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.

And here, in secrecy and solitude, a tall forest of marijuana plants reached into the sunlight, whispering in the wind. Dull green like Christmas trees, with the iconic seven-bladed leaves lush and healthy. A mountain stream trickled down and through the dug-out irrigation trenches.

The smell of the plants, the solitude, the sense of purpose and life – usually this place was a sacred escape for Murphy, where all the good things about cannabis seemed epitomised, where it was a symbol of a good life, lazy and under control and with money in the bank.

But not today.

‘Jasmine? Are you here?’

Avoiding the bear traps scattered through it, Murphy ran along a row of plants, looking for any sign of Jasmine, her tent, her footprints. He came to the brink of the gorge and rested his hand against the trunk of a tree, peering over the small cliff, down into the dense gorge filled with foliage and fallen trees.

‘Jasmine?’ he called. ‘Jasmine!’

There was no response but the rustling of the marijuana plants and the slow growth of the Tasmanian bush.

He called for a long time.

His only answer was bird call.

Walking back with Butch, Murphy’s heart was as heavy as his footsteps. When they got home, Murphy stepped in the back door and kicked off his boots. Then he froze – he’d heard a girl’s cough. Someone was in their house.

Murphy motioned to Butch and put a finger to his lips.

‘What now . . .?’

Murphy ignored him and crept up to Jasmine’s bedroom door.

Footsteps creaked on the floorboards inside.

‘Jasmine?’ croaked Murphy, and opened the door.

A terrified shriek answered as a teenage girl leapt off Jasmine’s bed, thin and dark-haired. Jasmine’s photo albums lay open on the bed.

‘Carmen?’ Murphy croaked. He knew her from Jasmine’s class. She’d come over a few times for sleepovers, and was one of Jasmine’s closer friends outside the Fab Four.

The girl swallowed and nodded her head.

‘Why are you here?’ shouted Murphy.