I felt sick and dazed, almost as if I had a head wound myself. It was an effort to think logically when I reached my bathroom and stared into the medicine cabinet. Antiseptic cream. Band-aids. Wound gauze. Paracetamol? I stuffed everything I could find into a pillowcase along with a clean sheet and a pair of scissors, then grabbed a bottle of vodka from the safe. Before leaving, I glanced at the kitchen clock. Ten past one—still fifty minutes till the Stradbroke ferry was due. And why had nobody responded to my flare?

Locking the front door took me longer than usual. At first I couldn’t find the right key; then I dropped the whole bunch. When I finally arrived back at the matron’s house, I had to stand on the doormat for half a minute, squinting and fumbling before I managed to push the key into the lock.

At that instant, there was a sharp bang and a pinging noise. For a split second my mind was a blank. I stared at the fresh gouge in the wall beside me and thought, What?

Then I turned and saw Scott Rooney.

He was standing on the jetty road, his left hand bandaged, his face gleaming with some kind of ointment. The orange fuel tank sat on the ground next to him. He stamped his foot in frustration as he lowered his rifle.

I didn’t stay to watch him reload. Turning the key, I plunged inside and locked the door behind me, gasping, distraught, my head in a whirl. He had one shot left. One. He must have motored around to Karboora Beach. Landed there and unhooked the fuel tank. Followed the track back to the jetty.

But why take the risk? He had to be delusional. Even without witnesses, he’d never get away with murdering me. I drew the nearest blind and ran for the next one, frantically racking my brain. What could I use as a weapon? The house was practically empty; there were no brooms or hammers or cricket bats…

The scissors. Of course. I was pulling them out of my pillowcase when I heard heavy footfalls on the steps outside.

I ducked down, listening. Scott could no longer see through the front windows, and the side ones were too high to reach without a ladder. What if he tried to smash his way in again? It hadn’t gone well for him last time but he might try again now that I didn’t have a nail gun. Shit, I thought, he’s got everything. Rifle, nail gun, first-aid kit. He must have used the first-aid kit to dress his wounds.

What if he managed to get the spare shells out of the gun safe?

At that instant I smelled petrol: fumes seeping under the door. I heard a splashing sound and realised what Scott up to; he was trying to smoke me out. Or burn me to death.