‘I don’t know what —’
‘Tell me or I swear I’m going to tell Miss Ellis everything. Everything.’
‘Don’t be a bitch,’ snapped Cierra.
‘I’m not going into this if you and Madison are keeping secrets.’
Cierra looked like she was about to reply, then hesitated. She took another drag of the pipe. ‘Alright, I’ll tell you . . . tomorrow. This time tomorrow. Alright?’
Jasmine watched Cierra. ‘You don’t have to be afraid of Madison, you know,’ she said. ‘We would protect you.’
Cierra laughed. ‘I’m not afraid of her. You don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Alright, Cierra. If you say so. But just remember, me and Georgia are here for you.’
They turned back to the trees, and that’s when Jasmine saw it. A chill ran down her back, the hairs rose on her arms.
‘Cierra,’ she hissed. ‘Keep very still, and look to that group of trees, a little to the left.’
‘What is it?’ Cierra whispered back.
‘It looks like someone’s standing there. Watching us.’
Cierra shook her head. ‘It’s just a tree, Jaz.’
Jasmine kept watching. After a while, her breathing slowed down. ‘Just a tree,’ she said. She chuckled and tapped out the remaining weed. ‘Gotta be careful with this stuff, it’ll make you paranoid.’
Cierra laughed too, and they both stood up. She gave Jasmine a quick kiss on the cheek. ‘You’re my best friend, Jaz. Thank you for doing this.’
They walked back to the tents, shoulder to shoulder.
A branch cracked behind them.
‘Just a wallaby?’ said Cierra, even more high-pitched than normal.
The two of them walked faster, faster again, until they were running.
CHAPTER 3
MURPHY
It was well after nightfall when there was a knock on the door. Butch, rubbing the crick from his neck, went to answer it.
Murphy pushed himself away from the table and gently nudged Gus the Muss off his lap so he could stand, a headache sitting at the base of his skull. He stretched his back. The day had been long.
‘G’day, lads,’ drawled Skinner. He wore servo sunglasses, had long stringy hair, and tribal tattoos up both his wiry arms. He hugged Butch first, then Murphy. Murphy automatically turned to the side to avoid Skinner’s bad breath – drugs had ruined his digestion. ‘I brought a little gift tonight, to thank you for all your hard work.’
Butch’s eyes lit up. ‘What have you got?’
Skinner slipped a white spray bottle out of his pocket. ‘Angel dust, my angels. And the best shit of its kind I’ve ever tried. Who wants fries with that?’
‘I might sit this one out, mate,’ said Murphy, eyeing the bottle. A fry was the street term for a joint sprayed with angel dust. Murphy had tried a fry only once, and it had been a very bad experience. Besides, he avoided hard drugs like angel dust whenever possible. He was a father, after all.
‘Don’t be chicken shit, you’re trying it,’ said Skinner.
‘Murphy is in, or I’ll call the school and tell them Jasmine brought something a little extra to camp,’ said Butch.
‘She didn’t bring anything,’ said Murphy quickly.
‘Murphy is in,’ said Butch.
‘Good man,’ said Skinner. He tugged Murphy’s beard as he walked towards the back door.
Their shed was decked out with plush couches, a loud sound-system, a fully stocked beer fridge, and a rusty wood stove.
Murphy sat smoking the fry he had reluctantly lit, watching the flames in the stove. Gus the Muss was on his lap again, purring. Skinner and Butch were debating something about politics – Skinner always got political when he was high.
Sara’s face appeared in his mind. Ginger hair, brown eyes, wide smile, perfect teeth. Something twinged in his chest. Sara had always won political debates with the boys. It helped that she was always sober – she’d never even smoked weed. Still, she hadn’t minded rubbing shoulders with Skinner. She was good like that. She didn’t judge any of them for their business. She’d been a lawyer; she’d seen all kinds. Was fiercely smart.
He missed her so much. He’d do anything to have her back again. To have been there to keep her safe, somehow, from the illness that took her life.
A fierce fear ripped through him and he sat up suddenly. Jasmine . . .
The world lurched, the couch seemed like it was swallowing him. The PCP was setting in, waves flushing through his body – except not his body anymore, it felt like he was floating away from it. The fear seemed both childish and feverishly important.
He glanced out the cracked window, into the inky blackness of the Tiers at night. As the crow flew, the girls weren’t really that far from where Murphy sat right now. Jasmine. I can’t lose you too . . .
That was strange. His face was hot. He felt good. He felt scared.
The couch laughed, its stomach growling as it swallowed him deeper. He lifted up Gus the Muss, the cat looking at him, full of alien intelligence. It was beaming thoughts into his head. White lights flitted across his vision. A pleasant buzzing echoed in his ears, in his belly, in his groin . . . his heart pounded as he watched tears running down his own hairy cheeks.
He had two thoughts: Take that fry out of your mouth before you pass out or you’ll singe your beard and Sara . . . I can’t lose you again.
‘Murph. Shit, man, wake up.’
Murphy stirred. Strobe lights pulsed under his eyelids, and when he opened them he saw it was morning. He was lying under a cabbage gum at the edge of the yard, protected from the rain. He had his big hunting jacket on but he was still freezing cold, and aching, and he was covered in scratches and scrapes. Even under the cover of the big tree, it felt like every stitch of his clothing was drenched.
He rolled onto his side and retched. Nothing came out; he could barely spit.
Butch patted his back. ‘Clean yourself up, a bloody cop’s here. She’s inside. Wants to talk to you.’
‘What?’ His mouth felt as dry as cotton wool. Twigs stuck to his clothes, and thorns were caught in his hands. Had he been rolling around in the bush? How high had he been?
He put his hand to his head – his whole arm felt light as a feather. Scratch that: he was still high.
‘Cops?’ came Skinner’s voice. He poked his head out of the shed. He looked to be naked.
‘Nothing to do with you, Skin,’ said Butch. ‘Something’s happened on Jasmine’s school trip —’
‘What?’ said Murphy.
‘I said, something’s happened —’
But Murphy was already stumbling through the rain, into the house. He lurched from side to side, one leg feeling bigger than the other. The lights were still stuck to his vision.
A blonde policewoman stood in the dining room. ‘Murphy. Remember me? Constable Cavanagh.’
Of course he remembered her, he knew all the local cops. ‘Where’s Jaz? What’s happened?’ He rested a hand against the table as the world tipped away from him.
When she spoke the words seemed to come from far away, as though deadened by strong wind. He shook his head, trying to dislodge whatever was in his ears. He had heard wrong.