‘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 systematically 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.