He walked around town and paused under the shop awnings. He wanted to buy something for Evie before he left, though he hadn’t seen anything yet. He looked into the windows but, really, it was only absently.

All week, the wind was icy down off Mount Wellington.

Tait was staying at the Criterion Hotel in Liverpool Street. They did a good lunch and the room had electricity and a bath. In the evenings after dinner, he read the newspapers, front to back. He read the headline stories (Gallant British Troops) and he read the advertisements, too (Richard Darcey. Ring Specialist. You Find the Girl, I’ll Find the Ring. 84 Liverpool Street. PRICES TO SUIT ALL POCKETS). After that, Tait usually went to bed and tried to read a book.

Evie had lent him Wuthering Heights, but he just couldn’t get a bite on it.

CHILE

Wilson O’Farrell made strong black tea and heaped half-a-dozen teaspoons of sugar into the pot. Joseph poured a good splash of whisky into their cups and passed around a tin of shortbreads he’d brought along.

‘Mum makes the best,’ he said. He put them down on the floor between them. ‘Help yourself.’

‘Just go easy,’ Wilson said, looking at Tait. ‘There’s three of us.’

They sat in front of the fire and watched the flames while the snow gums outside heaved in the gusts of wind and snow. Around them, the timber hut strained and creaked into its joists. The leaves that had blown into the corners sometimes flipped over in the draught. Wilson had his wet boots and socks off now, resting his feet on a crate.

‘They’ll catch fire in a minute,’ Joseph said.

‘Good. Can barely feel me toes.’

‘Kill the stench at least.’

Wilson reached down for another biscuit.

‘What about cards?’ Joseph said.

‘Nah,’ his brother said. ‘I hate fucking cards.’

‘That’s ’cause you can’t play.’ Joseph looked at

Tait. ‘You?’ Tait shook his head.

‘Then I’ll have to play myself.’

Wilson O’Farrell laughed. ‘You’ll have to what? Play with yourself?’

‘Yeah, that’s exactly what I said.’

‘You heard it, Tait!’

Joseph ignored his brother, dragged across a box and spread his legs to either side. He began shuffling a deck of cards.

‘So did he ever tell you how he escaped to Chile?’ Tait said.

‘Never told us much about anything, really.’

‘All that way and then they brought him back again.’ Four of them were caught, John Myer last of all, down at the Valdivia docks. The North Star to England and then the Sarah back to Van Diemen’s Land. Another trial in 1837 and then serving out his sentence at Port Arthur. Married in 1849. Tait sipped his whisky-laced tea. ‘Imagine that.’ He’d found it all in the records. A few words in ink, this hut; all that remained of a man.

‘Not me, mate,’ Wilson said. ‘No bloody way.’