‘Slugs are the first to emerge after a fire.’ Gramps had read this to Fran from the Encyclopaedia Britannica once, under B, if she recalled correctly. She’d asked why the town was called Ash Mountain and he’d asked for M for mountain ash, E for eucalyptus, and B for bushfire. Her arms were sore and she was bored by the time he said: ‘Nothing in here, very disappointing. I should write to the editor.’ He then showed her a picture of a slug. ‘See these little guys? They come out of the smouldering ashes, and they’re, like, “Yeah, hi, what’s up.”’
But Gramps was wrong. The first to emerge were not slugs but humans. Like Fran, who’d crawled out of the monument and made it to the ghostly hall, which had been abandoned mid-fete. The spinning wheel had stopped at Lose a Turn. The Best Knitted Cat had gone to Lena Kamiński.
It had been dark in the hall, as if it was night, except every now and again the windows became red. Outside, objects were exploding and firing at the building. Fran had realised she was standing, frozen, in the middle of the dance floor, the stalls of her community surrounding her – Lions, footballers, netballers and Invasion Day posters taking turns to be illuminated by the blasts from outdoors.
Invasion Day. Vonny had been here.
A window smashed. Fran had run to the toilets, no-one there. She ran back into the hall, and through the connecting corridor into the foyer of the convent. ‘Is anyone here?’ she yelled. ‘Sister Mary Margaret?’ 203
She ran along the thin hall to the kitchen, which was empty too. Then into the sick room, then into the office, kneeling to look under the cabinet. There was no lock on the hatch. ‘Vonny? Are you there?’ She opened it, but there was no-one, and nothing, in the wine cellar either.
Fran had found Sister Mary Margaret in the cold downstairs living room where she’d studied in fifth year. The nun had finished two casks of rosé, was wearing a hippy retro maxi dress, which she’d peed in, and was unconscious on the sofa. Fran had to carry her out, and she made it just in time.
The convent was now on fire.
She staggered her way along North Road, trying not to look at the burning outlines of the places she used to know inside and out; and trying not to look at the nun, the bony woman she was carrying. Where were the emergency services? There had to be somewhere safe, a building that was not on fire.
She tripped, perhaps a ladder, and thought better than to check what it was. She had reached the pub, and it had survived, so far. She opened the door, and deposited the nun on the slate floor.
The notice board, which had held the same printed sheet re Friday karaoke for the last few years, now had a new purpose. Verity O’Leary had a notepad in her bag, so people could write the names of their loved ones on it. She was saying a prayer and kissing each one before posting it on the board.
Pete was in his ‘firey’ gear, but it wasn’t safe to go outside yet. He was waiting for directions.
Nurse Jen had gathered a phone from each network, and 204was charging and trying each on repeat. She had put her grandson, Berty, six, in charge of the landline. He was looking at the timer on one of his gran’s borrowed phones: 58, 59, 60, beep beep beep. Time to look. The little boy picked up the handset and listened, everyone in the room staring at him. ‘Nup,’ he said, setting the timer to zero again.
There were dogs and cats everywhere. Someone was holding a kangaroo. Someone else was holding a sheep.
Outside, the defence team was hard at it. The building wasn’t safe, not even close. There were men and women on the roof, men and women on the ground all round, and no sign of help.
Not slugs, but humans, creeping out all over the place: cracking, scraping their way from the smoking ash, with an insatiable need to help.
‘Have you seen Vonny?’ Nurse Jen was checking Fran over, bandaging her hand. ‘Is Vonny here? Has anyone seen my daughter?’
‘I saw her at the fete,’ said Verity O’Leary, who was comforting the commuter kid – who was wanting a shot on the big phone.
‘What time?’
‘Everyone left about two, so two.’
‘Vonny and Dante drove to the church,’ said Sami, ‘in your dad’s car.’
‘Dante?’ No, he was supposed to be at the beach with his girlfriend.
‘We saw them around three, parked opposite the first big oak,’ said Boarder #6, who was the one holding the kangaroo.
‘When everyone was coming out,’ said Boarder #8, whose arm was around Boarder #6.
‘Of the church,’ said Boarder #7, arms crossed. 205
Fran ran out into the darkness and was stopped by the smoke. She couldn’t see the door behind her anymore. Which way to St Michael’s?
Ash was snowing all around her, and Fran was thinking, Vonny isn’t in the water tank. She stopped herself falling to the ground. She’d wished for this, after all, if only for a little while. Vonny was not boiling steaming screaming dying dead in the water tank.
It was Bri’s little girl. Rosie. Rosie had worn the cherry-red Doc Martens today.
Fran wanted to fall, she wanted to cry.
But she couldn’t, because her little girl, Vonny, could still be alive.
And her son. She should have known Dante would come back to take a look at his father, she should have known.
Which way was the church? She must have turned around too many times. She was dizzy. Nothing was the same. Everything was burning.
That way, that way to the church. She had spotted the pub again. She walked carefully, one step at a time, checking out each car as she made her way north on North Road.
Sedan: no-one in the front seats; metal safe intact in the back seat.
Hatchback: driver only, not burnt on the outside, but probably on the in; photo albums melted into the passenger seat, back window open, two dog bowls in the back.
Audi, BMW and Toyota: with only a driver in each; all three of them dead Ercolinis.
Soft-top, hatchback, ute, ute, sedan: no humans – they must have bolted – just the things they chose to save. 206
No four-wheel drive, not yet.
The line of trees to her left was ablaze, including the oak opposite the spot where her children had last been seen. The car wasn’t there. The college buildings were on fire and when she heard something crash in the distance she realised the grandstand had fallen. Behind that was the ostrich farm. Her house, the safest in the shire, was ablaze, and that’s when she knew her dad hadn’t made it. As was Dante’s shack across the road, as was every building on the Ryan farm. The water tank wasn’t in the sky anymore, it had gone too. Nothing could have survived over there.
She continued to scour vehicles on the main road: Volvo with wedding-hatted guests and their overnight bags; Ford with a couple and wrapped present in the shape of a toaster; van with tools; four-wheel drive with boat.
The presbytery was on fire, but the bluestone church seemed safe. She pushed the doors, but they wouldn’t budge. She knocked on the doors. ‘Dante? Vonny? Is anyone in there?’
She ran around the side of the church. The presbytery next door was beginning to slump, burning pieces of it rocketing towards the church and vestry. Red branches were falling from the trees, embers were flying.
Father Frank’s BMW was parked at the door to the vestry, boot open. The vestry door was ajar, and a spark had caught one of the purple gowns on the hooks in the corner. The priest was in his black-and-collar on the floor, dumping the contents of his treasure boxes into bin bags, then discarding the colourful cases in a bonfire beside the door. He’d filled two bags so far, and had at least another two to go. If he’d seen Fran, he hadn’t let on.
‘Father, have you seen Vonny?’ She was beside the bonfire, at the door. 207
‘It’s you.’ She startled him momentarily. Then he continued emptying photographs into a bin bag. ‘Don’t think so.’
‘This is what you’re doing, Father? This is what you’re saving? Have you seen Veronica, or Dante? Is anyone in the church? Why is it locked?’
He paused as he took in one of his pictures, distraught that this was happening to him. ‘It was safer for everyone to get out of here,’ he said.
So he had locked the church himself.
He grabbed the two bin bags he’d filled, barged past her and the small fire, and tossed them into the boot of his BMW. Could she not see that he was very busy?
On the way back in, flames caught his leg. The pain was making it difficult for him to empty the boxes and fill the bags, but he was determined.
She could grab him by the hair and drag him out now, and it would be a good idea because all the dress-ups in the corner had caught fire.
She could, she could drag him out, but she decided against it.
He was cry-praying while he emptied and filled, but it didn’t seem like he was talking to God.
She could persuade him with words about the Bible and heaven, and probably should now, because the bag he was filling had caught fire and so had his hair, as well as nearly all the empty treasure boxes, which were in flames and blocking the door. But she decided against it.
A branch landed close to Fran, and the presbytery collapsed behind her – something in that burning house was squealing. She decided not to look.
‘You’ve got to get out now, Father,’ she said. ‘The pub’s safe, 208come with me, we’ll go there. Look at what’s going on around you, forget about all this.’ She pointed to the photos.
Fran dodged another branch just in time. It was now blocking the door to the vestry.
‘Father?’ She held her hand. If he took it, he’d get out. He’d be safe.
He didn’t take it. He was still busy.
A photo floated before her. She didn’t mean to catch it.
Ollie, eleven, who had eczema, on the arms especially.
Ollie, her friend under the grandstand. Ollie, who tossed himself off the monument. Ollie.
The priest, now realising the severity of his situation, was trying to get out. He was looking for her help, had his hand out. She may have taken it had he not tossed a loaded bag out with his other arm.
She caught it without meaning to, and immediately tossed it back at him, which made him lose his balance and stumble back.
She grabbed one of the bags he’d put in the boot and – as he got up again – pushed it against his torso. He fell back into the pile of smouldering photographs. She threw the bag on top of him, took the second bin bag out of the boot and tossed that in too, collecting the photos that had leaked in transit without looking at them, adding them to the inferno, before kissing the one of her friend Ollie and throwing it in last.