by Ron Elliott
‘There’s no fire-escape outside this room. I can see the metal steps going down under the fire, but none outside the window I’m at. Firefighters are down in the alley, but I can’t see hoses, let alone pumps. It’s all dead-man zone down in the alley, the building’s sure to collapse on you. I set off my PDA. It’s loud, but they don’t seem to hear it.
‘I take off my useless BA, throw it at one of the firefighters, four floors below. Of course, I don’t hit him. But it gets his attention. My PDA is still blaring. I take my helmet off, I wave it. I’m still not sure he sees me. I wave my arms. The stripes on the end are really noticeable, especially to other firefighters. The fire is in the room now. It’s coming down from the ceiling onto the wardrobe. The door is glowing. It’s starting to shimmy across the ceiling towards the window. Air is a motherfucking double-edged sword.
‘Outside I see the boys running up the lane with ladders. I wave the helmet again, until I know they are setting up under. Fuck me, they had to reposition the ladder twice, but I hand out the first old guy and realise it is going to take time for them to half-carry, half-pass him down the ladder. That’s when I get the idea of the mattresses. I grab the mattresses off each bed, put them behind us, like an extra turtle wall. I lift the last guy up to the window to get air. I have to lean out myself cos I’m nauseous, about to faint. I pass over this guy. My mattress is on fire. The firefighter is carrying him down and I try to get out the window. Halfway out I’m stuck. My tunic, or something on the tunic, is catching. I’m on my back now, half out the window, hanging on to the top of the ladder with one hand. The flames are actually coming out the window and over me. I shake off my right glove, unzip my tunic and slide out backwards. I’m falling. I’m heading headfirst down from four floors up. My left hand grabs the ladder and I spin but my hand slips so I throw out my leg. It slides between rungs of the ladder and I bend it, like a hook. Pop. Fucked knee, but I’m hanging on the ladder, my leg folded under so I can grab another rung under with my hands. I know my leg is fucked up, but all I care about is the fresh air. Cold, sweet air is whooshing into my lungs like cider on a hot day.
‘You’ve probably seen the shot of me handing out the old blokes and falling out of the window.’
‘Yes, I have,’ said Iris.
‘A news crew.’
‘That was you.’
‘Famous.’
‘Quite a hero.’
‘Pah,’ he snarled.
‘Jock?’
‘Was as much a hero. Took it better than me too.’
‘I don’t understand, Chuck. Jock made it out?’
‘Yeah. When they said abandon ship, he did. No reason to feel guilty either. He did a bit, though.’ Chuck looked from his empty beer glass to his empty whisky glass.
Iris said, ‘Do you want another?’
‘Another beer.’ He named the type, let her go to get him one. The pub was emptying of the lunch crowd. Younger people were filtering in, dressed in shorts and t-shirts, tattoos twirling up their arms.
If Iris had heard Chuck’s story at the practice, she might start to fashion this incident. She’d audit it, look for the patterns. What it said about the chapter of his life as a firefighter. He was a brave man. A hero. Did he miss it? He certainly remembered it. In very specific detail. Why was Charles Koch so obviously suffering all this time later from depression, anger, the many signs of things gone wrong rather than right?
Iris returned with a pint for Chuck, a Diet Coke for herself.
‘Cheers,’ he said.
‘So, big story, Chuck.’
‘Yeah, it was the day I fucked up my knee, so I’m out of the job. As talkback radio suggested, the men we saved were hardly any prize catch. Life’s a bitch. That was fifteen years ago. I became a fire investigator, I find the cause of fires. Many are accidental, some are lit by this sneaky boots I call Zorro. Now he’s done the school, nothing surer. Up-to-date, you reckon?’
Iris saw a lot of resentment and anger in Chuck, hostility towards authority.
He studied the sky. Maybe he’d smelled the first hints of the sea breeze as it flicked around them with a mix of salty ocean and diesel fumes from the harbour.
‘What do you want from me, Charles?’
‘I was a great firefighter.’
‘Clearly.’
‘I’m a good fire investigator too. I’m not a joke.’
‘Yes. I understand.’ Iris smiled.
‘At last. Now, how about a profile of my baddie?’
Iris grimaced. Her next explanation was not what Charles was looking for. ‘The trouble with profiles is they are brilliant – after. After you’ve caught the person.’
‘You caught the dickhead in the housing estate. Told the police how to trap him.’
‘One of the few from the textbook. Unemployed, under twenty-three with a fire-lighting pattern within two kilometres of where he lived. Absent father. I know we identified him, watched him until he lit his next fire, Charles. What no one talks about is how two other young men in the estate were also watched. They also fitted the profile. One was a gentle dope head, the other was studying university units online.’
‘You narrowed it down.’
‘The profile also has a huge statistical problem. It’s based on interviews with convicted recidivist firelighters – the ones who’d been caught. Maybe the older, female, educated, high self-esteem ones don’t get found. Or are smart enough not to share.’
Charles appeared confused. Said, ‘We catch girls who light fires.’
‘Yes, although they tend to do it for revenge rather than profit. Self-harm too. They burn their own things, of sentimental value. Anyway, I’m telling you about the limits. As you know, fires do start by accident. Half of those that are deliberately lit are for financial gain, which includes hiding other crimes.’
‘Did you miss the bit of my story where I told you I’ve worked as a fire investigator for fifteen years?’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Is it your Martian?’
Iris took in the pub clientele, delaying more discussion until a waitress moved on from clearing the table behind.
Chuck sipped his beer watching her.
Iris said, ‘I don’t think the Martian did it.’
‘Because?’
‘The school is highly organised, the Martian is not. It also looks to me like the school suspect is pretty patient.’
‘Very. He cases the joint, has to spend time setting it up without being noticed. He likes to use ignition devices that look like an accident when investigated. I think he builds them himself. Steals an item from the place, tricks up the electrics to create short circuits that can look like an accident. He turns off the water supply or disables the sprinkler system, again so it looks like it might be lack of maintenance. He blocks escape ways with stuff that might naturally be stacked incorrectly or places a skip bin in the wrong place. He did these same things at the school, only we got there early enough to see his handiwork. The superglue hadn’t been burnt up. The truck wasn’t in place. We still have the truck, intact.’
Iris said, ‘The choosing and planning might be part of the pleasure. If he signs his work he’s proud of it. Forget the Martian. These other buildings, how does he choose them, do you think?’
‘I’m not sure. They are bigger each time. Places with people in them.’
‘You said a backpackers and an old people’s home?’
‘Yep.’
‘So old people, schoolkids. Is he targeting the weak in other ways? He’s not sentimental. Why did he choose a school? This school? Pathological firelighters still use their own logic. What’s his pattern? What’s the connection between all these buildings?’
Charles nodded. ‘Yep, that’s good. What else?’
‘Go back. Go back before the bushfire where you found him. Unless this person came from elsewhere, he probably started experimenting with fire when he was young. You might find a good list of candidates in juvenile firelighters.’
‘Where you found the drink can at the first bushfire. It was at a vantage point. He wanted to watch.’
‘They all do. I also think he likes to see up close. Smell the smoke. He likes the idea of people dying, screaming. Why he didn’t blow the ether at the school as his first option.’
‘Which means he might have been interviewed.’
‘One oh one. Already looking.’
‘I mean look for earlier crimes, the ones you haven’t found yet. Get the witness names to similar crimes, see if there’s a match. He’s very bold.’
Chuck drained his beer.
Iris stood.
‘You want to get something to eat?’ said Charles.
Iris saw his neediness. ‘I have things to do.’
He looked at her plate. ‘I mean later.’
‘If I think of anything else, I’ll let you know.’
Chapter twelve
When Iris got home she collected the week’s newspapers from the recycling bin where Mathew or Sandra, the cleaning woman, must have put them. Now Iris was no longer resisting the investigation she was hungry for information.
She made coffee, read chronologically. Details were slim. Emotion was high. A photographic essay of the school oval showed bits and pieces of abandoned student material. Schoolbooks, a pair of reading glasses, a shoe. It was like a domestic copy of the international war zone pictures, no less poignant for the lack of blood or obvious carnage.
During the week, the fire service had allowed the police to release the names of the fallen firefighters and police. One of the firefighters was a woman. The oldest man was the bomb-disposal expert, a forty-six year old police officer. The previous day’s paper printed photographs of them, their name and a brief biography, which included marital status, family details, hobbies or sports. They were mostly young, handsome people. Most of them were married. Both pumps had come from the same station, so the firefighters were friends, their partners and children friends too.
Iris found herself studying the face of the station officer. It was his figure Iris could still see, often and unbidden, frozen in the flash. He was thirty-four. His wife’s name was Nancy. There were three children, all girls. Louise fourteen, Shellen twelve and Kristabel nine. He coached them at netball. He did carpentry. He was in Rotary. A life story in two paragraphs.
Iris tried to focus on information concerning the investigation, looking for the forensic trails, but the police were being cagey on this detail. Police confirm bomb was not fertiliser based. Police rule out gas leak at school explosion. Police reveal locks tampered with at gymnasium. Police confirm ignition device found at Barnard’s. The taskforce was only confirming or denying, not volunteering information in an ongoing investigation.
By day three, the police were ruling out the schoolchildren. Kids unlikely, says Fire Lady. Iris wondered who the police source had been. The terrorist threat was a popular one. The list included returned Muslim fighters, bikie gangs, illegal boat people and a variety of anti-government backyard right-wing groups, all of whom were currently being interviewed. A portion of the groups, particularly the Muslim community and the bikies, were most vocal in denying involvement. ‘We don’t blow up kiddies,’ says bikie sergeant-at-arms. James was mentioned on day three. Man held at Fieldhaven undergoing psychiatric assessments. Fieldhaven pyromaniac grilled on School Explosion.
Iris found an article in the business section of one of the papers mentioning Mathew’s company, the negotiations with the Nullabin people and the mining company. Then she saw an article in the arts section. June Hyland was at a major arts launch, attending an opera in a mine cut, ballet on the rugged, red cliffs. What a coincidence that June should be in the same mining town as Mathew this weekend.
Iris decided she’d run. It was still hot outside, so she headed to the bedroom to change for a run on the machine. She checked her phone for messages. There was one from Frank. Gillian had called a couple of times and left a text, which Iris didn’t read. There was a missed call from Superintendent Richards. Mathew had called too, probably when he discovered his socks and jocks were missing.
Iris tried Mathew, but was switched to his answer service. ‘Hi Mathew. I got your call.’ Her mind went blank a moment before she said, ‘Bloody hot down here. Hope you’re in air conditioning. Hurry home.’
Iris changed into her running gear, hearing the door chimes as she was heading to the gym room. She regarded her running shorts and daggy t-shirt, but headed down to the front door unspruced.
Gillian stood smiling, her three children in dishevelled school clothes rubbernecking on the front veranda.
‘Holy shit,’ said the boy, looking up at the house.
Gillian bellowed, ‘Trenton, stop bloody swearing.’
The girls gaped at Iris.
Gillian said, ‘We won’t stay long. Popped in for a cuppa and a chinwag on our way home.’
‘Oh,’ said Iris, not yet letting go of the door.
‘Sorry, came out wrong. An afternoon appara tiff and a quick confab, darling.’
‘Seeing as you are now speaking my language, how could I refuse?’ Iris stepped back.
Gillian turned to her kids, ordering, ‘Do not touch anything.’
‘Come through everyone,’ said Iris leading them towards the kitchen.
‘Look at the staircase,’ said the older girl.
‘How many rooms are here?’ asked the younger one.
Iris said, ‘I’m not sure.’ She grew embarrassed as she considered this. ‘Downstairs we have lounge and dining and kitchen and our offices and a laundry and bathroom. Upstairs, mostly bedrooms and lounges, ours and Rosemarie’s, and a gym. More bathrooms.’
‘Look at the pool!’ yelled the boy. They’d reached the back. ‘Like in The Sopranos.’
‘I’ve got soft drinks. Not sure about any nibblies for you kids. We’re a bit out of practice.’ Iris didn’t want Gillian to see how bare her fridge was. ‘Biscuits!’ Iris found chocolate biscuits in the cupboard, cool drink in the drinks fridge.
‘Are you rich?’ asked the youngest.
‘No,’ said Iris.
‘Can we go outside?’ asked the oldest girl.
‘Yes, of course,’ said Iris.
‘Don’t touch anything,’ repeated Gillian.
Gillian’s kids took their sugar looty outside to roam around the gardens.
‘It is a very large swimming pool,’ said Gillian.
‘Yes. A bit of a chore really, since Rosemarie left. She had parties in and around it during high school. Came with the house.’
‘I heard about Rodney,’ said Gillian.
‘Oh,’ said Iris. ‘Drink?’
‘Does the Pope shit in the woods?’
‘That would probably be a no, Gillian.’
‘Could the bear be Catholic?’
‘It’s entirely possible. This way.’ Iris led her to the wine fridge.
Gillian said, ‘This is a seriously big house, Iris.’
‘It came with the pool. Is white all right or would you prefer red?’
‘Wine is good.’
Iris poured. ‘How is Barbara?’
‘She’s good. You were right. I started looking at her differently.’
Iris handed her a glass of wine.
Gillian went on, ‘I’m seeing her as a friend who wants to see me, not as a problem I can’t fix.’
Iris examined Gillian but she was looking into her wine glass. ‘And her daughter?’
‘We’ve got the right mix, I think, of meds and living adjustments. They’re both still working through Trent’s death. Anyway, I’m not here about that.’
Iris led Gillian up the hall to her office.
‘Oh, my dear god. This is the office in my heaven.’
‘Well, it’s starting to turn into a knick-knack graveyard.’ Iris gestured towards the couch.
‘Butterflies, huh?’
‘Yes. Once the family found out I liked them, they b
ecame the Christmas present of choice. Birthdays, Mother’s Day. I’m delighted by the way. Can’t have too many butterflies.’ Iris sat. ‘How can I help, Gillian?’
‘I’ve telephoned Biara.’
‘Oh?’
‘I know you’re busy. I thought I’d help with the coroner’s report.’
‘I don’t need any help.’
‘Yeah, right. None of my clients are sick. You look like shit.’
Iris sipped her wine. It was a chardonnay, she decided. She hadn’t taken in the label when she’d chosen it.
Iris looked up to see Gillian watching her.
She thought of throwing her out. She was an annoying person who talked like a shearer, however a shearer talked. Now she’d become a kind of Chinese albatross, or whatever it was that never left until the debt was repaid.
Iris said, ‘I took some old Triazolam last night to help me sleep. On top of yesterday’s wine, they kind of knocked me about.’
Gillian was still staring.
‘I am fine, Gillian. I’m already feeling stronger. I’m tough.’
‘I’m not your mother.’
‘Thank god for small mercies.’
‘Ouch.’
‘For a start you’d also be six feet under.’
‘What I mean is, I’m simply trying to help, not take anything.’
Iris said, ‘Those blue butterflies are morphos, everyone’s favourite. From South America. We went through a period, at Rosemarie’s instigation, where killing butterflies so they could be put in a glass frame for one human’s pleasure was very wrong and selfish. I think it was Mathew … of course it was Mathew, pointed out that butterflies only live for a very short time in the wild so we were only culling a few who would die anyway and it was all right again, as a gift, to preserve them forever. It was an answer we could all live with. Not the butterflies.’
‘Rosemarie’s your daughter?’
‘Yes.’
Gillian explored the room as though trying to find her.
‘Away at uni. I don’t want to do this.’
‘I wasn’t trying. God, Iris. No. All I’ve done is made calls to the prison to chase up any paperwork. I thought I could save you a bit of time. I’ve requested copies. Your visits are all listed on their files. They also registered three calls you made the day before, one of them got through to suggest Rodney be put on suicide watch.’