Volcano Street

by David Rain

  Lummo scouted around the house. Would the poofter ever come out? He looked into one side window, then another. Stickybeak, Mum would say. What could he see? Dust. Filth. Mum would have a fit. He tried a door at the back. Shut fast. Bugger it, he would get in somehow. There were broken windows at the front, but he didn’t fancy clambering over jagged glass. He was more likely to get caught there, too. What about upstairs? Feeling like a hero, he grabbed a pillar of the back veranda, balanced on a rickety railing and hauled himself up, then thumped down on the decking above. The long rear of the property stretched away: sheds, stables, wreck of a barn, horror-movie trees. A loose strut of the balustrade lay beside him and he picked it up. Might need a weapon.

  Crouching low, careful of creaky boards, he made his way to a glassed-in door and peered inside. No sign of anyone. Had the bastards slipped away?

  The room contained a big old-fashioned bed. Curled asleep on the bed, grey in moonlight, was a fat stripy cat. Lummo hated cats. On cracker nights, the Lum’s Den’s favourite game had been to catch one, stick a banger up its arse, and light the fuse. What about that mother cat with kittens at school? He’d fixed that one, hadn’t he? He shuddered with pleasure as he remembered the cat, its spine broken, trying to crawl back under the portable, dragging itself on its front paws, while the back ones trailed uselessly behind and the kittens bleated, mew-mew-mew. Best laugh ever. For weeks afterwards a delighted Lummo had imitated the paddling front paws and the pathetic cheeping kittens.

  He slammed his stick into a panel of glass. The cat looked up sharply. ‘Here, kitty kitty.’ Still the knives drove into Lummo’s forehead, and as he reached inside the door and turned the handle he sliced his wrist on the jagged glass. ‘Fuck.’ Blood ran from his wrist as he stumbled inside. The cat stared at him, but didn’t move.

  Lummo raised his stick.

  Skip heard the smashing glass.

  She had woken, minutes earlier, with a guilty start. All through the night she had imagined its end: Roger and his guards (as she thought of them) emerging in mournful procession; the crowd silent, strangely awed, as the Land Rover rolled away, never to return. She had vowed not to sleep; no break must come between night and morning. But eventually she had fallen into a heavy doze, head on arm, legs drawn beneath her in a dusty armchair. Someone had covered her with a blanket. When she opened her eyes again, she saw the others still asleep in the tea-coloured light: Marlo and Pavel, his arms around her shoulders, her head resting on his chest; Honza, by the piano, curled up with Baskerville; Mr Novak in a stiff-backed chair, head nuzzling his chest like a pigeon’s in its coop. Only Roger had moved. He had gone. Skip felt disoriented, as if their vigil of a few hours before had been a dream or a story she had heard. Empty glasses and plates lay all around. On a low table stood a chess set with pieces still in play.

  She got up and went to the window. Far off, through the trees, glimmered the Greyhound. All was quiet. She stretched, yawned, and passed into the hall. Moonlight spilled down the wide staircase, exposing threadbare carpet and missing banister rails. She climbed the stairs. Where was Roger? Perhaps he was looking his last on the old Dansie house. She must find him. She would hold his hand and tell him, as if she believed it, that everything would be all right; then he would hold her in his arms and she would cry and not be ashamed. In the murk of the upstairs corridor, she softly called his name.

  She heard a crack, a clatter. She stiffened. Breaking glass? Wide awake now, she turned her head this way and that. Her heart pounded hugely in her chest. She heard a cry, then a howl. Mowser? The sounds had come from a far room. Gasping, she raced towards it, to find the frenzied cat engaged in battle with a rolling, writhing Brenton Lumsden. Lummo, blood flowing from his wrists and arms and face, grabbed Mowser by the neck. The stick swung back in his hand, ready to strike.

  Skip hurled herself on the bed, knocking Lummo sideways. The stick clattered down and Mowser leaped free, hissing, tail upright like a chimney-brush, every strand of fur aquiver with fear and rage.

  ‘Bastard!’ Fury gave Skip strength. For desperate moments she grappled with Lummo. They rolled across the squeaking bed. He bit her ear, gouged her eyes. She slammed her knee into the boy’s crotch and he twisted away, lowing like a cow, and crashed off the bed’s high edge.

  Lummo gurgled like a huge, hideous baby. Skip dropped at once onto his squelching belly, dug her fingers into his hair, dragged up his head and pounded it against the floorboards. His fat rippled like an earthquake as he bucked her off. He sprang up. ‘I’ll kill you,’ he cried, but blood from a deep scratch on his forehead flowed into his eyes. When he reached up to wipe it away Skip saw her chance, charged, and pushed him in the chest. He reeled back through the door to the veranda. He slammed against the railings. Rotten wood gave way and he fell.

  Skip leaned, panting, over the balustrade. Lummo lay spreadeagled in a prickly bush below. She could hardly breathe. Somehow, in the fight, she had twisted her foot. Pain shot from her ankle. Wincing, she made her way back into the room. She sank down on the bed. The covers were smeared with blood. She sobbed and sobbed and wished she could stop.

  Lummo, meanwhile, peeled himself clumsily out of the bush and pushed himself to his feet. He took a few steps, threw up, then leaned against a column of the veranda, gulping air. Had he fought against a girl and been defeated? Never. In the darkness beneath a smashed window he made out a pile of kindling, an eight-gallon drum and a heap of rags. As soon as he saw it, his decision was made. Brenton Lumsden must not be defeated. Nothing else mattered.

  He picked up the drum and shook it; liquid sloshed inside. Efficiently he unscrewed the cap and upended the contents over the rags, the kindling, and the floorboards all around. The reek of kerosene filled his nostrils, turning his stomach again, and he swallowed back a fresh tide of vomit.

  The cigarette lighter Mr Campbell had given him was still in his pocket. Lummo lit a dripping rag and tossed it down, almost burning his toes – he sprang back, laughing – as the flames rushed up. Revenge, yes; but even as the boy saw flames wreathe around the columns of the veranda he felt a sense of pointlessness. What recompense could there be for being Brenton Lumsden? He thought of his mother combing Brylcreem through his hair, demanding that at all costs ‘my Brenton’ grow up to be a nice young man. He knew he never would. He thought of his father, who had shot through, sneering at ‘Billy Bunter’ and saying, ‘Christ, Valmai! You’ll never make a man out of that fat poof.’ That was years back, and the time since then had only proved his father right. Lummo hated himself. He would never be a man. He was a fat poof. He breathed in kero and smoke. The lighter dropped from his hand. Tears ran down his bloodied face. He wanted to curl up somewhere safe. He wanted his mother, but she didn’t come.

  Then bellowing filled the air, and Baskerville was upon him.

  As the claws ripped him, as the jaws snapped and tore, Brenton Lumsden knew he was finally getting what he deserved. Weakly he tried to cover his face with his pudgy hands. He screamed and screamed. Nobody heard. Nobody came. The flames by now were deafening. Glass shattered. Burning beams crashed down.

  * * *

  Nothing lasts in Australia. It had only been a matter of time before the tinderbox that was the old Dansie house, this flimsy imposition on an alien land, succumbed to the fury of fire. Orange-red leaped like sudden flowers; in moments, flames took hold in the shabby back rooms, licking with animal fervour at the rotted timbers, the old curtains and hangings, the stiff dark papers that still sagged in strips from too many walls. Grey treacherous fingers coiled beneath doors, then clouds pumped from every doorway crack. Nothing could stop the fire from spreading. Smoke cascaded down the shadowy hallway.

  It was Marlo who raised the alarm. Strange dreams had flickered through her sleep, dreams of water, air, earth; now she dreamed of fire and started awake, hot-faced and trembling. What was that smell? Pavel stirred, complaining, as she pulled away from him. Blearily, she stepped into the hall. She cried out. Filling her gaz
e was the cloud, a wall of advancing black-grey-white. Magma, red and rippling, gleamed from the back of the staircase.

  Marlo remembered little of what came next. First they careered through the smashed front window, as if from one life into another. Here was Honza; here was Pavel; here was the darting, miaowing cat. Roger, still in his spacesuit, arrived suddenly among them from somewhere – had he been out in the grounds, perhaps, when he saw the spreading fire? – and helped Mr Novak, who coughed and stumbled. Others were there too: Marky Bonner, rushing forward, desperate to show leadership in the crisis; Sandy Campbell and his mates from the coach, scratching their heads and saying ‘Streuth!’ and never thinking to run for a hose, a bucket. It would have done no good anyway; the house was already gone.

  Smoke rose from the gables and every upstairs window in dark, choking gouts by the time Doug Puce’s van tore to a halt at the roadside. The passenger door burst open, and charging forward came Noreen Puce. In the weird glow of firelight, she might have embodied the spirit of an ancient femininity. Her skinny husband, struggling behind her, could do nothing to hold her back. Wild-eyed, she swivelled this way and that, before she found the object of her fury.

  Sandy Campbell turned, grinning, as if this were some jape, then howled in astonishment as the enormous woman descended upon him and pummelled him with rock-like fists. ‘Bastard!’ she cried. ‘Them’s my kiddies was in that house – my kiddies, you murdering bastard!’ Someone, no doubt, should have tried to intervene. But they could only look on, astonished, as all the force of Queen Noreen’s rage erupted over the man who had been her most loyal courtier. He fell to the ground. Still she assailed him.

  Meanwhile, Marlo sank into the grass. It was cool, wet with dew. Pavel was beside her, holding her tight. All that night she had dreamed of dying. In dreams of water, she had been drowning; in dreams of air, she had dropped without a parachute, green paddocks rushing up from below; she was buried in the earth; and then she was Joan of Arc, bound to the stake as flames roasted her flesh. But Marlo knew she was not the one burning.

  ‘Skip!’ The scream leaped from her like blood from a severed artery. She sprang up again, her gaze sweeping across the lawn. Where was Skip? Once more, in agony, she cried her sister’s name. All around her, others shouted too. The cat revolved in howling circles on the lawn. Marlo, suddenly decisive, knew what she must do. She rushed back to the house. Even now there were tunnels between the flames, smoky corridors she could push her way through. She had no choice. She had to find Skip.

  Sudden strong hands grabbed her. She cried out and struggled, but it was useless. ‘Let me,’ the man was saying. ‘If anyone’s going to die in this house, it’ll be me.’ And, with no time to waste, he flung her aside. All around the lawn, screams and shouts rang out as Roger Dansie plunged back into the house.

  Marlo could only imagine what happened next: Roger, like a silver vision, charging through the smoke; Roger calling and calling, hurtling into one black, noxious room after another; Roger thundering up the stairs, two at a time, as already the carpet smouldered underfoot. On the upper floor, the air was thick with smoke. From bedroom to bedroom Roger stumbled, gasping. He called Skip’s name again, screamed it over the gathering roar. Nothing could be saved from his burning house. But the child: the child.

  From the end of the corridor came a cry.

  Afterwards, Skip could not remember when she first realised the house was on fire. With Lummo gone, she had lain on the bed in tears, face sticky with blood that she half believed was hers; then, all at once, the thick, choking clouds surrounded her and she scrambled up, taking only two steps to the door before her ankle buckled. She cried out. Pain shot up her leg, then there was no pain, only knowledge. Heat closed around her. Here was the end.

  But it was not the end. Skip had no dream of a saviour, but one came all the same: a silver spaceman, battling through the blackness and calling her name. He scooped her into his arms.

  Skip huddled against Roger’s chest as he carried her down the corridor. Thump, thump: she could hear his heart. Dimly she was aware of the clouds growing thicker, darker, hotter; down, down the stairs they went, reaching the landing just as the stained-glass window exploded around them in scorching shards; below lay the hall and the door and the lawn outside that shimmered like water beyond the front veranda. Charred wallpaper coiled down, and ancient paintings crashed to the floor. Did Roger, in this moment, think of his mother descending these stairs in glittering jewels while a child gazed up at her in dazzled wonder? Gone, all gone. It was the end of the world, but a new world lay ahead.

  As they descended, Skip could see that the flames downstairs were brighter and the smoke still thicker. Roger’s breath was stertorous and he thumped unsteadily down one stair, then another. Down, down. His heart, keeping time, echoed like a drum. ‘Not much longer,’ Skip tried to say, just as a sharp crack filled the air. Gazing up, she saw a heavy beam, brightly burning, suspended for one timeless moment against the high ceiling. Her warning cry caught in her throat, and she could only gasp as the beam smashed down, striking Roger’s back. He barely cried out, only plunged forward, his arms releasing her as he fell.

  Skip rolled helplessly down the stairs. Heat suffused her arm and she looked down, almost detachedly, to see her shirtsleeve burning. She slapped at it weakly. Flames played across the hall ceiling, which billowed as if it were a sail. Skip had landed at the foot of the stairs, looking up; behind her lay the open door, the bags – Olly Olivetti and all – still waiting beside it, naively trusting, it seemed, in the adventure that had been promised for that day. Midway up the stairs lay Roger. The beam that pinned him was vast and heavy as the mast of an old ship. Skip crawled up the staircase towards him.

  He shook his head. ‘Go!’

  She would not. She raised herself to her feet. Pain stabbed her ankle and she fell at once; she was a wounded bird, struggling to fly. So instead she pulled herself up the stairs. She had no choice. Already flames surrounded Roger; she crawled to him, tugged his hand violently as if, were her faith only strong enough, she could wrench him free. She knew she could not, but she would never leave him. He was her father and she loved him more than life.

  With all the strength left to him, Roger pushed her away. His back was twisted strangely, his legs lying useless. ‘I can’t … I can’t – go!’ he cried again.

  She gasped, ‘I can’t leave you!’

  His voice was barely audible against the roar, the cracking and crashing of the blazing house. What was he saying? Skip missed most of the words. But not their spirit. That was graven on her heart and always would be. She must go, he rasped out. She must, for him. He said they were like each other, Roger Dansie and Skip Wells. For all that was different about them, under the skin they were the same. But Skip’s life, Roger told her, would not be like his. She was free to fly. He had crashed back to the ground, but she would not. He had tried and failed, but she would not. His Skip? Never! The world lay before her. She must take it, make it her own. ‘Don’t die for me,’ she heard him say. ‘Live! Go into the world and live … for me.’

  Her tears flowed and flowed. ‘No! You can’t make me leave you – I won’t.’

  For the last time his voice rose. ‘Skip, obey your father – go!’

  ‘Roger, I can’t live without you – don’t make me!’

  ‘It wasn’t your fault. Remember that. None of this was your fault.’ For one last moment he gripped her hand. ‘Now go – go into the world and be my daughter. Quick. Now. Go –’

  ‘Daddy!’ The cry might have come from a small child, but the word was one she had never before had a chance to speak. How she loved him! He was her daddy, he had to be; because if, for each of us, there is a family of the heart – heedless of history, deeper than blood – Skip had found hers. She was Roger’s daughter, nobody else’s. But how, then, could she leave him in a burning house? And how could he not hold her, hold her to the end?

  ‘I love you, Skip.’ Firmly, he pushed her
away. Aghast, she stumbled back, in the very moment when the ceiling fell.

  When Skip emerged from the flames, half crawling, Marlo flailed forward to embrace her. And in the dazzled moments that followed, there they all were, the little band who had held out that night against a whole town of enemies: Skip and Marlo, Pavel and Honza, kindly Mr Novak. Some might have seen another figure, too: Jack, barely visible against the dark trees. Yes, they were all there: the family of the heart, minus one.

  Clutched in Skip’s arms was Olly Olivetti.

  * * *

  The fire burned and burned, consuming the old building in less than an hour. When the fire brigade arrived, far too late, the house that had once been the grandest in Crater Lakes was a ruinous, smoking shell. Townsfolk lingered, cowed but curious; P. C. Marky did his best to move them on. Smoke traced a black, ragged zigzag against the brilliant dawn.

  Chapter Twenty

  ‘Hey, Mowser.’