‘Enough to follow through on their threats,’ she says. ‘And there’s more. We have an extra child in the house tonight, a boy.’

Mark is smart so his neurons fire fast. ‘He didn’t,’ he says, incredulous rather than angry.

‘He? No no, this is not Dad’s doing. Or Charlie’s. You’re right that something is about to happen – they want the kids off the commune. A woman called Maria brought him here. I said no, but she left him anyway.’

Mark tips his head back, stares upwards. ‘Okay, right. Well, they might have made a responsible choice. He’ll be safe here with you, and that’s a good thing.’ He’s silent for a moment. ‘I think we can go to the commune anyway. I’m sure we can get what I need without them –’

‘But then what?’ Abby says, stepping closer to him. ‘Even if you can get in and out of the commune without being caught, what happens when your story goes to air? You can’t, Mark. Please.’

‘Think of the kids, man,’ I say. And they roll their eyes at me in perfect unison.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Sunday 2 March 1975

Abby

At nine-thirty, once the kids are asleep, after I’ve cleared the bottles and glasses from the coffee table, emptied the ashtray, washed the dinner dishes and wiped someone’s spilled juice from the kitchen floor, I come back into the living room. Mark is lying on the couch and Charlie is on the floor, with his feet up on the coffee table and his head on a cushion he’s pulled off the armchair. Mark has one forearm draped across his face, covering his eyes, the wind knocked from his sails.

Neither of them acknowledges me as I scan the room for anything else that needs my attention before the morning. I pick up one of Charlie’s thongs, abandoned next to the TV.

I sit on the edge of the couch near Mark’s hip. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say quietly. ‘I know how much this story means to you.’

He lifts his arm and drops it on his chest, turns his head. ‘I’m sorry, too.’ He props himself up on one side. ‘I don’t mean about the story. I’m sorry I hurt you.’

‘Visuals would’ve been amazing,’ Charlie says as he heaves himself up to sitting, his back against the couch. ‘There’s a view from the top of the hill where you can see the whole place. Almost aerial. Your cameraman would dig it.’

Mark and I lock eyes and smile. ‘World of his own,’ I whisper.

‘I’m sure he would,’ Mark says, without looking away from me.

‘And there’s this painted rock. Yeah . . . Oh well.’

‘Oh well,’ I echo. ‘Guess we’ll have to keep living outside of jail and hope viewers can survive without seeing the painted rock.’

Mark reaches for my hand. ‘It would’ve been a shame to deprive the world of a great lawyer.’

‘I’m not going to be a lawyer.’ It’s the first time I’ve said this aloud. My voice is calm and steady.