I thought it might be worth ringing the airport before bed to see if they had any word of our case. But while I was waiting for someone to answer I came upon a dire warning in the telephone directory. The telephone, it appeared, was highly dangerous in Darwin. During thunderstorms it was a sure-fire source of electric or acoustic shock. Acoustic shock? Did that mean it could send your hearing into trauma? ‘Use your telephone only for calls of the utmost urgency,’ the book warned. ‘Keep calls brief. Stay clear of electrical appliances such as stoves, air conditioners, refrigerators and window frames.’ I was impressed by the inclusion of window frames in that list. In more temperate countries window frames are not normally considered to be electrical appliances. Then I realized that I had my back to one. And that my right elbow was leaning against the air conditioner. And that the phone itself was sitting on the refrigerator. I dropped the receiver in a panic. I had been brought up to regard the telephone as an instrument of safety. It was what got you out of trouble. Now, suddenly, nothing could be relied upon to help you through. It felt pretty wild out there.

In despite of all my warnings that it was bound to be at least twenty times more lethal than the telephone, Ros insisted on listening to the radio before she went to sleep. I sat cross-legged on the carpet in the middle of the room, making sure that I was in no contact with anything that could be called an appliance. She picked up one of those late-night local call-in programmes in which members of the public are encouraged to disgorge the miseries of their lives in the hearing of complete strangers. (Thereby causing what I call acoustic shock.) A man named Greg was describing what it was like being married to a full-blooded Aboriginal woman who beat him up the minute alcohol touched her lips. He was far gone in drink himself – hurt and stupefied and confidential.

‘Mate, she’s a beautiful person when she’s sober,’ he explained.

The compère, or whatever you call the harpy who hosts this kind of show, spoke what I can only describe as Wolverhampton Australian. The usual resilient twang had somehow got caught too high in the nasal passages and his words fell in a monotonous emulsoid drip. His morality was gelatinous also. ‘Understanding can work wonders, mate,’ he said.

‘I know that,’ Greg said. ‘She’s a wonderful woman. A full blood. And then she changes. It’s terrible. It’s good of you to listen to me, mate.’

‘I can hear it’s helping you to talk about it, mate.’

‘That’s why I rang you, mate.’