‘To take another man’s son?’

‘The kid’s in a dangerous situation.’

‘Do you have any proof he’s in trouble?’

‘I met his father. And the place is – like you said, it’s no apple farm.’

He leans closer. ‘Describe it.’

Given that Doyle wants Mark to become less interested in the commune, this is dangerous turf. I want Mark to believe Beau shouldn’t be there but I don’t want to whet his appetite about the place or give him any information he doesn’t already have.

Mark looks around to see if anyone is listening in on our conversation. But the people near us are gleefully unaware. ‘How far out of Eumundi is it?’

Children run past us and between us. Abby’s dancing with a man who’s wearing a metal bowl on his head and mouthing lyrics into a wooden-spoon microphone.

‘Mate.’

I make a move to walk away but Mark puts his arm across my shoulders.

‘Jim. How you doing? Meet my brother-in-law, Charlie.’

‘Charlie, mate, merry bloody Christmas. You’re related to this bloke? You lucky bastard.’

When Jim is distracted by a woman carrying a platter of cheese and pineapple chunks on toothpicks, Mark speaks directly into my ear. ‘I’m going to need you to take me there, soon as we can.’ He pats me jovially then walks away.

Someone has turned up the music. The half-dozen people nearest the stereo holler the words to ‘Kung Fu Fighting’ and jump about. Lou is in the centre of the group, arms above her head, eyes closed, singing. A man wearing gold chains, shirt unbuttoned to show his hairy chest, stands behind her with one hand on her waist. They chop at the air in clumsy rhythm: ‘Ha!’

I turn back to Jim, who is regaling the three men now circled around us with a tale of his past prowess on the rugby field. Then I head to the kitchen.

Dad is getting himself a fresh beer while a woman wearing a purple headband talks at him. I should have fought him harder. I should’ve stopped him from going to the commune, shouldn’t have helped out.

Once the record ends, the dancers gather around the stereo, choosing what they want to hear next. Abby holds up one album cover after another to shouts of ‘naaah’ or whoops of approval. For a moment there’s no music, and the radio that no one bothered to turn off bays for attention. Mark is standing in front of it, turns it up, and people begin to fall silent and funnel into the kitchen, aware that something has changed, something important is being said.

Mark leans on the benchtop, his brow furrowed in concentration. His mate Geoff stands beside him, hands on hips.

Abby cuts through the crowd to get to the radio. ‘On Christmas Day? Turn it off. We’re playing records.’ She reaches for the radio, but Mark grabs her wrist. ‘Ow, that hurts.’

‘Sorry.’ He releases her, but his eyes don’t leave the radio.