I try to think of something soothing. When I was pregnant with Sarah, Mark and I went to Sydney for a holiday. There was no Dad, no chores, and nobody knew Mark as the most gifted student in the English department, the boy who would be prime minister or write the Great Australian Novel. We were a young couple expecting their first child. We rode the harbour ferry. We strolled Manly Beach promenade, eating iceblocks. We walked the trail above the Gap, marvelling at the cliffs, the churning sea, and the huge height from which so many tortured souls had flung themselves. At the lookout, Mark kissed my salty lips through strands of windblown hair.

When I wake, Mark is touching my shoulder. We’re in the living room, in the black of night, lit by star shine coming in through the veranda’s sliding doors. I am doubled over, my hands on my thighs, as if I’m recovering from a running race. I curl myself up slowly.

‘Why am I in here?’ I ask.

Mark seems as baffled as I am. ‘You walked in here asleep, I guess. I woke up when I heard you.’

‘Heard me doing what?’

‘You were . . .’ He shakes his head. ‘You were trying to move the couch, I think. Do you remember what you were dreaming about?’

I freeze in horror. Has my brain decided this is how I’ll cope? That I should behave like Lady Macbeth of the suburbs?

‘What’s going on with you?’ he asks gently, then puts his arm around my waist and leads me back to bed.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Monday 23 December 1974

Charlie

I pretend to be asleep when Dad opens the curtains, even though the metal rings make a racket, even when he threads his jangly belt into his slacks and taps me on the shoulder.

‘Charlie.’ His knees crack as he bends down to speak directly into my ear. He taps me again. ‘Charlie.’

I give up. ‘Dad, I get it.’

Dad walks around to the other side of my fold-out bed, a rumpled mess of sheets, thin bedspread kicked to the end.

‘Let me sleep.’ I pull my pillow from under my head and put it over my face. He yanks it off. ‘What, Dad, what?’

I reach under the canvas bed and bring up a balled t-shirt, which I pull on without smelling for wearability.

‘I had a thought.’

‘Nope. Coffee.’ I push myself up. ‘Whatever you’re going to lecture me about, I at least deserve that first.’ I stand up, pull on my jeans. ‘It’s not even daytime.’

Before he can reply, the phone rings. I look at my father, but this doesn’t seem to be connected to our ridiculously early rising. From his expression I can see he has no idea who would call this house before dawn. Would the cops call this early? I guess they can call whenever they feel like it. Especially if they have news.

Mark shuffles down the hallway to answer. And then, a minute later, he’s standing in our bedroom doorway. ‘Charlie, call from Bali. Didn’t catch her name.’