The man cornered Caleb at the lights. Twitching and sniffing, talking in staccato bursts. A skeletal face and pupils like voids.

Caleb gestured to the empty pockets of his running shorts. 'Nothing on me, mate.'

Sniffy kept talking and twitching. Caleb ignored him. Thirty more seconds and he'd be in his flat and under a long, cold shower. It was an hour after sunset, and the day's heat still clung to concrete and asphalt, the pores of his skin. Stupid to have gone for a run, but last night's dreams had slipped into his waking hours again, plucking at his thoughts with their bloodstained fingers.

And now Sniffy was waving a piece of fucking paper in his face.

Caleb tried to skirt around him as the lights turned green, but the guy did a little sideways dance to block his way.

'Piss off,' Caleb said.

Sniffy shoved the paper into his right hand. A receipt of some kind, sweat-stained and crumpled. Something written on the back in thick letters. He held it up to the streetlight.

Caleb

33/45 Martin St Nth Fitzroy

His name, his address. The words were scrawled in lipstick, but there was nothing flirtatious about their jagged letters, the strokes flecked with lumps of flesh-like pink. Something cold slid down his neck.

He looked at Sniffy. 'Where'd you get this?'

Words scuttled from the man's mouth and disappeared into the shadows. Was that a W? And an O? Definitely an M.

'A woman?' Caleb guessed. 'A woman gave it to you?'

Sniffy gestured down the street. 'She said ... and I ...'

'Slower. What woman?'

'Tall, black ...'

Kat.

Fear gripped Caleb's bowels. 'Where is she? Show me.'

Sniffy headed along the street, talking the entire time. A shambling gait like a sleep-deprived toddler. Step, shuffle, step. Past apartment blocks and pizza shops, around a corner into an empty side street. So slow. Why the fuck couldn't he go any faster? Around another corner into an unlit alleyway of rusting corrugated iron and jumbled cobblestones, the stink of stale piss. Caleb came to a halt halfway down it. Dark, no overlooking windows – a good place to get jumped.

Sniffy made his way to the back of the alley, where a thin shape stepped out of the gloom to meet him. Not Kat. Nothing like Kat. The woman's skin was so pale it looked translucent, a startling contrast to her short, dark hair. Black hair – Sniffy had been describing her hair, not her skin. Caleb let out a shuddering breath. Of course it wasn't Kat. She was five thousand kilometres away in Broome, not in a stinking Melbourne alleyway. And if he'd stopped to think for a second, he would have remembered that.

A quick exchange of money between the pair, and Sniffy shuffled away. Just a delivery boy. So who was the woman? She was young, probably early twenties, carrying a brown handbag and wearing a red cotton dress that looked as though it would smell of incense. Dark alley, vulnerable young woman – it had to be some kind of a con. Walk away. But he glanced at the crumpled receipt in his hand.

Caleb

'How do you know my name and address?'

Red launched into speech, but her face was deep in shadow. It was brighter out on the footpath – he'd be able to see her mouth there. And her hands.

'Move onto the street,' he said. 'It's too dark in here.'

She shook her head and pressed herself against the wall.

Well, he wasn't waiting around for someone to walk up behind him with an iron bar.

'OK,' he said. 'Find yourself another mark.'

He turned away, and she darted forward and grabbed his arm. Her trembling hand was slick with sweat. Impossible to fake that kind of fear. Or for him to feel like more of an arsehole. She was gesturing urgently, pressing her hands together and pulling them towards herself. A familiar movement, as though she was signing the word 'help'.

'You know Auslan?' he signed.

Red stared at him as though he'd performed a circus trick. Not a signer, then, just someone who'd learned a word. Which meant she probably knew more about him than his name and address.

'Help?' he said out loud. 'You need help?'

A rapid nod. 'I ... and ... said you'd help.'

'Who said I'd help?'

'... and ... you ...'

This was hopeless; he'd have to get her to write everything. He reached for his phone, but his hand dug into the empty pocket of his running shorts. Shit: no phone. Just him and his stupid desire to be alone when he ran.

'Have you got a phone?' he asked. 'Something to write with?'

She shook her head and attempted another sign. It was the wrong hand-shape, but it looked a lot like ...

'Do that again,' he said.

Two fingers against two fingers, a twist of her wrists: 'family'.

Family? A brother he barely knew and an almost-ex-wife avoiding him in Broome.

'Anton?' he asked. 'Kat?'

More headshaking, more incomprehensible speech. Something about bees? No, that couldn't be right.

He tried for a gentle tone. 'Look, I can't understand you. My flat's around the corner. Do you want to go there? Or I can take you to the cops.'

Her eyes widened, staring behind him. He spun around. A man was pounding up the alleyway towards them. Thickset, with short, blond hair and a dark swirl of tattoos up his arms and neck. Caleb threw himself backwards and caught the edge of the blow on his forehead. Falling. Down on his knees, head to the cobblestones. Up, get up. He levered himself to his feet. The man was dragging Red away, his arm locked around her neck. No thought, just motion: five steps and a fist to the man's kidney. Caleb's knuckles hit solid muscle. The man staggered and dropped Red, swung around. A calculating look as he took in Caleb's equal height but lack of kilos. His fist clenched. Caleb ducked the punch with reflexes born of a thousand playground fights. Quick, go for the kneecap. An awkward movement, mistimed, but his foot hit the side of the man's knee with a sickening jolt. Down like a felled tree.

Red. Where was Red? Caleb sprinted to the street. There she was, running towards Alexandra Parade. Good, there'd be people, lights, cars. He ran after her. Fitzroy Police Station was only a few blocks away – he'd get her there and work out what the fuck was going on. She was at the intersection, scanning for a break in the traffic.

'Stop,' he called, nearly at her side. 'It's safe here.'

Her head whipped around and she stepped back, her eyes focused behind him again. Shit, the blond man was only metres away, charging past him towards Red. She threw up her arms and stumbled backwards off the kerb.

Caleb lunged for her.

A fleeting touch of skin, then a flash of white, the smell of diesel and brake pads. She slammed against the van's bonnet. Into the air. Down.

An endless moment.

People were running. And he ran, too. Red was sprawled on the road, her arms flung wide. Blood. Blood everywhere. Bubbling from her lips and darkening her dress. He'd been here before, seen the spreading pool, smelled its iron sweetness.

Her lips were moving.

'... the be ... got the be ...'

He made himself touch her cheek. Cold beneath the slick warmth of her blood.

'It's OK. Help's coming.'

Her eyes held his: sea green and rimmed with pale lashes. A fierce brightness that flickered, dulled and faded.

Then nothing.

He made his statement in a soulless grey room at the Fitzroy Police Station. Eyes gritty, a dull ache...