‘We’ve got to chock the tyres!’ shouted Murphy. There was no way to fight the momentum of the Landcruiser.

‘With what? No time!’ shouted Con. ‘Madison, you need to break your thumb and pull your hand out of the cuff!’

‘It’s too tight!’ screamed Madison. ‘Oh, Jesus, help me! Help me!’

Con was red from the strain, patting at his pocket with one hand while he pulled with the other. ‘Where are my handcuff keys!’

And Murphy remembered. Con didn’t have keys to the handcuffs because Murphy had them. He’d used them that morning to release Butch from Eliza’s bed.

The cliff was approaching. Beyond it, the fog and the mountains, swollen clouds and a perfect pastel blue sky.

They had maybe five metres.

Sara.

He remembered the dream. It had been warning of this the whole time . . . This was the moment of his death.

No time to think, then. Bite the bullet and go for it.

‘Hold it steady, mate,’ Murphy said. He pulled himself up onto the tray of the vehicle.

‘What are you doing?’ shouted Con. The Landcruiser lurched forward without Murphy’s strength.

Time slowed down.

He pulled the little key out of his pocket. He pushed it into the cuff attached to Madison’s wrist.

Madison clung to him. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’ She was no longer the larger-than-life mastermind: just a terrified teenage girl.

Murphy turned the key in the cuffs and they sprang open. He cradled her like a baby.

You’re out of time.

The Landcruiser tilted, front wheels over the edge. Con’s shout was drowned out by the roar of metal scraping the cliff edge.

Murphy heaved Madison off the back of the tilting tray, throwing her like a haybale, and she grasped onto the very edge of the cliff, one leg dangerously over the precipice until she scrambled all the way up.

The back tyres of the Landcruiser met the brink of the cliff.

Murphy was ready.

This was it.

He was going to see Sara again.

Already the wind of the cliff whipped his plaid shirt, his beard, his tear-filled eyes. Just like he had dreamed.

The tray tipped further.

‘Jump, Murphy!’ Con’s voice broke through his trance. He reached across the back of the tray, raised up on his toes. ‘Jump!’

Murphy ran to the tailgate and jumped towards him.

Time froze.

Wind all around him.

Sky above.

Sharp rocks way below.

The cliffside.

Adrenaline.

The dream.

Madison.

Jasmine.

He hung suspended, afloat, pitching forward – this is it, Murph – and then Con’s sweaty palm grabbed his wrist.

And time sped back up.

Con heaved and Murphy’s whole body slammed against the cliff face, his feet dangling free, the wind knocked out of him.

Con was dragged forward, flat on the ground, his chest digging into the rocks at the edge. He looked down at Murphy, teeth gritted, wind ripping at his hair.