Ned the Cook walks in with some food he’s prepared for the girls and stops suddenly when he sees Tom.

“He’s not on tonight,” he says. Accusation in his voice.

It’s clear to Tom that he won’t be receiving employee-of-the-month badge at the Union.

He sits at the table they’ve taken possession of, and no one says a word for a moment. Francesca puts her guitar to the side discreetly. He doesn’t know how he’s going to broach this subject without drawing attention to the fact that he is in desperate need of information only she can give.

“I never thanked you for coming to the hospital that night.”

Francesca stares at him. She’s not buying it, he can tell. She looks over at Justine and even has the audacity to shrug in front of him as if to say, I don’t know what his game is.

“No, I really appreciate it,” he says.

Still no words. Not even from Justine, with her rosy cheeks and perkiness. She’s a walking advertisement for clean living and an overabundance of endorphins. Except now, when she’s looking at Tom.

“Ah . . . how did you know I was there?” he asks casually, trying to avoid Francesca’s eyes because they’re armed with bullets. He knows that if she really wants to play games with him, it could take hours to get information.

“Tara rang us,” Francesca says.

Unless she loves the idea of pain being swift and vicious.

“You rang her and she rang Frankie,” Justine explains.

In the words of his grandma Agnes, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!

“Wonder how that happened,” he said, trying to sound blasé. “Didn’t even know her number worked over there.”

“Well, you rang her that night.”

Ned hands Francesca the sandwich. “Bit extreme,” he says. “Isn’t she in Dili?”

“No, actually in Same,” Francesca explains to Ned. “Up in the mountains. Same,” she repeats, in case he didn’t get the pronunciation of the word in the first place.

“Same,” Ned says, making himself comfortable.

“This is kind of personal,” Tom says, looking at him. “She’s a mutual friend of ours.” He waves a hand between him and the girls. “Probably won’t interest you.”

Ned the Cook is going nowhere.

Francesca sighs. “Look, Thomas, why don’t you write to her? She’s a long way from home and accepts letters from anyone. Plus she’s a great letter writer. She brings Same to life for us. She’ll respond, Tom. She’s never been petty and I actually think you both need closure.”

Justine leans forward. “I think she’s finally gotten over the one-and-a-half-night stand.”

When Justine says those words, she whispers them.

Tom can’t believe Tara spoke to anyone about those two nights.

“Send her a text message. She loves getting them.” Justine says this as if she’s reluctantly giving out information. Even Ned seems keen. So with nothing to lose, Tom takes out his phone and keys in the words.

Dear Finke,

How are things, babe?

LOL,

Tom

He looks impressed with himself, and the girls look impressed back.

“The whole one-and-a-half-night stand really upset her,” Ned explains, pissing Tom off when he whispers the words.

“That’s pretty personal, and I don’t think she’d appreciate you knowing about . . . stuff.”

“When she was here in March, we bonded while exchanging stories about our first time,” Ned explains. “We came to the conclusion that they were pretty similar situations.”

“Why? Because they were both with guys?” Tom asks.

“No. They were both with fuckwits.”

Ned’s having fun.

“She’s got a boyfriend, Thomas. He’s a peacekeeper over there, and I think that all is forgiven and forgotten,” Francesca says. “She’s a lot calmer than she used to be. Very Zen-like.”

The phone alerts him to a message, and the girls clap with excitement. For a second, it’s like old times. He feels a bit of a rush, and his heart is hammering in the way it used to hammer back in the days when Tara Finke would walk toward him just before class began. Back then she’d piss him off in an instant, but the adrenaline would still keep running for the rest of the day.

“Read it to us,” Justine says.

Dear Thomas,

LOL? Laugh out loud? I’m in East Timor, dickhead! How much laughing do you think we do per day around here?

And don’t call me babe.

Tara

The girls look a bit crestfallen, which surprises him, really.

“Let me read it again,” Justine the Positive says, taking his phone from him. “Because Tara says they do heaps of laughing over there.”

She concentrates hard as she studies the screen. “Look. She uses your name. Thomas, she calls you. Usually it’s . . .”

She looks at Francesca, who quickly shakes her head to silence her. He can imagine what Tara Finke usually calls him.

“Send her another,” Justine pleads.

“Not on your life,” he mutters, walking out of the room and out of the pub.

He’s had worse from Tara in their time. He probably deserves worse after what he did to her.

“Tom,” Francesca calls out from the front step of the pub when he’s halfway down the street. There’s worry in her voice, and he knows she’s seen something in his expression. She’s seen the sickness he’s feeling inside. But it’s not as if he can tell her the truth or that it will make sense to her when it doesn’t even make sense to him.

How can he explain that the international code 670 isn’t the issue? The 44 is. The U.K.

Because five minutes before he rang Tara Finke, he had made a call to London.

To his dead uncle.

Georgie’s not home when he gets there, so he sits in the backyard with his guitar and alternates between playing it and taking out his phone and scrolling down to the dialed number beginning with the 44 prefix. He itches to ring it. Wants to hear the voice.

Georgie pokes her head outside later.

“It’s freezing out here, Tom.”

He nods and keeps on strumming, and she sits down on the banana chair beside him. He has a strange need to be held. A hug would be great. He’d even go back to the flat and grovel to Sarah. Not just for the sex, but to lie beside someone. Francesca had always been annoyingly tactile when talking and Justine was a hand holder and Siobhan Sullivan was draped over him at all times. And Tara. Especially that night in her parents’ house when she stood in front of him and let him wrap her up in his arms.

“On the night I got my stitches,” he tells Georgie, “I rang . . . Joe’s number.”

He knows what’s going to happen. She’ll ring his mother or arrange for a counselor or something drastic like that.

She keeps her eyes on him. He doesn’t know what can of worms he’s opened up with this one, but she’s silent for a while.

“I write him letters,” she says calmly.

“What?”

She nods. “I write him letters.”

“Where do you send them?”

“To his e-mail address.”

“What do you write about?”

She shrugs. “I went for an ultrasound today and I’ve got photos, so I’ll probably write to him about how it felt.”

“So you don’t think I’m crazy?”

“You were concussed, Tom. By the sounds of things, you hadn’t slept for three nights, and don’t pretend that you were just smoking dope, because I know you took speed and God knows what else. Believe me, my nephew doesn’t turn up on my doorstep with ten stitches in his head without me going to that hospital to find out what happened.”

He nods, almost to himself.

“So I don’t think there was anything strange about you ringing him or thinking that you could talk to him.”

“Who’s still paying for the account? His voice is still there. ‘Joe here. You know the drill. Leave a message.’ Remember, he used that East End accent just to make us laugh.”

He sees it on her face, even in this half-light. Of course Georgie knows the message is still there. How many times has she rung Joe’s number to listen to it over the past two years?