by Perry, Kyle
Eliza slumped to the side, resting her head against the trunk of a pencil pine. The bell-like song of a green rosella filled the quiet grove.
Her amber eyes remained on Con’s even as life left them.
‘Con?’ came Gabriella’s voice from far, far away. ‘Con!’
‘Madison?’ he said.
‘I’m okay. She didn’t hurt me. Your head is bleeding, Mr Badenhorst.’
He closed his eyes, a distant thrum mixing with the rushing sound in his own head. The darkness came fast.
When he woke up, he was lying in the back of a squad car. Constable Darren Cahil was driving, tears rolling down his cheeks, and Murphy was in the front seat. Con’s head was in Gabriella’s lap, a cold pack wrapped around his head.
‘Rest, Con,’ she whispered. ‘It’s over.’
CHAPTER 56
CON
Con, Murphy and Gabriella sat in the interview room of the Limestone Creek Police Station: the nice one with couches and magazines and a window that looked out over the Tiers. Gabriella was wrapped in a silver shock blanket. Murphy had his head in his hands. Con sat against the wall, a bucket between his legs for the vomit that came with his concussion.
Commander Normandy returned to the room. She sat down, her voice soft and slow. ‘You’ve all done very well. Very well. You’ve saved Madison’s life. You’ve stopped a killer. This community is grateful, your country is proud of you, and your daughter will be proud of you, Murphy, once we find her.’
Murphy didn’t reply. Con sensed that, to him, this was no victory at all. Jasmine was still missing, Cierra was still missing. Bree was dead, Georgia was dead, and their killer had been brought to ill justice, before all their questions could be answered.
Con allowed himself to not feel the same despair. He put Jasmine and Cierra into another box. He didn’t have any energy left to think about them, and that was okay.
He had done a lot today. They had stopped a killer. They had saved a girl’s life.
This time, he hadn’t been too late.
It was time for a little rest.
‘I need to go finish discussions with the commissioner,’ said Agatha. ‘There are a few things she needs to sort out, based off everything you’ve told us. Someone still has to address the media. Until then, it might be best if you all stay in here. Con, I really think you should let the paramedics take a look at you —’
‘I’m fine,’ he muttered.
‘Don’t be an idiot.’ She stood up. ‘But, again – good job.’
Gabriella stood up the moment the commander left the room. ‘If the commissioner is here, I’m going to give him a piece of my mind about Doble. And if the media happens to overhear, so be it.’
‘You’ll lose your job,’ said Con.
‘I saved two lives today! After they kicked me off the case. I think I’m good, and Agatha will support me.’ She held up her blanket. ‘Besides, I’m in shock. I don’t even know what I’m saying.’ She swept out of the room, the silver blanket trailing behind her like a cape.
‘How are you doing, mate?’ said Con softly.
‘I can’t spend another night in this town,’ said Murphy, eyes on the floor in front of him. ‘On this island. I’m leaving – on a plane, on the boat, I don’t care. Tonight.’
‘To Queensland?’ said Con. ‘Port Douglas?’
‘Jasmine knew that’s what I always wanted; buy a shack in Port Douglas and spend all day gardening and fishing. I joked about it often enough.’ He looked up. ‘I’ve got enough money saved up.’
‘Drug money,’ said Con.
‘Yeah, well, it’s getting me out of it. And away from Butch.’ He gave the barest grim smile. ‘I’m doing exactly what Jasmine wanted.’
‘How do you feel about that?’ said Con.
‘Extremely pissed off. And I’ll be telling her so when she comes back.’
‘We’ll find her,’ said Con. ‘I’ll make sure of it.’ His vision rolled and for a brief moment he thought it was going dark again. He stood shakily. ‘You know, I think I am gonna go find that paramedic . . .’ He took a step and stumbled against the wall.
Murphy was there instantly, slinging Con’s arm over his shoulder. ‘Here, mate, let me help you,’ he said. ‘Lean on me.’
CHAPTER 57
MURPHY
One year later
Murphy sat in a café on the foreshore of Port Douglas.
It was ten-thirty in the morning. The weather was balmy, the air like a drunk mate. The ocean – in perfect view, just over the edge of the open-air deck – was mottled blue, perfect little waves rolling in. Salt in the air. His hair still damp from his morning swim. The rustle of lush palm leaves, a frangipani scent from nearby, the laughter from the pair of women at a nearby table eating yoghurt and sipping kombucha.
Murphy wore a singlet, shorts and thongs. His beard was cropped close to his face, which was creased and sunburnt. He had lost a lot of weight since Tasmania: he wasn’t skinny, but he was leaner, fitter.
A cappuccino stood on the table. No food; he was too nervous for food. He’d have preferred a beer, but . . . he just wanted to be careful. On today, of all days. He had smoked a cheeky joint that morning. Perhaps some things never changed.
Con sat beside him: he’d flown in yesterday. He wore a singlet too. He was sipping his latte, holding the glass too tightly.
Both were silent. Nervous.
The pair had stayed in touch all year, and Con had come to visit Murphy twice before; they considered themselves close mates now, bonded by trauma. Murphy himself had been back to Tasmania a few times, to visit Butch and others, including the Masons, to share their grief, exchange clues and theories. Each time he had stayed at Con’s Launceston house.
Not that he had a problem with Butch, not anymore. He just didn’t want it to get back to Jasmine.
A year into Con’s investigation and still nothing from Jasmine or Cierra. No sign at all, up in the mountains or elsewhere.
Except for today.
Perhaps.
In Murphy’s hand was a postcard from Jasmine that had arrived at the Limestone Creek Police Station one week ago. Con had brought it with him, and this was the time and place she’d specified to meet. ‘Can’t wait to see you,’ she’d written.
Con had tried to keep Murphy’s expectations in check – it seemed the card came from an online service and its delivery had been scheduled over a year ago. It proved nothing, and yet hope was alive in Murphy’s chest, like a bee in a jar. A hope Murphy hadn’t allowed himself for a long time.
Jasmine, missing for a year, to the day . . .
He’d almost invited Butch, too, but he didn’t. Just in case. He didn’t want Jasmine to see him and back away.
It had taken most of the year, but Murphy had smoothed things over with his brother. He had seen Sara’s letter, and he believed Butch – Sara had been the one to come to him, that night Jasmine was conceived.
It was a strange thing, to fall a little bit out of love with your dead wife.
He supposed this was exactly what Jasmine had been trying to prevent. Jasmine with her little plans, her little schemes. The agony she had caused him.
Murphy hoped, from the bottom of his soul, that if Jasmine arrived today, she had grown up a lot. Because it would take serious maturity for her to handle the decade-long grounding he was going to give her.
‘What’s the time?’ said Murphy. He had turned his phone off: he didn’t want any messages from anyone.
‘Ten thirty-five,’ said Con.
‘Okay,’ said Murphy gruffly. ‘Talk about something. Please.’
‘Umm . . .’ said Con. ‘What’s your coffee like?’
‘It’s good. Next question.’
‘Penelope seems nice.’
‘Yeah,’ said Murphy, with a small smile. ‘She’s better than I deserve. More patient than Sara ever was. Just as stubborn, though.’
Penelope was a teacher at the local primary school. Their relationship had
been rocky at the start – Murphy’s grief and anger had got in the way every time something challenged them. She’d forced him to get counselling, which hadn’t helped, so then she’d forced him to join a men’s group, which was helping. She’d also started coming to church with him, as a show of support to the changes Murphy was trying to make. It wasn’t a perfect relationship, none ever was, but it was starting to bloom. She’d even taken the day off work in support, but respected his request to go meet Jasmine alone.
‘Have you heard much from Pastor Hugh?’ said Murphy.
‘Yeah, a bit,’ said Con. ‘Shoots me a message every now and again when he’s in my area. I reckon you hear more from him than me: he’s really proud of you, did you know that?’ said Con. ‘How was church yesterday? Get anything good out of it?’
‘Well, I zoned out a bit, kept thinking about today. But there’s some good people there, and they took me out for lunch. At the start it was only because . . .’ He hesitated. ‘I promised God if he brought back Jasmine, I’d go to church, so I’ve been going to church . . . you know, out of faith.’ Murphy squeezed his mug. ‘But I’ll probably keep going. Even if she doesn’t show up today.’
He glanced up at the clouds in the azure sky. Murphy had prayed for this day often enough, so God better bloody well be listening in right now.
‘I’m glad that it’s working for you, mate,’ said Con.
‘It is,’ said Murphy, then softly, ‘What will I do if she doesn’t come?’
‘Don’t think about that. Tell me about work.’
Murphy gave a wry grin. ‘I don’t know why I ever stopped doing landscaping. I’m the bloody best there’s ever been. There’s a bloke that sub-contracts for me, but the last job he did, the owner refuses to have him around anymore because his work’s not as good as mine. I mean, it’s a compliment, but it makes my life difficult. Not that I’m worried about money.’
Con was well aware that he received a lot of financial support from Butch, but what Con didn’t know was that Butch was still in the drug game and making more than ever. It helped that Doble had been removed from the force, but bizarrely he had teamed up with Madison Mason. She had dropped out of school on her YouTuber wage, but was also earning money from selling Butch’s weed on the dark web. They marketed it as The Hungry Man’s Bush Bud.
Madison was at least doing a lot of other stuff with her channel now – raising money for better causes.
Murphy, while not happy about the whole situation, still took the extra income Butch sent his way. He wanted to prepare the perfect house for Jasmine’s return, the perfect life, and he now had a two-storey house right on the beach, with wide open windows and a rocky path to the sand, a pool, a home cinema, the cleanest kitchen, outdoor swings, a rooftop bar, and three cats – Gus the Muss, Mickey Mouse, and Meredith.
Plus the best landscaped garden in all of Port Douglas.
All it was missing was Jasmine.
And, after Jasmine returned, maybe an engagement ring on Penelope’s finger.
Con had run out of conversation topics. Together they watched the waves. The chink of cutlery came from nearby tables, the smell of coffee and roasted meat and eggs, birdsong and insects and murmurs and laughter and a sudden, balmy breeze.
‘Dad?’ came a tremulous girl’s voice.
For a split second, it was like Murphy was hanging from that cliff again.
The table crashed to the ground, cups and cutlery flying, coffee spilling everywhere, as Murphy lurched to his feet.
It was Jasmine. She stood on the deck, a few steps away.
He had one moment to take her in.
She had long ginger dreadlocks, a tanned and freckled face with her piercing blue eyes, a vibrant green dress with a pattern of tropical leaves and flamingos. She wore a canvas shoulder bag, cheap sunglasses on her head.
And then Murphy had crossed the empty space and crushed her into his chest.
She was alive.
She was gloriously, undeniably alive.
He felt her warmth, smelled the scent of her, sunscreen and shampoo, her fragility, the sound of her happy sobs as she nestled against him, back where she belonged, safe and safe and safe.
He made soothing sounds, tasting his own salty tears as they rolled through his beard and into his mouth.
‘You’re hurting me,’ she chuckled, voice thick with tears. She pulled away.
He held her at arm’s length and studied her intently, seeing his own hands shaking. The lightness in her eyes, clear of teenage awkwardness, clear of even that shadow of grief that had haunted her since Sara’s death. The fullness in her face. Healthy and happier than he’d ever seen, at peace.
His anger was still pushed down for the moment, for putting him through so much, for the audacity of being alive and not telling him for a whole year. His heart was soaring, the sight of her was so bright it almost hurt.
Behind him, Con swore softly, over and over.
‘Jasmine —’ croaked Murphy.
‘How bad was the worry?’ she cut him off. ‘Was it bad? I didn’t think about it at the time, but now I realise . . . it was too late, though. I had to see it through!’ Her blue eyes flashed with fervour. ‘It was important, Dad.’
She twisted her arm, to show him the tattooed text down the outside edge of her forearm: Permission to do what it takes.
The bottom fell out of Murphy’s stomach. He knew that phrase now, after everything Con had found out about Eliza.
‘Do you like it?’ said Jasmine. ‘It’s something Miss Ellis taught us. I can’t wait to see her. If anyone from school actually wants to see me.’
She doesn’t know, realised Murphy, but it was a distant thought.
Jasmine was alive, and healthy, and here with him.
That was the single most important fact of his entire existence, the fulcrum of his reality.
Jasmine is here.
The whole café had dropped to a buzz, eyeing the table Murphy had flipped, watching him and Jasmine.
The waitress had come, a scowl on her face, but Con was speaking to her quickly, showing her his police ID, gesturing at Murphy and Jasmine. Together the waitress and Con righted the table and re-set it.
‘Dad?’ said Jasmine, reaching out for his cheek, tenderly brushing the tear that fell from his eye. ‘I can see it in your face. You’ve aged. You were worried. Worried sick. Look how much weight you’ve lost. I dunno, I didn’t think you’d worry about me that much . . . or I didn’t want to think. I guess you saw my videos?
‘Maybe we should sit?’ said Jasmine with a chuckle, taking Murphy’s hands and holding them tightly.
So grown up now.
‘If it’s any consolation, I had the most incredible year ever.’ She sighed happily and took a seat. ‘I can’t wait to tell you all the things I’ve done. And a complete media fast – I feel cleansed, Dad! When I have kids, I’m home-schooling them and not letting them near any kind of screen or newspaper.’
‘Where . . . where have you been?’ croaked Murphy, perched on the edge of his seat. ‘You haven’t seen anything about . . . you didn’t check the news?’
‘No. Nothing. I just . . . and I didn’t want to ruin it all. I knew once I saw the fallout . . . plus I was sure that Cierra, Bree and Georgia would chicken out. Was it bad when they came back? How did Jack take it? I didn’t treat him that nice, we didn’t stick to the plan we told him . . . I was pretty nasty to him, but when I found out he stole your seeds, I admit I wanted to get a little revenge. I was such a child!’
Murphy saw the guilt in her eyes, the excitement, a groundedness that had never been there before. She’d always seemed like a bird about to take flight, but now she was a woman.
How am I supposed to tell her? he thought suddenly. How do I tell her that Georgia and Bree are dead, and Cierra is still missing? And that Eliza died in front of my eyes . . .
His mouth was dry. She’d been gone a whole year and found this peaceful version of herself. How was he going to break th
e news to her? How would he support her, once she realised how horribly wrong the whole thing had gone? Her year of finding herself would become her trauma.
‘I want to hear everything now, before I tell you my story,’ said Jasmine, clapping her hands, forcing happiness, seeing the state Murphy was in. ‘Did Georgia get her museum? Did Cierra start her own YouTube channel?’
Jasmine is here, and everything is okay.
‘Have you moved here permanently? You didn’t happen to bring Moaning Myrtle, did you? I miss her.’
Murphy glanced at Con, who was still watching the two of them, but the policeman just shrugged.
Murphy smiled back at Jasmine and shook his head, tears again rolling down his cheeks.
And then he began to laugh, big booming laughs that brought the café to another standstill.
No, your cat was killed by your teacher, who was a murderer, and who would’ve killed you if she had the chance.
But it’s okay. You’re here. Nothing else matters.
I have three cats waiting for you at home. I can’t wait for you to see . . .
‘You are here.’ His laughter turned to happy sobbing, and he crushed her in another hug.
‘I missed you, Dad.’
He’d enjoy this moment for a while longer – he’d let Jasmine enjoy it a while longer – before he told her.
Everything is okay.
EPILOGUE
BUTCH
Butch had a strange feeling he was finally on to a good one.
His footsteps scrunched over the fallen bark as he followed a wallaby trail through bush dense with mountain needlebush and spicy mountain pepper berry. It was nearing dusk – he’d been out here longer than intended – but he was drunk enough that he didn’t care.
It was a year since Murphy had burned their old crop to the ground. It hadn’t taken long for Butch to replant that crop and, without Doble on his tail, he’d managed to plant several more small fields, dotted all over the escarpment.