It was all so quick, I had trouble grasping what had happened for a moment. Then I hurled myself out the door. Scott was rolling onto his chest, holding one cheek and whining in short little grasps. His other hand was wrapped around the rifle. I was past him before he could grab me.

On my way up the jetty road I unscrewed the cap on the second flare and paused for a moment to raise it. When I yanked the string, the bang made me stagger. But instead of watching the flare as it soared overhead, I glanced back at Scott. He was already climbing to his feet again, though he looked unsteady. There was blood on his face. He was using the rifle like a crutch.

I spun around and ran for my house. The toolbox was in there. If I could just hold him off until the two o’clock ferry came…

By the time I’d unlocked my front door, Scott was halfway up the jetty road, drooling blood. The deadlatch clicked shut behind me as I staggered into the laundry and grabbed Dad’s old toolbox. Hammer? Chisel? Spanner?

Nail gun.

It was a cordless finish nailer. I flicked a switch and saw there was still power in the battery.

‘You bitch!’ Scott’s voice reached my ears, jagged and muffled. He was getting close. ‘You fucking bitch!’

I finally found a belt of nails. They were pretty big—fifty millimetre. Loading them was easy; they slid into place just as Scott reached the front door. The sound of his hammering took me right back to Otford.

‘Just go!’ I screamed. ‘Take the boat! People are coming!’

The pounding stopped. I listened, clutching my nail gun. Was he leaving? Was that the creak of the veranda steps? I crept out of the kitchen, down the hall, past the office. Two narrow panels of glass framed the front door; no silhouette was visible through them. Was he heading for the boat or lying in wait outside?

I didn’t know what to do. Warren needed help and I couldn’t reach him—not if Scott was down there. I tried to think. The phone was trashed. The old short-wave radio in the museum didn’t work…

A bang from the kitchen made me jump. I darted back down the hall as a huge crash was followed by the tinkle of falling glass. Scott had broken a window with his rifle butt; I could see it happening through the doorway. I was about to run, then thought, No. Wait. I dropped to my knees and crawled into the kitchen, hugging the wall, using the table as cover.