‘Are you alright?’ He feinted at the snake, and it flattened and slithered away.

‘They haven’t bit me yet, if that’s what you mean.’ His voice wavered.

Murphy found his big brother curled up in the middle of the dining-room table. Butch was terrified of snakes.

‘How many?’ said Murphy.

‘They’re venomous as fuck!’ shouted Butch, starting to lose it. ‘One is too many!’

‘Alright, alright. I’ll deal with it, Butch.’

He went around the side of the house, leaving the front door wide open to encourage the snakes’ escape, and jumped over the fence into his own backyard, ignoring the looks from those journalists still waiting out the front. He went into the shed, retrieving a broom, gumboots and heavy gloves.

He paused, then hid the Glock in one of the holes in the back of the couch, under one of the timber slats. He noticed something on the couch cushions: a spray bottle. It was Skinner’s angel dust. He picked it up, shaking it – there was still half the bottle left. It was lucky the cops hadn’t searched . . .

He put the bottle in the same hiding place as the Glock, left the shed and entered through the back door of the house, flicking on the lights.

A tiger snake coiled itself tighter in the corner, right next to the doorframe. The black-and-yellow stripes evoked a primal fear in Murphy he had to fight to quench. All children who grew up in the Tasmanian bush knew to fear the tiger snake, they were everywhere on the island.

Using the broom, he brushed it towards the door. It reared, barking like a dog, but eventually it slithered away.

Next was his bedroom. He flicked on the light, carefully stepping around the carpet, poking the broom into corners and under the desk. Finally, he poked it under his bed.

It hit something soft that set the broom twitching.

Grunting, Murphy pulled the broom back, and it came back with a snake wrapped around it, the black arrow-shape of its head looking at Murphy.

It launched at him.

With reflexes sharpened by adrenaline, Murphy’s gloved hands grabbed it behind the head. It struggled in his fists and instinctively he twisted as hard as he could. A few moments later it stopped thrashing, hanging limp like a hose.

He opened the window and hurled it out, feeling a touch sad. They were a protected species, after all.

In the dining room, walking around Butch and his table, Murphy found three more snakes. He swept them out the front door, even as they hissed and reared and struck at his boots, eventually slithering away.

The journalists, still standing there on the footpath, screamed and ran into their cars.