Black Cloud

Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

The car’s tyres hissed on the slick bitumen. Wind buffeted the little convertible, whistling as it crept through every tiny gap between the canvas soft top, glass and body.

Georgie gunned the accelerator, slipping past a tractor trudging along, half on tarred road, half on gravel. Trying to calculate when she’d get to Korweinguboora. Then jumping to her good luck at being relatively close by.

Maybe the magic story wasn’t Allan Hansen’s mysterious death. Maybe she’d had a kind of premonition leading her to be on the spot for a massive breaking story, all the better because of her connections with Daylesford. But if so, there might be a conflict over whether it could wait for the forthcoming issue of Champagne Musings or Georgie needed to sell it to a daily.

Her pulse thumped through her palms on the steering wheel, while her stomach turned. Several explosions and rampant fire couldn’t be victimless. Someone had to be hurt – by property damage, if not physically. The same event that excited a journo or editor for its newsworthiness would leave people devastated. But finding and writing the truth was her job, so she brushed off the niggle.

Georgie slowed for her turnoff, then powered the Spider along the Ballan–Daylesford road.

What am I going to find when I get there?

A red Country Fire Authority tanker had beaten them to the corner of Back Settlement Road by seconds. Franklin recognised the crew-cab immediately – the primary voluntary fire brigade’s appliance for Daylesford. Out quick, it probably held only a skeleton crew. The cumbersome truck took the left turn awkwardly, then paced up. It filled the width of the rough tarmacked road and rumbled with its siren blaring and lights flashing.

When Howell pulled the wagon in behind, the tanker blocked the forward view, so Franklin stared through the side window, expecting a tell-tale mushroom of thick dark smoke but wincing when he spotted it. Large and noxious looking.

He pointed. ‘Over there.’

His offsider glanced and nodded, grim.

Neither spoke for a few moments. Bitumen turned to gravel as they wound through backroads that narrowed as they went. Sirens from the tanker and their car wailed out of sync, filling their silence.

Franklin lowered his electric window and sniffed. Even here, a couple of minutes from the farm, smoke and fumes impregnated the air.

He tilted his head and listened. He made out at least one siren well in front, possibly stationary and already at Riley’s Lane. An appliance from another nearby fire brigade was his best bet.

Speedy response – this could turn out all right. Then, ‘Reports of several injuries,’ on the police band dashed his hopes.

It occurred to Georgie that it was odd to be on this road without Daylesford being her destination. Not that Franklin was there anyway: he was posted nearly sixty kilometres away.

Her thoughts took a tangent from what lay ahead to Franklin. He had admitted to missing the crew at Daylesford more than he’d expected. And he was cynical about whether he’d ever be officially promoted to detective with the black mark from the investigation into the Savage kids’ disappearance still shadowing him. So she could see what he was doing – playing down how much he was enjoying the new challenge in case it didn’t pan out. She also got that he felt disloyal to his mates and his home town.

She turned her mind to the story she was chasing, driving by rote. Her left hand and both feet handled the gears, clutch and accelerator, while she was oblivious to the changes in landscape, from open pasture to forests of gangly gums, then a cypress pine plantation to her left as the road continued to wind and gently climb.

All the while, her thrill over the potential story alternately waxed and waned.

Howell dodged around a motley mix of utes, cars and trucks that’d arrived before them. Franklin figured some belonged to volunteer firefighters who’d come direct instead of joining the trucks at the CFA shed. Others would be neighbours pitching in. Fortunately, they’d showed nous and parked along the lane where the sides weren’t channelling water overflow, leaving room for emergency service vehicles around the burning structure.

The Murray place.

Howell steered up the driveway, then far left of the frantic scene, braking beyond the round-roofed garage. Franklin pushed his door open as the wagon was coming to a stop. He leapt out, sidestepped the swinging car door, then took stock, squinting through a haze of black smoke. Assessing dangers, the situation. Seeking signs of life.

This was worse than bad.

He coughed as fumes stung his throat, noting a silver Holden SUV parked behind a marked police truck. He recognised the ding and scrape on the truck’s rear quarter panel. It belonged to the Daylesford station. They had a sedan and a truck and occasionally an unmarked loaner, but in these weather conditions, Sam and Irvy would’ve chosen the truck for a farm job.

‘Sam? Irvy?’ Franklin’s shout was lost. Overwhelmed by the crackle and roar of flames, yells between people, and tooting horns.

Six firies dived out of the Daylesford tanker they’d followed up Back Settlement Road. Donned in yellow hard hats, fire suits and gloves, moving with well-practiced cohesion, unravelling the thick heavy hose, extracting other equipment. There was a sense of suppressed urgency. Rushing could put the lives of their crew in danger.

Franklin ducked around the Daylesford truck and an ultra-light appliance from Leonards Hill, as the fire captain from the smaller town waved to his Daylesford counterpart and loped over to strategise. The bloke always took the four-wheel drive quick-attack ute home, allowing him to travel directly in primary response to emergencies. His team would be here soon in the tanker.

After hasty words, the two firies split up, apparently working through their RECEO list. Franklin knew it backwards and carried out a similar pattern of hazard check and prioritisation as he searched for Sam and Irvy.

Rescue if possible was always the number-one priority.

Protect life and protect property came into check exposure. Risks like arcing electricity wires or combustibles, and potential for the fire to spread to other buildings and vehicles.

The focus would then move to containment and ultimately extinguishment. Down the line, they’d overhaul the scene, ensuring the fire couldn’t rekindle and making it safe for investigators.

He mentally logged what he noted as he called out, ‘Sam! Irvy!’

Long grass around the house – but it was green and wet from the recent rain. A small mercy, particularly in these squally conditions. Dry fuel and blustery wind would’ve turned their house fire into a fast-running grassfire, and possible bushfire too, with Wombat Forest edging Korweinguboora in spots.

He didn’t like the proximity of a clump of large trees. The closest structure was the garage. The nearest vehicles aside from the fire trucks were the two four-wheel drives in front of the garage and a couple in the attached carport. They’d need to keep the fire clear of these combustibles, watch for embers.

Franklin hopped over a thick hose, eyes watering as he approached the burning house. His breathing laboured as the smog of hot vapours intensified.

Where the f**k are they?

It was what – fifteen or twenty minutes since the first explosion? And already fire engulfed the Murray home. Even as he watched for a few seconds, the flames swelled. They whooshed high and hungry, chewing everything in their path and erupting through the roof.

The destruction made Franklin wonder about the order: the blast, then fire, or other way around? His stomach dropped.

Where are Bel and Alec?

The Murrays hadn’t crossed his mind until now. He froze, staring at the house.

They’re not in there with the two boys?

Georgie passed the old pub with the half-painted mural on its windowless wall. She trailed a couple of utes, all driving above the speed limit. Probably all headed to the same place, so she wouldn’t have to worry about missing the turnoff.

‘…on the situation at Korweinguboora,’ grabbed her attention.

She straightened in her bucket seat and increased the radio volume.

‘Unconfirmed reports have indicated that several people have been injured in a number of explosions and fire called in at approximately 10.00am this morning.’

The announcer sounded hyped.

‘It is believed that at least two police officers from Daylesford are among the injured.’

Georgie inhaled sharply. Her immediate thought was, Franklin. Relief, then guilt, and horror.

Franklin backtracked, found the Daylesford captain.

‘What do you know, Rohan?’

‘Very little, so far. You?’

‘Sam and Irvy are here somewhere, plus a nurse. They were due to check on the Murrays.’

The firie cast an alarmed glance at the house, then back to Franklin. He squeezed Franklin’s shoulder and hastened back to his crew. They sprang into action—one member directing the nozzle at the structure, his mate helping manoeuvre the awkward hose—and pumped water from the belly of the tanker.

Franklin was a cop, yet he’d been on the end of hoses and involved in many and varied ways around more fires than he’d wished. As the firies worked, the house continued to collapse, oxygen fed the flames, fanning them higher and hotter. His years of experience told him that containment was the best they could hope to achieve here. The building was a lost cause.

God help anyone inside.

Franklin homed in on a small cluster of people fifty metres away. ‘Sam? Irvy?’

Frantic yelling stopped him dead. Fragments of an exchange between several firies reached him.

‘Heat’s getting up to the LPG cylinders!’

‘…can’t let them go up…’

‘…roll them out the way…’

‘…can’t get close…’

‘Too late!’

‘RUN!’