He stops and points through the bush to a clearing in the valley below. There is plant life to shield us, but through the gaps I can see about twenty teepees, a couple of humpies and a scattering of kombi vans in a sprawling circle around a large grey fire pit. To the far side of the commune, close to the base of another wall of hills, is a river shaded on both sides by trees. On the side closer to us is a huge tilled field divided into rectangles. Two lie empty but the rest are growing crops, neat rows of thriving, verdant dope plants with a side area for what I guess are the vegetables. There’s a discipline in those fields that troubles me. They know what they’re doing. I hear a goat bray, answered by a low moo. There are small clusters of people sprayed across the site: kids playing in the river, a dozen men and women squatting in the fields, a girl in a green dress climbing out of a kombi. The scene is peaceful, idyllic, Arcadia. But it’s more industrious, quieter than any commune I’ve heard of, and now I notice there are men pacing the periphery of the clearing.

‘Dad, I don’t know about this. Seriously.’

‘We’ll head to the lookout. I need to see the boy before we go down the hill.’

‘How will you know which one’s him?’

‘Leave that to me.’

We walk on until we reach an outcrop of rocks that offers shelter and a panoramic view through the tallest pair of boulders. There’s no one else here. Dad takes a thermos of water out of his bag and hands it to me while he peers down at the camp. Then he takes his wallet out of his back pocket.

‘You going to bribe him?’

He pulls out a photograph.

‘Is that Beau?’ I put the thermos down. ‘Let me see.’

He holds the small photograph in front of me, won’t let me touch it. It’s a picture of a smiling baby sitting on the sand. He has a mop of curly blond hair and a toothless grin.

‘Why didn’t you show me this before?’

‘I don’t show this to anyone. It’s Skye’s.’

‘Didn’t you think it would help if I knew who we were looking for?’

‘That’s not your job. I’ll find him. I’ll show this to him. You help with the rest.’ He puts the photo back in his wallet with great care, opening it wide and placing his fingers on the bottom edge of the card as it slides in so the picture isn’t creased. ‘She took it when they lived up north. He’s older, but it’ll do.’

We head down the hill, down to the commune. The sound of rushing water rises. I hear an axe strike wood.

Dad walks in front of me, making as little noise as possible, ducking under low branches, holding others aside. Soon we are almost at the clearing and there is little bushland left to hide us.