Nash’s parents were long-term volunteers, repairing fences, trapping feral animals, planting trees, although age was restricting their physical contributions. Nash thought better of asking Douglas if he planned to see them while he was here. Over the years they had drifted apart.

Douglas lit his cigarette with a gold lighter and blew out a nervy stream of smoke.

‘Who’d’ve thought Peter Perfect would end up a hippie?’

Nash saw no point in dignifying the comment with a reply. In his narrow expat microcosm, Frank Douglas was so out of touch he couldn’t fathom that he was the anachronism. But there was no denying the man was an incredible pilot. Nash would never forget that sudden storm in the Star Mountains where Douglas, in near zero visibility and a seventy kph crosswind, had somehow found his way out of a dead-end valley, then landed safely in a hewn-out jungle clearing the size of a postage stamp. No question, his skills had saved their lives that day.

Nash decided to just get it over with.

‘Uncle Frank, I’m sorry you came all this way, but I’m not interested.’

Douglas looked bewildered.

‘It’s nothing personal, Frank. It’s me. I’m not . . . ready.’

Although it was the truth, saying it out loud was somehow shameful, and suddenly Nash felt secretly furious with Douglas for arriving unannounced.

‘Christ, laddie, I know you’ve been smashed by all this.’ Douglas stubbed out his cigarette. ‘But you’ve got to take the bull by the horns, get right back on board and ride that fucker for all he’s worth.’

Nash stared into space. Douglas meant well. Didn’t they all? But grief was like navigating an alien world, and the old pilot was starting to suck up all the available oxygen.

‘OK, OK, let’s hear it, then.’

It seemed the fastest way to get him out of there.

‘That’s the spirit.’ Douglas gave him a wink. Self-importantly opening his briefcase, he took out a document and placed it in front of Nash with a flourish. ‘This is a confidentiality deed. You need to sign it first.’

‘You’re kidding me?’

Douglas coloured slightly. ‘You’re not signing your life away, mate, you’re just agreeing not to disclose any aspect of the proposal being offered to you.’

The official-looking deed had been drafted by a law firm in Jakarta, on behalf of a production company called Shangri-La. Nash frowned at this; Indonesians were not welcome in PNG, although that could explain why they were prepared to sign a pariah like him to the team. He scanned the legalese with a rising sense of scorn. The following offer would be one-time only, the details of which he was not to reveal from this moment on in perpetuity, on pain of litigation, and they weren’t even naming the cave, just referring to it as the ‘nominated location’.

What a joke.