‘That’s a good sign,’ said Butch.
‘Yeah,’ said Murphy.
Another stretch of silence. A brown wren flitted onto a fallen branch, its yellow eye on Murphy.
‘You’re a strong man, Murph,’ said Butch. ‘I dunno if I’ve ever told you that.’
‘I’m not,’ said Murphy instantly. ‘I’m weak as piss.’ His voice caught. ‘I fell apart after she died – you were there, you saw it. Everything went down the shitter. Lost the landscaping business, the house. I wasn’t even there for Jasmine —’
‘You have always been there for Jaz. Always,’ said Butch. ‘Don’t say that. Every presentation night. Every netball training. Every bloody tantrum. Whenever she needed a chat you dropped everything. You were – shit, I don’t know – you were there for her feelings. You’re a bloody good dad, Murph.’
‘I’m a drug dealer, Butch.’
Butch hesitated. ‘Lad . . . it’s only weed.’
They pushed through into a glade of myrtle beech – a faerie-land. The singing trickle of a mountain stream wending through the roots and blocks of dolomite, the bright-red fungus of strawberry bracket spreading over the beech trunks. A mountain dragon the size of a beer bottle clung to a rock, its wise, lazy eyes watching the brothers. Ferns tickled the edge of the glade, moving in a mountain-breeze dance.
They stopped. Murphy took breaths, tears threatening again. ‘What am I gonna do, Butch? What am I gonna do if she doesn’t come back?’
‘She will come back. You saw Sara. I reckon that means she’s sending Jasmine back to you. She can do shit like that. Talk to the Big Fella and bring Jasmine back.’ Butch was always full of such certainty.
The itch in his throat was the only warning before the tears came, hot and fast. Butch grabbed his shoulders, hugging him. Murphy clutched his brother’s broad back, fingers digging into his singlet, burying his head in Butch’s bare shoulder, stinking of sweat and marijuana.
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry . . .’ sobbed Murphy, apologising to Butch, apologising to Jasmine, apologising to Sara, apologising to God.
‘Shhh, it’s okay, lad. You’re okay . . . We’ll find her. I promise, mate. I promise. We’ll find her . . .’
The myrtle beech rustled above, as though in consolation. The mountain dragon blinked its lazy eyes and looked away.
Before long they were in a gorge full of twisting King Billy Pine. Murphy’s weary mind kept spinning back to the day Jasmine had gone missing. Especially the night before. The amnesia tickled at him – something Skinner told him had come trickling back now. If I wasn’t in the house that night . . . where was I?
He stopped, but Butch shoved him forward. ‘I said, don’t stop.’
‘What?’ said Murphy.
Butch grabbed his shirt and dragged him on. ‘Didn’t you hear a word I said? There’s someone following us. Don’t turn around.’
‘Cops?’ said Murphy. He wasn’t worried. He knew they could lose them.
‘No. There’s only one of them.’
Murphy nodded. ‘The usual, then?’
They came to the head of the gorge and broke off to the right, where they came to a cave, the entrance fringed by ferns and spiderwebs and fallen branches. It was a crack in one of the smaller cliffs that held up the escarpment.
Glancing around to check the coast was clear, they ducked inside.
It was dusty, dirty, muddy, secret. Dripping bonnet mushrooms poked out of the olive-green moss near the entrance.
They stepped over discarded beer cans to get to the back of the cave, dodging a family of skinks, running their fingers over their names still engraved in the back wall, and out the back exit.
Doubling back, they crept back up the hill and wriggled under a patch of ferns in the pines, from where they could see the main entrance to the cave. They didn’t have to wait long: a weedy little man with a thin beard walked slowly up to the cave, dressed in patchy jeans and a blue woollen jumper.
‘That’s one of Doble’s guys,’ whispered Butch.
The man glanced around, then ducked inside the cave.
Butch and Murphy slithered out from their hiding place and each grabbed a heavy pine branch.
‘Don’t intervene, Murph,’ said Butch, his voice full of a hardness Murphy hadn’t heard in a long time. ‘Let me handle this.’
‘Butch?’
‘I’m serious. You don’t think Doble’s the reason people are pinning this on you? Let’s not give him anything.’ He tightened his grip on the branch. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me if Doble was the one behind whatever’s happened to Jasmine.’
‘Butch . . .’ said Murphy. He needed to tell Butch the truth about the girls’ plan, sooner rather than later.
The weedy man came stumbling back out into the light, looking around, his cap dislodged.
His confusion turned to fear when he saw Murphy and Butch.
‘Didn’t find what you were looking for?’ said Butch.
The man shrank back, raising his hands. ‘Easy, fellas. I’m just out on a walk.’
‘You were looking for our crop,’ Butch said, walking forward. ‘Doble sent you.’
The man stumbled back, feet slipping and falling on his backside. ‘Don’t touch me! He’ll get you if you do!’
Butch growled, low in his throat. ‘Fuck me, I’m tired of this.’ He smacked the branch into his open palm and stood over the man. ‘Tell Doble that the next man he sends will end up even worse than you.’
He slammed the branch into the man’s face. His nose cracked and blood came pouring out. ‘It won’t happen again. I swear it,’ he squealed, putting his hands to his face to stem the bleeding. ‘I’ll tell him!’
‘That’ll be hard with two broken legs.’ Butch lifted the branch high over his head, but Murphy held him back.
‘Butch,’ he warned.
‘Stay out of this, Murph.’
The man scrambled to his feet and raced off into the bush, blood on his shirt and running down his arms.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ snarled Butch. He shoved Murphy away.
‘You were actually going to break his legs.’ Murphy stepped back. ‘And how was he going to get back down after that? Were you going to carry him?’
Butch swung the branch underhand like a cricket bat. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Murphy. ‘You go check the crop. I’ll stay here in case he comes back with some mates.’
‘Butch,’ warned Murph.
‘Just go,’ hissed Butch.
So Murphy went. A short distance away, through King Billy Pine so densely packed their corrugated trunks seemed to be kissing, were two massive dolomite boulders, leaning against each other to form a narrow passage. He leaned down to trigger a fishing line strung taut across the opening, then stepped back.
A 4.5 kilo sledgehammer, hidden in the ceiling crack of the two boulders, swung down with a whoosh, right where Murphy’s chest would’ve been. He waited for it to still, then picked his way past it and down the short tunnel. He emerged onto a shelf of land about the size of a basketball court, which looked out over the steepest part of the gorge. Many years ago it had been laboriously cleared by Murphy’s grandfather, Brandon Murphy Snr. Now the shelf was blocked off by pines and boulders, accessible only by the passage Murphy had walked through.