Sara’s face appeared in his mind. Ginger hair, brown eyes, wide smile, perfect teeth. Something twinged in his chest. Sara had always won political debates with the boys. It helped that she was always sober – she’d never even smoked weed. Still, she hadn’t minded rubbing shoulders with Skinner. She was good like that. She didn’t judge any of them for their business. She’d been a lawyer; she’d seen all kinds. Was fiercely smart.

He missed her so much. He’d do anything to have her back again. To have been there to keep her safe, somehow, from the illness that took her life.

A fierce fear ripped through him and he sat up suddenly. Jasmine . . .

The world lurched, the couch seemed like it was swallowing him. The PCP was setting in, waves flushing through his body – except not his body anymore, it felt like he was floating away from it. The fear seemed both childish and feverishly important.

He glanced out the cracked window, into the inky blackness of the Tiers at night. As the crow flew, the girls weren’t really that far from where Murphy sat right now. Jasmine. I can’t lose you too . . .

That was strange. His face was hot. He felt good. He felt scared.

The couch laughed, its stomach growling as it swallowed him deeper. He lifted up Gus the Muss, the cat looking at him, full of alien intelligence. It was beaming thoughts into his head. White lights flitted across his vision. A pleasant buzzing echoed in his ears, in his belly, in his groin . . . his heart pounded as he watched tears running down his own hairy cheeks.

He had two thoughts: Take that fry out of your mouth before you pass out or you’ll singe your beard and Sara . . . I can’t lose you again.

‘Murph. Shit, man, wake up.’

Murphy stirred. Strobe lights pulsed under his eyelids, and when he opened them he saw it was morning. He was lying under a cabbage gum at the edge of the yard, protected from the rain. He had his big hunting jacket on but he was still freezing cold, and aching, and he was covered in scratches and scrapes. Even under the cover of the big tree, it felt like every stitch of his clothing was drenched.

He rolled onto his side and retched. Nothing came out; he could barely spit.

Butch patted his back. ‘Clean yourself up, a bloody cop’s here. She’s inside. Wants to talk to you.’

‘What?’ His mouth felt as dry as cotton wool. Twigs stuck to his clothes, and thorns were caught in his hands. Had he been rolling around in the bush? How high had he been?

He put his hand to his head – his whole arm felt light as a feather. Scratch that: he was still high.

‘Cops?’ came Skinner’s voice. He poked his head out of the shed. He looked to be naked.