Friday, 25 December, 6.27 am
As we sleep, Smithson is surrounded by fire. The relentless heat has finally boiled over and sloshes across the landscape in a burning rage. It leaps across the thirsty bush, taking out houses and dancing gleefully around waterholes.
The fires roll on through the darkness.
A small town about two hundred kilometres north is consumed just after 5 am. Three people dead. Many more injured.
The fires breathe closer still.
My dreams are red and navy.
Blood and flames mix together and melt into blackness.
I wake to the sound of Ben banging on the rails of his cot just as a text shudders onto my phone. I glance at Scott who, already awake, looks first at me then at my phone before hauling himself out of bed. Rubbing sleep from my eyes, I quickly read the message from Jonesy: body found at Westley Reserve. 20 yrs. male. thinking suicide but he’s ex-Smithson High so we’re checking it out just wanted you to hear it from me but don’t come in. Enjoy xmas with Ben. Keep an eye on the fires.
I picture John Nicholson’s tired watery eyes. At least this didn’t happen at the school. Or at the tower.
I text back: Are you sure you don’t need me? Keep me updated.
I know Jonesy won’t reply. I can hear Scott taking Ben into the lounge. He squeals when he sees the pile of presents. I get up and swap my frayed singlet for an oversized t-shirt.
Heat lurks in the house like a white film. In the bathroom I splash some water over my face and wipe the cold wetness down my arms and legs but my skin still feels puffy, like my bones have grown larger during the night. The smell of pine is like a cake baking. I think back to the Christmas after Mum died and the one after Jacob had jumped. With Jacob it was worse: it hadn’t even been three weeks by then and the hole he had left in my world was just becoming clear. I recall Dad and me half-heartedly going through the familiar yet jarring motions of Christmas, with Aunt Megan fussing around, convinced that if I just ate a decent amount of turkey and ham, then things would be alright. I remember how even though she put carols on, all I could hear was the sound of rushing, like water crashing through a tunnel.
‘Mummy, look! Presents!’
I take Ben in my arms. ‘Merry Christmas, baby.’
‘Merry Christmas.’ Scott’s voice is gruff and he looks at the floor. ‘Do you want a coffee?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
Ben and I count his presents while we wait for Scott. He claps as I say each number. I wonder about Felix, what his Christmas morning is like. Has Maisie said something about seeing us? Does he even know she was there last night? He can probably explain pretty much anything away with work. I was just investigating a case, darling. Following up a lead. But the explanation falls flat even in my head. She would know if she saw us together: our energy crackles around us like a thunder cloud. Maybe Scott heard the buzz of our connection when he arrived at the house the other day. Saw the sparks. I think about what might happen if Maisie tells her mother, and I realise how careless we’ve been. So sloppy. He makes me so needy, so thoughtless. My giddiness has led to snatched moments, me clawing at windows of light in the darkness. The foolish assumption that the universe will protect us.
Ben’s head looms into my vision. I’ve stopped counting and he’s impatient, wanting to open his presents.
‘Here.’ Scott hands me a mug overfilled with milky coffee.
‘Thanks.’
‘See about the fires?’
I remember Jonesy’s message. ‘No.’
‘They’re pretty bad. Like the ones back in the eighties, they’re saying in the paper.’
‘Presents, presents!’ Ben looks like he might burst.
‘Was that work before?’ Scott tips his head towards my phone.
I nod. ‘Yep.’
‘Do you have to go in?’
‘No.’ I take a slurp of the coffee. ‘There’s a body, but they think it’s a suicide. Jonesy’s got it.’
Scott nods. ‘He’s a good guy.’
‘Yes.’
I watch Scott smile at Ben and want to avoid cracking the careful Christmas morning equilibrium we have created. We are alkaline levels in a pool, both trying to keep the waters safe. Neutral enough that we can bob past each other without turning toxic.
‘Okay!’ My voice is a bright fuchsia pink. ‘Presents?’
‘Presents for the lucky little boy first, I think. Right, Ben, here you go.’ Scott hands him a gift and Ben tears into it with the wanton abandon that only a child on Christmas Day can exhibit. His face is pure joy, his red cheeks flushed. My heart is tender and pulpy.
‘Mumma, look! Trains!’
I nod and smile at the little imp that is my son.
‘Here. This is for you.’ Scott looks past me as he holds out the gift.
‘Thank you.’ My voice is a shadow. ‘Here.’ I reach around to where I’ve wedged a small envelope between two bottles of wine under the tree. ‘It’s just a gift voucher.’
He waves my excuse away as he opens the envelope and gives me a curt nod.
I slide my fingers underneath the folded flaps of the blood-red wrapping paper. A small set of wind chimes is folded inside the box.
‘I remember how you liked the sound of them at the place we went to just after your birthday. I bought them ages ago.’
‘Show me, Mummy, show me!’ Ben yells into my face.
I pull out the chimes and let them touch. They make a tinkling noise that lulls Ben into a long stare. ‘Thank you,’ I say again.
The chiming swirls around the room until Scott claps his hands and jumps up, grabbing one of Ben’s new toy trains. ‘Hey, Benny boy, show me how this one goes! C’mon, come over here.’
Ben goes to Scott, still red-faced with excitement, and they begin playing a complicated game of trains. Their chatter fills the room and I think I should get up and take a photo. A proper Christmas morning photo. But I just keep watching them instead. I wonder, for a moment, if I am even real. I look down at the perfectly round silver chimes in my hand, smooth and cool, and clutch my fingers tightly around them, squeezing for as long as I can, until my skin turns white and I can’t tell whether it hurts or not.
Chapter Fifty-three