Dead Again

Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

‘This is hopeless.’ Georgie rolled out of bed and took a shower. She stayed under the needlepoints of hot water until it turned cold.

Her head ached. Two days in a row of shitty sleep would mess with anyone. But she’d had the best nights’ sleep in eight months last week and dared to hope that insomnia was finally behind her. Last night proved that was not the case.

She took a cup of instant coffee outside and curled into the green plastic chair under the verandah, knees tucked against her chest. She drank the bitter coffee, lit a cigarette and took a long drag, feeling an answering kick of energy.

Georgie got to the end of her smoke and stared as the paper burned towards the filter. Although this summer was unusually wet and green, and they’d just had the wettest winter and spring in years, it only took a discarded ciggie, freak wind gust and some dry material to start a fire. In overkill, she crushed the butt into the sand-filled tub and checked it was out before digging it in deep.

She went inside and cranked her laptop, but her WiFi wasn’t talking. She then tried both the verandah and leaning on the Spider’s bonnet for wireless access, without luck, and left the motel to walk the streets of Bullock.

The stories she’d heard yesterday—particularly from Kelly at the info centre—made her notice much more than she had the previous day.

There was an oversupply of vacant blocks. New builds were few and far between. A handful of plots bore freshly poured concrete slabs and pristine materials sat alongside, ready for the next stage. One place had its frame up, but the timber had greyed and warped, and grass runners crept over the slab and wound up the posts. The site looked forlorn. Perhaps the owners had run out of money. Or lost the heart to rebuild.

Most shocking were the neighbouring properties with foundations, charred chimneys, buckled water tanks and scorched debris, seemingly abandoned since the fire or a cursory clean-up afterwards.

Georgie stared at one of these until she imagined how the home used to look and visualised a station wagon in front of the garage and kids with their dog in the garden on a hot summer’s day. She turned away when that picture morphed into a prematurely dark and smoky sky.

From there, it seemed safer to peer inside the few businesses, including the library.

Still an hour to kill until opening time.

At least the bakery is open.

Outside the bakery, Georgie sat slumped on the same bench as yesterday, a fresh bread roll and mug of steaming, black, unsweetened coffee her breakfast. Unlike the instant one earlier, the coffee was aromatic and perfectly made. Soon, the caffeine performed its magic mellowing thing. She tore off a chunk of warm bread and let it go sticky on her tongue, then grabbed up her mobile when it rang, smiling broadly when she saw the caller’s name.

‘Bron!’

‘Guess what, Georgie Girl?’ Her best friend laughed and raced on. ‘The Woomballano has invited me to exhibit.’

Georgie whistled. The gallery was one of Melbourne’s best and featured only notable Australian female artists. The invitation was a huge deal. ‘Congrats, that’s –’

Her friend cut in excitedly. ‘They emailed ten minutes ago, Jo’s so proud, I can’t believe it! I’ve already got these ideas; Jo thinks they’ll be good, but she’s my partner, she’s going to say that. I want your honest opinion, GG.’

From overexcited, run-on sentences, Bron dropped into an almost-whisper as she described a new series of pastels on the theme Belonging.

‘And I think I’ll add one oil,’ she mused. ‘Something completely different to the rest of the collection.’

Georgie looked around the almost-deserted town. ‘You could call it “On the outer”.’

Bron went silent, and Georgie thought she hated the idea. Then she said, ‘That’s perfect,’ and laughed. The sound mimicked the flute that Bron played beautifully and made Georgie’s muscles even more pliable than the coffee and nicotine had managed.

‘You’re a keeper, GG!’

Georgie replied dryly, ‘Phew,’ and Bron said, ‘Must fly. This collection isn’t going to paint itself!’

Then her friend was gone, and Georgie picked up her mug just as she heard, ‘What day is it, love?’

She grinned, turning to face the old couple. ‘Friday.’

‘Oh, look, Dawn. It’s that lovely girl from the other day. Er, what’s-her-name?’

‘Georgie, Mr Poole.’

‘I retired from teaching a decade ago and left Mr Poole in the classroom. Norman is fine. And Dawn.’

Georgie said hello to the old lady. Dawn turned her eyes, but she didn’t speak and kept her expression sombre.

‘Out for a walk again?’

‘Uh-huh. That’s the highlight of our days, isn’t it, darl?’ Norman glanced at his wife, who made no sign she’d heard or understood him.

Today Norman wore blue denim jeans, runners and a T-shirt with the Just do it logo. His wife’s dress matched yesterday’s, except it had blue flowers rather than pink ones, along with a yellow stain front and centre – egg for brekkie?

‘Dawn doesn’t enjoy travelling in the car anymore. And she’s stuck in this thing,’ he tapped the wheelchair backrest, ‘so I walk and she rides as we circuit the town after breakfast and lunch and before dinner every day. Rain, hail, shine or snow.’ Norman smoothed a wrinkled hand over his crown, adding, ‘Or squalls.’

The humid wind had teased the couple’s hair into bouffants, but at least they’d managed their course between showers.

‘Would you like a cuppa?’ Georgie offered.

‘Oh, no, we just finished one.’ Nonetheless, Norman manoeuvred the wheelchair around the table and sat opposite. ‘We could stop for a natter, though.’ He chuckled as if it’d be the highlight of his day, supposing he remembered it later.

Georgie’s eyebrows pinched together. Norman had struck her as a sweetie straightaway. But she was on a job, and it’d be remiss to leave him off her interview list.

As she considered her approach, he brought it to a head. ‘And what brings such a lovely lassie to our humble town?’

You old flirt.

Georgie smiled, though she cringed inwardly. Given the adverse reactions from Kelly at the info centre and the men at the pub last night, she hoped Norman still thought well of her after this.

‘I’m writing a feature story to mark the two-year anniversary of Red Victoria.’

A long uncomfortable pause followed.

‘Oh,’ Norman eventually muttered.

Dawn shifted in her wheelchair.

Another hiatus and the old man added, ‘Terrible thing. Terrible thing.’

My assignment or the fires?

Dawn’s fingers gripped the arms on her chair.

So, she understands some of what goes on.

‘Terrible thing,’ the retired teacher repeated. ‘If they catch the murdering fire-raiser, they ought to string him up on a tree and burn him to death.’

Georgie had heard it before. The court of public opinion held that arson was attempted murder or actual murder depending on fatalities. And she agreed with that. It was the eye for an eye, life for a life sentiment that stuck in her throat.

‘That’s fair,’ Norman argued. ‘He lit the fire aware it’d take human lives, arguably intending it. Why should he be spared the same fate?’

‘What if he’s mentally ill?’ she countered.

Dawn emitted a low hum. It made the bread roll in Georgie’s stomach sit heavy.

The old man rubbed his wife’s arm and shot back, ‘He’d want to be. You couldn’t be sane and live with yourself…having done that. It doesn’t mean he shouldn’t be held to pay, though.’

‘Yes, I get that.’ Georgie nodded. Mental illness didn’t excuse arson. And for the victims, their families and the public, the offenders needed to be held accountable, punished or at the very least prevented from repeating the atrocity.

Norman gulped a breath. Angst still filled his eyes. ‘He killed forty-six of our friends and neighbours.’

A horrific number out of a town of about six hundred.

‘But the human cost is more than that.’ The old man grabbed Georgie’s hands over the table. She squeezed back, to show she felt for him. ‘Don’t you see? It’s more than those who died plus the number who ended up in hospital with physical injuries.’

He dropped one hand to smack the wheel of Dawn’s chair. ‘It’s also those who’ll never be well again, here,’ he touched his chest, ‘and here,’ he rapped his temple.

Just as her heart had gone out to Kelly, sympathy and sadness for Norman and Dawn flooded through Georgie.

Norman’s expression turned from pained to incensed. ‘What’s worse is not knowing who the bastard is. Perhaps he lives here in town, is someone we see all the time.’

Georgie anticipated his next words.

‘What if he’s someone we call a friend?’

TWO WEEKS TO CHRISTMAS