‘I didn’t expect to see you,’ she says, turning her face to Jericho. If you’re thinking of marrying, he’s heard it said, you should look carefully at the girl’s mother. That’ll tell you what she’ll be like when she’s old. Would he want to be married to Laedi in twenty years’ time? The creases around the eyes, the slight drop of the cheeks are harsh in the lamplight. Her eyes are tired, but her smile is wide and beautiful. Yes, beautiful still. The curve of her nose, so like Bili’s, is accentuated by the cast of the light, and sitting there, she is splendid.

‘Is Bili working?’ she asks. ‘Does she have court tomorrow?’

‘Yes,’ Jericho says. ‘A mention in the Collingwood Bay matter.’

‘How’s it going?’

‘Okay, I think.’ He doesn’t want to talk. He wants to slink off to his room.

‘They’re a strong community. They used to be warriors,’ Laedi is saying. ‘They’re not going to give up. We’ve done projects over there. They go well as long as the elders approve.’ She’s about to go on, but she looks at Jericho, then at the clock. It’s late, after midnight. ‘You’re tired,’ she says. ‘There’s iced tea in the kitchen. Do you want some? You could add a shot of brandy to mine. It helps me sleep.’

Jericho puts a double shot in his, but it doesn’t help him sleep. He lies under the lonely mosquito net and curses himself. What a moment to ask. With court tomorrow. He should have waited. He should have chosen his moment. Thought about it. The recriminations he can marshal against himself are vast and without mercy.

He gets up, checks that the fan whirring above him is on the highest setting. It is. He checks that the louvres are open. They are, but there is no breeze to let in. He stands under the shower. He dries himself, is immediately sweaty again. He returns to his damp sheet, turns the pillow, and lets pity flood him. Live here with her? That wasn’t a thought he’d let lodge in his mind. What would he do? Could he live in this small, dusty, dangerous town? This small, boring town? Everything that has charmed him for three blissful weeks seems ugly and oppressive now that he is lying awake, exiled to a hot room. The round hills, the markets, the trees that grow above the beach, even the view from Laedi’s house across the harbour, mountains folding away to the distance. Especially the mountains. Everywhere, mountains.

If he were in London he could get up right now and get a drink at a bar, he could buy the early edition of the Guardian. It would be day there now, and he thinks of his colleagues at the gallery where he has worked for five years, building its success, leaving exhibitions in place so he can take the time for this return. This thwarted, mistaken return. He thinks of the café where he liked to lunch. He imagines himself in a bar after work, drinking with friends, leaning back in his chair, laughing, carefree, the great city breathing around him.