On the base of one of the trees surrounding the clearing he noticed scratch marks and stepped closer. He found a name scrawled into the trunk—Matthew Cahill. He searched his memory but he had never heard of a Matthew Cahill. He stood looking at the name and wondered what had caused Matthew to put it there. What had been so significant about this place? What had occurred here? Probably just the Cahills in their youth, probably years ago now. Ernie’s father, maybe. Or his brother. Vernon felt the urge to scuff dirt against the name and symbolically erase it, but instead he walked back to his tent, trying to shake off the bad feeling that scrawled name had evoked in him.

He spent the rest of the afternoon avoiding discussion with his wife, who did not look at him, but sat looking out at Port Napier. At nightfall he built a fire and they sat either side of it on their camping stools, the tent behind them, Penelope with her jacket on and her hands spread out before the flames. He’d built it back from the shore, but it could still be seen through the trees. He had put a few cans of spaghetti into the embers and their labels were peeling off, onto the earth, into the black.

He looked across at her and said, ‘You alright?’

‘I’m just great, thank you.’

‘Come on, sweetheart.’

She shook her head. ‘I keep thinking about Caleb.’

‘He’s fine.’

‘You don’t know that.’

‘I’m sure he’s fine. They won’t be worrying about him now. They’ll be after me.’

‘You mean us.’

He watched the fire for a bit. The sea was a constant, rhythmic thrum. He looked up at the lights of Port Napier, strained to see their home, and couldn’t. Just pinpricks of light far off. Sometimes a car’s headlights. Hard to keep the lights distinct at this distance.

He said, ‘Found something I never saw out here just before.’

‘Mmm?’

‘A Cahill name carved into a tree. Matthew Cahill. You know a Matthew Cahill? Just down there a bit, on a trunk.’ He motioned with a stick. ‘Didn’t know there was a Matthew.’

‘I think I’ve heard his name before.’

‘An uncle or something?’

‘You remember when I had a look at my family tree?’ She still wouldn’t look at him. ‘I had researched a bit of Newbury history and I think his name was in there somewhere. I think he died a long time ago.’

‘You know how?’

‘No.’

She picked up a stick and started stabbing the ground. Orange light flickered up her arm. What was she imagining? Whose face was on the end of that stick?

Soon she said, ‘You think the Earth knows about anger?’

He scoffed. ‘Bit of an odd question.’

‘You think it does, though?’

He grunted, sighed. ‘I don’t know. You sound like Bill Kelly. Big ideas.’

‘I know, I just . . .’ She hesitated. ‘There’s been so much murder and violence here, you know? In Australia, I mean. But here specifically, too. There was an Aboriginal bloke murdered out here a long time ago. The McAndrew stuff?’