Facing the Flame

by Jackie French

  The wind was blowing towards the township, the smoke too thick to see further than a few metres. He’d called in at the fire shed earlier, in his friendly, ‘Hi, mates, anything I can do to help?’ guise. No one had grinned back, but one bloke had at least assured him the smoke was from sixty kilometres away, where the Gibber’s Creek crew were fighting it. There was no fire near Gibber’s Creek.

  Merv grinned. Yet.

  He’d studied the map carefully, made his plans ever since he’d heard the news of Jeratgully’s loss on the car radio that morning. Why had he never thought of fire as a weapon before? Bigger than fists, more powerful than smashing your victim’s face. There was so much more misery you could inflict with fire. And he knew just how to catch his prey within it.

  This was the right place all right. If he lit a fire here, it would surround that house of hers, maybe burn it, despite the patch of black. Even if the house didn’t burn, people died of smoke inhalation, didn’t they?

  And the fire would keep growing in this wind, would burn that Drinkwater place. And then, paddock by paddock, to that big River View place on the edge of town, and finally the whole of Gibber’s Creek too.

  That would show her. Show them all! Even if Janet survived, she’d be terrified. Then one day he’d find her all alone again and whisper, ‘That fire? It was me.’ And he’d grin and say casually, ‘See you again sometime, Janet.’ And all her life she’d be waiting for him. Wondering what he’d do next.

  Because if she lived through this, he’d think of something else. There were always new ways to hit and hurt.

  Her and her big pregnancy stomach. For the first time Merv realised the baby she’d been carrying all those years back had been his baby. His! Not that he wanted a baby. Never had. But the boy — of course any baby of his would have been a boy — would have been about ten years old now. His son and he’d never meet him, all because of Janet Skellowski escaping like that.

  You could teach a ten-year-old boy the important things in life. Pick off the weak, then take what you want. Smile at a woman to begin with and then when you get angry later, she’ll think it’s her fault. The more women put up with, the more they’d blame themselves, not you, unwilling to believe they could have been suckered in.

  And there is always another sucker to move on to.

  He’d no wish to be tied down to a baby, but he’d still been robbed. If Janet had just done what any decent girl should have done, shut her mouth, gone off to one of those places for single mums and had her baby adopted, there’d be a small Merv somewhere in the world. His son . . .

  He struck the steering wheel, then punched it again. He was going to make very sure Janet Skellowski didn’t have anyone else’s baby.

  Right. He needed to get going. He opened the car door, left the engine running in case he needed to make a quick getaway, opened the boot and got out one of the two jerry cans of diesel. He ducked under the fence, ran a hundred metres, then opened the cap and dribbled the fluid in a long line back towards the road.

  Would it work? He’d never tried anything like this before — city pubs and nice streets where people were careful not to hear anything unpleasant from next door were more his style — but he’d shared a cell with an arsonist once in Boggo Road Gaol (a time in his life he was careful never to mention to other people). That bloke had been a real firebug. There hadn’t been much else to do in that place but study the skills of your cellmates. Jeez, he’d been a piece of work, but he’d known his stuff . . .

  He ducked through the fence again, then bent down and held his cigarette lighter to the diesel trail.

  It flared, just like old what’s-his-name had told him it would do: a high flame but not the ‘grab your guts and swallow them’ blaze you might get from using petrol. Even in the smoke-heavy air, Merv could see the line of flame stretching in exactly the right direction.

  Merv gunned the motor and sped down the road. In ten or fifteen minutes, he reckoned, that fire would be at Janet Skellowski’s house. And he’d sit there on the other side of the road, nice and safe in his car, the road between him and the flames. He’d make Janet truly terrified at last.

  And then he’d watch her burn.

  Chapter 34

  SCARLETT

  Scarlett edged into the driver’s seat of her van, then winched her wheelchair up and into the back. She had already loaded the van with sheets, blankets, the mattresses from the banana lounges, as well as the two boxes that comprised her first-aid kit, first begun when she was twelve years old.

  Jed shoved another pile of blankets into the back of her sports car. Scarlett looked at her bulk critically. ‘We should drive in together.’

  Jed already looked tired. ‘We might need both cars. You head off now. I’ll be right behind you. I’ll leave a big gap so there’s no chance I’ll run into you.’

  Scarlett glanced up at the pulsing red and orange sky, the only colour in this world of twilit smoke. Götterdämmerung, she thought, the twilight of the gods. It didn’t seem right to set out alone in this, or to leave Jed in a car alone either. But it was only twenty minutes into town, maybe five minutes more in this gloom. And Jed would be right behind her. And Dr McAlpine needed help . . .

  ‘See you soon then,’ she said, then held her arms out to signal that she expected a hug and kiss. Jed had learned how to do both since she’d been at Gibber’s Creek, but still needed reminding.

  Scarlett drove slowly down the driveway, watching in her rear-vision mirror as Jed looked around for a last check. She glanced up again at the flame-scorched sky, then braked. She wouldn’t drive off till she actually saw Jed behind her. What if a tree came down on the road in this wind and Jed couldn’t get past it? Or it even fell on Jed’s car?

  She’d wait till she saw her get into the driver’s seat, as the sheep clustered, scared, at the edge of the paddocks furthest from the wind and the trees tossed twigs and leaves into the black-painted air.

  This was not a day to be alone.

  Chapter 35

  MERV

  Merv stared at the two young women, the wheelchair girl sitting in a van under a tree, Janet slowly lowering herself into that red car of hers. What right had a girl like her to have a sports car?

  And what had possessed them to be driving on a day like this? Nervous of the wind and smoke, probably, and heading into town.

  For a moment he panicked. There was no sign of his fire yet — it was five minutes away, at least. If they headed into town now, they’d escape it, unless it burned down the whole of Gibber’s Creek. There were probably enough people to stop it taking the entire place, no matter how much he’d have liked to see it vanish entirely.

  Janet would escape! He’d got so close! The fire had moved more slowly down the road than he’d expected, but surely it would be here soon . . .

  He grinned as the idea came to him. Of course! This plan was even better. This way he’d actually see Janet Skellowski die. Maybe he’d even have the joy of hearing her pleading for her life, her baby’s life . . .

  He punched the accelerator, fishtailed across the road, then got the car under control again. One bend, two, till he was well past her house, with no one to see him. He stopped his car again, ran to the boot and grabbed the second jerry can, the one he’d kept in case the first hadn’t been enough.

  He needed a line of fire on both sides of the road this time. He ran twenty metres into the paddock on one side, sending sheep fleeing for the furthest fence. Baa-becue for you, little lambies, he thought, trickling the diesel out. The heat and wind were so strong most of the fuel seemed to evaporate before it reached the ground. He bent right down so the liquid soaked into the soil, sweating, cursing, his throat on fire from the smoke. All Janet’s fault. He could be in a pub with a nice cold beer in South Brisbane if it wasn’t for her . . .

  The fire flared, the grass so dry it gave almost no smoke. It was impossible to see from the road yet in the ash-filled air.

  Now to light the other side of the road,
blocking escape from the house entirely. Could he do it in time?

  He got back to his car just as the van with the cripple drove past. She slowed down to look at him. Would she see the fire on the other side of the road? No, she kept her eyes on him. Merv thought about making a gesture, hesitated, then turned away. Lots of blue Holdens about, lots of men his size. No one could identify him for sure in light like this. That cripple didn’t know her luck. Another thirty seconds and she’d have been caught, like Janet was going to be. He’d wait just long enough to see her die, then speed away before the fire could catch him.

  He bent as the cripple’s van speeded up again, then rounded the corner towards Drinkwater. He held the lighter to the first line of diesel, ran across the road and lit the second line and saw both leap into flame. He ran to his car, then drove it across the narrow road, blocking it entirely.

  And waited. One second, two . . . and there she was, Janet Skellowski, caught at last, braking hard to keep from crashing into his car.

  Fire behind her, fire on either side of her, his car blocking the road.

  Got her.

  Chapter 36

  JED

  For a moment Jed only saw the blue Kingswood blocking her way and then she saw it all. Merv, smudge faced, belly straining at his seatbelt, grinning at her. Grinning, grinning, grinning, just as he had that night a decade back. The snicker of flame on either side of the road, devouring grass, fence posts, slithering red up tree trunks, the fire speeding towards town, towards Moura, Drinkwater, Gibber’s Creek, Scarlett . . .

  Please keep driving, Scarlett, she thought. Please! Please let her think she can’t see my headlights because of the gloom. Because if Scarlett turned back now, she’d be trapped by the fire heading to Gibber’s Creek too.

  Merv’s fire, deliberately lit. Even through the smell of burning gum trees and heavy soot, Jed caught the stink of diesel.

  He thought he had her. Well, he didn’t. Roads went in two directions. She’d drive back the other way, not to Dribble, where Merv would follow her, but to Overflow. And once she was there with Nancy and Michael, she’d be safe. Her baby would be safe.

  She refused even to meet Merv’s gaze, but slid abruptly into reverse. The small red car sped back the way she had come, away from Gibber’s Creek, the flames that surged towards it. Just now she could not bear to think of the corpses of sheep, trapped against fences in paddocks, or kangaroos blinded by smoke, their skin blistered by flames, the houses of those she loved now at risk.

  There was one thought, and one thought only. To get her baby to safety. She glanced behind. Yes, Merv was following, but she knew this road, and her car was faster than his. She could be at Overflow in half an hour . . .

  And the first pain hit her. She knew what it was — had felt it before — then wetness, trickling down her legs and soaking the seat.

  Another pain, worse . . .

  The baby. Of course it was the baby. Why couldn’t she ever do anything properly, without melodrama? Wandering the world alone as a kid, having her baby under a bridge. Consorting with ghosts. Telling an old man she was his family, and it turning out to be true. And now a baby in a bushfire, with flames and a madman between her and a hospital . . .

  There was no way she’d make it to Overflow. She’d have to stop at Dribble and call Nancy. And triple zero. As long as the fire stayed in the paddocks, the ambulance might still get through. And Nancy . . . Nancy could work miracles . . .

  One more bend in the road and she’d be back at Dribble. If she moved fast enough, she should be able to get inside before Merv caught her. She’d have to lock the doors. Fast. And the windows. But he might break them in.

  The bathroom. Merv couldn’t fit through that window. The bathroom even had a lock on the door. She could drag in a table or something to barricade herself in till help came. Dribble would save her . . .

  Her car rounded the smoke-filled bend.

  She braked again as the wall of flame met her. Trees like Roman candles, black silhouettes in a world of red. A blackened tree, still burning, lay across the road, blocking the way both to Dribble and Overflow. Merv’s car slowed behind her.

  She did a fast three-point turn so her car faced his. She had to drive past him. The road verges were narrow here, but on the left-hand side there was probably enough room to get past before he realised what she was doing, and if she rammed the accelerator hard enough, she might be able to push through the fence. Grass fires ran fast but not too hot, not when the paddocks were eaten down. She could . . . probably . . . drive safely along the road between the burning paddocks as long as she kept the window up, while the fire burned either side. All she had to do was get past Merv, get into the paddocks, and make it to Gibber’s Creek or Drinkwater, where Jim could drive her into hospital . . .

  She slammed her foot to the floor, felt the car lurch forwards and the fence give way as she hit it.

  Yes! And now to get through the next fence, she thought as the car thudded across tussocks, sheep flooding through the hole in the fence she had left behind and onto the road. She spent a second praying the animals could find safety from the flames on the tarmac, pressed the accelerator hard again, heard the fence posts give . . .

  . . . and then the wheels turned, helplessly, the car wedged by fencing wire. Which she could remove, if she had a pair of wire cutters. And time. If she was not in labour, if Merv was not behind her, flames approaching on two sides of her. The only thing to do now was to run . . .

  Think! she told herself as another pain grew inside her. Humans were not made to give birth and escape fires and madmen at the same time. The labour pain eased off, leaving her mind clearer.

  She had two choices. Try to fight Merv, a pregnant woman struggling with a man for control of his car. No. Even if she was able to overpower him, all he had to do was lock himself in the car and drive off, leaving her helpless in the flames.

  Or she could try to get to the river. The fire hadn’t reached it yet, though she knew it would be there soon, the front spreading further every second, gusting and flaring towards her. If she could get to the river, she might be able to make her way up the sandbanks and the shallows to Dribble’s firebreak, and get from there to the house.

  A small chance. Merv might still catch her and drag her back to trap her in the car. Nor would even the river protect her and her baby from the flames. The river banks were even more dangerous than the road, lined with red gums and casuarinas that would flame like rockets trying to reach the sky. Even if she reached the corner of Dribble protected by the firebreak, she might just drop from heat and lack of air.

  But it was a chance. The one thing she could do to try to protect her baby . . .

  Her baby would be safe. She had sworn that if she was ever blessed with another, she would protect it. No matter what, her baby would survive!

  She opened the car door. Ran. Was dimly aware of Merv running behind her.

  But he was fat and old, and she was young, fit — and very, very pregnant and in labour . . . and suddenly the way was blocked again, the fire skittering across the tussocks.

  Fire on both sides of her. There was no malice in a bushfire, but these fires had been lit by a man putrid with lust for other people’s pain.

  She scrambled back, away from Dribble but away from the flames too, trying to get down to the river while there was still a narrow corridor of flame-free land.

  Another pain. She wanted to double up in agony, but couldn’t. She floundered on, above logs that would soon be piles of burning embers, under trees that would vanish into ash. Was Merv still behind her? She didn’t know. Didn’t care. He could burn, as she was going to burn. It didn’t matter, as long as he was not with her.

  She was alone, always had been alone, would die alone, her baby too . . .

  Chapter 37

  SAM

  Sam leaned against the tanker while Tubby spoke to Fire Control, getting their next orders.

  He’d managed a nap before Fire Control ha
d called the crew back again. He’d also had a few sandwiches and four cups of coffee strong enough to dissolve the spoon. They’d given him life again; or in other words, had reminded him his body was so tired that every bone ached and his brain had turned to cotton wool.

  He shut his eyes briefly, imagining he was home, swimming in the river. Jed always looked spectacular in the river, whether in a swimming costume, or when they swam in the moonlight together, Jed’s skin silver in the darkness . . .

  ‘Orange, lemon squash, ginger ale or cola?’

  Sam opened his eyes. A face looked at him impassively; a man in his fifties with a strangely innocent face. He was half Sam’s height perhaps, but paunched and deeply intent. ‘Orange, lemon squash, ginger ale or cola?’ he asked again, lisping. His top teeth overlapped his bottom ones.

  ‘Sorry, mate, I don’t understand,’ said Sam.

  The man held up a can, freckled with coldness, from the cooler at his feet. ‘Orange, lemon squash, ginger ale or cola? My mum’s got a shop,’ he added proudly. ‘She said I can give a drink to everyone who is fighting the fires. You don’t have to pay today. Orange, lemon squash, ginger ale or cola?’

  ‘Lemon squash,’ said Sam, and he took the can. He held its coolness to his sweaty cheeks, rolling it over and over, before opening it, letting the coolness and sweetness run down his aching throat.

  ‘Orange, lemon squash, ginger ale or cola?’ the man asked Bill.

  ‘Ginger ale. Thanks, mate,’ said Bill.

  ‘I like ginger ale. Thank you for fighting the fires. I wish I could fight fires too. You can have another drink if you like,’ he added to Sam. ‘There are plenty more.’