Where were the children swinging dizzyingly on the ropes beneath the generous shade of a massive fig? The happy families in brightly coloured clothing, chattering and laughing as they arrived for immunisations, treatments and prenatal checks? The mission had become a ghost of itself. The ropes dangled abjectly, the buildings were devoid of life, and Paul’s plane lay marooned in long grass by the hangar, where even the windsock hung limply.

Mia was edging closer when Paomente froze.

‘Stop,’ he whispered. ‘Bikpela snek!’

She had just been about to step on a Papuan taipan with a girth the size of her calf.

The massive grey serpent reared and hissed, its black eyes intelligent and alert as it swayed within easy striking distance of her face. Paomente was holding a machete, but they both knew the snake was faster. Mia stood stock-still and hoped its innate aggression was tempered by the early hour. Thankfully, the taipan decided to save its venom, and slithered away towards the forest margin. As they watched it vanish into the thick grass, Paomente muttered that it was a bad omen.

‘You can wait here if you like.’

‘No, Dokta Mia.’ He took her hand. ‘Yumitupela go.’

A sea of twinkling glass covered the wide veranda of the new clinic building. Bullet holes were punched through the weatherboards. An air conditioner had been blasted at point-blank range. Senseless.

‘Hello!’ she called out. ‘Is anybody here?’

Inside the foyer they encountered the first of many large bloodstains, and Mia’s spirits sank further. The reception was destroyed. Shot-up filing cabinets looked as if they’d been used for target practice; desks were overturned, and papers and files were strewn over the floor. A nurse’s white shoe lay beside a clipboard. A blood trail led to the staff kitchen and a table covered in yet more blood. The fridges had been ransacked, food and drink thrown on the floor. The power was off; rotting food made the place stink like an abattoir, and the antibiotics she had come for were all spoiled.

Mia couldn’t understand the devastation. Whatever Sura had thought Paul had of value, nothing could explain this level of hatred. In the ward area it continued. Beds were abandoned, sheets lying all over the floor. Bullet holes riddled the ceiling. The destruction was so wanton that she was surprised the place hadn’t been torched.

The house had been ransacked, too. Paul’s precious books, thrown into piles. His files, strewn and dumped. Paintings and photographs were torn out of frames, photo albums ripped to pieces. Even the carpets had been pulled up, loose boards jemmied.

Then Paomente tapped her on the shoulder.

‘Lookim.’