by Perry, Kyle
‘Your brother needs you, Murphy. Go,’ came Badenhorst’s voice from right beside him. Murphy turned to see him spreading his arms to hold people back.
Dave tried to wrench Murphy towards his waiting car. ‘I’m going to sue all of you bastards! I’ll see you in court!’ He tugged on Murphy. ‘Move, for fuck’s sake!’
Murphy saw that Badenhorst was now supervising the arrest of the vigilantes. He let himself be pushed into Dave’s car, even as a group of teenagers started clambering on top of it, jumping up and down, calling him a paedophile, shouting threats.
‘Mad-i-son! Mad-i-son!’ they began to chant.
The teenagers leapt off, screaming and laughing, as Dave put the car into gear and sped off.
Blood in his mouth and dripping into his eye, Murphy nearly started swinging again when Dave pushed a box of tissues from the centre console into Murphy’s hand.
‘We should take you to hospital.’
‘I’m gonna kill them.’
‘Who?’ said Dave.
‘Anyone.’
Dave didn’t reply. He drove towards Butch’s house, not speaking as Murphy swore and raged, punching the door.
‘I didn’t give her weed,’ Murphy finally said. ‘Any of them. You know I didn’t.’
‘If you don’t supply Cierra or Georgia, then someone you do supply must have . . . maybe they were having sex with Cierra.’
‘We have a middle-man,’ said Murphy. ‘His name is Skinner. I don’t know everyone he sells to: he has this rule where he won’t tell his suppliers who he sells to. Keeps a buffer between things. But I know he doesn’t sell to minors.’
‘You need to talk to him. Do some investigating yourself. If you won’t tell the cops that the weed really did come from you —’
‘You told me not to!’
‘And I stand by that,’ said Dave. ‘But Cierra had a bag, and Georgia had a bag, so —’
‘And Jasmine had one,’ said Murphy.
‘What?’
‘She stole a bag of weed on her way out the door, before the camp. Butch knew, but he lied to me about it.’
Dave was silent for a moment. ‘So . . .’ he began gently. ‘We do know that someone who smokes your weed was in Cierra’s room. It’s not much to go off, but you need to sort this out, mate . . . because if Jasmine had a target on her . . .’
Murphy felt like a bullet ripped through his chest. ‘What?’ His voice rose. ‘What did you just —’
‘No, you don’t get to start raging on me. You’re a drug dealer. A criminal. You have enemies in this town – powerful enemies. The bloody station sergeant for one! If Jasmine was taken by someone, for ransom or . . . something else . . .’
Murphy’s shoulders tensed up and he thought he might just start swinging anyway. Then he slumped against the car door. An aching fire ran up his side, and his nose and face truly began to pound.
He began to cry.
‘Hey, mate, it’s okay . . . Shh, it’s okay,’ said Dave.
‘What do I do, Dave?’ sobbed Murphy. ‘What the fuck do I do?’
‘You gotta ask Skinner who he sells to.’
‘He won’t tell me!’
‘Convince him.’ They pulled up outside the Murphy’s house.
Three journalists were standing on the footpath.
‘I dunno how.’
Dave sighed. He switched the engine off. ‘Look . . . your old man was always a good mate to me.’ He raised his hands. ‘I know, I know. He was a mongrel to his own sons, and he was generous with his fists with you. But . . . I’ve always seen you boys like nephews. Did you know that? Well, I think if your Dad was alive, he’d be okay with me giving you this – keep an eye on those jokers outside for a sec.’
‘What are you . . .?’ said Murphy.
Dave flipped open the glovebox and reached inside. ‘Just keep an eye on them.’ From behind a hidden flap, he pulled out a pistol. It was a 9-millimetre Glock, the same used by Tasmania Police.
‘Holy shit, Dave.’
‘Consider it a gift. Now, I’m not telling you to use it, but if you need to convince Skinner . . . well, if it’s to get Jasmine back, all bets are off, right?’ Dave chewed his lip as he handed it to him. ‘You’re not stupid enough to get caught with this, are you?’
Murphy held it between his hands. It was heavy and cold. Something stirred inside of him. ‘I’ve never shot a handgun before.’
‘Just remember to hold it in both hands and breathe evenly,’ said Dave. ‘Here’s an extra magazine, and here’s how you load it . . .’
Minutes later, Murphy headed towards his front door, the gun shoved into the back of his belt and under his shirt. The bystanders flinched when he glanced at them, and he knew he must look fearsome: his face bruised, mouth oozing blood.
He shoved the door open.
Something hissed near his feet, and he leapt back with a yell.
‘Murph! Stay back!’ called Butch from inside, his voice high-pitched.
Murphy took another backwards step. A long tiger snake, at least a metre and half in length, reared up on the doormat and barked like a dog. It had a black-scaled back and yellow tiger-stripes ran up from its belly.
‘The bastards dropped them in through the broken window,’ shouted Butch.
‘Are you alright?’ He feinted at the snake, and it flattened and slithered away.
‘They haven’t bit me yet, if that’s what you mean.’ His voice wavered.
Murphy found his big brother curled up in the middle of the dining-room table. Butch was terrified of snakes.
‘How many?’ said Murphy.
‘They’re venomous as fuck!’ shouted Butch, starting to lose it. ‘One is too many!’
‘Alright, alright. I’ll deal with it, Butch.’
He went around the side of the house, leaving the front door wide open to encourage the snakes’ escape, and jumped over the fence into his own backyard, ignoring the looks from those journalists still waiting out the front. He went into the shed, retrieving a broom, gumboots and heavy gloves.
He paused, then hid the Glock in one of the holes in the back of the couch, under one of the timber slats. He noticed something on the couch cushions: a spray bottle. It was Skinner’s angel dust. He picked it up, shaking it – there was still half the bottle left. It was lucky the cops hadn’t searched . . .
He put the bottle in the same hiding place as the Glock, left the shed and entered through the back door of the house, flicking on the lights.
A tiger snake coiled itself tighter in the corner, right next to the doorframe. The black-and-yellow stripes evoked a primal fear in Murphy he had to fight to quench. All children who grew up in the Tasmanian bush knew to fear the tiger snake, they were everywhere on the island.
Using the broom, he brushed it towards the door. It reared, barking like a dog, but eventually it slithered away.
Next was his bedroom. He flicked on the light, carefully stepping around the carpet, poking the broom into corners and under the desk. Finally, he poked it under his bed.
It hit something soft that set the broom twitching.
Grunting, Murphy pulled the broom back, and it came back with a snake wrapped around it, the black arrow-shape of its head looking at Murphy.
It launched at him.
With reflexes sharpened by adrenaline, Murphy’s gloved hands grabbed it behind the head. It struggled in his fists and instinctively he twisted as hard as he could. A few moments later it stopped thrashing, hanging limp like a hose.
He opened the window and hurled it out, feeling a touch sad. They were a protected species, after all.
In the dining room, walking around Butch and his table, Murphy found three more snakes. He swept them out the front door, even as they hissed and reared and struck at his boots, eventually slithering away.
The journalists, still standing there on the footpath, screamed and ran into their cars.
Finally, brushing two more snakes out of the kitchen, Murphy systematica
lly searched the rest of the house. He found one more snake, already dead, hanging through the broken window. Around its crushed head was a note attached by a piece of baling twine: BRING OUR GIRLS BACK PEDO SNAKE OR YOU’LL BE NEXT.
He looked out the broken window, where two teenagers were now filming Murphy’s house. Running to the front door, he wrenched it open and hurled the dead snake at them.
Satisfied by their squeals and the way they sprinted away, he finally returned to Butch and gave him the all clear. The big man climbed down off the table, trying to hide a wet patch on the front of his trousers.
‘I pissed myself . . .’ he muttered, avoiding Murphy’s eyes. He gave a double-take. ‘What the fuck happened to your face?’
‘I’m fine,’ said Murphy. ‘Go get yourself cleaned up.’
Murphy’s phone rang while he waited for Butch to shower. It was Dave calling. He answered it. ‘Have they found them?’ said Murphy.
‘No, I’m back at the station . . . that journo you punched, he wants to press charges.’
Murphy slumped into a chair.
‘Don’t worry, I’m sorting it out. I’ve argued for reasonable self-defence, and Badenhorst is backing me up, surprisingly. I honestly can’t work him out. But he did give me a message for you: if you want to stay out of custody, and stay alive, don’t leave the house until he tells you to. He’s gonna organise for a regular patrol to go past your place as protection.’
Murphy stayed silent.
Dave’s voice went quieter. ‘That might make it harder to get this Skinner to come to your place . . .’
‘I’ll work it out. I’m not keen on running into another mob.’
Dave ended the call, and Murphy rested his head on the table.
‘Was that Dave?’ said Butch, coming out of the shower naked. ‘Do they have news on Jasmine? Did you tell him about the snakes?’
‘I’m gonna call Skinner around tonight. Is that an issue for you?’ said Murphy without lifting his head.
‘You want to sell some weed now?’ said Butch.
‘No. I need to know who he sells our weed to.’
‘You know he won’t tell us, lad.’
‘He will if we get him high enough. We’ll take him out to the shed – we still have some of his angel dust,’ said Murphy.
‘You want to dose him with angel dust? Shit.’ Butch headed down the hallway towards his bedroom to get dressed. ‘Let me know when he’s on his way.’
CHAPTER 17
ELIZA
Eliza stood in the doorway of the Limestone Creek Community Hall, now converted into the search command centre.
In her hand, crinkled tight, was a permission slip:
I give Eliza Ellis permission to join the search and not feel guilty.
Signed, E. Ellis
She stole another glance behind her. The SES officer there had let her in the door when she’d explained who she was, and now found herself in a debate with another young woman, who was also demanding to join the search.
‘You just let that woman in, why can’t you let me in?’ she said. ‘We’re here to help!’
There was a whole crowd of wannabe search volunteers, camped in tents around the paddock that bordered the community hall, which had once been an old church, complete with ramshackle cemetery. It had begun snowing, out of what had previously been a clear blue sky, and some people had started campfires. It was becoming a miniature festival, complete with coffee and toastie vans, and music pumping from somewhere.
Eliza shook the slush off her hiking jacket and walked towards the end of the timber-floored hall. A group of men and women stood around a table on the small stage, framed by red curtains and dusty plaques and trophies on the walls. The room was loud and echoing with voices, and even though the old radiators were firing from the walls, Eliza’s breath still misted, her glasses fogging up.
As she walked up the steps, she brushed her hair from the leopard-print scarf, still tied around her head, and she studied the people around the table. There was a man standing at the head of the table, pointing at the map, trailing his finger along a path. The others were all angled towards him, leaning in, so it had to be Constable Darren Cahil, the search controller. He was in his mid-forties, dark full hair swept back, a Geelong Cats scarf loose around his neck, trailing down either side of his jacket.
Eliza drew closer until she could hear what he was saying.
‘. . . even if just one person stays overnight in each hut, you never know when they might stumble into —’ He looked up. His eyes were alert. ‘Miss Ellis,’ he said.
The others around the table looked her way. She caught glimpses of curiosity and pity on their faces. She could imagine what they were thinking. This is the teacher who was there when the girls went missing. She’s the whole reason we’re in this mess. Who does she think she is, coming here?
You’re being paranoid, she chided herself, gripping her permission slip tighter.
‘You’ve come to help with the search,’ said Darren matter-of-factly.
‘I want to join a team,’ she said.
A woman in SES overalls picked at her nails and an important-looking man in police uniform turned to Darren. ‘I know exactly where we could take Miss Ellis to —’
‘Let me go for a walk with Miss Ellis,’ said Darren quickly, giving the others a warm smile. ‘Make sure we get someone stationed in all the remaining mountain huts, and give each of them a satellite phone.’
He stepped out from behind the table before they could argue and grabbed Eliza’s elbow, steering her towards a makeshift café that was serving espresso coffee, the barista lining the takeaway cups up on the table. A group of farmers mingled there, dressed in Akubras and hi-vis, filling the air with strained and overloud laughter.
‘The barista only makes cappuccinos, I’m afraid,’ said Darren, passing one of the cups into Eliza’s hands. ‘I prefer a flat white, myself.’ Eliza noticed the plain wedding ring on his finger, the dirt under his nails. ‘Drink. Get warm. It’ll be cold up there. Unless it’s not – who knows with the Tiers.’
Eliza let the cup warm her hands, as Darren gestured towards a door that led out to the hall’s enclosed yard.
‘Thank you for coming. Thanks to you, I’ll have an excuse to get up there and join the search myself.’
‘Can’t you just assign yourself to a team?’ said Eliza. ‘I thought you were in charge?’
He laughed. ‘Apparently I’m more useful down here, even if it’s just so people can see me gesturing at maps.’ His eyes pinned hers. ‘If I’m being honest, I was hoping you’d arrive. You’re the most valuable asset we have, Miss Ellis. I want to go exactly where they found you and search there.’ He looked her up and down and nodded, approving her attire. ‘They told me you were an experienced hiker. Are you ready now?’
‘You want to go to the Lake Nameless trail.’
‘The others in your group have helped us locate where they found you, but I’d like to see what you make of it. Does that sound like a plan, Miss Ellis?’
She fingered her headscarf, the memory of the queasy ache still fresh. ‘You can call me Eliza.’
He inclined his head. ‘Miss Ellis.’ Wannabe searchers glanced their way, calling out, but Darren ignored them. ‘I hope you don’t mind, we’ll take my Yamaha. I’ll just find you a helmet, and I’ll grab some hiking packs from the SES and a few others to help us.’
They stepped out of the community centre, into sunshine and light wind.
Eliza and Darren walked up the steep muddy hiking trail. In the low branches of an alpine cider gum was a Bassian thrush, its flute-like song trilling around them. Eliza shivered. These birds only came out at twilight or, like now, when it was so overcast it felt like twilight. It seemed a bad omen.
She had been grateful when they parked their bike a little earlier, when the trail became too steep – the bumpy ride had made her queasy and dizzy, but she couldn’t let the concussion stop her from what she had to do. Three other mo
torbikes had already been parked there, with two SES volunteers and a farmer now trailing behind her and Darren. Each of those three was looking in a different direction: ahead, left or right.
‘I had no idea there were so many dirtbike trails through the bush here,’ said Eliza. ‘You got us here so quickly . . .’
‘Don’t thank me yet,’ said Darren. ‘It’s still a bit of a walk to the Lake Nameless trail.’
The clouds broke overhead, sun bursting down over them like a wave. The Bassian thrush’s song ended in a high-pitched ‘seet’, but other birds took up the call. Sudden insects buzzed around her, tiny flies with metallic blue bodies.
‘We’ll have to cross a waterfall up ahead,’ commented Darren, brushing at the flies.
Listening now, Eliza heard the rushing up ahead. Her heart lifted: waterfalls in this area were beautiful. ‘Lucky my boots are waterproof,’ she said. Silence built between them, until she said, ‘So you’re a constable, right?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Can I ask: how did you become search controller?’
‘You mean as a lowly constable?’ said Darren, chuckling. ‘Generally you want someone practical, knowledgeable . . . feet firmly on the ground, if you know what I mean. Characters like that are usually happy to stay where they are, even if they’ve been a constable for longer than their sergeant has been in the force. Not that that’s the situation in my case,’ he said, tapping his thumb to his chest wryly. ‘I’m just lucky enough to be a local. Grew up on a farm in Meander – my parents still own it. I’ve hiked these mountains many, many times. I know this place better than probably any other copper in Tasmania. That’s the reason they put me in charge of the search. It’s not my first search-and-rescue in the Tiers.’
‘You’ll find the girls, then,’ said Eliza.
Darren was silent as he walked, boots swishing in the muddy gravel of the track. By the time he spoke again, the rushing of the waterfall had grown so loud it almost masked his words: ‘The Tiers don’t like to let go of things, Miss Ellis . . . but we’ll do our best.’