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.