It was the last thing on Tilly’s mind, but curled up on the lounge – she had refused to go to bed – with only the kitchen light on and Thomas Leary’s hearty snores issuing from the spare bedroom, she finally dozed off, falling straight into a dream of pounding rain and crashing thunder. It was the Wet, she realised, the dark night hot and damp and full of menace. The mighty McArthur River had broken its banks and the rising water now threatened the fishing camp. Intermittent flashes of lightning lit the tin-walled room as she splashed through ankle-deep water towards the cot where Francie cowered, her face tear-streaked, little hands clamped over her ears.

‘I don’t like it, Mummy! I don’t like it,’ she sobbed as Tilly scooped her up.

‘Hush, it’s all right, darling,’ Tilly soothed her as the child’s arms snaked around her neck. She turned to the door, but the water was suddenly waist deep and Gerry stood there with the blood blooming over his heart and his blank eyes staring.

‘Sorry, babe,’ he said and slid bonelessly into the flood just as a huge crocodile surged towards them.

Tilly screamed, twisting away and bending protectively over the child as the monster lunged at her unguarded back. She felt the buffet of the water and glanced fearfully back, but it was Gerry who stood there now with his dead blank eyes and greenish scaly skin, wresting the screaming child from her arms. ‘No!’ She hit out at him and felt her fist connect, but he slipped away as she lunged furiously after him. ‘No! Give her back to me! I won’t let you take her!’ But he and Francie had vanished and only mud remained. Her heart broke afresh and she wailed her loss as urgent hands shook her.

‘Wake up, Tilly! Wake up, it’s a dream. Only a dream, dear heart.’ Connor was cradling her to his chest as she shuddered awake. ‘What is it?’ he asked tenderly. ‘You were dreaming and crying in your sleep.’

‘Oh.’ She sat up, shuddering, and palmed her damp cheeks dry. ‘An old nightmare about losing Francie. But different. I suppose it was seeing Gerry today – yesterday? He was dead in my dream, but he still took her.’ She drew a deep breath, memory touching her. ‘I felt myself hit something – that wasn’t you, was it?’

‘Yeah.’ He rubbed his chest and grinned wryly. ‘For a little ’un you pack a mean punch.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Then reality returned with a rush. ‘What time is it? Why hasn’t Wilmot come?’ But even as she spoke, the faintest tremor in the air stilled her breath. ‘Do you hear that?’

‘Sounds like him now.’ Connor stood up. ‘Why don’t you put the kettle on?’

‘You’re not offering him a cup of tea?’ she said incredulously. ‘He might be a murderer, Connor!’