the computer screen. ‘You’re a long way from home.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, um. I’m staying with family here.’