Four Fires (70 page)

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There is not the slightest trace of John Crowe or Whacka Morrissey, they have been cremated, disappeared in a furious puff of smoke, reduced in an instant into being a part of the burning, malevolent air.

I suppose I must have been in a state of near collapse by the time I got to Yankalillee where the fire has arrived before me, though not yet into the town proper. It has now reached the outer rim of the gorge and is beginning to enter the town itself. The firefighters have given up any further hope of stopping the fire before it tumbles into the gorge.

Yankalillee cannot be saved.

Tommy must have pulled them all back into town. The streets are strangely quiet as I enter the outskirts. On the hill I can see the gaol and, further up, the loony bin. I think of the twin aunties, confused, fingering their rosaries, their thin lips supplicating. There is no movement, no cars and the King Street I cycle down on little Ann's bicycle is completely empty. There are no lights on in the post office, which means Mrs Thomas and Marg O'Loughlan have been pulled out. I pass the deserted service station and wonder about the petrol bowsers. Will the underground tanks explode, a Red Steer of man's making?

I'm too tired almost to think. I suppose that everyone's gone, Nancy and Bozo and little Colleen, the town empty except for those volunteers who remain, though I can't see any of them about either. Many would have left when things became hopeless at the gorge, they'd have gone to salvage what they could from their homes and to get their wives and children to safety. Then I think of Lake Sambell, the only decent stretch of water anywhere near. Big Jack would have moved them all down to the lake shore, which is the furthermost point from the fire.

Somewhere there is a bell ringing, not the fire station bell, it's St Stephen's. It's near the rim of the gorge and will be one of the first buildings to go as it's constructed almost entirely of ship-lapped wood. What would Father Crosby be doing ringing the church bell? Too late for that! My mind is too tired to figure things out. Should I rescue him? How could I do that?

Imagine a bottoms-wiping certificate for rescuing Bather Crosby! Nancy would never forgive me. It's suicide to go down there anyway. Maybe it's the wind? There's a Force 7 blowing, driving the fire up to and into the gorge, maybe it's catching the bell tower, ringing the bell of its own accord? I can't be bothered to think it out. Anyway Father Crosby, being a priest, will probably go to heaven. Nancy says priests don't have to qualify first, which is all wrong, and they should change the law.

The streetlights are on but they're not helping a lot, the acrid smell of fire is everywhere and the sky is filled with billowing black, white and grey smoke mixing with the low cloud. I think this must be what the last day on earth will be like. The air crackles and explodes and is filled with sparks, crazy fire embers darting everywhere. You can sense that death is on its way, it fills my nostrils. There's rolling thunder and a streak of lightning crosses the tumbling sky, a closer burst of thunder follows. I look to the west where the rain should come if ever it does. The sky is mocking us, it's been like this for weeks, growling, taunting us, dry-eyed and uncaring. I glance back towards the gorge and see the orange sheets of flame rising up out of it and St Stephen's is briefly caught in its light. In my mind's eye I see the statue of the Virgin Mary behind the altar enveloped in flames, the Mother of God burning in an Australian hell.

It's downhill to Lake Sambell and the last bit is a fairly steep incline. My legs are so tired, they'll barely move but from now it's coasting all the way down, with the road ending in a small pier: right at the lake's edge. The fierce wind is behind me, increasing' my speed, and the air in my face is like a constant slapping from hot towel. I try to put on the brakes but the heat pumping through ] the blackened fire country has long since melted the brake pads , and I'm going at a thousand miles an hour and out of control. The little bike reaches the end of the pier and takes off and I'm flying > through the air and come crashing down into the lake. The water embraces me in a gargle of bubbles and I've never felt anything so , lovely in my whole life.

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When I surface, I can see hundreds of townspeople gathered on the shore. They've seen me coming and it's the only funny thing that's happened all day. They're still laughing as I struggle out of the water, which isn't much higher than my waist. Then Bozo comes running, knees high, splashing through the shallows. He grabs my outstretched hand, pulling me against his chest, he's crying and hugging me in the water. Then the first drops of rain fall and you can see them sizzling on the shore, each drop like a tiny explosion. There's a cry from the crowd, then a clap of thunder to drown it, then another. People have their faces to the sky, you can see them in the orange glow from the direction

of the gorge. The drops come harder and faster, beating the surface of the lake. Bozo hugs my head, 'You've brought the rain, Mole, you've brought the fucking rain!' He's bawling his head off.

The rains have come at last.

chapter twenty

Funny that, a fire, so big there was no way of stopping it, is about to gobble up a town and all it takes is one downpour, one big thunderstorm and it's not only tamed but it's effectively out.

Yankalillee is saved, people can go back to their houses and climb into the same beds as they got out of this morning.

Most of the men head for the pub, six o'clock closing ignored. If. a bloke can't have a drink after he's fought a fire then the government can get stuffed. They'll have to arrest the whole bloody town is the general sentiment. Anyway, Big Jack Donovan is the law around Yankalillee and he's the one going from pub to pub, thanking everyone for a good job done. So while the women are busy unpacking their precious things from the car or the ute or the council trucks Big Jack's organised to take the possessions of people who don't have their own transport, the men are busy getting well and truly pissed. By morning the tales of derring-do will have reached mythical proportions.

Tommy isn't with them drinking, though we don't know this at the! time. The firefighters and townsfolk are offering him drinks but refuses, it's probably the first time in his life he's knocked back a free* drink. Meanwhile he's asking anyone who will listen if they've seen John Crowe or Whacka Morrissey. He's been told about his mate going back to help start the Ford tanker, but he has to make sure nobody's seen the two of them since.

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There's been a lot of confusion and the gorge is fairly long so he have missed John Crowe, Tommy thinks. Or he may have returned after they'd pulled back into town and he's missed him in the crowd. His commonsense says they are not reasonable assumptions, John Crowe would make his presence known. In his heart Tommy hopes what he's beginning to fear isn't what's happened.

It's not that the other fighters are not concerned, they've had a long day and fought hard and they reckon, quite correctly, that John Crowe is an experienced firefighter and knows how to look after himself. Moreover Whacka's a stubborn old bastard, but he'll listen to John Crowe and do what he says. They'll be right, mate, no worries. Take more than a fire to get them, they'll turn up in the mornin', you'll see' is the general tenor of the replies Tommy receives.

Tommy's been to the post office, where Mrs Thomas and Marg O'Loughlan are back on duty, trying to contact the surrounding farms. If John Crowe hasn't returned, maybe he's taken shelter at one of the valley properties. Mrs Thomas tells him the Woolshed Valley line is still down and they can't send a linesman from Wodonga until morning. She tries places nearer to Yankalillee but comes up with no news about the two firemen.

While all this is going on, I've been taken home from the lake by Bozo, with Nancy and little Colleen and all the Bitzers in the restored Diamond T. The old truck is packed with our precious stuff. Nancy's sewing machine, embroidery materials, one small suitcase containing all Mike's blue ribbons, the family photo album and the scrapbook.

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The scrapbook has a lot about Nancy winning ribbons at the various shows but Nancy has carefully scratched out her name whenever it's mentioned. In her neat handwriting she's written Michael Maloney' above her scratched-out name. There's also the clippings on Bozo's boxing career, the Olympics and the Key to the City Parade down King Street to the Town Hall (ha-ha, Yankalillee a city!). There's all the stuff in the Gazette about Sarah's pregnancy, and the university brouhaha takes up nearly half the scrapbook. There's even a little bit about me. Mostly the bottoms-wiping certificate episode and the latest, The Diary of Anna Dombrowski' stuff by Saggy Tits, Yankalillee's smut-rustler and fearless reporter.

When you see it all together like that, it's amazing how much trouble us Maloneys have caused in our time. Nancy's even cut out and pasted in the bits about Tommy being sentenced for this or that misdemeanour or petty theft over the years.

She's also got all the pots, pans and dishes in a big cardboard box, another large suitcase is full of her yellow-daisy dresses, then there's the TV set and a heap of blankets and cushions. Later, Nancy explains her choices, 'Gotta have a dress to wear that fits (daisy dresses), gotta eat (pots, pans and dishes), gotta make a living (sewing machine), gotta have a bit of relaxation (Bozo's still-to-be-fixed TV), gotta sleep somewhere (blankets etc), but most of all, gotta have our memories (scrapbook and photo album).'

Bozo's taken his old radio, his boxing gloves and his Olympic medal. There is nothing little Colleen and me have that's precious so they don't bother, except for little Colleen's doll which Tommy gave her with the money from his Christmas heist six years ago and it's beginning to look a little worse for wear. Bozo's also taken the old .22 rifle Mrs Barrington-Stone's husband gave me, plus a packet of ammo (defence?).

They've taken me home to dress my burns and because there's not much left in me to celebrate the end of the fire, I don't see Tommy to tell him about the Red Steer.

Of course, I know nothing about John Crowe going back into the forest after Whacka Morrissey and the Ford Blitz, so I haven't put two and two together either. I don't even know John Crowe's missing. All I want to do is to get out of my wet clothes and go to bed. It's still raining cats and dogs anyway so there's no danger of the fire reigniting. In the morning I'll get little Ann Park's bicycle out of the bottom of the lake, polish it up a treat and put in new brake pads. What I know for sure is that I'm going to sleep for about a thousand hours. I doubt there'll be a garbage run tomorrow anyway and if there is, the town can get stuffed, this Maloney isn't participating.

Fortunately Nancy didn't take all the blankets and pillows from the house when they evacuated, because the ones in the back of the Diamond T are soaked through from the rain. I've already had one wet-blanket episode for the day.

I haven't eaten all day and my throat is so sore and raw from breathing in hot smoke and stuff in the air that I can't bear the thought of swallowing. Besides, I can barely talk. Nancy's smeared a tube of Savlon all over my arms, legs and face, with me ouching at her every touch. My ears sort of naturally stick out a bit and they feel like someone's ironed them with a flat iron. I'm so tired Bozo has to help me undress and pull off my boots and socks. The soles of my feet are one big blister, which I haven't even noticed as separate from all the other sorenesses. It's been a long day since we did the garbage run before dawn and the coming of the great Yankalillee fire.

First daylight's coming through the window when I feel someone shaking me. I don't want to open my eyes because the pain has already hit me. The skin on my arms and legs seems to be stretched tight and it hurts like hell, my face feels like it's been clawed by a cat.

'Don't touch me!' I yell out. My eyes are burning inside their sockets and feel swollen and when I open them they sting bad. It's Tommy standing beside my bunk.

'Wake up, Mole,'he demands. There's enough light in the room for me to see that he looks like shit, but I don't smell any alcohol on his breath. It takes only a moment longer to see that he's sober.

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'Wha', whazza matter?' My voice is hoarse.

'The eucalyptus forest, before you get to Boundary Road, you see anything coming in?' I can't think, I'm hurting and still half-asleep. He grabs me by the arm and I scream.

'John Crowe, the Ford Blitz in the forest?' Tommy asks again.

'What's he doing there?' I ask stupidly. Well, perhaps not so stupidly, no firefighter would have stopped in the forest with the fire approaching like it was.

Tommy doesn't answer. 'Did ya, Mole? Tell me!'There's panic in his voice.

'I didn't get that close, I took the back way, the forest was burning.' Then I connect and make sense of what he's saying. 'Oh shit!'

'What, what?'

'I seen a Red Steer, an explosion, it was like an atom bomb!' Tommy doesn't seem to understand. 'Big ball of fire, jumped maybe a mile, trees were thrown up above the canopy.'

'Come!'Tommy says. 'Get yer gear on.'

'Don't think I can, I'm burned bad!'

'Fuck you, Mole! Now get your gear on, yer hear me!'

Tommy can say things like that to us when he's drunk, we don't take no notice, but it's not the way he'll speak when he's sober. Bozo's suddenly awake and leaning on his elbow, 'He's not going, he's crook. Leave Mole alone, I'll go.' He doesn't call him 'Dad' or anything, just gets out of his bunk and stands in front of Tommy in the nuddy.

Tommy suddenly crumples to the floor and covers his face with his hands. He's sobbing. Then he gets to his knees and brings his hands together like he's begging and starts jabbering to Bozo in some strange language. He grabs a hold of Bozo's ankles and starts to kiss his feet, sobbing and jabbering away, shaking all over, looking up pop-eyed, frightened, then down again, kissing Bozo's feet, pleading.

'Shit!' Bozo says, looking down at me, 'What's he saying?' He's trying to kick out of Tommy's grasp but Tommy's holding on for dear life, his hands, surprisingly strong, like manacles around Bozo's ankles.

Suddenly Tommy jumps to his feet and he runs like hell. We hear him crashing through the house. Next thing there's the sound of an engine starting and a car pulling away. Bozo runs to the window to see a dark-green ute taking off, skidding, spraying mud in the puddled street.

'Jesus!' Bozo says, turning from the window, 'What happened there?'

'It's John Crowe, he's dead, the Red Steer got him.' I explain it to Bozo, what I've seen, 'Can't be certain, of course, but what else? He hasn't come back.'

Bozo seems stunned, 'John Crowe?'

'It's only a guess, but if he was in the forest, anywhere near, there's no way he'd be coming out.'

'Christ, I hope you're wrong, mate,' Bozo says. 'Can't be, he'd be too smart to get caught in the forest with the fire approaching, surely?'

'It wasn't like that, he'd have thought he was well ahead of the fire, still a mile away.'

He nods, thinking, then says, 'He had our ute, didn't he?'

'Yeah, I reckon that would be gone.'

Bozo doesn't dwell on it, just shakes his head. 'Let's hope you're wrong about both/ he says again. Then being him he gets down to practical matters, 'We'll wait until seven o'clock and go see Big Jack at his house. Reckon you can get up? Walk?'

Big Jack's wife, Terri, brings her hands up to her mouth when she sees me. 'Oh, my goodness!'

she exclaims. I haven't looked in the mirror so I don't know what she sees, but if it looks like it feels it can't be too pretty. She goes to the first-aid box she keeps in the back room and gets some ointment and pretty soon I'm ouching all over again. Then she cooks us breakfast, scrambled eggs, my throat feels a little better and I wait until the eggs are not too hot, can't come at the toast and tea though. I tell Big Jack the story of the Red Steer.

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'The Red Steer, you saw it?' It's the police officer in him asking. He nods, 'Hmm, heard about them, never seen one myself, don't know anyone who has.' You can hear the doubt in his voice. I begin to wonder if I saw it myself, you know with everything that's gone on before.

'Mole wouldn't make it up,' Bozo says, also picking up on the doubt in Big Jack's voice.

'No, of course not. Tommy was asking everywhere last night. Not like him to refuse a drink. We all thought John Crowe would show up eventually, if not last night, first thing this morning.

Never know, still may, hey? Mind you, not too many of the fighters were in a fit state to go looking for him in the rain and even less so after it stopped.' He smiles slightly. 'About midnight I could have arrested the whole male population of Yankalillee for drunk and disorderly conduct.'

So Bozo and me get into the police car with Big Jack Donovan and drive to Boundary Road and turn into the dirt road running alongside the eucalyptus forest. Everywhere we look it's just blackened stumps and trees on the one side and blackened earth on the other with the ash stained dark by the rain.

I think to myself, this time there won't be any regeneration, this eucalyptus forest ain't coming back to life, no way! The road turns into the forest and everywhere we're surrounded by trees that look like spent match sticks. About three miles in, we spot the ute where the road turns again suddenly. 'There's his ute!' we both yell out, thinking it's John Crowe's Holden, but almost at the same moment we realise its not, it's the right colour, green, but it's an International.

'It's Tommy's/ Bozo says, 'the one he used this morning.'

'Tommy got a ute?' Big Jack asks, surprised.

'Nah, must have borrowed one,' I say quickly. Bozo glances at me, we both know that Big Jack reckons the same as we do, that Tommy's pinched the ute, desperate to find his mate.

'We'll get it back to its rightful owner soon enough,' Big Jack says quietly. 'Probably some bloke too drunk to drive, Tommy's done him a favour.'

We pull up to examine the International but there's nothing in it except some firefighting gear in the back. Big Jack writes down the registration number. After that, we carry on in the police car, take the bend and then into a little dip when Big Jack suddenly slams the brakes on. 'Holy Shit!'

he exclaims. For a hundred yards or more in a rough circle there is nothing, not even a stump, nothing. After a few moments Big Jack Donovan turns to me, 'I'd never have believed it unless I'd seen it with my own eyes, Mole! Sorry if I sounded doubtful earlier on, son.'

I've already described what we saw when we got to the spot where the Red Steer landed, but there's no Tommy to be seen. We see his footsteps in the wet ash and then out again and heading away down the road in the opposite direction to the ute. The road leads out of the forest and towards the hills. It's the best thing could happen, Tommy going walkabout. But what his footsteps do say to all of us is that he knows John Crowe is dead.

Bozo found the bits of the Ford tanker and then the part of the chassis from John Crowe's company ute we still owed a lot of money on. Later Bozo will tell me he had insurance built into the hire-purchase price and I'm glad he's taken the spoon out of the sink as usual. If we had to pay for it without having its use to make the payments, I suppose it would send us broke. Big Jack takes the twisted length of welded stainless-steel chain and puts it in the boot of the police car. He turns and looks at the devastation all around us. For a long time he says nothing, then he sighs. 'The worst part is knocking on the door and telling the wife,' he says, then he shakes his head, 'It's always the good ones that go!'