‘If I didn’t know better, I’d think Mark wrote that himself,’ Dad says.

They cut back to the studio, where the program’s host stares gravely into the camera. ‘That was Mark Campbell reporting from Darwin. And the prayers of the nation are with the people of that city tonight.’

‘Prayers?’ I stand up. ‘If there’s anybody up there who let this happen, why would you pray to him?’

Lou whistles. ‘You’ll be in for it if the nuns hear that.’

But I don’t think I believe what the nuns forced on us as teenagers. I’m not sure I believed it even then, since I’d wondered from a young age why any god worth worshipping would allow children to starve or loving mothers to die.

‘I just think it’s strange to hear people thank God for their survival,’ I say. ‘He could’ve stopped this happening in the first place. If it was the work of the Devil, why didn’t God blow the wind back out to sea? What kind of god lets wind destroy a city?’

These are the sorts of comments that Dad would have leapt on in years gone by, since he remained resolutely Catholic even after Mum’s death. He’d have offered a ‘God works in mysterious ways’ or ‘There’s a larger plan at work than we understand.’ But he says nothing.

‘You think God lets people die because he doesn’t care about them?’ Charlie asks.

‘No,’ I say. ‘I don’t think that.’

When Lou has gone home and the kids and Dad are in bed, I sit outside with Charlie. We slouch in the butterfly chairs and look up at the night sky. The air is hot and humid, and carries the anxious scratch of cicadas, ratatatatat, insistent agreement of frogs, uh-huh-uh-huh-uh-huh, and the acrid smell of our insect repellent.

He reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out a joint and a box of matches. ‘It’s a shame for us you’re married to a reporter.’ He puts the joint in his mouth, lights it and takes a series of short, sharp drags. He tips up his head and blows out a stream of smoke, grey-white against the black sky. ‘Here.’ He passes the joint to me.

‘It’s never been a problem until now.’ I sink into my chair, almost relaxed for the first time in months. I take another long toke before I pass it back to him.

‘Cyclone won’t hold his interest for much longer. How are you going to keep him away from the commune?’

I groan. ‘You tell me. I wish either you or Dad had told me about that place before it got to this point. You know Mark’s like a bloodhound once he gets a whiff of something. I would’ve told you not to go there.’

‘That’s exactly why Dad didn’t want you to know.’

‘Well, yes, that’s fantastic. My father not telling me so he could bring back a stolen child. My husband not telling me because –’ But that one is on me. Mark doesn’t tell me the details of his stories because I’ve made it clear I’m not interested or am annoyed or want to get him to do something useful around the house. And bloodhound is the wrong dog: when it comes to investigating a story Mark is a pitbull, a pitbull attacking a poodle. ‘Charlie, he’s been investigating illegal brothels, gambling places, drug trafficking, the criminals coming up from Sydney – everything that goes on in Fortitude Valley – for two years. He’s obsessed. If he’s found out there’s a police-run dope farm that’s funnelling drugs into the Valley, no one will be able to keep him away. Not me, not his boss.’