There was movement inside, children crying, a repetitive, high-pitched scream, and the sound of breaking glass coming from the rear of the vehicle.
The driver was beyond help, and it made more sense to go in through the large, back exit. It was Beth at the back of the bus, bloodied and dishevelled, tears streaming down her face, kicking out the glass in the window from inside.
‘It won’t open,’ she said, through the hole she’d made, kicking again. ‘The window won’t bloody open.’
‘It’s okay, Beth. Mark and I are here. And there’ll be help coming very soon.’
Even as she said the words, her eyes adjusted to the duller light inside the bus, to see the tangled mess of swimming bags, brightly coloured towels, shattered glass, broken seats and bloodied children, and she knew she’d lied. It wasn’t okay. Nothing about this could be okay.
Mark extinguished the small fire, climbed on to the step and reached into the cab to switch off the ignition. The identity of the driver who’d tried to run him off the road hit him like a blow to the gut.
Mick Barrett.
Mark stared at Mick’s bloodied, lifeless face, battling the tumult of anger, wanting to swear, yell, close his eyes and be anywhere but here.
Mick had tried to run them off the road, and now he was dead, and a busload of children were smashed on the road.
Another child on the bus joined in the screaming, the sound piercing through Mark’s anger, clearing the blankness in his brain and jolting it into action. Police, ambulances, rescue services – the kids needed all of them. He jumped down to the road and pulled out his phone. With no time to waste trying to explain locations and requirements to a distant triple-0 operator, he dialled Kris’s number. Kris could report it quickly, and coordinate everything.
He cut across her greeting the second she answered. ‘Kris, listen to me: the school bus and a truck have crashed, about two kilometres west of the Ghost Hill turn-off. It’s major, Kris. If there’s a disaster plan, get it into action, now.’
‘How bad, Mark?’
‘Very.’ His heart raced as he watched Jenn bash more glass from the back window with a kid’s shoe. But his first priority was to make sure Kris understood the situation. ‘Get every ambulance in the district, and all the rescue teams. The bus hit the side of the truck, and has tipped over. It’s the Dungirri school kids, Kris. Multiple injuries, and at least one fatality – the truck driver. It was Mick Barrett. Jenn’s with me, and we’ll do what we can, but get help here urgently.’
He disconnected without waiting for her answer.
He reached the bus and took in the sea of wreckage, glass and bleeding children, and he prayed that it was better than it appeared.
He could see Jenn inside, hear her voice, low and reassuring, among the groans and cries. Two boys were crawling to the back window, whimpering and wincing on the broken glass, and he helped them climb out. Braden Pappas and Calum Barrett. Both twelve years old, both usually cheeky and lively boys, and both bleeding from various scrapes and bruises. But alive and moving and at first glance at least, mostly okay.
‘Sit down in the shade there, boys. Don’t go walking around. There’ll be help here very soon.’
‘Will my mum come?’ Calum asked, wiping a bloodied hand across his nose.
‘Yes, mate, she’ll be on her way soon, I bet.’ Somehow they’d have to cope with all the panicked parents who would rush here as soon as word of the accident spread – and that wouldn’t take long.
With the bus tipped on its side, children were sprawled over seats, some lying on the smashed glass of the side windows. He knew the Dungirri school statistics: two teachers, one teacher’s aide, and thirty-one kids aged five to twelve, from Dungirri and the nearby Friday Creek Aboriginal community. And he knew almost every one of them. The staff, Gemma and Keisha; Simone Callaghan, the head teacher who’d transferred from Sydney to be closer to her husband, working further north on the gas fields; and the kids … most of them children of his friends. Kids he’d watched grow from babies to children.
He scrambled inside. For a moment, the scene in front of him paralysed his brain and his breathing. Too many injured to know where to start. But he had to think clearly. They’d all need to be brought out and the back exit was the clearest. Wrapping a towel around his fist, he bashed out the rest of the glass in the window.
‘Thanks.’ Jenn came up behind him as he finished, a balancing hand against the roof of the bus. Pale, her shirt and hands already smeared with blood, she spoke quietly but urgently. ‘Beth says we need to triage. If we can get the least-injured out, that will give us some more room to deal with the more serious ones.’
‘Bad?’ he asked.
She bit her lip and nodded. ‘A few might be critical. But thank God for seatbelts.’ She waved a hand back down the bus. ‘Beth’s arm’s fractured, but her girls will be okay. If you can help her outside, she can look after the ones out there until other paramedics get here. Then we can decide who else can be moved.’
His chest tightened again. Of course Beth would be on the school excursion with her girls. She sat on the remains of a window halfway down the bus, cradling an hysterical child with her uninjured arm, her two older daughters huddled close into her, sobbing.
‘Take Alicia away from here.’ Beth signalled with a glance to where Simone, the head teacher – who was also Alicia’s mother – lay unconscious, bleeding from a head wound.
He lifted the girl from Beth’s lap, but she fought him, pounding on his chest and crying for her mother. Beth struggled to push herself to her feet, but with his arms full with the distraught child, he couldn’t assist her. He hated seeing her in pain, hated his powerlessness.
Just nine years old, Beth’s eldest, his goddaughter, looked up at him, searching for guidance. He kept his voice firm and even. ‘Tanya, your mum needs a hand up. That’s right. That’s good. Now, hold on to Emmy’s hand. Good girl.’
Alicia still struggled in his arms, and as he made his way towards the exit, Beth and her girls following behind, he tried to decide the next course of action. With her arm fractured, Beth couldn’t hold on to the girl any longer, but in her current state Alicia might just run back to the bus. There were too many hurt kids, and not enough uninjured adults to deal with them.
The sound of a car arriving lifted his hopes as he clambered out of the bus. Too soon for emergency services, probably just someone travelling between the two towns, but the more help the better at this stage.
Jeanie Menotti slammed the door of her car and ran across the road. She took one look at the bus, turned to Mark and Beth and said, ‘Tell me what you need done.’
‘Stay out here with Beth, and help with the kids. Emergency services are coming. Can you take Alicia for me?’
She sat down on a nearby log, and held out her arms. ‘Injured?’ she asked, as Mark passed the girl to her.
‘Her mother is.’
She held the girl close, one hand stroking her head, and started rocking slowly, talking to her in her low, loving tones.
Beth sat on the ground, checking over Braden and Calum, Tanya and Emma close by. Mark handed her his phone. ‘Call Ryan. Tell him you and the girls aren’t badly hurt.’
That would at least save Ryan some anxiety. Other parents wouldn’t be so fortunate. He returned to the bus, and stepped back into the nightmare to help Jenn.
Nothing in her first-aid training or her experience of reporting disasters had prepared her for the reality of being first on a scene with dozens of injured. The cramped space, the absence of even basic equipment, the heart-rending cries of children and the staggering responsibility of it all sent waves of panic that Jenn fought to quell.
Focus. One child at a time.
The seatbelts had limited the injuries from the initial impact, but the toppling bus had thrown its occupants around, and many of the kids had fallen awkwardly, tangled in their seatbelts. Fractures, head injuries, possibly internal injuries, bruises and cuts from shattered gl
ass … some would walk out of the bus, all would need medical assessment, and some she was scared for.
In that first, long half-hour before paramedics arrived, Jenn worked her way down the bus and concentrated on staunching blood flow on a couple of children and one of the teachers, and getting the lesser injured out of the cramped conditions. She wouldn’t risk moving those with potential internal or spinal injuries, or having someone trip over them.
After he carried or guided each child out, Mark returned to her side. He knew everyone’s name, talked with them in calm tones, his presence reassuring, his hands gentle. And each time he returned, the light touch of his hand on her shoulder kept her grounded and reminded her she was not coping alone.
Kris, another police car and the Dungirri SES arrived first, followed a short while later by the two ambulances from Birraga and more police. Never more relieved, Jenn left the cramped space inside the bus to the people with skills and equipment.
The road filled with emergency vehicles, flashing lights and people, some in uniform, some not. While Kris and other officers kept order in the traffic, ensuring access for the ambulances due to arrive from around the district, a few older men rigged a couple of tarpaulins from the trees, creating shade from the hot sun for the injured.
She recognised Calum, kneeling on the ground by a small boy, arms around him as he struggled and cried. Ollie, who had trouble with too much noise and movement.
She had no clue what to do, but they were her small cousins and she couldn’t do nothing.
‘Calum,’ she said, touching his arm. ‘I’m Aunty Jenn, we met the other day. Tell me what Ollie needs.’
Calum’s face crumpled. ‘He needs Mum. He needs Mum and I can’t find Dana.’
A twelve-year-old kid trying to carry a huge responsibility. But not running, as she wanted to run.
She knelt on the ground and took Ollie’s hand. His eyes were screwed shut and he rocked as he struggled. She could see no sign of major injury. But what should she say to a totally stressed child? ‘Ollie, I’m Aunty Jenn. I know this is all scary for you. I’m going to pick you up and carry you somewhere quieter, okay?’
He must have been five or six, one of the little ones, light enough still for her to carry a short distance away, and although he struggled and kicked she managed to keep his arms pressed close to her.
‘Calum, do you know Mark? He’s just over there. Go and ask him to help you find Dana.’
She kept hold of Ollie, turning his face away from the scene. She might have tried talking to him but if he didn’t like noise … she tried humming a lullaby, a song her mother had taught her, the melody gentle and soothing. Gradually he quietened, and when Mark brought over Calum and a teary Dana with a dressing on her arm, Jenn stayed with them, sitting on the dirt by the road in the shade, reassuring them while police, emergency services and frantic parents arrived in a constant buzz of movement and noise.
When Chloe arrived, Calum recognised her car and flagged her down before she reached the bus. She dropped to her knees beside her children, tears running down her cheeks, trying to hug them and inspect them for injuries all at once, pulling them back into her arms, all together, and telling them again and again how much she loved them.
No longer needed there, Jenn left the children in her care. Her cousins would be all right. Other children might not be so fortunate.
When she offered help, a paramedic asked her to squeeze into a cramped space in the bus and hold an IV bottle for one of the children. Cody, someone told her, so she held his small hand and talked to him although he was barely conscious. Cody Pappas, the name on the nearby lunchbox read.
She didn’t know how long she knelt there with Andrew and Erin’s son in the stuffy heat, thick with the odour of blood. She couldn’t cry, couldn’t fall apart, not here. They all needed her to be strong: Cody, the children, their parents, the emergency-services teams working around her – especially those still trying to release Gemma, the young teacher, from the crumpled front of the bus. She had an IV drip now, and pain meds, and was conscious and clung to Karl who stayed with her in the wreck, holding her hand, telling her she’d be on the Royal Flying Doctor Service plane to Sydney as soon as the rescue team cut apart the bus to get to her.
A paramedic tapped her on the shoulder. ‘We can take him out now. His parents are just outside.’
Her legs cramped, she stumbled out of the way, out of the bus. Someone helped her through the window, on to the ground. Andrew. She didn’t know what to say but managed a weak smile of thanks and staggered a few metres away, so Cody’s parents wouldn’t see her fall apart and think the worst. She pressed her hand against her mouth, stifling the sobs.
Arms steadied her, closed around her. Mark. She hid her face in his shoulder and gulped for even breaths.
‘The kids are all alive, Jenn,’ he said. ‘Mostly minor injuries. We’ll all get through this, okay?’
She nodded, wanting to believe him.
‘Mark?’ The voice came from a short distance away.
Steve. More formal than usual. She turned to see him, his face grey, his shirt dirty and blood spattered.
‘Mark, there’s a major-incident investigator being flown in from Sydney, due in fifteen minutes, and he’s going to want to interview you. It’s a double fatality. And it’s standard procedure that, since your vehicle was involved in the accident, you have to be breathalysed.’
Breathalyser. Investigation. Fatalities. The implications of the words made her reel. They’d want someone to blame. Both the other drivers were dead, and Mark was already under a cloud.
From the paleness of Mark’s face as he nodded wordlessly, the same thought had occurred to him.
‘The accident was not Mark’s fault, Steve,’ Jenn insisted. ‘And he hasn’t been drinking.’
Steve’s sharp glance reminded her that he was both Mark’s friend and a police officer. ‘That’s why I’ve asked Leah Haddad – a neutral person – to breathalyse you, Mark. She’ll also take you into Birraga for the formal interview and blood samples if necessary. We’ll make sure our facts are fully documented. I suggest we go find her right now. The national media has already scrambled, and we’ll have TV choppers landing any minute. The last thing we need is a photo of you blowing into the breathalyser on the front page of every newspaper tomorrow.’
SIXTEEN
The investigator’s offsider interviewed Jenn thoroughly, pinning down every small detail, every aspect of the drive between Marrayin and the accident. Inconsequential things, such as whether the radio was on, whether the windows were open, through to the more significant ones – how many times the truck hit the car, how hard it hit, when the car started to swerve off the road, how Mark had tried to avert the accident. Presumably so he could check her story against Mark’s for consistency.
Then he asked her about Mick. She hadn’t realised, in the chaos and urgency of the crash scene, who had driven the truck. Steve told her, on the drive to Birraga, after Leah had insisted that she and Mark be transported separately.
‘He was my uncle. For five years he was my guardian until I left town when I was seventeen. He was an emotionally and sometimes physically abusive alcoholic, and I did not set eyes on him again until Saturday morning, when he assaulted me. Karl Sauer and Mark witnessed that assault.’
‘Did you report this assault to the police?’
‘I discussed it with Sergeant Matthews shortly afterwards, but I decided against making a formal complaint. Now I regret that decision.’ If she’d reported the assault, perhaps Mick would have been arrested, or at least formally warned to keep away from her. Would that have been enough to stop him from waiting on the Birraga road near Mark’s place for the car half the town knew she was driving? Had he been waiting for her or for Mark?
She was nauseous and thirsty, her head ached, and although she’d washed as best she could in the police station bathroom she still had blood on her clothes and the smell of it in her nostrils. But she owed it to
the kids on the bus, to the Dungirri community, to help the police get to the truth of the accident.
‘Sergeant, my uncle was drinking and quite irrational in his anger towards me and towards Mark on Saturday morning. I believe he hated me for being alive instead of his daughter. He behaved in a similar way immediately after her death, which was one of the reasons I left and didn’t come back until now. Now, please, unless you have more questions, I’d like to see Mark, and then go to the hospital.’
Suddenly all concern, he asked, ‘Are you injured? In pain? You should have informed me.’
‘I’m okay. But I’m worried about my young cousins. And my friends’ children.’ And Mark. Especially Mark. At the crash site he’d been constantly on the go, a calm and reassuring presence everywhere, looking after injured children, connecting parents with kids, keeping track in all the confusion and activity of the names of children and which towns the ambulances were taking them to, liaising with the incident controller to avoid two kids from the same family being sent to different places. He knew all those kids and their parents. Although he didn’t show it, the stress must have been immense. And then to be interviewed at length …
‘I think Mr Strelitz may be some time,’ the sergeant said. ‘If you wait in the reception area, I’ll have someone drive you to the hospital.’
With officers still out at the accident site, the police station was almost deserted and it was Steve who found her waiting on the hard plastic chair. He collapsed into the chair beside her. ‘Mark’s still with the Inquisitor. Would you like to wait in my office or go to the hospital?’
The Inquisitor? That didn’t bode well. ‘I’ll wait. It may be chaos still at the hospital.’
‘What makes you think it’s not chaos in my office?’
It was chaos, with files and papers all over the desk, but at least there were no injured children, and the chair he emptied for her was more comfortable than the ones in the reception area.
Darkening Skies Page 25