‘Yes. Pretty good, actually. As well as Robbie Haus-Jones, I’ll now be able to interview Fran Landers.’
‘Yes, I can imagine. The man who shot down the rampaging priest, plus the grieving widow. Very good. And who else have you been talking to?’
‘I went out to the Scrublands this morning. Talked to an old fellow out there, Codger Harris.’
‘Codger Harris? What did he have to say?’
‘You know him?’
‘No, but I know what happened to him. Everyone does.’
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s an awful story. Happened years ago—before I was born, I think. Codger was the bank manager down in Bellington. I forget his real name; it’s something like William. Anyway, one afternoon his wife and little boy were playing in the park by the river, right in the middle of town, when a truck went off the road; the driver had a heart attack or something. Killed Codger’s wife outright. Their son, just three or four years old, lasted in hospital for a day or so. And that was it for Codger. He held it together for a few months and then fell apart spectacularly. Went crazy. They institutionalised him, gave him shock therapy, filled him up with drugs. He was never the same again. When he came back, he moved out to the Scrublands. Old Man Snouch gave him some land and he’s been there ever since. More or less a hermit, eccentric, but wouldn’t harm a fly. No one says anything, but people look out for him. Take him stuff. That sort of thing.’
‘Old Man Snouch? Who’s that?’
‘Harley Snouch’s dad, Eric. Died a few years ago. My grandfather, if what my mother says is true.’
‘You don’t sound so sure.’
‘Oh, I’m sure. Mum never lied about anything, let alone something as serious as that. But when I was a kid, before I was old enough to know the truth, I knew there was this man called Harley out there somewhere who was my father. I used to dream about him returning to Riversend and he and my mother getting back together and us being a real family. We’d lead an idyllic life. And all those shitty kids would shut up and pick on someone else.’
‘The bullies? Is that why they targeted you?’
‘That was at the heart of it. Snouch was in jail, but there were plenty of people who took his side. They accused my mother of making it up, or of leading him on, or of being a slut. You know kids: they shout in public what their parents whisper in private. Mum had to tell me in the end, what really happened, so I knew why they were calling me names.’
Before Martin can respond, the door of the shop bursts open. It’s Robbie Haus-Jones dressed in fluoro-orange overalls. He stops abruptly just inside the door, nods awkwardly to Mandy, speaks to Martin.
‘Saw your car. Glad you’re here. C’mon. We’ve got a bushfire.’ And he turns and walks out.
Martin looks at Mandy, she shrugs, and Martin follows Robbie outside, leaving the muffin but taking the stein. The smell of wood smoke is in the air, as benign as a campfire, carried on the gusting wind. Robbie climbs into the police four-wheel drive; Martin climbs into the passenger side. ‘You realise I know bugger-all about fighting bushfires, don’t you?’ he says.
‘You’ll be right. Stick close, we’ll look out for you. But we need all the help we can get. We’re down more than half-a-dozen from last year.’
‘How’s that?’
Robbie frowns at Martin before turning his attention back to the road. ‘What do you reckon? Byron Swift, Craig Landers, Alf and Thom and Allen Newkirk, Jamie Landers, the pub owner. Plus a few more driven off by the drought.’
Robbie turns right onto the highway, pulls into the drive of the fire station. The doors are open and there’s a new fire tanker out front, with three men and two women in high-vis bent over a map spread on the bonnet of a car. ‘Brought you a ring-in, skipper,’ says Robbie, smiling, as he and Martin climb out.
‘Good lad. Hiya, Martin. Welcome to the team.’ It’s Errol, the barman from the services club, callused skin abrasive as they shake hands. ‘Robbie, we’re going to get going. Get Martin kitted out and we’ll see you out there, at the turn-off.’ The crew starts piling into the tanker truck as Robbie leads Martin into the shed and finds him fluoro-orange overalls, leather gloves, a hard hat, goggles. A few moments more are lost as they hunt for some leather boots to replace his city shoes. Then they’re off, turning back into the main street, Hay Road.
‘Where we heading?’ Martin asks.
‘The Scrublands. Fire from out on the plain. Into the trees now. It’ll go through like a dose of salts. We’ll try to hold it at the highway until the crews from Bellington get here.’
‘What about the scrub?’
‘Who cares? Shit country.’
‘And the people who live there?’
‘Yeah, we’ll get ’em out if they’re stupid enough to still be there. Know anything about bushfires, Martin?’
‘I told you: nothing.’
‘No worries, there’s not much to know. First thing, only thing: don’t get killed. You know what kills people in bushfires?’
‘Smoke inhalation?’
‘Nup. That’s house fires. City fires. In bushfires, it’s heat, pure and simple. The fire front will generate temperatures of hundreds of degrees. If it catches you in the open, it’ll cook you alive. So whatever you do, don’t get in front of the fire. You hear stories of people sheltering in swimming pools, farm dams, water tanks. Won’t help. Water keeps ’em from burning, but the air is super-heated so they can’t breathe—burns their lungs out from the inside. We attack from the flanks, not from the front.’
‘How do you tell the front from the flank?’
Robbie laughs. ‘Look at where the fire is, where the smoke is coming from, which way the wind is blowing it. Work out which way the fire is travelling, don’t get in front of it.’
‘Sounds simple enough.’
‘It is, unless the wind changes. A fire can have a one-kilometre front and fifteen-kilometre flanks. Wind changes ninety degrees and you have a fire with a fifteen-kilometre front and a one-kilometre flank. Heading straight at you.’
‘Terrific.’
‘Don’t worry. Shouldn’t happen today. The weather bureau says it’s north-westerlies all day. If you’re caught in the open, seek shelter. People have survived lying on the floor of their cars, covered in woollen blankets. Provided the windows are shut and don’t shatter, you can be lucky. The fire front will pass in five to ten minutes and the temperature will drop again. Get through that, and you’ll live.’
‘Great. Anything else?’
‘Yeah: look up. Avoid burning trees, even ones that look like they’ve been put out. Falling branches don’t issue warnings. And drink lots of water, more than you think you need. Don’t wait to get thirsty: dehydration is dangerous.’
They’re crossing the bridge now, and from the slight elevation Martin can see the eruption of grey smoke on the north-west horizon, pumping up into the clear blue sky. It’s a long way off, but it’s huge.
Ten kilometres further north and the Scrublands begin, the sickly mulga extending both sides of the road. They come to the turn-off into the scrub, the same turn-off that Martin had taken a few hours earlier when he sought out Codger Harris. The tanker has stopped, and Errol and a solid-looking woman from his crew are standing there talking with some locals. Robbie and Martin jump out of the four-wheel drive.
‘Shit, did ya have to bring him?’ A man with a long thin ponytail streaked with grey flicks his head in Robbie’s direction. He’s wearing a tattered t-shirt, an oily bandana, a denim jacket, torn jeans, boots. There’s a ferocious-looking tattoo crawling up one side of his neck and a chunky gold earring. Next to him is a small woman in a t-shirt and jeans, arms tattooed, and next to her a motorbike, a chopper with extended forks, and a pile of bags.
‘Give it a break, Jase,’ says Errol. ‘He’s here to help.’
‘Well, he doesn’t get onto my place without a warrant, fire or no fire.’
‘Fine by me,’ says Robbie.