Murray stood on the curb, looking at the smouldering remains of what had once been the home of one of his best friends.

How many nights had he and Damien stayed up late modding StarCraft maps, eating noodle buns, and watching late-night schlock on pay TV? How many delicious meals had Damien’s Mum served their hungry group of adventurers? Hell, how many disapproving looks from Damien’s father had they all weathered?

Now, all that remained of the house were a few stubborn support beams, some blackened and twisted white goods, and piles of ash through which the local police were now combing for any sign of Damien.

It was just after 3 a.m., and the night was bitterly cold. The fine mist of icy water drifting across the darkened street in dancing sheets was almost indistinguishable from the smoke and steam rising from the remains of the house.

All five of the local fuzz were on site, along with a few fieries and an ambo. The former remained mostly to shoot the shit with their friends in blue, while the latter lingered - reluctantly, from the look of his face - in case, by some miracle, Damien was found in any state to make the trip to the hospital.

Murray didn’t hold high hopes for his friend. The house had been a fucking pyre when he’d arrived at the scene, tipped off to the event by a text from Mitch.

“I’ve got something,” one of the cops, an obese older guy named Barry but known as Bazza, shouted. He was gesturing to something in the burned-out husk of the kitchen. The other officers quickly descended upon his position, one of them stooping to carefully pick something up in gloved hands.

“Jesus Christ,” one of the fieries swore. “Is that a hand!?”

“Barbecued hand,” Bazza quipped. “Hungry?”

“Oi,” snapped the sergeant, a grey-haired out-of-towner who Murray didn’t know. “Pull your head in. Show some bloody respect.”

“Yes, sir,” Barry said, sounding suitably abashed.

Murray glanced in Mitch’s direction. The kid managed to look both pale and green around the gills.

“Fuck me,” Murray muttered to himself. “Rest in peace, Damo.”

He was surprised at the well of sadness he could feel. Sure, it had been nice reconnecting with his old friend briefly in hospital, but the years of radio silence could not be so easily forgotten. Damien had ditched the lot of them back in high school, and he’d cut all contact when he’d signed the academy deal that took him to the big leagues.

Still, Murray could mourn for the freckle-faced little nerd who he’d first introduced to the wonders of internet pornography, even if he didn’t much care for the smarmy douchebag he’d grown into.

Still, both versions of Damien were dead, and that was a sad thing.

“Friend of yours?” asked Warren, the ambulance driver on the scene.

Murray was genuinely surprised Warren didn’t know. Damien was the closest Loch Lomond had to a celebrity, and the two of them had been in the same year at school.

“This is Damo’s place, you fuckin’ galah,” Murray snapped, regretting the harsh edge his voice had taken when he saw the hurt expression on Warren’s face.

“Christ, mate,” Warren protested. “Like I know where everybody lives. If I’m not on duty, I’m drunk. The only way to pass the time in this fuckin’ place.”

That or ice, Murray mused. And he’d get fired if he was on ice.

“Fair,” Murray conceded, clapping Warren on the back as an apology. “But yeah, this was Damo’s place. Looks like he didn’t make it.”

The coppers had formed a scrum around what remained of Damien, preventing the firefighters from getting a good look at what was going on. Disappointed, they began to pack up shop to head home.

As their truck pulled away, some arsehole with his high beams on approached, temporarily bathing the entire scene in white light.

“Turn your high beams off, you fucking moron!” shouted one of the cops, although the driver wouldn’t be able to hear over what sounded like Westlife’s fucking Greatest Hits blaring over the speakers.

Three in the morning, and this bloody idiot is blasting music. People are fuckin’ sleeping.

The car’s tyres crunched over loose gravel as it pulled up, mounting the curb. The door opened, and Ryan Seffen stepped out, all two hundred kilograms of fat, sweaty humanity. The town’s only reporter looked like he’d either rolled out of bed or out of a marathon gaming session, his clothes creased, his oily hair a mess, and the crumbs of a hastily eaten meal on his faded Batman t-shirt. The only thing about him that looked professional was his Canon EOS DSLR, which he was already using to snap haphazard photos of the scene. The flash would do precious little in the dark and mist; even Murray knew that.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Forget your tripod, mate?” he shouted by way of greeting.

“What? Oh, hey, Muzza. Nah, it’s in the back. Just snapping a few candids in case one of them turns out.”

“Fucking ghoul,” Murray muttered under his breath. Warren grunted in agreement.

“Who’re we talking about?”

Murray nearly shit himself at the sound of Damien’s voice coming from behind him. Turning around, he saw his high school friend - unsinged and in possession of both of his hands - standing there with his arms wrapped around himself against the cold.

Shock quickly gave way to relief, and Murray found himself grabbing Damien in a bearhug that lifted the taller man off the ground.

“I thought you were dead, you bloody idiot!”

“Dead?” And then, “Oh, the house? I, uh, wasn’t home.”

Warren, who had been standing there watching the exchange like a stunned mullet, moved on instinct, his training overcoming his drowsiness as he moved to examine Damien.

“Oi,” Damien protested as the short, bespectacled ambo poked and prodded at him. “I’m fine.”

The ruckus drew the attention of the police, and two of them broke off from the pack to investigate the cause of the hubbub. When one of them recognised Damien, their expression went from curious to businesslike.

“Hey, sarge,” the younger of them called over his shoulder. “We’ve got the homeowner here.”

This drew the remaining three officers—Mitch, Bazza, and the sergeant—but only Mitch looked happy to see Damien.

“Damien Reid?” the sergeant asked, although he knew the answer. “I’m going to need to ask you to come with us.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“Nah, mate, but we’ve got some questions we’d like to ask you, and it’s cold as a witch’s tit out here. Do us a favour and come down to the station. The heat’s on, and we can have a cuppa.”

Damien nodded. Not a lot else he can really do, Murray thought. The guy’s house burned down, and they found a severed hand in there.

As the officers led Damien towards the two patrol cars on the scene, Ryan walked backwards, snapping photos and blasting them full in the face with the flash.

Bazza, snarling, stepped forward and grabbed the camera, giving Ryan a rough shove backward. If they weren’t brothers, that would be police brutality, Murray thought.

“Hey!” the younger Seffen protested. “I’m just doing my job!”

“Then you’d know you can’t fucking photograph somebody for your newspaper while they’re under investigation.”

This seemed to placate Ryan, although he snatched his camera back with all the grace of a petulant toddler.

“Constable Seffen,” the sergeant called from the cruiser. “A word.”

It was the elder Seffen’s turn to look abashed now, although whatever words the sergeant had to say were kept quiet. When he was done, the sergeant approached Ryan. “I’m not going to read anything about any of this in your paper tomorrow, am I?”

Ryan shook his head. “Only about the fire, Mark. I won’t name names or mention the hand.”

“Good man. We’ll give you a buzz when we have something for you.”

“Show’s over, I guess,” Warren said, making his way to his ambulance.

“Hey, Muzza!” Damien called from the open window of the cruiser as it pulled away. “Did Sam send you a package in the last few days?”

The car had gone over the rise and into town before Murray had a chance to give his answer. Why would Sam have sent me a package?

Of course, there was every chance a package had arrived, and nobody had thought to tell him about it.

Fuckin’ kids.

Sliding into his ute, he headed home to investigate.

—-----------

By the time his wife came into the kitchen, the sluggish sun had turned the horizon from black to a miserable shade of grey, and Murray had overturned every drawer in the combination kitchen/living room.

“What on earth are you doing?” Shelley asked, surveying the carnage.

“Did Sam leave a package for me?”

“What? Oh, yeah. The kids left it on the dining room table.”

The table in question - not really fancy enough to justify the dining room label - sat within plain view. Sure enough, a nondescript cardboard box - the kind you get at the grocery store - sat on the table, the name FUDGEROD scrawled across the side in thick texta.

“You’re fucking kidding me,” he muttered, standing up and going to take a closer look.

Shelley laughed and shook her head. “You’d lose your head if it weren’t screwed on. You and your bloody boy looks!”

She then set to boiling the kettle for a cuppa, leaving Murray to open the box. Inside, he found a model of a squat stone structure. Murray carefully lifted it out of the box, holding it in both hands as he turned it over and around.

The level of detail was insane. Each stone was outlined with a thin strip of concrete, every blue shingle on the roof was an individual piece no bigger than a match head, and the barred windows revealed a detailed interior. Through one window, he saw a dozen tiny single beds arranged in meticulous order, and another showed a barred cell not unlike the one Damien would probably be spending some time in.

All told it was a magnificent representation of a building Murray recognised well. After all, Fudgerod had spent more than a few nights in the drunk tank of Fairhill’s barracks/jail.

“Fuck me…” he began. “Check this out, Shell.”

But when she turned to see what he was talking about, she could not find her husband; only an oddly detailed model was in the entryway.