For the first time Merv saw terror on Janet Skellowski’s face. Only a glimpse, before she turned and ran from her wire-entangled car, awkward, clumsy with that giant belly in front of her.
He wanted to follow her, to watch the flames lash her, grab her, melt her. Wanted to watch her scream. Needed to watch her see him too, see him laughing at her, triumphant. Wanted Janet Skellowski to know he had won, at last.
But the path she had taken would be as deadly for him as for her.
He turned back to his car. Time to get out of here. He’d have to imagine her agony.
She knew who’d done this to her all right. Every time he was feeling low he could take this memory out, gloat over it, treasure it. Maybe he might even ring Debbie one day, anonymous of course, from a public phone box. Say, ‘You remember Janet? Well, she’s dead. Burned to death. Screaming in terror. That’s what happens when you cross a bloke like me.’
Best be a long way from here tonight, he thought as he reached the car again, just in case anyone noticed the jerry cans in the boot. Not that he supposed there’d be any remnant of the diesel to find in the paddocks after this fire. He should have asked the old pyromaniac cellmate in prison about that.
No reason to hang around Gibber’s Creek, especially not in this smoke and wind. He’d drive till the air was clear. Keep going till he found a decent truck stop, the sort that would sell a bloke a good steak and chips with slices of bread thick as a man’s finger. Tomato sauce always on the table. He’d douse his steak in sauce and think of Janet Skellowski. Think of her red as the sauce as the fire turned her into meat. Maybe he’d even come back for her inquest so he could hear the details . . .
His car’s door handle was almost too hot to touch. He swore, reached for his handkerchief, opened it, thought of the jerry cans in the boot. He grabbed them and threw them as far away as possible. He was just about to slide inside when a noise stopped him.
Was that a car engine? The scream of wind, the crash of trees, the ferocious crackling of fire made it almost impossible to hear. He turned and peered through the gloom.
Nothing. Or nothing he could see in this smoke. He turned back to his car.
Pain, on the back of his head. He straightened, feeling his hair. His fingers came away blood red. Tomato-sauce red. What had . . .?
He felt the blow this time, but not the pain.
The world vanished.