PRAISE FOR HELEN FITZGERALD
‘Shocking, gripping and laugh-out-loud hilarious from the first line to the last. Brilliant’ Erin Kelly
‘The main character is one of the most extraordinary you’ll meet between the pages of a book’ Ian Rankin
‘A dark, comic masterpiece that manages to be both excruciatingly tense and laugh-out-loud funny at the same time. Great stuff!’ Mark Edwards
‘Outrageous, extremely funny and ultimately devastating’ Ambrose Parry
‘Dark humour and darker truths permeate a thrilling crime novel that is fabulously transgressive and completely unique’ Mark Billingham
‘I don’t think I’ve reacted to the ending of a book like this before. I am processing it, and increasingly thinking on its genius’ Claire Allen
‘A crazy, full-throttle ride, terrifying, hilarious and heartbreaking in equal measure, with the most vivid and brilliant central character I’ve read in years’ Doug Johnstone
‘Simply stunning. Dark, uncompromising, funny, and almost impossible to put down. Mary is one my favourite characters of recent times. Always real, always honest, always superb’ Luca Veste
‘Exhilarating! As well as the no-holds-barred, unapologetically written main character, the in-depth day-to-day detail of life in the grimy world of the probation officer gives the book great authenticity, a kind of fly-on-the-wall, fast-moving, documentary feel’ S.E. Lynes
‘This book took me on such a journey and a range of emotions! Laughing, cringing and hesitant all at the same time. I’m very grateful I never became a social worker. Totally gripping and so well written’ Madeleine Black
‘Twisted and utterly contemporary, this is pure, unfiltered noir. From that killer opening line to the dark irony of its final scene. You need to read this’ Russel McLean
‘Very dark, very funny and very original. Helen FitzGerald is one of a kind, and a welcome breath of fresh air in the world of off-beat but achingly relatable crime fiction’ S.J.I. Holliday
‘I’m convinced that Helen FitzGerald is some kind of genius. It’s dark, unsettling, shocking and brilliantly funny – often at the same time. It also confirms her as queen of the killer opening line. Loved it’ Paul Burston
‘From the author of The Cry, and laced with pitch-dark acerbic humour, the classic thriller gets a hell of a twist’ Heat
‘This frenetic novel’s strongest assets are its sheer verbal energy and the acerbic views of its heroine, who resembles a female Frankie Boyle’ Sunday Times
‘With its delightful lack of taste – FitzGerald writes like a more focused Irvine Welsh or a less misogynistic Philip Roth – it is first and foremost a scandalously rude comic masterpiece’ Daily Telegraph
‘This novel is a funny, agonising account of one good woman’s battle with rage, guilt, fear, duty and disaster’ Literary Review
‘Sublime … a foul-mouthed, satirical revenge thriller’ Guardian
‘The plotting is intricate and beautifully handled, and the narrative pace is absolutely breakneck … a wonderful, energetic, hard-hitting and deeply funny novel’ The Big Issue
‘A seriously fabulous, gritty, and whip-cracking humour-filled read … this is short, sharp storytelling at its very best’ LoveReading
‘This darkly, funny, shocking and surprisingly emotional thriller is unlike anything you’ve ever read before’ Fabulous magazine
‘The revs are kept high and readers will feel, like Mary, that they’re barely clinging on throughout. Energetic and darkly hilarious’ New Zealand Listener
‘The BEST opening to a book I have ever read. Hooked? You bet!’ The Writing Garnet
‘Dark, brilliantly written, redolent with a delicious, poisonous humour and populated with fabulous characters … both hard-hitting, gritty and outrageously, darkly, coruscatingly funny’ Live & Deadly
‘The plot is well written … the threads of a number of subplots blend in to each other nicely … It is a cliché, but this book really was an emotional rollercoaster’ Mac’s Book Reviews
‘A cleverly written novel with a perfect balance of humour, poignancy and intrigue’ Segnalibro
‘Compelling, twisted and dark – Helen FitzGerald has created an original story that will leave you wanting more’ Varietats
‘Gritty and irreverent, the main character has so much to offer’ Books Life and Everything
‘It’s a very funny, quick novel that if you don’t mind a bit of bad language you will love’ Steph’s Book Blog
‘Dark, uncompromisingly funny, tense, littered with moments of emotional stillness and acute observation, this is a book I wouldn’t hesitate to recommend’ Jen Med’s Book Reviews
‘Helen FitzGerald has completely nailed it – authentic, dark humour, addictive and oh-so-relevant’ Crime Book Junkie
ASH MOUNTAIN
HELEN FITZGERALD
CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
PART ONE: THE MONUMENT
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
PART TWO: THE OVAL
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
PART THREE: THE VESTRY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
PART FOUR: THE WATER TANK
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
PART FIVE: THE TREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
COVER IMAGE PHOTOGRAPHER’S NOTE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
COPYRIGHT
ASH MOUNTAIN
PART ONE
THE MONUMENT
CHAPTER ONE
Monday 26th January, 3.30 pm
‘1f you want Fran to die, add two. That’s zero-two if you would like to say goodbye to Francesca.’
Fran unstuck herself from the couch and reached for the alarm. In the background a man on telly with no face and no body was saying: ‘To dump Aron dial 0800 8001. Or, if it’s Michelle you want to dump, add 2, that’s 0800 8002 if you want to say goodbye to Michelle.’
Michelle? Fran paused to confirm she had been asleep for two episodes. Yep, it was 3.30 pm. She switched off the alarm, then on and off again, but the noise continued.
There was an emergency siren coming from outside. She checked online – no updates for Ash Mountain yet, no need to panic.
‘Dad, the town siren’s going off,’ she yelled from the hall. ‘Not sure why, nothing online. I’m going to get Vonny, back soon.’
Fran grabbed her backpack and shut the door behind her.
She knew she couldn’t Leave Early, but expected she’d at least Believe Early; and not be one of those ignoramuses who are like, Hey take my pic, Check out Nature, Is that…? Can you please tell me what I’m seeing? Believing was proving difficult, however. To her right, coming in from the north-west, a gigantic wall of black and grey and red, a tsunami of smoke hundreds of metres high, had cut the world in half.
She lost a few seconds to disbelief – Was it just clouds? Aliens? The sherry she’d had at 10.20 am? She raced back inside to her bedroom and threw on jeans, jumper, leather boots, gloves, and a beanie. She put a blanket in her backpack, ran down the hall and hugged her dad: ‘There’s a fire to the north, you follow the drill.’ Shutting the front door behind her once more, she checked that all the windows and doors were closed, that the sprinklers were on and the roof damp. She considered the four-wheel drive, but Dante had taken it to the beach with Tiffany. She considered going back inside again and staying there, which would be safe, probably, but she had to be with Vonny, no matter what, so decided against it. She considered the two remaining ostriches and, as per the fantasy she secretly enjoyed sometimes, decided against them.
On foot, the convent hall was a kilometre south-east of the farm. She knew the route too well, every dry inch, and thumbed her phone as she pounced over ditches and dead marsupials.
‘Triple Zero,’ said a woman. ‘What’s your emergency?’
‘There’s a firestorm coming straight for Ash Mountain,’ said Fran, breathing in through the nose and out through the mouth. ‘It’s above McBean’s Hill. There are embers – ow, shit. It’s coming fast; something’s happened. The sky, oh my God, and the wind’s gone crazy. No-one knows here, there is nothing online. We need help.’ She couldn’t hear what the woman was saying – nothing useful. Was she on hold? She hung up and dialled her dad. Engaged.
Somehow, she was still running, and she only winced a little when three kangaroos overtook her, embers landing on their backs from the reddening sky. Thank God, her dad answered this time: ‘It’s bad, and close,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry I left you alone there, but I have to be with Vonny. You stick to the plan though. We’ll be home soon.’
‘On you go,’ said Dad.
There was no answer from The Captain, no answer from Vonny. She left voice messages for both as she passed the spreading desert of commuter boxes surrounding the sign:
ASH MOUNTAIN
Population: 867
Feeling the heat as she ran up the walking trail, she dialled home again. ‘Dad? I’m seeing flames. Are you okay?’
‘All good, it’s missing us. Where are you?’
‘I’m nearing the monument. Ow, I’m … Tell me what to do.’
‘Get inside, block both top and bottom doors, and stay in the middle till The Rumbling stops. You’ll be fine in there. See you on the other side in fifteen. Go.’
The bluestone tower was on the top of the hill, only twenty metres away, but she was dream-running, not getting anywhere. It was only when she collapsed that she realised the air was no longer air. Like in a panic attack, an asthma attack, she could not squeeze any in. Her eyes were burning and a missile hit her foot. When she felt the pain she scrambled to standing and staggered towards the gothic tower. A eucalyptus bomb hit her back as she opened the thick door. She closed it behind her and looked for rubble to seal the cracks. There wasn’t anything suitable – only a used condom, three empty beer cans.
It was so hot, and the world had turned terracotta.
No time to waste on cracks, she ran up the winding inner staircase to close the hatch door at the top. It was already shut. She ran halfway down again, placed herself in the recovery position, and waited for The Rumbling.
The sudden still was confusing. She was inside a stone tower, so perhaps that’s why there wasn’t a breath of a wind, no bird chirping, no town siren. All she could hear was her breathing. It was dusk-dark inside, weak waves of blood-orange light softening the twenty feet above and twenty feet below her curved step. Perhaps it had passed. Perhaps the thick drops of the cool change had brought boys and girls outside into gardens to rejoice in the wet.
It was too still. Thunder always accompanied the ecstasy of a cool change.
Maybe she was dead and this was Hades. Growing up she’d often wondered that.
Or the wall of grey was a spaceship after all, and she was now inside it. Fran was totally willing to go with the alien hypothesis, but then the silence stopped. A noise. What was that noise?
Several jet engines seemed to be heading towards her.
The Rumbling.
She looked at her watch. 3.37 pm. By 3.52, it should get quiet, and be safe to step outside. She covered her ears and counted sheep, and when they started burning in her mind she counted spoons, and when they melted in her mind she counted…
She would count Vonnies, that’s what: Veronica.
Beautiful Vonny.
Burning Vonny.
Two minutes in, thirteen to go. She inhaled hot dirt and resolved:
My Vonny.
Fran pulled the beanie over her head, and the blanket from her backpack over her body. She pressed her face to the ground and, for the next thirteen minutes, trembled no more than the seventy-foot rock in which she was encased.
Dear God Dear God Dear God.
Someone was praying, which meant someone was alive. Not Fran, she never prayed, did she? Dear God, forgive me.
It was Fran. She lifted the beanie from her head, coughed, and covered herself with it again. Holding the blanket over her head, she ascended the stairs on her hands and knees, making one blind plea per step – Dear God, Please God – till she reached the top. She wrapped a sleeve round her gloved hand to push the hatch door open, and crawled out onto the edge of the smoking lookout. This was the highest point in the Shire. If Fran took the beanie off, she’d see all the way from the Ryans’ to the Gallaghers’. She’d know everything.
Fran did the sign of the cross and said a prayer: ‘Forgive me Lord for all the times that I have wished this town burned down.’
She removed the beanie.
CHAPTER TWO
Ten Days before the Fire
The sign confirmed it. She had arrived in Ash Mountain, the second oldest inland town in Victoria, reputedly. Population, 867. It was 885 when Fran came last; there had been some lucky escapes. One of the Lions must have changed it. When it was her dad’s job to repaint the sign, he never did it till the number went up. After the McDonald baby drowned, for example, he waited months; endured a whole lot of pressure from Lion Henry. Luckily, the Ercolini family arrived that winter, aunts and all. Four-year-old Fran had held the paint pot – just over there – while her dad had drawn an optimistic population. The memory was suspiciously smiley.
Vincent sucked her out of it. ‘I’ll bring Japanese take-away next Friday.’
She wanted to say don’t, that it’d be cold by the time they arrived, and that she couldn’t imagine eating anything ever again anyway, but instead bit her lip to scare the moan and the crying away; a thing she’d need to do a lot from now on. She’d rather curry if anything at all – it’d travel better – but wasn’t about to get all high maintenance with Vincent. They’d coparented the same way they had cohabited, as kind and reliable friends, and should never have flirted with a sexual relationship (they both blamed Tequila, and The Social Club). Whether or not they should have stayed together for sixteen years was another matter. They had a great friendship and a great daughter, who was now sitting in the back of the car. ‘Japanese would be perfect,’ said easy-going Fran.
Shitboxville, aka the new commuter estate, had totally changed the view. She used to be able to see all the way up to the footy grounds. ‘Feels like you two are dropping me at boarding school,’ she said, and started to imagine the boys who were dumped here by their families, but then stopped because she hated boarders. She hated this town, and as they turned into the driveway and headed past the ostriches, who were supposed to have died years ago, she imagined there were landmines in the dust-pit encloser. Boom. Splat. Bird explosions. She was smiling. She needed therapy. Well, she needed more.
Vonny was still thumbing in the back seat, telling her mate Gayle or Freddie how bollocks her life was, being stuck in this car for the last ninety minutes; and in this shithole for the next two nights.
‘When did Gramps get into ostriches?’ Vonny a
sked on behalf of Gayle or Freddie, not looking up.
‘When I started getting chased by boys.’
Fran could see herself at fourteen now, running with Olympian determination down the dirt track that was her street, four uniformed boarders close behind and in hot pursuit of a fingering. She was a very fast runner, even then. She reached the house in time and slammed the door, panting. Blazered boys fled round the side and up the hill towards the grandstand and playing fields that backed onto the farm.
‘Bloody boarders!’ her dad had said, soon after erecting a U-shaped enclosure around the house with three-metre-high electric fences, into which he plonked twelve ostriches. Fran would’ve rathered a gang-fingering than a prehistoric chastity belt, but her dad did not feel the same, and also had a bit of a thing for ostriches. The birds would stop those boys getting in.
Unfortunately, they would not stop Fran getting out.
There were only two left now – Ronnie Corbett and Mrs Miriam McDonald, although that was not the latter’s full title, of course, Gramps often said. ‘Being Miriam McDonald of the Drumnadrochit McDonalds, she aye considers herself a cut above the other ostriches, particularly the grimly determined Campbells, and requires to be addressed as Dame Miriam McDonald of Drumnadrochit by everyone, even the Corbetts, who are English, and who she despises and admires in equal measure.’
The birds were almost of an age with Francesca now, and were pointless pets who did nothing but race around horny and shit a liquid stench that Dante had to clean up.
Her belongings, including a desk that had been much used in the city, bumped in the back of Vincent’s ute and, as they parked beside her dad’s four-wheel drive, she realised she hated this house most of all. She bit her lip again because her dad was waiting inside and she did not hate him, she loved him, which is why she had returned to look after him for the rest of his life.
Ash Mountain Page 1
