His father. Len’s earnest gaze held his; brown eyes, eyelids creased at the edges, short once-brown hair framing an oval face. Mark’s last doubt evaporated. He didn’t need a DNA test to see the resemblance. He carried Len’s genes, not any other man’s.
Mark stayed by Jenn’s side throughout the long day and the whole time awareness of him strummed constantly through her, winding her tight. They gave their statements to Leah Haddad at the Dungirri police station, and afterwards Kris made them coffee in her kitchen and told them the unofficial news – of more documents found, and multiple versions of the image with Len and the murdered woman, but each with a different man. Half a dozen women blackmailed, at least, and Jenn wondered how many more traumatised lives McCarty and Flanagan had left.
She went with Mark and Caroline and Len out to Marrayin to survey the damaged homestead, but despite the confessions of the morning, they all kept discussions practical, focused on repairs and rebuilding, avoiding the personal and the painful. Emotionally exhausted, Jenn was grateful for that, and she stayed on the edges of the conversation, watching Mark’s quiet, realistic planning for the gradual rebuilding of his home. It would take him months, and she wouldn’t be here when it was done.
In the afternoon she went with Mark to a meeting in the pub to discuss the town’s strategy for supporting the children and families in the wake of the bus accident. Although Frank Williams chaired it, Mark’s unobtrusive leadership helped to keep the meeting on track, moving forward, his suggestions couched in terms that acknowledged the skills and built the confidence of others, so that they never seemed like his ideas. Although she watched from the sidelines, she found herself suggesting the format for a media release and agreeing to write it.
The official meeting closed, plans agreed on, but everyone seemed to stay on for a meal, for the affirmation of the sense of community. They made her welcome, too, tried to draw her in, but she craved time alone with Mark, and always, always, there were people around them and between them. His people, his community. He belonged there, committed to them, in a way she could never belong.
When night’s darkness spread over the town, they climbed the stairs to her room at the pub, and Mark drew her close into his arms. Very close. He bent his head and rested his forehead against hers.
‘You said a few days ago that I should put what I want first more often,’ he said. ‘This is what I want, Jenn.’ He kissed her, slowly, deeply, and desire and need overcame fear so that she wrapped her arms around his neck and responded without hesitation.
‘Your side …’
‘It’s okay,’ he said against her mouth.
She wanted to lose herself in sex, in passion and heat and lust. But he didn’t let her. Every slow, exquisitely tender kiss that he trailed across her mouth, the nape of her neck, on the pulse at her throat, asked for her awareness, her focus. She couldn’t slide into an oblivion of physical pleasure. With every touch of his mouth, every caress, Mark gave himself to her, and asked the same in return.
Asked, not demanded. Did he know how that scared her? How she’d played and laughed and had sex with other men but had never let them get close? How she’d never again found the joy of the long-ago afternoon with him?
His fingers brushed the swell of her breast through the light fabric of her shirt, pausing on the fluttering pulse of her heart.
Her body craved more; his hands, his mouth on her breast, his skin against hers and him with her, complete in her. Her heart recognised the question he asked. She kissed his mouth, long and gentle and uncertain.
‘Do you know how strong you are, Jenn?’ he murmured. ‘Strong and beautiful and courageous.’
Courageous and strong … was she? Was she brave enough to believe him, to let go and trust him, trust herself?
He held her close against his body, work-hardened lean muscle, firm arms around her that would not let her fall, his heart beating beneath her cheek, sure and even.
She slid her hand between them, slipped three buttons of his shirt open and placed her palm over his heart, his skin warm under hers.
Courage. She pushed aside his shirt and rested her forehead against his bare chest while she drew breath, and then trailed kisses up to find his mouth again.
She found enough courage to hold back nothing – not her pleasure, not her emotion, not her desire to caress and touch and love his body, to accept the gifts of his hands and mouth and skin, the generosity of his heart, his love. Naked, they tumbled on to the cool white sheets of the bed, the pace intensely slow, every moment, every movement, every touch deliberate, aware. Intimate. When he’d caressed her almost to the edge of exquisite bliss, she gently pushed him to his back on the bed, held his hands captive by his sides, and, uncaring that her eyes filled with moisture, that she couldn’t form a coherent word, she held his gaze, taking him inside her, focusing on his pleasure until her own desire blurred and there was nothing but the two of them and the depth of his eyes, and she cried out as the wave took hold of her, aware of nothing but ecstasy and Mark and the strength of his hands and falling with him, on to him, wrapped in the strength of him.
He held her as she slept, whispering assurances when her body tensed and her breath hitched in her dreams, keeping her safe as best he could from the fears lurking in her subconscious. He loved her as he’d loved no-one else, the love of their youth deeper now, enriched by all they’d learned and become, by the possibility of what they could become, together. His heart belonged to her, and there would never be anyone else for him.
But he had no illusions. The nightmares of her past still haunted her, scars that hadn’t healed holding her back from giving herself fully, risking her heart and her love. She would leave again.
He watched her eyelids flicker, brushed a kiss across her lips and she stirred and snuggled closer into him with a contented sigh. In her heart, she trusted him and loved him. He had no doubt of it. If he could ease her fears, help her discover her own strengths, there might be a future for them.
He planned to fight for that future. He planned to love her so gently, so deeply, that she’d always remember the joy of it. Although he couldn’t leave Dungirri yet, in a few months, when the children and their parents no longer carried trauma in their eyes, when school reopened in the new year and the teachers returned from hospital, when the town could see hope and happiness again – then he could go to Moscow.
He had skills, experience and knowledge beyond running Marrayin – he could build a career for himself wherever she was. And though he’d miss the sunrises over Marrayin’s paddocks and the contentment of his work there, the prospect of life away from his home unsettled him far less than the prospect of life without Jenn. His grandparents had built a new life together, far from their home. He could do the same with Jenn – if he could persuade her to trust her heart.
Four days later – four quiet days with Mark out at Marrayin, absorbed in the rhythms of companionable work during the day and nights together that almost tore apart her resolve – she delivered the eulogy for Jim. In the peace of the Dungirri cemetery among the trees, most of the town gathered for the simple service and she read the words Paul and Sean had written. They stood beside her, Sean’s handcuffs hardly visible under the long sleeves of his good shirt, the prison guard a respectful distance behind.
Their words summed up the unassuming, well-lived life of a man who loved the land and worked hard, earning respect and friendship. Then they lowered him to rest in the earth next to his wife, and Paul and Chloe and then Calum dropped in some gum leaves, and Sean stood for a few moments, looking down, tears escaping.
‘I’ll try to make you proud, Dad,’ Jenn heard him murmur.
She stepped forward, then dropped her own small branch of leaves. I know I’m running away again, Jim. I wish I had your strength. I wish I had Mark’s strength.
Mark waited at the back of the crowd. She’d come to the cemetery alone, before the service, to sit by the graves of her parents and Paula, and to see Paul and
Sean when they arrived.
Throughout the short service she’d been aware of Mark, his intense eyes, his gentle smile of support.
Now she walked to him. He bent his head and kissed her cheek.
‘You’re worried. I saw you texting on your phone.’
‘Yes. There was an earthquake in Indonesia this morning. I’m booked on a six a.m. flight from Sydney tomorrow. I’ll drive to Dubbo shortly, and catch a flight from there late this afternoon.’
‘So, you’re going again.’ He swallowed hard. ‘Already. Will you come back?’
‘Yes.’ Some time. She couldn’t promise him when. ‘Mark, I know I’m running away. I know I’ve done that a lot of my life. That’s one of those uncomfortable questions I’ll be contemplating while I’m gone. Mark, I don’t know … I don’t know if I can do this. I’m scared and I need to find out if I’m strong enough to love anyone enough.’
He drew her into his arms. ‘I know you need to do this. I won’t stop you. But believe me, Jenn – if you don’t come back here, I’ll come and find you.’
She held him close, reluctant to move, and wished she could be as sure as him.
TWENTY
In a plastic tent in a field of hundreds of plastic tents Jenn watched a mother feed her baby while rain poured down, spattering on the plastic, sending rivers of water and mud all around them. The woman, who’d lost everything she owned in the earthquake, smiled at her child and stroked his forehead, and thanked Jenn in fractured English for the baby clothes she’d brought.
Jenn stuffed her camera back into its waterproof bag under her perspiration-drenched raincoat and left the tent, heading out into the monsoonal rain and the cloying heat. The inadequate tents provided little shelter for the thousands displaced by the earthquake. There was a story there, a story about suffering and bureaucracy and the struggle back to normality.
There were other stories, too, about families and love and courage and the determination to overcome hurdles and achieve dreams. They were the ones that kept coming to her.
She passed a father walking hand in hand with his child, a little girl about the same age as Alicia, and Jenn caught herself thinking of the Dungirri children again. She turned and stood in the teeming rain watching the progress of the father and daughter until they ducked into a tent further down the row.
She would never see them again, never know how they fared, never know their names and dreams and stories beyond the first few days of this disaster.
She was an observer, not a participant, and that was growing increasingly unsatisfying. As she walked back to her car, the understanding that had been pushing at her for days took a clear shape.
She’d lived her dreams, achieved her goals. All that she’d been able to imagine at seventeen, she’d worked her butt off for and made happen. Now, at thirty-five, what dreams did she have? What goals? The vague dream of being good enough to win the respect of a major prize for her journalism – but what the hell did it matter if she never won a Pulitzer?
She could research to uncover truths, find answers to unasked questions; she could weave words with talent and skill to relate facts clearly, to inform, to persuade, to raise consciousness and evoke anger or sorrow. All these things she could do well, and she was proud of her skill, of upholding good journalistic ethics and working to make the world better, more informed. Her work mattered.
But she hadn’t let much else matter.
She’d run away from everyone she cared about and buried herself in work. Head work, not heart work. Maybe it was time – past time – to stop observing and reporting and start living. Time to stop running away to avoid risking pain and sorrow. She hadn’t avoided the sorrow anyway, and it had been laced with regrets.
The driver opened the car door for her.
‘The airport now, Miss?’
‘Yes. Thank you. It’s time to go home.’
TWENTY-ONE
She drove into Dungirri on another hot, dry day, the wind stirring dust devils on the dirt road ahead of her as she wound through the last of the scrub. Coming out of the trees to cross the low bridge over the creek, she caught sight of the large cloud of smoke to the north of town.
Bushfire. A bushfire in the scrub, the humidity so low the air crackled, and the wind coming from the north – driving the fire towards Dungirri.
Still kilometres away yet. She hoped. She’d never been much good at estimating distances, let alone when the horizon was shrouded in smoke. She’d lived five years in this district and she’d never forgotten the risks, the way the locals kept a constant watch on the horizon through the summer months, the ever-present awareness of temperature, humidity and wind.
On Scrub Road, just beyond Ryan and Beth’s home, an SES crew was setting up a road block and a police car edged past it. Going to evacuate people? Perhaps. Not a good sign.
She hadn’t expected to see Christmas lights strung across the main street, or the painted nativity scene filling the window of one of the empty shops. A very Australian Santa in singlet and Stubbies relaxed in a rocking chair surrounded by Australian animals in the next window, and she saw several large posters advertising a carols service.
Dungirri was fulfilling its plans of giving the children a Christmas to celebrate, a Christmas to heal.
She drove on past the pub. Cars and utes were parked all along the road outside the Rural Fire Service shed, just beyond the showground. She found a spot towards the end of the line of vehicles and pulled in to park.
So much for driving straight to Marrayin and Mark. Although she’d sent an email to tell him she was leaving Indonesia, she hadn’t told him of her spur-of-the-moment decision to hire a car at the airport this morning. He wouldn’t expect her until tomorrow.
He was in the RFS. With a fire burning in the scrub she wouldn’t find him at home. She could phone him – but that would warn him of her arrival, and for some reason she couldn’t entirely fathom, she wanted to see him, watch his unguarded reaction when he saw her.
The RFS shed – extended several times since her day – bustled with activity. Two RFS utes were parked out front but the large bays that housed the tankers were empty. Several guys sorted equipment and others were erecting a tent beside the shed and setting up trestle tables.
The door of the control room stood open and as she approached she could see familiar faces inside. Jeanie Menotti caught sight of her, her face blossoming with a sudden, wide smile.
‘Jenn! Welcome back. If you’ve got nothing better to do, I could use your help.’
‘I was going to Marrayin, but I guess Mark’s not there.’
‘No.’ Jeanie nodded to the map on the wall, marked with pins and string. ‘He’s in sector one on Dungirri One Bravo. Paul’s on Dungirri Two Alpha protecting Friday Creek. We’ve got two Birraga crews as well and there are others from the region on their way. This could be a bad one, Jenn. There’s a wind shift forecast but if it doesn’t come in time Dungirri itself might be in trouble.’
‘What do you need me to do?’
‘Phone calls. We need to get on to all the landholders in this area and make sure they’re aware, find out if they’re evacuating or staying to defend their places.’
At one end of the room, she made phone call after phone call, but every time the RFS radio on the other side of the room crackled, she held her breath, listening for any news of Dungirri One Bravo.
She stopped breathing when the radio crackled loudly and a panicked male voice burst through. ‘Emergency! The road’s blocked – we’re trapped. The fire’s jumping the break everywhere …’ A pause came, voices in the background, and then Mark’s voice, deep and even. ‘Firecom, this is two-seven-one-five on Dungirri One Bravo, calling an emergency sitrep.’ Clear and concise, he proceeded with the situation report according to standard operating procedures. And the calmness and clarity terrified Jenn more with each word. ‘We are on Toms Creek Road, at the Woolshed Gully fire trail. The road is blocked by trees to the west and the fire has jumpe
d the firebreak to the east. All the crew are in the tanker, and we have five hundred litres of water remaining. We are commencing emergency procedures now. Please confirm receipt of sitrep.’
Commencing emergency procedures. The bland words stood for a nightmare. Taking refuge in a truck from a firestorm. Six fire-fighters, all volunteers, crowding under blankets in the cab of the tanker while the world burned around them.
Jenn stood, frozen on her feet, her pulse thudding in her head. Mark.
‘Confirmed, Dungirri One Bravo.’ Ryan, the radio officer, spoke as evenly as Mark had, although his face had faded to grey and sweat beaded on his forehead. ‘We will despatch units to your assistance. Take care and good luck, mate.’
Someone swore the minute the radio went quiet, and someone else slammed a fist into the wall.
‘Don’t think it,’ Jeanie ordered, her voice so harsh that everyone in the room turned to her. Her gaze swept around them all. ‘You pray, or send them strong thoughts, or hold them in the light, or whatever works for you, but do not panic and imagine the worst. Mark knows what he’s doing; he’ll make sure they follow the procedures. They have plenty of water, so the protective sprays on the tanker will last a while.’
One part of Jenn’s brain heard and acknowledged the logic. Another part screamed.
No. No. No. No, he couldn’t die. Couldn’t be dying right now. Because she couldn’t bear it if he died. Couldn’t bear it if he died and never knew that she’d come to her senses and come back. If she never had the chance to tell him she loved him and finally, finally wasn’t afraid to feel it.
The minutes dragged past, tension holding them silent except for the voices on the radio, arranging assistance, although no truck could get close to them straightaway.
Darkening Skies Page 29
