He had the carving knife, the Panama hat, and the yellow towel from the RMS Orion, as well as his notebook, the map, and his passport with the new visa stamp. He crouched low, where he could keep the bungalow in view.

It had been easy getting north: the British consul’s wife had been wrong. And she’d had no right to laugh. He had left their villa with the things he wanted—the knife, the British consul’s wallet, and a bottle of red wine—and hitched a lift with two Dutchmen heading north for the mines. He showed them the word “POUM” in his notebook, and then the cross on his map, and they said they could take him halfway, if he sat in the back with their kit. They tried the west coast road but it was closed because of the cyclone, so they crossed the island to the east coast road instead. They asked if Mundic was there for work, but he’d had enough of talking, so he pretended he was asleep. After a few hours, they dropped him off and said something he didn’t understand about a river. But it didn’t matter because he had taken one of the men’s binoculars from his kit bag, as well as a spare battery. He didn’t want the battery, but he took it anyway.

After the lift with the Dutch, he had walked until he came to a little town with some shacks and a café. He ordered a plate of fried fish and wrote it down in his notebook so he wouldn’t forget, and he wrote about the two Dutchmen, and then he showed the man at the bar the word “POUM” but the man said, “Non,” like it was closed. Then he took hold of Mundic’s notebook and drew a picture of a river. He pointed up, like the river was in the ceiling. Then Mundic got it. He understood. It was like the men in the camps when they had code words so that the Japs wouldn’t understand when they were planning an escape, and he realized the fellow was telling him that the river was not in the ceiling, it was north. The river was in the north. The guy said, “Non,” again. And Mundic began to understand that the river was blocking the east coast road because of the cyclone and there was no way he could get past.

So he drew a picture of a boat, and the man rubbed the tips of his fingers, like he wanted cash.

But the cash wasn’t a problem because he still had the woman’s purse from the cargo ship—he didn’t even have to bother with the British consul’s wallet.

The next thing he knew he was getting into a little fishing boat with an old chap in a hat and he was saying, “Poum,” and pointing at the word in his notebook, and the man was laughing and saying, “Poum wee wee Poum.” And it made no sense but Mundic pulled out the bottle of red wine from the British consulate, and the sky was so starry it was like it was filled with holes, and he drank the red wine, and he watched as the stars split up and down, and the oars of the little fishing boat pulled through the water, and even though it was choppy because of the wind, a great happiness surged through him. He had been a free man for five years, but this was the first time he truly felt it.

And now here he was. In Poum. The boat had docked by a broken jetty and he walked until he found some old men and some goats, and he had drawn a picture in his notebook of two women, and a big bloke in an old café had pointed the way down a dirt track. So he had walked another few miles, and there were banana trees and red parrots and ferns that were as big as towers and cacti the size of people, and far away he could hear the ocean. He went past a shantytown, and when the boys ran out to shout, “Hello, Monsieur!” he yelled at them to clear off, like the men in the cargo ship in Brisbane had shouted at him. He had walked through the red dust until the track came to a stop and all he could see were the trees and all he could hear were the insects—and there it was, this horrible little bungalow. He thought it was all a mistake.

Then there was Miss Benson. She was ahead of him on the veranda. And she was dressed like a man, and helping the blonde, and at first he wanted to wave and say, “Hello! I made it! I’m here now to lead the expedition!” But he didn’t because he saw that Miss Benson was helping the blonde, like she was very sick, and he drew back, slashing his way through ferns and elephant grass with the knife, to a place where he could hide and find out what was what.

He stayed a long time, and he felt strangely powerful, watching the bungalow when they didn’t know, writing facts about them in his notebook. Later he went to Poum, found himself a room, and slept, then remembered to buy fresh fruit because of the beriberi. The next day he came back, and knelt in his hiding place and took notes. Sometimes the blonde appeared with a mangy dog, but she looked dead on her feet, and she held on to her belly, and he saw now what the problem was. She was up the duff. She was a lousy assistant.

And he thought of the men at Songkurai and the march to the railway lines and how, when someone fell at your side, you couldn’t stop. You couldn’t even look. You had to go on without them. He thought of laying the tracks and how, with every piece he’d carried, another man seemed to collapse. He thought of the rock they’d hacked through every day, and the river water at their feet, and the jungle that was so dense he’d thought he’d never see his way out. He thought of the dead lying on rice sacks and the stench of broken bodies. And the thoughts came so fast he had to sit very still with his arms round him and say, “You are a free man, you are a free man. It’s okay, son, eat your fruit.”

Three days of watching Miss Benson. He wrote his observations in his notebook, like what time she got up and what time she picked bananas and what time she put out the lamp at night. And it was all right when he fixed on those things. He was back in the present.

Now he lifted his binoculars for a better look. He could see her burnt arms as she leaned on the broken railing of the veranda. The splits in her boots. He could see the bandages up her legs, and the way she had to hold her hip so she could walk. He guessed she hadn’t found the beetle.

It was different now that he knew she’d stolen her equipment. The rules had changed again, just like they’d changed when he’d saved her life on the ship. There was this new secret feeling between them. He lay back and closed his eyes, and he could hear the insects, he could feel the heat, and it seemed he sank down into a place that was warm and red and full of comfort.

He just had to work out how to lose the blonde.