SIDNEY JUMPED at the sound of the doorbell. It was followed by urgent banging on the front door. Oh, no, somebody from the radio.

<run to Coke to the river blue and red Coke blue and red>

She slunk down the stairs, and opened the door a crack. Aubrey. Panic on her face, her body contorted like a gnarled tree twisting around itself. Sidney looked down. Aubrey’s grey sweater sleeves were dirty at the cuffs. And, oh God, her white shorts were stained, the tops of her thighs streaked with blood.

Sidney guided her inside and closed the door.

‘Mum’s not home,’ Aubrey screeched. ‘I’ve got these,’ she held up a packet of tampons, ‘but I can’t get them in!’

Summoning serenity from somewhere, Sidney rubbed Aubrey’s back. ‘It’s OK.’

‘It’s not OK!’ Aubrey shoved Sidney’s arm aside. ‘It’s horrible.’

‘No, it’s just normal.’

Aubrey must have been wearing mascara; it was dribbling down her cheeks.

Sidney led her upstairs to the bathroom. ‘Why don’t you have a shower? Towels in the cupboard, and you can borrow some of my clothes. Bloodstains come out easily with a soak in cold water.’ She took the tampons. ‘I’ll get you some pads. They’re easier.’

Sidney had been dancing in her Flashdance sweatshirt-dress and white leggings when her first period had started. Faye was busy, rushing off to work or somewhere; she had shrieked that Sidney was too young and shoved a handful of pads and tampons at her. She’d had to work out what to do for herself.

Opening the bathroom door slightly, Sidney placed on the floor a new pair of track pants, an unopened three-pack of underpants, pads, and the amber-glass spider wrapped in tissue paper.

Apple green mingled with rust and BO as she took Aubrey’s pants and sweater downstairs to the laundry.

She soaked the undies and shorts in the basin, threw the sweater in with a load of washing, and, when she heard the shower stop, pressed ‘start’ on the machine. Aubrey yelled for her sweater.

‘It’s in the wash,’ Sidney called.

‘I need it.’

Sidney froze. The camouflage make-up. She pictured Aubrey adjusting the towel, trying to hide storm clouds of bruises on her arms and chest. She should have known. I knew. She hugged herself, absently rubbing her shoulders, remembering her own mother’s hands on her.

Aubrey said something as she slopped paint onto the skirting boards and Sidney’s long-sleeved T-shirt she was wearing. Sidney was distracted, thinking about bruises. She stopped rollering and looked down from the ladder. ‘Pardon?’

‘How long have you and Christos been married?’

‘A long time.’

‘My mum and dad have been separated for nearly six months.’

‘That must be difficult.’

‘Only because they’ve got me.’

Sidney bit the insides of her cheeks.

Aubrey dipped her brush into the paint, neglecting to wipe off the excess on the tray; it dripped onto the drop sheet. ‘Is there something wrong with you?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘All those tablets at …’

‘I’m fine most of the time, but every now and then I … become unwell.’

Aubrey frowned.

‘Nothing serious.’ She was going to leave it there but decided to be honest. ‘I have a mental illness. Although I don’t like to call it that, sounds like a disease you can catch. A psychiatric disorder? I’ve never been able to think of the right words for it. My brain’s just wired a bit differently to most people’s.’

‘Snap.’

‘Mmm. Sort of.’

‘My uncle had to stay in a psych hospital for a while. He heard voices telling him he was Oprah Winfrey.’

Sidney nodded.

‘Thank you for the make-up.’ Aubrey focused on slapping paint, evading Sidney’s eyes. ‘And the beautiful spider.’

‘You’re welcome.’

‘What does it feel like, you know, when …’

‘I don’t remember much about those times.’

‘Do you hear voices?’

‘Sometimes.’

Aubrey twisted her brow and mouth.

‘My voices are just a part of who I am.’

‘Christos has to look after you?’

‘He knows what to do, yes. He’s like my carer as well as my husband.’

She caught Aubrey scrunching up her nose, and wondered why she seemed to dislike Christos — everybody liked Christos. She climbed down the ladder for more paint. A starburst of custard yellow speckled her gloves — should have covered them with disposables.

‘I could help you too. Just tell me what to do.’

Sidney wished it could be true.

‘It hurts,’ Aubrey said. ‘My tummy.’

‘You’ll get used to it.’ Sidney liked her cycle. It reminded her that in one way she was normal; while her mind was not exactly a ‘standard fitting’, her body was no different to other healthy women’s.

Aubrey sniffed.

‘If it’s really bad, you could take some Nurofen.’

Aubrey shook her head. ‘I can’t stop thinking about the Collins Street baby.’

Sidney put down the roller, knelt, and rubbed Aubrey’s shoulder.

‘She wasn’t even a year old.’ Aubrey reached out and clung to her. ‘It’s not fair.’

Sidney returned the hug. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d held another human being with care and without reservation. I wish I was your mother.