by Finn Bell
I again check my watch. It’s all taken three minutes.
That’s maybe four minutes since I called.
Surveying my handiwork, I’m well pleased to see that already there’s water almost everywhere by now. Soon the entire floor will be flooded.
But I also notice that I’m not the only one who’s been busy. I can hear the roar of the fire now and it’s getting really hot, although there’s not too much smoke in here yet.
Next I grab the towels off the rail and wet them as well, first to drape over me and, if I run out of time, help protect me from the flames if I have to try and get out through the window above the bath.
As a final thought, I again collect the gun and phone and things, this time spending a few seconds to wedge them into the pockets of the sweat pants I had worn to bed, and find that happily they have zips on them that I manage to close up on everything but the gun and the phone.
I’m keeping the phone because I’m still on the line with the now quite harassed-sounding emergency operator, and the gun because if I do have to try and get out a window with the potential of Zoyls waiting on the other side, then I’m doing so with a gun in my hand.
“Tell them I’m in my bathroom now,” I say, already starting to cough from the smoke and actually having to yell over the noise of the fire. “It’s on the side of the house with the big tree. I’m in the bathtub, right under the window!” I yell, but even with the phone right next to my ear I can’t make out the reply.
It’s rapidly getting worse in here.
It’s really hard to breathe now and I’m having to cower under the wet towels as glowing cinders keep falling on me.
I don’t think minutes matter anymore; I’m pretty sure we’re down to seconds.
Maybe all the water has slowed things down but it won’t be enough.
I can hear breaking glass and whistles and bangs against a continuous loud groaning and creaking as the cottage steadily curls up and dies around me. I think, this is the end of Smuggler’s Cottage, the last cottage beyond the last town down.
Through the smoke I can see that several of the planks in the top corner of the wall I’m sitting next to have now warped apart, with tongues of yellow fire spilling through and licking out across the ceiling.
It’s when several of the windowpanes just above me burst, spilling glowing-hot slivers of glass all over me, one small piece falling on the back of my hand and painfully melting itself stuck instantly, that my instincts finally short circuit my plans and I’m jolted into action.
I have some vague childhood memories of fire safety lessons from school saying that you have to try and hold your breath if you ever have to jump through flames, but I can’t stop myself taking great, ragged gasps as, with towels around my hands, I first try to push open the window. I don’t even pause for a second when it doesn’t budge and immediately frantically start breaking out glass.
I have to get out of here.
I have to get out.
There’s just flames.
It burns on my hands and face.
I can’t open my eyes anymore.
The pain is so strong it doesn’t even feel hot anymore, it’s just a sharp needling, stinging that keeps tightening, pushing a million nails through my skin and then I’m tumbling through and down, landing hard on the blackened, smoking grass outside.
And after that I don’t remember what happened or where I went or what I did, although I’m sure it was only a few rapid heartbeats later.
That’s when I find myself completely at peace, somehow outside of time, far away from that fire, not even sure I’m breathing. Nothing hurts here as I find myself looking up at the frozen tree tops above me, not knowing where I am or why and not caring. Then I feel myself slipping away from here, from this perfect moment, I don’t want to go but I don’t know how to stop it as, again, darkness claims me.
The next time I’m me is in a confusing flash of people talking loudly above me. I realise Patricia and the cops are fighting to keep me down, hanging onto both my arms as I try to pull off the oxygen mask. I remember that I’ve been here before and that they told me not to do that already.
The last thing I remember is making out someone saying, “We can’t give him more,” and then a slowly spreading mist of warm, ecstatic peace filling me up till I feel like I’m floating just above the stretcher.
And then Patricia’s back, trying to smile down at me, saying, “God, Finn, please just stay still, baby,” as tears streak down her face and I think she looks so young when she cries.
Why do we only look really young when we laugh or when we cry? Maybe that’s the only time we can’t help being us.
CHAPTER 37
April 27, TWO MONTHS AGO . . .
“You’re lucky to be alive.”
That’s the second time I’ve woken up in a hospital and been told that by a doctor shaking his head at a clipboard.
I’m beginning to believe it, too.
In between being drugged-out on pain medication for the burn wounds and several surgeries, I’ve only had a few lucid spells in the past few days. Even so, I have to admit I’ve come off it very lightly, considering how close I came to coming off it dead.
I’m humbled to find so many familiar faces by my bed on the different times I wake up. Even though I’m too drugged to remember if we said anything to each other, it still means something that they are here. There’s Tai, and Patricia, and Pruitt, and some of the Murderball gang, and even Hot-Water Tui at one point, looking uncomfortable in a neatly pressed shirt. I resolve to try and make it all up to them and be the kind of person who actually deserves such concern.
Different medical staff tell me different bits, but most of it I get from the Faso twins, who stop by on my fourth morning, which is really the first day my brain works again.
“We are relieved to see that you’ve made it through, Mr Bell,” John says, smiling down at me.
“Yeah, me too,” I say.
“The early results from the fire department confirm that it’s arson. The accelerant was a high octane petrol. We’ve opened an investigation,” Lucas adds.
“The Zoyls?” I ask.
“They’ve already been interviewed, but at this stage, no one is under arrest,” Lucas replies, anticipating my intended question.
“Yeah,” I say, feeling my anger rising again.
“Please, Mr Bell. We do not believe it was them who did this,” John adds in a calming tone.
“We’re still checking the radar logs and witness accounts, but it’s fairly certain they were actually out at sea when it happened, fishing out beyond Stewart Island. It’s more than 30 kilometres out. We have several witnesses who say the three of them docked in Port Pegasus to wait out the high winds. Several people saw them there, and they only left the next morning when the weather eased,” John says.
I’m a little past the point of being rational about this and remain firmly, completely unconvinced. But instead of voicing my beliefs in futile anger, I remind myself that these people are trying to help me. So I take a breath and say, “So, now what?”
“Now we investigate, Mr Bell, and you rest and heal. We don’t have the answers yet, but there’s more evidence now. And whoever did this, failed,” John says with a smile.
“Given the lengths they have gone to, it is reasonable to assume that you pose a significant risk to them, and you are still here and very much alive. Attempted murder is a most serious matter, Mr Finn, and given the possible links to the unsolved cases of Alice and James Cotter, it has become a top priority for us. More resources and personnel are being assigned to us. We will keep you safe, and we will make every effort to find those responsible,” Lucas says with a confidence I find difficult to feel.
I don’t remember them leaving or falling asleep, but the next time I’m awake it’s to Pruitt’s loud snoring in the chair next to me.
He manages to wake himself as the box of chocolates I assume he brought for me slips from his lap and tumble
s to the floor.
“Ah, you’re up,” he says as he notices me looking at him.
“I brought you some chocolates.” He stoops to pick up the box. “But I had to eat the mint ones out, as they won’t let me smoke in here.”
“I’ll make do,” I say, then add, “it’s good to see you again, Pruitt. I felt bad about showing you that cake tin.”
“It’s not your badness to feel, my boy,” Pruitt says with a smile. “Just took me a bit by surprise. And besides, things have rather moved on since then, don’t you think?”
“Well, that’s true. So, what have I missed?” I ask.
“Quite a bit, actually. The police are keeping things quiet, so nothing’s come out in the media. And it’s easy enough to spin the story that way; it’s just a fire in an old cottage, no deaths. It’ll likely not even make it to the national papers. The Western Star’s run a small notice in the back pages, otherwise it would look suspicious, but none of the real questions, just the same; old-house-catches-fire story.”
Pruitt interrupts himself as he starts patting his coat, then continues. “Wait, I’ve got some pictures somewhere. Aha, Neville took them the next morning but we didn’t run any. Pictures only make people more curious. See,” he says as he fishes out a digital camera and shows me the pictures on the back screen.
It’s plain to see that there’s virtually nothing left now but a blackened skeleton of wooden stilts and debris around the still intact chimney. There’s only one part of the hallway wall that’s still partially intact, and somehow almost untouched. You can still make out the white paintwork under the soot.
“Looks so much smaller now,” I say.
“That’s because it is. This is only what’s left of the back half of the house, mostly your bedroom and the bathroom. The kitchen, living room, and second bedroom, most of them were just gone in the explosion. Incinerated right down to the ground. There’s nothing left of them,” Pruitt says, then pauses when he sees the confusion on my face.
“You don’t know yet, do you?” he asks.
“It is possible people told me but I don’t remember much after falling out the window,” I say. What I do remember is the look on Patricia’s face and the break in her voice, and it adds another simmer to my anger.
“You got out the window and managed to drag yourself some distance across the grass before collapsing. You landed on your head and gave yourself a pretty good concussion, so I’m not surprised you don’t remember. The police found you there and it’s lucky they did, as you were still too close to the fire and you still had the gun in your hand. They dragged you to a safe distance and then the fire truck and the ambulance arrived shortly after. Poor Patricia was on duty, and that’s when she saw you, and from all accounts you weren’t looking too good by then. They’d actually already got you off on the way to hospital when it all went up. The fire service was dousing the fire, apparently getting it under control, when the gas tanks exploded. Took out most of the front of the house in one big boom. Damaged the fire truck and singed some eyebrows all round. Thankfully no serious injuries,” Pruitt says.
The gas tanks. For the water boiler and cook top. I’d forgotten about the gas tanks. So much for my cool plans and quick actions under pressure. I forgot about the bloody gas tanks!
“We’ve since figured out that you only had them installed last week, and the paperwork had been sent through but not registered yet, so the firemen turned off your electricity and thought that was it. They didn’t know there were gas tanks by the kitchen until they actually went up. I’m told they were still full, too,” Pruitt says as he helps himself to another of my chocolates. “Made an awfully large fireball. The explosion was so big that it actually put out the fire, used up all the oxygen. They also said those tanks could have gone at any time before then, they were surprised they both lasted that long. Seriously, Finn, you’re lucky to be alive.”
Yeah, I’m getting that.
CHAPTER 38
May 4, ONE MONTH AGO . . .
Hospital beds.
There’s a whole world that happens in them.
For most of us, there’s a good chance you’ll be born in one and die in one. In my time here, which now spans over a long, long week, I’ve seen all sorts of people pass through in the beds around me. Those just starting out and those finishing up. And I think at least these people have a purpose and a schedule and, when you think about it, a priority to be here. It’s the ones in between, like myself, who are just hanging around making everything crowded.
For us it’s not the beginning and it’s not the end, this is just a too-slow pit stop, making us late for everything else. There’s only so many so-what-are-you-in-for conversations with random strangers I can stand. I want to go home. But then I have to keep reminding myself that home isn’t there anymore.
The cottage is a pile of ash and incredibly, the Zoyls are still free men. I don’t care what the twins think, I know it was them.
So while they’re out there getting on with getting on, I’m in here having operations. Which, I fully admit and am constantly reminded of, could have been much worse.
I’ve got some fairly bad burn wounds on my arms but they are, thankfully, only small, scattered shapes of red and black, as the wet blanket took most of the heat. The doctors have opted to basically cut out the too-cooked bits and just kind of pull the skin tighter around things—there were a lot of technical terms thrown around but that’s the gist of it.
My right hand got off worse. They said I’ll have some scarring where that piece of glass burned itself stuck, and I’ll have to do a lot of physiotherapy, actually stretching out the skin afterwards so that my ring finger and little finger can still be used. Otherwise the scar tissue will heal it up stiff and unmovable. Fun.
All the bolts and pins in my lower back that were installed after the accident held, so there’s no further damage there at least.
My concussion and the other random cuts and bruises I’m told will sort themselves out, along with my eyebrows.
Luckily, I wasn’t that pretty to start with.
So it looks like I’ll be here a while and I’m undeniably sulking.
Although I fake being in good spirits when I get visitors, no need to spread the suffering around.
Eventually I will get out of here and this will all be past tense.
Patricia came by again yesterday.
I don’t know how many times she’s made the 3-hour drive from Riverton up to Dunedin since I’ve been here, as I really can’t remember too much about the first few days in here, but I know it means what’s between us isn’t casual anymore.
Last night was the first time I’d seen her and not been so drugged-up that I couldn’t speak or do much more than recognize her before falling asleep again. But on the first time that I could speak, we didn’t talk at all.
She came in and pulled the curtains closed around the bed and got into it next to me and cried.
All she said was, “Fuck you, Finn. I hate caring this much again.”
It grew dark around us in silence and we kissed until my over-tanned face ached, then she left without a word when the nurse came by to give me my next round of medication.
And I’m left here again, in stasis, while life flows on in Riverton without me.
“Penny?” I hear a voice intrude into my thoughts.
As I look up, I realise that it’s none other than Father Ress of the First Church of Dunedin, who has already sat down next to my bed.
“Sorry, Father, just lost in thought,” I say.
“What about?” he asks with a kind smile.
“Actually, I was thinking about love.”
“Ah, a tricky one,” he says with a slow nod. “Not one I can help you much with, I’m afraid.”
“Really, a priest with nothing to say about love?” I say, happy to have Father Ress to talk to.
“I’m Catholic. I can do guilt and built-up sexual tension if you want,” he says in jest, and I can’t help bu
t burst out laughing.
“Or if I had to reach back to my previous career, maybe something about psychopathology,” Father Ress continues with a happy smile as my laughter dies down.
“But love, no. And I’m convinced it’s not just me, you know. Religion, philosophy, psychology . . . I don’t think any of us have a clue, really. We just cover it up with big words,” he says.
I think he’s on to something there.
“See, when you think about it, we don’t know anything useful about love, do we?” Father Ress says with a slight frown.
“Why do we feel it for some people and not others? How does it start? How does it stop? We don’t know why it comes. We don’t know why it goes. We don’t know how long it will stay. We can’t make ourselves feel it when we really need to and even harder, we can’t make ourselves stop feeling it when we absolutely need to. It’s not quite an emotion and it’s not quite an ability and it’s not quite an action, and that’s about all we really know.
“You see, Finn, one way or another, sooner or later, whether it’s for a lover or a child or a thing, we all become love’s dog. Now you can be a good dog or a bad dog, but you’re not the master, are you?”
As he says this, I think I’d quite like to attend one of Father Ress’s sermons one day. Not because I’m religious, but because he comes out and says things like this that make me see the world better.
“So to what do I owe the pleasure, Father? Looking for a captive audience?” I ask as I hold up my bandaged arms.
“I was in the neighbourhood, as they say. Mine is a reasonably big congregation so it’s inevitable that there’s always a reason or two to come by the hospital. And I’d heard from the Faso twins about what happened so I thought I’d drop in.”
“The Faso twins, John and Lucas, they’re quite a pair,” I say, thinking of the two smiling twins from Benin.
“Indeed they are, very much part of the new breed of detective, I’d say. The business has all changed. Now they know different things, do things in a different way. And, between you and me, I can’t really say I hold much faith in it. Data-driven decision trees and predictive computer modelling and statistical analysis, and what nobody tells you is for the really serious crimes, the success rate is about the same. But the Faso twins are good. I may not understand all their methods, but what they do works, that’s for sure,” Father Ress says, nodding to himself.