An old miner’s dugout in the bank of the creek, Washburn explained: probably been there for a hundred and fifty years.

They set out, passing the gravestone, passing through two or three stretches where the left-hand bank loomed above them, Hirsch glancing up, hoping to spot the dugout entrance. ‘Much further?’

‘No.’

‘I’m assuming you showed it to the kids one day?’

‘Yes.’

They walked the length of another shallow reach, which led into another deep gully, and finally Washburn stopped. He pointed. The hint of an aperture fringed with grass halfway up the bank. You’d never know it was there. Rocks and stones protruded. Useful foot- and handholds, thought Hirsch. And, as he watched, a hint of movement. Not a trick of the cloudy light but a sliver of face—forehead, blonde hair and eyebrow—appearing and gone again in a flash.

Washburn formed a megaphone with his hand. ‘Louise! It’s okay!’

Silence.

‘He’s a policeman, the good kind.’

A long wait and the face looked down, young, full of doubt. ‘Did anyone see you?’

‘There’s no one else here. We’re coming up.’

‘Be quick.’

‘Quick as we can, love,’ Washburn said.

28

28

HIRSCH FOUND HIMSELF in a space that was part natural hollow, part pick-axed cavern. About two metres high, at least in parts, and ten or so metres deep. Two small pairs of knickers were drying on a rudimentary clotheshorse fashioned from twigs in one corner, a styrofoam cooler packed with food and water bottles stood in another. The spare caravan mattress rested beside one wall, a candle stuck into a puddle of wax next to it. Face-down on a folded blanket, an illustrated guide to Australian birds. Craig’s book, he thought. The kids wouldn’t have picked up their favourite books as they fled. A cool, dim, oddly comforting space—except for the odour from a far corner, which the girls had been using as a toilet, kicking a thin layer of dirt over it.

The girls. Hollow-eyed and wan. Cabin fever, Hirsch thought. Grief. Uncertainty. And fear of everything outside this hole in the ground. Sitting cross-legged on the mattress, they made room for Washburn and snuggled against him. Beaming up at Hirsch, he said, ‘This is Anna, and this is Louise.’

Hirsch nodded hello, looked about for somewhere to sit, and paused. On the wall opposite Washburn and the girls there was an ochre hand. Beside it, three stick figures armed with spears chased a stick-figure kangaroo. He stared at the images, complicated feelings settling in him. He felt like an interloper, somehow; a despoiler. He found himself looking at his heavy footwear. Finally selecting a spot in the dirt, his spine uncomfortable against knobs in the lower part of the wall, he realised Washburn was looking at him with some sort of emotion he couldn’t place.

‘Apart from the girls,’ Washburn said, ‘I’m about the only one knows about this place.’