The Captain had arrived on the top level, panting. ‘You shouldn’t be smoking up here boys, you’re one huge pile of kindle.’
‘Lighten up, The Captain,’ Fran said, exhaling.
‘This valley’s a tinderbox and this grandstand is a firelighter,’ he said. ‘Hi, I’m Brian, from the farm.’
Brian from the farm. Mmm. ‘Why are you two stuck here during the summer?’ she asked.
‘We’re orphans,’ said Boarder #5, straight lined and revved for a dance or a fuck or a fight, whichever was on offer first. ‘Will you be my mummy?’
‘We’re doing resits,’ said Boarder #4. ‘Want to take one for the road?’
‘Thanks boys but I don’t smoke,’ said Fran, butting out her cigarette and following The Captain back down. They’d almost reached the ostrich fence when one of the boarders yelled.
‘MILFO!’
Fran heard MILF and smiled. Perhaps she was wrong about boarders.
‘Mum I’d Like to Fuck Off!’ yelled the other.
Nup, they were all arseholes.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Day of the Fire
FROG
Adam is Smithy to his friends, the very best of whom is me. I’m Frog. We are spitting from the top bench of the grandstand. Smithy is winning – his gob landed on the second bench from ground level. It is very impressive.
I stole a watering can from the college greenhouse and spray Smithy’s legs – he’s wearing board shorts – and then mine. He’s lying on the second top bench now, I’m on the top. We’re alone here, fifty feet in the air, legs wet for a split second then dry again. We went to Smithy’s mum’s house in Preston but she has a new boyfriend and he wouldn’t let Smithy have his own bungalow to himself so we snuck back to Mounty again, figuring there’d be some local tarts on the loose. It’s so hot that we’ve been in and out of the pool since getting back, no sign of any pussy but the pussy round here is gross anyhow, can’t believe we chase it all the time.
‘It’s gone so quiet,’ says Smithy.
‘Yeah.’ The sky looks strange too, dark. I light two fags and hand one to Smithy. ‘I bet the whole town’s quiet. We should go to the bottle shop.’
‘Pool first?’
‘Then bottle shop.’
Smithy sits up to enjoy the last few drags of his cigarette. His hair’s moving – there must be a cool change, oh please.
Before I know what to make of it, the sky’s bright red and there’s a terrible noise, as if a plane’s about to smash into us.
‘Is that an ostrich?’
There’s a dinosaur bolting across the oval. We are both standing on our respective benches now. Smithy has dropped his cigarette onto my bench and I can’t stop looking at it. I’m about to lean down and put it out but the heat and the noise makes me turn around. The sky behind us is on fire, missiles are shooting the grandstand, and a wall of flames is heading straight for us.
These two benches will not lead us anywhere.
We’re running along them anyway.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Six Days before the Fire
Fran was getting into some necessary and depressing routines. She was up every three hours with her dad during the night, had her biggest meal (pre-prepared by Dante) at 10.00 am, including a glass of dusty sherry, and dozed whenever she could in the afternoon. She was on the sofa at 3.20 when the doorbell rang. She checked on her dad, who was still sleeping with the television on in the background – (The Love Housers were doing an obstacle course involving tarantulas and key lime pies). She switched it off and answered the door.
It was Father Frank, and he was carrying a large, reusable plastic bag. ‘Francesca, top of the afternoon to you.’ He didn’t wait for her to invite him in, and she just let it happen. He had vampire qualities. He put the bag on the kitchen bench. ‘Sister Mary Margaret asked me to drop this bag off, didn’t say what’s in it.’
Fran wanted to look inside the bag, but didn’t. ‘Great, thanks.’ There might have been an awkward pause, Fran wasn’t sure. ‘Cup of tea?’
‘Love one, thank you. Is he up for a visit?’
‘Sorry, he’s asleep. You have it the same as Dad, right?’
The tea-making distracted her and the priest was on his way up the hall to her dad’s bedroom.
‘Father?’
‘Just looking in on him,’ he said.
He’d definitely be awake now. Fran completed her father’s tea routine (hers too, now) and carried the cup and saucer to the bedroom. She could hear something before she went in, but she wasn’t sure what it was till she saw it. Her dad was sobbing loudly. Father Frank was holding him, his head buried into the invalid’s chest. Fran put the tea on the bedside table and returned to the kitchen.
She listened to the sobbing for ages, then there was silence for a while, then the sh-sh-sh-shushing of the rosary, which was going on for ever. She tried to block out the noise by concentrating on today’s project at her desk, an Invasion Day poster for Vonny’s protest at the fete. So far it was colourful and informative, but not at all eye-catching. It needed work. Vonny hadn’t shown any interest in holding a protest at the fete, but Fran thought she’d make the poster just in case she changed her mind. Vonny often changed her mind. She also did one hell of a protest. Thankfully, Nurse Jen arrived just as Father Frank exited her dad’s bedroom. Fran said goodbye to the priest, did the handover and log book with Nurse Jen, and closed herself in the bedroom to look in the bag.
Sister Mary Margaret had responsibility for all the sick Catholic school children in town. She set up a crafts area in the kitchen, and among other projects designed to keep the meek meeker, encouraged her patients to make a ‘treasure box’ while they waited for their mothers and fathers to collect them. In the box, the nun put each child’s favourite lollies and any precious artwork they created. Fran remembered slapping bits of posters she loved on a hatbox, then regretting it, as she was not allowed to take it home. She recalled a young boy with asthma – he was so pale and broken. What was his name … Johnny? He took a great deal more care with his, if she remembered correctly, sticking perfectly cut pictures of unusual insects on his sad shoebox, wheezing all the while.
That sadness was flooding her again as she took the hatbox out of the bag and lifted the lid.
There were no photos inside, just a thirty-year-old Choo Choo Bar (her dad had banned these in every part of the house bar the bath, and he only allowed this once), and three drawings of angry-looking apples. She flung the box onto the bed and called Vonny. ‘So I got my box back, and there are no photos.’
‘Oh my God, then there’s definitely something dodgy. You need to call the police.’
Vonny was always such a drama queen. Anyway, she was paralytic that night. ‘Are you sure there were more photos?’
‘Yes.’
Fran still didn’t trust her. Even if she did, she’d probably be able to let it go. ‘What about the other boxes? You said there were more.’
‘I only looked in another couple. There was nothing in those … Oh, one had a piece of paper with IOU written on it.’
‘How many boxes were there altogether?’
‘Let me think.’
Vonny was either thinking or lighting a fag. Her answer would make all the difference. One out of three boxes thus far contained at least three photographs of a near-naked youth. If Vonny’s answer was five – that there were only another two treasure boxes in the cellar – Fran would take no further action. It was all about the odds.
‘I’d say dozens,’ Vonny said.
Fran stopped short of The Captain’s – he was not the right person to talk to. Maz, originally a Yorkshire lass, had been a city prosecutor till trees and kids enticed her away – her Golf was in her drive – perfect. Fran needed a logical mind.
‘Franchy, get in quick before he gets out.’ Maz was referring to her youngest son, Ned, three, who almost got out. She had something crusty on her cheek, and her modern glassy pad was a comp
lete mess. ‘Luca, get your face out of the Bolognese.’ Luca, seven, did not comply and continued holding his breath in the bowl.
It was 6.00 pm, and Maz’s mind was anything but logical. The boys were still on school holidays, and Ciara was working stupid city hours.
‘We’ve given up trying to sell,’ she said, lifting Luca’s head out of his bowl. (He took a huge breath.)
‘We might rent something in the city for Ciara. We’re asleep when she gets home anyway. Glass of red?’
‘I should have thought about what time it is. Should I leave you? Or help?’ Fran said.
‘You can help by providing adult conversation.’
‘That’s why I’m here actually – let’s settle the boys first.’
The boys were now throwing spaghetti at each other. It took two women five minutes to get them wiped and cross-legged on the floor. Thomas the Tank Engine and Neapolitan ice-cream in cones should also get a mention.
Wine poured, and Maz was logical again. She had her reading glasses on, and was using a magnifying glass to examine the three photos. ‘The nun’s in the room with you – see?’
There was a splodge of black and white behind Fran’s left shoulder. With the magnifying glass, Fran could see a tiny section of nun habit. No big deal. She was the nurse.
‘But she didn’t take the photos. And if you don’t know who did, maybe you didn’t know they were being taken.’
Maz pointed to the mirror behind young Fran in the photo, then zoomed in on the Venetian blinds that were reflected in them. Fran could now see that two of the slats were separated by about an inch. ‘I’d say the photographer was on the other side of the glass.’
Ned’s ice cream was about to fall from the cone and he had no idea. It was making Maz fidgety, she would be needed soon.
‘My money’s on the priest. I mean he is Creepsville, Arizona – why else would he so promptly deliver this suspiciously empty box? I’d say he scared the nun into delivering the sick children to the room; maybe he was using her as a sex slave as well – yep, wouldn’t put it past someone like him, and by that I mean a Catholic cleric. He cleaned the town up, my arse. His arse. Did Veronica say there was a note in a box with “IOU” written on it? Like an actual physical library for paedo priests with a preference for hard copy. Father Frank shares his collection, he swaps. Fuck me dead: a library of children in underpants. He really should learn how to use a computer. That’s it. It was the priest, with a camera, in the sick bay.’ She pounced to catch her boy’s ice cream but failed.
Ned was now crying so loudly that Luca could not hear the telly and was crying too. Maz scooped up Ned and sat back on the couch.
‘Do you miss work?’ Fran said.
‘Even peak-hour traffic.’ She directed Ned’s thumb into his mouth and paused to reminisce. ‘You have to go to the police. I can come with you.’
Fran put the photos in the hatbox and back in the bag. She didn’t want to see those photos ever again. ‘There’s not enough to go on, and it’s ancient news, like the sick bay’s been closed forever. No-one’s in danger now. Plus I’m on one hell of a learning curve with Dad.’
Wee Ned was bored, and returned to sit in melted ice cream, which didn’t seem to worry Maz at all. She found her glass of wine and had a sip.
‘You can make that decision if you’re the only victim. Otherwise I don’t think it’s your decision to make. Also, I think maybe it’s different if you have little ones still growing up here.’
‘Victim?’ Fran wanted to swear but the kids were within cooee. She was not a fucking victim, not a fucking gain. ‘Vonny was legless – what does dozens mean, even? She’s falling in love again and being all dramatic.’
‘Rosie wasn’t as pissed, right? You could ask her?’
‘Should I ask The Captain?’
‘The Captain! Oh my God.’
‘Shut up.’ She was already texting him, though, and punctuation decisions were taking an awful long time. This is what she showed Maz for pre-send approval:
Hi there
(She had added and deleted ‘Brian’ and ‘BR’ and ‘BRJ’ and The Captain, before deciding he should be called nothing, in writing at least.)
V says there were ‘dozens’ of other boxes in the cellar. Wondering if she saw right? Don’t want to involve Rosie but wondering if she’s said anything to you?
(The question mark at the end was the most difficult decision. She was not of the belief that an x meant anything substantial. However, she decided she should not use one.)
Fran held the phone with both hands and stared hard.
‘Fran fancies The Captain!’ said Maz.
To prove how little she cared, Fran put the phone down and looked at something else.
‘He is the nicest man I’ve ever met,’ said Maz.
‘Too nice,’ said Fran.
‘The words of a thoroughly broken woman. I reckon he’d bring you freshly brewed coffee in bed every morning if you asked,’ said Maz. ‘You would ask, wouldn’t you, not just mope around wishing he did it when he didn’t know you wanted him to? You’re not a complete idiot are you?’
Fran and Maz were used to having conversations with themselves while in each other’s company.
‘I don’t trust the police here,’ said Fran. She was remembering Mr O’Mally, the top cop in the eighties. He was the police, and for a short while, she was friends with his little girl, Hilda. They lived in a huge, newly built house near the Gallagher dam, with an enormous garage that had amazing things in it, and Fran had the best days ever playing there. Mr O’Mally collected old games machines, like pinball and ones that had women in them with clothes on. If you got the special coins from the old coin machine, and put one in, the woman’s clothes would come off, frame by frame. As a seven-year-old, Fran thought it was disgusting, and couldn’t get enough of it. She loved playing there till Hilda suggested they play doctors and nurses. She didn’t get that game at all.
There were rumours on the grandstand after the eighties, that Hilda’s dad and Father Alfonzo were a team. Fran didn’t trust the police.
‘The Captain makes amazing bread every morning,’ said Maz. ‘He gave Ciara some when I was at Mum and Dad’s for the weekend and she ate the whole loaf, fuming, she said it was amazing. You would totally get home-made bread for brekky. Bet he toasts it perfectly, dark and even, all the way to the edges, bet he makes jam.’
Fran wasn’t into jam, especially with bits. She’d eaten too many apricots in her youth. ‘They say the town got a good cleansing after the eighties, but it’s still a shit magnet. How long have I been here? And everything is still horrible, people tossing ugly crap in my face. I didn’t get away all those years at all. It was all still here, waiting for me, festering.’
‘Oh for God’s sake, what was waiting?’
‘Dunno.’
‘Depressed Fran alert.’
‘My mum got run over by a truck in North Road, my only friend at school dived headfirst off the monument, the Captain’s brother shot himself in that paddock over there, and apparently darkness is still lingering on in a wine cellar in yonder convent. You think this place gets over things? I’ve had too much wine.’
‘Jesus, Joseph and Mary, you’ve had one glass.’ Maz refilled it. ‘This time I want fun Fran.’
‘There’s a fun Fran?’
‘Allegedly. Tell you what, prove it: holiday Monday, get here any time after ten but before eleven, which is when you and The Captain will begin drinking shots provided by moi. He’s got a good body considering he’s a man.’
‘You’ve seen him? He’s got a girly body?’
‘No.’
‘He has man boobs, hasn’t he?’
‘No man boobage. I dunno what you call what he’s got. What do you want him to have?’
‘No beer belly.’
‘Tick, esque. He’s fifty.’
‘Forty-seven. Chest hair.’
‘Oh, really?’
‘I don’t like tiny nipples
, but I also don’t like those thick, ripe, juicy, inside-of-a-plum-type nipples.’
‘You’re quite particular re nipples.’
‘I’d rather he had none.’
‘You’re going to kiss him on the lips, Franchy.’
‘He won’t be able to come Monday. He has a wedding. Dante’s dad, in fact. The boarder I “rooted” when I was a kid. Makes me want to gag. I hope I don’t see him. Hope no-one sends me a photo.’
‘Oh my God, The Boarder, really? This town is a shit magnet.’
‘Told you.’
‘Okay, The Captain has a wedding. I need a new plan. Why don’t you use our pool at night? Any night. I’ll leave the lights on. We’re dead to the world by eleven and there’s a jacuzzi and a wee fire pit. Promise not to peek.’
‘That is so creepy. I think you’re the one who needs a shag.’
‘I can have one, tonight. I might. Probably won’t. Maybe I should. Put the effort in, stay awake. Maybe I will. But you need to get out there and hunt for one, in my pool. If I peek I’ll feel bad and retract immediately, I probably won’t see a thing. You need to get out there Fran, honestly. He’ll be nice to cuddle, The Captain – he does give a good hug platonically. And he’ll be grateful, you know. That can go a long way, particularly considering your criminally lengthy sexual drought and persistent failure to groom. Imagine – coffee, homemade rye, apricot jam, The Captain’s bringing it all to you in bed. He’s dressed in his – what do you want him to be in?’
‘Chinos.’
‘At breakfast time?’
‘Yep.’
‘He’s in his chinos at eight-thirty in the morning … nup, I’m out. What a waste of a fantasy… He’s only ever had his wife, you know. No-one since then that I’ve heard of, though many have tried, including Tricia Gallagher’s sister Beth – God she hates your guts.’
The second glass over, Maz put it down and slapped her thighs. That was as far as she would go. Maz was an expert at getting drunk for ten minutes before returning fully focused to the job at hand. They made their way to the door. ‘This town’s no more shit than any other place,’ she said. ‘It’s just that when you live in a small town, you know everyone, you know their tragedies, and you feel their pain. If you don’t like it here then fuck off, or stop hating it. We tried to fuck off, no luck, now we’re not hating it. It’s not so hard.’
Ash Mountain Page 9
