Butch lay naked on the bed, handcuffed to the headboard and his ankles tied to the end with baling twine. He was gagged by a sock in his mouth and a tea towel tied around his face, his chest and face bruised in mottled angry purple, blood pouring from a smashed nose and a cut above his eye.

When Butch saw Murphy he strained against the cuffs, trying to lift himself off the bed.

Eliza didn’t look much better: her clothes were ripped, exposing her underwear, her face was bruised, her head scarf gone and the wound on her forehead revealed. She held high a cricket bat and almost collected Murphy with it as she turned. ‘Murphy!’ She dropped the bat and she threw herself into his arms. ‘He tried to handcuff me to the bed, but I knocked him out —’

Butch pulled against the cuffs, his shouting muffled by the gag.

‘He confessed everything!’ said Eliza. ‘He took the girls – he’s killed Cierra and Jasmine! He confessed!’

Heat flooded Murphy.

He pulled the gun from his belt.

‘Kill him, Murphy,’ screamed Eliza, pulling on his arm.

Murphy looked into his brother’s eyes. His vision blurred at the edges. He felt Eliza’s hands on his, dragging his arms up, aiming the gun at Butch’s chest.

Butch looked deep into his brother’s eyes, full of tears and terror, deep piercing blue eyes . . . the same shade of cut-glass that Jasmine had inherited.

Jasmine had Butch’s eyes, not Murphy’s. Because Butch was her father.

Memories, emotions, images of Butch with Jasmine. Hugging her, caring for her, supporting her through her grief, supporting Murphy in his fatherhood.

Butch loved Jasmine. He’d never kill her.

Eliza’s fingers closed over the trigger.

‘No,’ shouted Murphy, trying to wrench his hands out of hers. With a loud blam, the gun kicked in his hands.

The sound of the shot in the small room was explosive, and Murphy staggered. He saw a hole had appeared in the wall. Then something hard whacked into the side of his head.

Pain and rainbows – the world spun. He fell to his knees.

Eliza stood over him, cricket bat in her hands. She swung it again but this time Murphy saw it coming, catching the blow on his meaty forearms. He was still holding the gun. He fired a warning shot into the ceiling. Another explosive sound. ‘Eliza! What are you doing?’

Eliza screamed and ran from the room. ‘Help! Help!’

Murphy pulled himself to his feet, feeling the side of his head where she’d hit him. It was swollen and bloody. A surge of nausea rolled through him.

Butch screamed into his gag and Murphy took it from his mouth.

‘She’s a maniac, bro. She attacked me —’ Butch shouted. ‘I didn’t do anything to her, mate, I swear.’

‘Where’s Jasmine?’

‘What? I have no idea! I would have told you if I did!’