Sal had summoned Ryan and me out the back and said we shouldn’t charge the backpackers for their meals. ‘Tea and sympathy. That’s what they need.’

Ryan, never keen on Americans, had disagreed. ‘We bought that food they’re eating. Why should we pay for something that has nothing to do with us?’

‘Karma,’ Sal said.

He scowled. ‘Karma’s about cause and effect. We didn’t cause this. It’s nothing to do with us. And free food won’t bring anyone back.’

‘Babe.’ She stepped closer. ‘Karma is about good deeds in this life guaranteeing you don’t come back as a flea. A kind act now will shape the lives we have to come. We need to help these people.’

Ryan thinks Sal’s newfound dabbling with Buddhism is bullshit. But when she described karma it sounded selfish, doing things for later payback, and that does seem like a Sal way of thinking. Not sure I’ve seen her do anything that didn’t in some way or another benefit her. It’s messed up how attracted I am to her. Nothing dims it.

I’d watched, hoped he’d get angry or scoff so I could step in and side with Sal. That’s what I’d hoped for. But true to form, Ryan had melted to Sal’s will, and the Americans had eaten at our expense.

In my dreams I stand on the white sand at Kuta, my back to the sea, and watch as a falling plane smashes into the side of a mountain and bursts into flames. I’m not sure if I believe in karma. But even if I did, I don’t have a clue how to make up for what I’ve done.

CHAPTER SIX

Saturday 7 December 1974

Abby

I bolt to the bathroom as soon as I wake, my bowels about to explode. I’d been dreaming I was leaking from every hole in my body, one part of my brain trying to stay alert while another part slept. Not that I had more than a minute’s sleep.

The bathroom floor is cold underfoot, which is good since I start sweating as soon as I sit on the toilet. I pull my nightie out of the way and hang my head over my knees. It’s like the first day of a bad period. My arms are heavy as stone. My head is foggy. I slump until the sweat cools me and I begin to come clear.

I sit up, shiver, and assess the small room: there’s a rack of half-open louvre windows high on the wall behind me, rows of green rectangular tiles, a ball of white glass covering a dangling light bulb, a dark silt of dead moths at the bottom of the glass. Shiny toilet paper hangs from a wire loop to my right – waxy, see-through paper, not at all what I need. A calendar is thumbtacked to the back of the bathroom door, courtesy of the local petrol station. A lippy blonde, naked save for a pair of red knickers, sits on a windswept beach pushing her breasts forward like an indignant cockatoo. We stare at one another, we two birds.