He wanted it, but he couldn’t have it here where Harry, the gardener, the bloody manager, or some other busybody might come knocking at his door. He didn’t let any of them in, but they kept on coming. His thumb splint was off and the skin graft looked like what it was, a piece of swollen red bum. His bruises had faded but his bones and his heart still ached and he had to get away, get out of the house or he’d blow his brains out. Had to go some place, drink and kill the pain. He telephoned the property manager and told him to do what he liked. ‘I’m taking off. Don’t know where I’m going or when I’ll be back,’ he said, then he slammed the back door and drove away to lose himself in Melbourne. He had a new car now, insurance supplied; it handled well. He took the road to Melbourne and, with no place else to go once there, he headed for the Toorak flat. It smelt stale, felt more empty than Narrawee. He left the car in the garage, walked up the road to a bar. It didn’t take much to make him feel better.
