Scrublands

by Chris Hammer

  There’s silence; soldiers before a battle. The wind is up again, stronger than ever.

  Robbie’s police truck comes barrelling out of the bush, emergency lights flaring brightly, skidding to a halt in the gravel beside the tanker. He’s out of the car in a flash. ‘Has Snouch come out?’

  Errol shakes his head. ‘Nup. Sure he’s not in town on the piss?’

  ‘No, he’s in there all right. Old cunt. Saw him drive past this morning.’ It’s Codger Harris, climbing out of Robbie’s four-wheel drive to join them, dressed in a mishmash of ill-fitting clothes.

  ‘Fuck,’ says Robbie, looking at Errol.

  ‘Fuck,’ says Errol, looking at the ground, hand kneading his brow. ‘Fuck.’

  ‘He’s got a car. Leave him.’ It’s Jason’s partner, Shazza.

  Robbie is shaking his head. ‘Nup. Can’t do it. I’ll get him.’ And he’s running back to his four-wheel drive. And running after him, not knowing why, is Martin. He gets the passenger door open, climbs in as Robbie fires the engine. ‘Martin, get out. Get out now.’

  ‘No. I’m coming.’

  ‘You’re a fucking idiot then. Hold on.’ Robbie guns the engine, swings the truck around, hurls it down the dirt road into the bush. ‘We get him, throw him in the back, and get the hell out, okay?’

  Martin grunts assent, and then the two men are silent, lost in their internal remonstrations, while the world around them grows increasingly apocalyptic, the sky closing in, the light fading, ash falling, some of it glowing orange at the edges. Robbie pushes the four-wheel drive through the bends of the dirt road, his face intent, driving as fast as he can, their safety inconsequential. They round a curve; two wallabies are standing in the road. Robbie mows them down, not braking before, not braking after, one animal thundering off the roo bar, the other crushed beneath the wheels. Martin holds on, his knuckles white; Robbie staring through the gloom, a man possessed. The sky is almost black, and the cloud of smoke is so low it’s almost down to the roof of the speeding vehicle. Day has gone, there is no light left, they’re driving through night, headlights piercing smoke as they might mist. Another bend, and they burst into a clearing. Martin takes it in: an old Holden, up on a jack, one wheel off. A farm shed. A garage. The banks of a farm dam. The house. Snouch, with a garden hose trained on the house, turning as they burst into his existence.

  Robbie and Martin are out of the car as one, Martin keeping abreast of the younger man.

  ‘In the truck now! We’re going!’ yells the policeman.

  But Snouch is shaking his head. ‘Look,’ he says, pointing up.

  Martin looks up, through the blizzard of ash: the clouds that just a moment ago were black as coal are turning blood red, brighter and brighter as he watches, as if glowing from within, bathing the yard in orange light. And he can hear something in the distance, above the wind: a roaring, like a freight train heading straight towards them.

  ‘Into the car!’ yells Robbie. ‘We’ll drive into the middle of the dam!’

  ‘No!’ shouts Snouch above the roaring. ‘The house. Brick and stone. It won’t go up straight away!’

  Robbie nods, and the men sprint for the house, the policeman first, the journalist second, the old crim not far behind. The roaring is almost upon them. Martin can hear explosions, like cracking whips or gunshots, and as he gains the verandah he can glimpse it through the scrub, the licking orange tongues of death. Last through the door is Snouch, pulling the hose after him, water pouring from its nozzle. Down a wide central corridor they go, rooms off either side, the house dark save for the glow before them.

  It’s Snouch’s house, and it’s Snouch who takes control. ‘I’ve soaked the back of the house as much as I can, shuttered the windows. But the verandah is wood, goes all the way around. It’ll catch for sure. Roof’s tin, but some embers’ll get under sooner or later. The walls are stone and brick, though, thick as buggery. Gives us a fighting chance. Here.’ And Snouch turns the hose on them, soaking them, sticking the nozzle down inside their overalls, giving them dripping towels to put under their hard hats. ‘C’mon. We’ll start at the back, fight it, retreat as we have to. Cover your mouths, stay low if there’s smoke. We’ll go back out the way we came in, but leave it late as you can, okay?’

  And the freight train smashes into the back of the house, engulfing it in orange and red mist, like a dragon devouring its prey. Snouch pushes forward, as if against a tide, hose spraying out in front of him like a shield, followed by Robbie and Martin. They’re in a kitchen, like a room in a nightmare, conjured from hell. It’s out there, thinks Martin, and it wants to come in and eat us. It’s alive: a serpent, a dragon. The sink is full of water; there are buckets of water on the floor. Snouch has prepared. The heat is unimaginable, overwhelming.

  Robbie heads into a room off the kitchen with a bucket of water. The policeman is steaming. Steaming. Martin looks down at himself. Steam is pouring off him too. How hot is it? He’s hit by water from the hose again, lets it cover him. He looks up; Snouch has turned it on himself, then on Robbie as he comes back with the empty bucket. Martin grabs a bucket, heads into a room running off the other side of the kitchen, sprays the water across the curtains, hoping like hell he doesn’t shatter the glass behind them. There are shutters on the window, protecting it, but they appear transparent, as if the fire is an X-ray, penetrating the wood as easily as the glass of the window and the cloth of the curtains. A quick look around: a tidy room, a baby’s cot, a cedar dresser, paintings on the wall in gilded frames. Then he’s back in the kitchen, holding his arms wide for the kiss of Snouch’s hose.

  There is smoke now, seeping in through the windows and doors, smoke from the scrub, smoke from the verandah. A wooden shutter bursts into flames. Snouch sprays water onto the window frames. Another shutter erupts, a cruel orange flaring. Snouch is into one side room then the other, spraying water quickly before retreating. The room is starting to fill with smoke. The men move back towards the corridor: Martin then Snouch, who soaks the kitchen side of the door, and finally Robbie, who closes it.

  Snouch hoses the corridor side of the door, then turns the hose on Robbie, sticking it down his overalls, down Martin’s, down his own, shouting above the thunderous roar. ‘It’ll go from the kitchen into the roof. We go right to the front of the house. Don’t want to be under a collapsing roof.’ He’s about to say something more, when the hose coughs once and stops. The men exchange grim looks. Martin can feel heat pumping through the closed kitchen door. ‘Fire’s got to the pump house. Front’s moving past us, fifty metres at least.’

  They withdraw down the corridor. Robbie goes ahead, running to the front door, slamming it closed on the flaccid hosepipe. Snouch moves more slowly, looks into each room off the corridor, as if saying farewell, before closing their doors tight. For the first time Martin has a moment to pause, to consider the house: its foot-thick walls, high ceilings, kauri pine floors, wraparound verandah. No bush hut, no corrugated-iron improvisation, but a nineteenth-century homestead. He glimpses a formal dining room, a large polished wooden table, a dozen seats, a huge sideboard. A crystal decanter, cut-glass tumblers, a chandelier. And a burning shutter. The door closes. Another room. A study, broad mahogany desk, covered in papers, calligraphic pens and ink pots, rulers and markers and a magnifying glass. A computer and printer on a side table. Antique maps on the walls. Snouch slams the door shut.

  They gather by the front entrance. Martin removes his glove, places his hand against the door. It’s hot, possibly burning on the other side. But it’s solid hardwood. The corridor is starting to fill with smoke.

  ‘Listen,’ commands Snouch.

  Martin tries to hear above the roaring fire, his own panting and the pounding of blood. ‘What?’

  ‘It’s not as loud. The front is passing.’

  The three men again exchange glances, still desperate but tinged with hope. Not much longer. The dragon is moving on, safety beckons. They may get through this yet. But now, as if to incinerate
hope, a huge crash comes from the back of the house. Martin realises it’s the kitchen starting to disintegrate, the ceiling coming down. Another crash and the kitchen door bursts open, like the gates of Hades. The heat hits Martin in the face like a punch through the billowing smoke.

  ‘In here!’ barks Snouch. He leads them through a side door, slamming it behind them. The room is some sort of parlour, furniture covered in sheets. ‘We can’t stay long. The roof’ll come down. The corridor will go up in no time. Floorboards are a hundred and thirty years old. We judge by the side window, the corridor. When the shutter lights, or the door, we go out this front window. Okay? The verandah on the front here is paved, but the awning may be on fire. Run as fast as you can into the drive and go face down on the dirt, away from the cars and the house and anything else that’s burning. Got it?’

  Robbie and Martin nod.

  The house is yelling now, screaming in its extremity: screeching steel, exploding timber, roaring fire, drowning out the sound of the receding dragon. Martin is soaking inside his overalls but his face feels paper-dry. He looks at the others, their faces red as if sunburnt. He watches as the shutter on the side window begins to smoke and burn, slowly, almost apologetically. Smoke is gushing in under the corridor door. Martin begins to cough uncontrollably, his throat raw.

  Snouch rips away the curtains covering their escape route. He removes his glove, touches the glass for a split second, touches it for a moment longer, places his palm firmly upon it. He turns and nods encouragement. ‘When I get the window open, the draught will draw the fire. We’ll need to be quick. Bash the shutters open. The clasp will give easily enough. Robbie first, Martin next. Ready?’

  They nod.

  Snouch is about to pull up the sash windows when he pauses. He scurries across the room, returns with a leather ottoman, places it under the window. He looks about to say something when there’s a terrible shrieking of tortured wood and metal followed by the thunderous noise of another section of roof caving in. He yanks at the window. For a moment it’s stuck. Robbie and Martin move instantly to help, but Snouch yanks again and the sash window lifts. Robbie leans through and smashes the shutters open with the heel of his hand. There is nothing to see—just a wall of roiling smoke gashed with orange. Robbie swings one leg up into the cavity, leans on Martin to get his other leg clear. He grimaces, limbos his way through the window and is gone. Martin is quick to follow, standing on the stool, stepping onto the sill, lowering himself as he shimmies forward, scraping his back as he drops, half falls, onto the verandah. Then he runs into the smoke, still coughing uncontrollably. He gets two metres, three, and then goes sprawling off the edge of the verandah, momentum carrying him through the top of a smouldering bush and onto the dirt of the drive. He pushes his face low, sucking in breath, trying to stop coughing. He gets some air, though his lungs feel as if they’re burning. He gathers himself, runs in a low squat, the world through his goggles becoming clearer. The police truck is on fire. He goes round it, gets to open ground and throws himself onto the gravel, lying flat with his face in his gloved hands. All around is noise and light and smoke; he lies unmoving, too scared to think.

  Robbie Haus-Jones is drunk, swaying on his chair at the Riversend Services and Bowling Club, slurring his words. Sitting next to him, Martin Scarsden, by contrast, feels stone-cold sober, despite having matched the younger man drink for drink. The first beers had all but evaporated, they disappeared so quickly, and after that there has been no stopping them. Not that anybody is about to try; those who cheat death are entitled to drink their fill. And besides, the rest of the fire crew are more than holding their own. Errol, as captain, has ordered them here for debriefing and Errol, as club president, has authorised free booze for the heroes of the Scrublands. Initially, the drinking had been quiet and reflective, but now it’s growing raucous as the fear of the afternoon is washed away by the ebullience of survival.

  ‘Jeez, I thought you blokes were goners for sure,’ says Moxie for the umpteenth time, shaking her head. ‘When the front hit the road and you weren’t back, I thought that was it, game over.’ She’s not really talking to anyone anymore, and no one is really listening to her anymore, but she repeats the story anyway. ‘I’ll never forget that sight, when we drove up to the house and there you were, the three of you, just sitting there, waiting. I’ll never forget it. Who says there ain’t no miracles?’

  Robbie leans across, wraps his arm around Martin’s neck, holds his beer aloft with his free hand. ‘Here’s to Martin bloody Scarsden. He’s come to save us all!’ He laughs at his toast and slurps down more beer, spilling some as he does so. Some other crew members raise their glasses, laughing as they drink. Martin reckons he’d get the same reaction if he toasted herpes; tonight, everyone is drinking, no one is judging.

  The crew is sprawled around a couple of tables, still wearing their fire-retardant overalls, with hard hats, gloves and goggles discarded here and there. There are others as well, townspeople compelled by the drama of the day. Codger Harris is sitting by himself, not one of the fire crew, not one of the townspeople, quietly sipping on a large glass of whisky. He appears to be weeping. A man gives him a reassuring pat on the back as he walks by, but doesn’t stop to talk.

  A roar goes up, and through the entry comes one of the Bellington crews. The Riversend firefighters stagger upright. Hands are shaken, backs are slapped, smiles and laughter are exchanged, the reek of wood smoke overpowering. Tables are moved together, chairs pulled up. Errol is at the bar, ordering jugs for the newcomers; Moxie has started up again: ‘Jeez, I tell you, I thought those blokes were goners for sure…’

  Martin gazes through the windows overlooking the empty river; somehow it has turned to night outside despite being late afternoon just a moment before.

  The newcomers drain schooners, relate their own battles. Martin learns that the fire was slowed by the highway, that the Riversend crew narrowed the flanks, that the Bellington crews got to Glondillys Track in time to back-burn, to stop the front there and get into the scrub to take care of most of the spotting. A second crew is mopping up, another will guard the fire during the night; he’s told it could smoulder for weeks unless there’s rain.

  Martin finds himself leaning on the bar next to Robbie, needing its support after all. ‘You reckon we should have left him out there overnight?’

  ‘Sure. Up to him. Could have come into town if he wanted. You heard him.’

  ‘Yeah. Even so. He’s lost everything.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘What’s the story with his house? Did you notice? It was quite the grand affair.’

  ‘True. I knew he had the place. Springfields, it’s called. Didn’t know it was like that. You’d have to ask a local.’

  ‘Aren’t you a local?’

  ‘Fuck no.’ Robbie laughs. ‘I’ve only been here four years. Takes at least ten. Double for coppers.’

  Martin smiles. ‘Double again for journos.’ He reaches for a jug on the bar, refills their glasses. ‘He certainly knew what he was doing, though, don’t you think? The way he took charge? Pretty together for an old derro.’

  ‘Yeah. I wonder about that sometimes.’

  The two men turn to face the bar rather than watch the revellers.

  It’s a long moment before Robbie speaks again, in a low voice. ‘Why did he do it, Martin? Why did he shoot those people? I still can’t understand it.’

  ‘Neither can I, Robbie; neither can I.’

  ‘Do you think we ever will?’

  Martin sighs. ‘Probably not.’

  They stand in silence, no longer drinking, lost in contemplation. Martin looks across at the policeman. He seems so young staring down into his beer. He is so young. Martin wishes there was something he could do, but he decides against interrupting the other man’s thoughts.

  Finally Robbie turns to Martin. He no longer looks drunk. ‘He said something, Martin.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Byron. Before I shot him.
’

  ‘You told me. Something like he’d been waiting for you.’

  ‘Not just that. There was something else.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘You can’t quote me or say it came from police sources, but it will come out at the inquest in a month or two. And there are other people in town who already know. You’re going to find out one way or another.’

  Martin waits.

  ‘Just before he lifted his gun and fired, he said, “Harley Snouch knows everything.”’

  ‘“Harley Snouch knows everything”? Knows what?’

  ‘Can’t tell you; I don’t know. He’s been questioned, I know that. Extensively. But like I said, I’m not part of the investigation.’

  ‘What do you think he meant?’

  ‘Search me. If he knows, he’s not telling me or anyone else. It keeps me awake at night wondering, but I really don’t know. No fucking idea.’ The young policeman stares at his beer, but Martin can think of nothing to say.

  A hush falls upon the room, and Martin turns to look. And there, standing just a few feet from them, regarding them, is Mandy Blonde. She is wearing a white blouse and jeans, her cleanliness accentuated by the dirty, sooty, smelly fire crews surrounding her.

  ‘Hello,’ says Martin.

  ‘Hello, Martin,’ says Mandy.

  Robbie turns at the sound of her voice.

  ‘Hello, Robbie.’ And she steps over to them, kisses Robbie full on the mouth, and then does the same to Martin. She steps back, one hand holding Martin’s hand, the other holding Robbie’s. ‘Thank you. Thank you for saving him.’

  Martin looks over her shoulder to where Codger is sitting looking at them, but not really at them. He appears to be checking out Mandy’s arse.