10 p.m.
After dinner with Lucas and Grace, a bowl of pasta so massive that he and Lucas had teased Grace that it was ‘American-sized’, Blair had popped into the pub for a six-pack. This has been a shithouse week and he’d decided to pay a visit to Warren, buy a bit of puff off him, have a smoke to get back his equilibrium. He’s not into drugs, not the heavy gear for sure, but he and Tracy have a toke now and then to wind down, and he reckons if he’s ever deserved one it’s tonight. Warren is staying with the Charles brothers and the six-pack is an offering; he doesn’t want to turn up just to transact business.
But then Todd had been falling all over the place, ranting and raving, the rest of the pub one beer away from lynching him, and that Queensland Police copper just standing there watching with a smirk on his face. Todd is more shitfaced than usual, his legs rubbery. Blair can hardly get him out of the pub and into the car. He passes out in the vehicle and when Blair pulls up in front of the house, he contemplates leaving him there while he goes over to Warren’s, letting him sleep it off in the car. But the night is chilly, a cool breeze off the water surrounding the town, the air temperature dropping fast now that the heat of the sun has gone.
He gets Todd semiconscious enough to half walk, half drag him into the house and drops him – passed out and reeking of booze and vomit – on a bed, saying a mental apology to Stevo, who usually sleeps there, as he picks up the blanket and covers Todd with it.
With Todd snoring like a train, the house is even less pleasant than usual, so he decides he’ll walk over to the Charles place, buy the puff, then go and smoke it by the water. The Charles brothers have a house on Victoria Road, the next street over, barely a five-minute walk. The dogs in the yards that he passes bark and growl, pulling hard on their chains or throwing themselves against fences as he goes by. When he gets there, the Charles place is lit up like a Christmas tree, music blaring. Having a party with two people murdered – it’s no wonder the rest of the town doesn’t have much time for these blokes.
He opens the front door, calling out ‘G’day.’ Stewie and Dean Wilson are sitting on the sofa talking ten to the dozen of what sounds like a load of bullshit. Been snorting coke again, no doubt. Brett’s sitting in the armchair opposite looking wasted too. Empty JD and Coke cans everywhere, the room a haze of booze and smoke and stinking of blokes who haven’t taken their personal hygiene seriously for a long while. He casts his eye around for Warren, hears the flush of the toilet, sees the big man emerge from the bathroom wiping his hands on his jeans as he ambles down the hall.
‘Alright, mate,’ Blair says. ‘Didn’t realise you lot were having a party. I thought maybe I could pick up a bit of puff …’
‘Got more than puff, if you’re interested,’ says Warren.
‘Nah, mate, you’re right. Don’t touch the heavy stuff,’ he says, forcing a smile. He holds up the six-pack. ‘You want a beer?’
Warren pulls one of the beers out of its plastic necklace, Blair does the same, and, making space among the empties, plops the rest on the coffee table. They sit for a while, not saying much, Stewie and Dean’s discussion gathering steam, the pair in violent coke-fuelled agreement about government conspiracies, 5G and god knows what else. None of it makes a lot of sense.
Warren empties his beer, shakes his head as the conversation grows in volume.
‘You into this stuff?’ he asks Blair.
Blair shrugs, doesn’t want to get into an argument.
‘Nah, me neither,’ says Warren. ‘My phone is eighty per cent full of the shit they send me – can’t get no sense from either of them.’ He gets up and disappears for a minute, comes back with the weed. He sits heavily on the chair he vacated, holds on to the bag for a minute.
‘Your cop cousin ain’t gonna know nothing about this, is he?’
‘Nah.’ Blair shakes his head.
Warren meets his eyes for a moment, then hands over the gear, takes Blair’s cash. Blair has another beer for politeness’s sake. The conversation on the sofa has moved on, Wilson babbling now about how he knows for a fact that Mark found a life-changing opal, Stewie saying nothing but watching Blair with his mean eyes.
‘You know where it is, don’t ya?’ Wilson says, pointing at him. ‘You’re keepin’ it for yourself.’
Blair shakes his head, finishes the last of his stubby. ‘I’ll be off,’ he says to Warren. ‘Thanks, mate.’
The rest of them, talking again, barely notice he’s leaving.
Walker is dreaming of Blair. Watching him walking along a riverbank, the water rising and rising. He calls out to him, trying to warn him, but Blair doesn’t hear, keeps walking until the water surrounding him is lapping at his ankles. Then he turns, too late, looking at Walker, asking for help. He’s stranded on a tiny sliver of land, in the centre of a huge lake of dark water. Walker is about to dive in, swim out, bring him to safety, when he realises that it’s not water, it’s blood. A lake of blood. Dark and viscous, flowing everywhere around them. He steps back in shock, Blair still beseeching him for help, the blood rising now to his knees. Then Walker hears the crackle of a fire, smells smoke. Blair is trapped and helpless and Walker is caught between the bloody lake and a fire. The scene changes and he finds himself in a dark room. There’s a small rectangle of light from a window on his left, the space otherwise unremarkable. A cell, he thinks. He’s locked up somewhere; the Vandals, they’ve got him this time, they’ve locked him up. He sits up, heart in his mouth, suppressing a shout of fear, and full consciousness returns. He’s in the little cabin. In Kanpara. With Grace.
He sits for a moment, leaning against the wall behind the bed, letting his heart rate return to normal. The night is cold. He’s thinking he should get up, find an extra blanket for himself and Grace, when he realises that he really can smell smoke. It wasn’t a dream: there’s a fire nearby.
He’s straight out of bed, pulling on his jeans. Checks the little cabin. Ginger, roused from sleep by his presence, stretches and follows him as he looks quickly round. No fire, the red dot of the smoke alarm in the ceiling still on. It must be further afield. He cracks Grace’s door open a sliver, sees she’s fast asleep, only her dark hair visible in the shaft of light. He finds extra blankets in a wardrobe in his room and spreads one over her. It’s a cold night and not over yet. The hours before dawn are always the coldest.
He heads back to bed but his nose is still twitching, and then Ginger, standing by the door, whines. She can smell it too. Smoke, strong and acrid. He pulls on a hoodie, slides his bare feet into his boots and goes outside. Shit. Across the other side of the highway, down one of the side streets, he can see flames, bright orange in the dark night, smoke hanging heavy in the air. He starts to run. He’s at the pub, pulling out his phone, dialling the emergency number, when he sees a fire engine coming at speed from the other end of town. Volunteer fire service – every little town has one. He keeps going. Maybe he can help. Crosses the empty highway, the sound of the fire, an ominous crackle, audible now. He realises that he’s on Albert Road, Blair’s street, and looking ahead thinks: that might be Blair’s place … Ups his pace.
The fire truck passes him, then pulls up, and a couple of blokes in fire gear jump out, start to unroll a hose. He’s counting the houses, getting desperate. Fuck, it is Blair’s place. He slows, pushes past a couple of people standing on the side of the road, staring at the flames, mesmerised. Looks around the small group.
‘Blair?’ he calls, his voice hoarse from running. Blair’s not here. He’s not here. Walker turns towards the house and his breath catches, his heart falters. Smoke is pouring from the windows and orange-red flames are flickering and hissing, licking high in the front room.
‘Blair! Blair’s in there. Where’s Blair?’ he’s yelling. ‘Blair!’
He starts running, into the garden, towards the house, the heat of the flames, their burning intensity, slowing his steps. Then someone’s arms are around him, hauling him back.
‘You can’t go in there. Get back! What the fuck are you doing …’
It’s Paul from the service station in his fireman’s gear.
‘Where’s Blair? This is his place. Did he get out? Where’s Blair?’ He’s coughing, the smoke heavier now.
Paul drags him back a couple of metres almost to the fence. There’s a violent crack, a sudden surge of heat, a gasp from all those on the road. The roof has gone, fallen in. Flames shooting out of the top of the house, ash and sparks falling all around.
Two firemen are directing their hoses at the house, the water struggling to make an impact against the firestorm that’s taken hold inside. Another is spraying the garden, the light breeze blowing sparks across the grass, little fires catching all over. He can see a neighbour holding a garden hose, wetting down his own house, trying to stop the spread of the blaze.
He looks again at the house in front of him. An inferno. No one can survive that. He feels his knees weaken, falls to the ground. One of the firemen turns around, pulls up their visor, looks at him. It’s Susie from the pub, her eyes haunted.
‘Blair’s in there,’ he says, his voice no more than a whisper.