As soon as I realised that, I also realised I was being sucked dry by mosquitoes. Slapping at them, I moved forward until I reached the track, then turned left and trudged back towards the jetty, sluicing mud and water, my feet squishing in my boots, my scattered thoughts gradually coalescing.

Warren. What had happened to Warren? My first-aid kit was in the boat along with the rifle and nail gun. Scott had them all, and he was heading for the mainland. But the ferry would be here soon. What time was it? I checked my watch.

It had stopped. Water in the works, probably—or mud.

‘Warren?’ He was lying where I’d left him. At the sound of my voice he turned his head, raising one hand to shade his eyes.

My vision blurred. He wasn’t dead. Scott hadn’t killed him.

Thank God.

‘It’s okay.’ I ran over. The tide was lapping at his waistband, so I pulled him up, my arms clamped across his chest. Warren groaned. He was too heavy—I was going to hurt him if I dragged him all the way to the house. But I couldn’t just leave him in the mud, undefended.

‘Hang on,’ I said. ‘Just hang on.’ Struggling backwards, I heaved him onto the road, past the boathouse, towards the parade ground. Then my strength failed and I had to lay him down again. The heels of his boots had left gouges in the dirt.

‘Wait.’ I was gasping. Trembling. Watching the sea. No vessels were on the horizon. I couldn’t hear my tinny anymore.

Warren rolled over. He pushed himself up onto one elbow.

‘No. You’ll hurt yourself.’ I bent and touched his back. ‘Warren?’

He mumbled something—and at that instant I remembered the wheelbarrow.

‘It’s okay,’ I told him. ‘Wait here.’ I tottered off towards the poultry shed, sweat stinging my eyes. My hands were shaking so much I could barely unlock the shed door. By the time I returned, several minutes had passed; I found Warren on his hands and knees, crawling up the road.

‘For God’s sake.’ I trundled to a halt beside him. ‘Here. Can you get in this?’

He reached up and grabbed the barrow, using it to haul himself to his feet. But instead of collapsing into it, he took one wobbly step and threw an arm around my shoulders.

‘I can walk,’ he rasped. ‘Help me.’

I helped him. We staggered up the road, stopping occasionally as his legs buckled. The cut on his head was still oozing blood. He was a terrible colour and unsteady on his feet.

What if he’d fractured his skull?