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‘What is it?’ she heard Max’s question.
‘There must have been someone else in the car. A girl.’
‘What?’
‘There’s a handbag on the floor. Why would he have a handbag? We’ve got to find her.’
She moved to the front of the car. A flash of bright blue in the undergrowth to her left caught her eye. She wondered how she’d missed it as she’d first skirted the tree.
It was a sandal.
And the sandal was on a foot.
Phoebe’s eyes travelled up from the foot, following the line of a jeans-clad leg.
‘Over here.’
Max was beside her.
The top half of the body was partially hidden by a straggly shrub and Phoebe stepped forward. It was a girl. She was lying on her stomach but her face was turned towards them, her head at an unnatural angle, her sightless eyes staring into the sky.
‘Her neck’s broken.’
Phoebe squatted down beside her, force of habit making her check for a pulse even though she knew it was futile. She took her fingers from the girl’s neck, reaching up to close her eyelids.
Max looked back to the tree and the destroyed car. ‘She must have been flung out on impact.’ He stretched out his hand, offering to help Phoebe up. ‘Come on, there’s nothing you can do for her now.’
Phoebe took his hand. The contact was comforting, his warmth reassuring after touching the lifeless body of the young girl at their feet. In the background Phoebe was aware of the noise of the jaws of life crunching through metal as Mitch cut open the car.
‘Are you OK?’
She nodded, an automatic response, but actually she was far from okay. Unnecessary deaths always gave her a mix of emotions. She couldn’t remember the last time any of her colleagues had asked if she, or anyone else, was affected by what they dealt with at work. Death was an inevitable part of their job but it didn’t mean they were unaffected by it. It never got any easier but no one really talked about it. She didn’t need—didn’t want—to talk or think about it either. She knew from experience she just needed to keep moving. To stay busy.
Despite the heat of the day she felt a chill as she moved away from Max’s side. Keep moving, stay busy. Max was right. There was nothing she could do for this girl but hopefully they’d be able to save the driver.
The firemen had peeled back the roof of the car along the driver’s side and were just removing the front door. Steve was still talking. ‘Just about there, mate. Hang on.’
The moment the door was gone Steve was back in place, his hand under the driver’s chin, supporting his head, feeling for the carotid pulse. The youth’s face was surprisingly undamaged. He had a cut above his eye but that had stopped bleeding and Phoebe knew why even before Steve spoke.
‘We’ve lost him.’
Now the car had been opened up they could see the massive abdominal injuries the lad had suffered. Looking at those, Phoebe was surprised he’d still been alive when they arrived.
Steve let the driver’s head go and stood, turning to speak to the policemen who’d just arrived. Max and his crew began gathering their equipment, preparing to return to the fire front. Returning to their task of saving the living.
Phoebe climbed back up the slope with them, part of her wishing she could leave too. Leave this scene of death and destruction. Leave with Max.
Instead, she dragged a Jordan frame and a sheet from the ambulance and made her way back down the slope, waving a hand in farewell to the firies.
With Steve’s help she lifted the girl onto the Jordan frame and covered her with the sheet. Two policemen helped them carry her to the ambulance where they put her on a stretcher and slid her into the van. The police would arrange to collect the car later—the driver would have to be cut out of the wreckage and their resources were already stretched because of the bushfires. Phoebe didn’t like leaving the driver behind but with the fire crew gone she didn’t have any way to get him out of the car. She had no choice.
She closed the ambulance doors and climbed into the passenger seat beside Steve. Ash was falling around them as they drove away, coating everything with a fine layer of grey, a suitable colour in the circumstances, and how many more fatalities they’d see before the fires were extinguished.
The atmosphere in the ambulance as they left the hospital was subdued. Neither of them liked delivering casualties. Steve was driving so Phoebe picked up the handset of the two-way to notify the station they were back on the road.
‘This is Hahndorf 81—we’re just leaving the Hahndorf Hospital. Where would you like us to head? Over.’
‘Hahndorf 81, please return to the station. The fire has broken containment lines and all non-essential units are being withdrawn from the area. I repeat. Please return to the station. Over.’
Phoebe glanced at Steve. ‘Fat lot of good we’ll be, sitting at the station,’ he said.
‘My thoughts exactly, but I don’t suppose we have much of a choice.’
‘No. But I’d rather be out doing something than sitting around, twiddling our thumbs,’ Steve said as he turned into the main street.
‘I guess people either get out to us or they don’t. They won’t risk more lives by sending us into a no-go zone,’ Phoebe said, as Steve parked the ambulance and she hopped out. ‘I’m just going to the control room. I want to see what the situation is for myself.’
The control room was crowded. It seemed as though many people had had the same idea. If they couldn’t be at the scene of the emergency they still wanted to feel involved. Knowing what was going on, even if it was only via a telephone and a fax machine, was preferable to feeling totally useless.
One wall was covered with a large-scale map showing an aerial view of the Hills zone, red markings indicating the area where bushfires were burning. Three separate fires were marked and if the north wind kept up, two of the three fires would be threatening their region, two too many. One fire was already within ten kilometres of Hahndorf, albeit on the other side of the Onkaparinga River.
Phoebe turned to leave the control room. There was nothing she could do there. She saw Steve beckoning to her over the heads of the crowd.
‘What’s up?’ she asked as she met him in the corridor.
‘A call’s just come through. An eighteen-month-old child with breathing difficulties. His parents are too frightened to move him because of his condition so they called for us.’
‘I didn’t hear anything over the loudspeaker.’
‘We’re not being dispatched.’
Phoebe frowned. ‘Why not?’
‘It’s too dangerous.’
‘Where’s the house?’
‘Six k’s out of town, this side of the river but in the direct line of the fire.’
‘Can we get to them?’
Steve nodded. ‘The road’s still open but—’
‘We’ve been told to stay put.’ Phoebe finished the sentence and Steve nodded. ‘What are you thinking?’ she asked, although she was pretty sure she knew the answer.
‘I’m in. Are you?’
Phoebe wasn’t the type of person who regularly broke the rules but this wasn’t a rule as such, more a recommendation. She nodded at Steve, both of them already heading to their ambulance, the decision a foregone conclusion.
Minutes later, after being berated over the radio by their team leader for disobeying orders, Phoebe pulled into a dirt driveway lined with tall dark firs. The ambulance’s suspension took a beating as they bounced over the potholes in the approach to the red brick cottage. It was a pretty house, surrounded by large lawns and well-tended garden beds that pressed hard up against its walls, but with the dark clouds of smoke rolling in over the bush, like the wolf lurking in the shadows of a story book cottage, the atmosphere was sinister.
Phoebe parked the ambulance in the curve of the driveway. A blast of hot wind caught her in the face as she opened her door. Tiny particles of dust and pollen blew into her eyes, forcing their way behind her sunglasses. She narrowed her eyes as she and Steve grabbed their gear and headed for the porch, the crunch of gravel underfoot barely audible over the roar of the wind. The light was eerie, glowing with the colours of fire, bright in contrast to the backdrop of a dark and ominous sky.
The front door opened and a man stepped out to meet them, shaking their hands in a distracted fashion, looking not at them but at the smoke looming over the bush.
‘Malcolm Watts, Benji’s dad. He’s through here,’ he said, beckoning them in and casting a last look in the direction of the fire. It was still out of sight but they all knew it was just over the hill. ‘The wind’s all over the place, I don’t like the look of it.’
Phoebe had to agree and when the front door slammed shut behind them, closed by the force of the wind, she shuddered at the finality of the sound. Malcolm led the way into a sitting room where a toddler was lying wan and pale on the couch, his blonde head on his mother’s lap. The child’s skin was almost translucent in the way of infants and young children and his mother was stroking the damp yellow curls back from his forehead. Her focus was entirely on her son. She was oblivious to their arrival.
And it was too much like Joe. This could have been her. That had been her, her cheek resting on the velvet roundness of another’s little cheek, running fingers through sweet-smelling, soft curls, heart swelling with the impossible sweetness of such a love.
Come snuggle Mumma, Joe. How much do I love you?
Mostly it was OK. Mostly the past didn’t rush at her like this, making her breath catch in her throat, her lungs constrict with sudden remembrance. But sometimes…
‘Phoebe?’
Steve was already at Benji’s side, calling to her, casting a glance to hurry her along.
It wasn’t Joe and it wasn’t her. She’d had that life, a long time ago. She had a new one now, she was another person to the one she’d been. There was no turning back the clock. Sometimes her memory didn’t obey the rules, but she had to. And she always did.
She didn’t miss a beat, heading straight over to introduce herself to Benji’s mum, Marg, noting at the same time how the little boy’s eyes were ringed with dark circles, each exhalation a struggle with a tight wheeze. Steve was already setting up the oxygen cylinder, slipping the mask into place, adjusting the straps until he had the fit right over Benji’s nose and mouth. As he moved on to the physical exam, speaking softly to the child, Phoebe questioned Malcolm and Marg about Benji’s health history. Benji appeared unfazed by Steve, a stranger, rolling up his top and pressing a stethoscope against his chest. It was a further sign he was a very sick little boy.
‘Definite obstruction of the airway, difficulty exhaling.’ Steve announced his findings as he continued the examination.
‘You say he’s been sick these last few days? Wheezing getting worse?’ Phoebe asked.
Malcolm nodded and Marg said, ‘We didn’t take him to the doctor because last month he had the same thing and they said they couldn’t do anything—it was just a cold and a slight upper respiratory infection, nothing major. But then this morning he started to wheeze a lot. It’s been getting worse. He was crying and now he’s settled, but he still can’t breathe.’
No point now in explaining he’d not settled but become exhausted. His condition had deteriorated, not improved. ‘The wheezing hasn’t happened at all before? Your doctor hasn’t mentioned asthma?’
‘No, nothing like that. We thought he had a cold and we’d stick it out here. We’ve done it before and it’s always been fine. But we didn’t have a child then.’
‘We should have left. The smoke’s made him worse.’ Marg’s voice cracked with barely restrained feeling as she spoke. ‘What’s wrong with him? Is it asthma? Is it the smoke?’
‘The hospital will have to give you the answers, but it’s likely he has undiagnosed asthma. The smoke or the harsh wind whipping up the pollens and dust are all likely triggers. Wheezing in small children is more likely to be from a cold induced by a virus rather than asthma per se, but Benji’s symptoms suggest it’s much more than a simple cold.’
Steve was continuing to monitor Benji on the oxygen. ‘He’s not responding as quickly as I’d hoped.’ Phoebe looked at Benji, whose lips were now faintly tinged with blue.
‘Nebuliser?’
Steve nodded and Phoebe extracted the nebuliser equipment, setting it up with well-practised hands, running the Ventolin with the oxygen. The ventolin rose, smoke-like, up through the mask and Benji inhaled it, submissive throughout.
‘We’ll need to take him to hospital.’
‘Aren’t we meant to stay put?’ Marg asked. ‘That’s why we called the ambulance and didn’t leave before.’
‘Yes, theoretically, and for the same reason we weren’t meant to come out in the first place, but the best place for Benji is the hospital. One of you can ride with us or you can both follow. That is, if you’re coming.’
‘Of course we’re coming,’ said Malcolm, adding, ‘Do you want to grab some things, Marg?’ He touched her on the arm, the gesture of intimacy and affection jabbing Phoebe in the heart, although she covered it by packing up their equipment. She’d had that, too, that closeness with someone, that sense of being on each other’s side.
Or had she? Had it really been like that with Adam before it had all fallen apart?
Malcolm called after his wife, breaking into her thoughts, ‘Bring the fire-box, too, just in case, honey.’ Marg’s eyes widened at that. It seemed that in her anxiety over Benji she’d forgotten for a brief moment about another danger lurking on the horizon.
As Marg collected her thoughts and left the room a new sound intruded.
‘Sirens.’ Steve and Phoebe spoke in unison.
‘It’s the CFS siren. The fire must be getting closer,’ Malcolm told them. Phoebe shot a look at Steve, wondering if they’d been foolish coming here. But it was too late to worry about that now. They needed a new plan.
‘Where’s your phone, Malcolm?’ Phoebe asked him. ‘I’ll just let the hospital know we’re coming in.’
‘The phone lines are down. We just managed to call 000 before they went and we don’t have mobile reception here.’
‘I’ll use the ambulance two-way, then,’ Phoebe said, leaving in what she hoped was an efficient manner, trying to quell the mild panic fluttering about in her belly. ‘Back in a moment.’
As she stepped from the house, the first thing she was aware of, after the screaming of the siren, was the hot wind blasting her left side. It had swung around.
Windy days had always unsettled her and coming out into this gale was extremely unnerving. The wind had increased in intensity and buffeted her as she struggled across the driveway. Trees were being bent double by the force of the wind and she made herself keep walking, leaning into the wind, fighting her instinct to return to the safety of the house. She had to find out what the situation was—they couldn’t afford to be trapped on the road.
The howling of the wind was battling with the shrieking of the siren, the cacophony of noise clashing in Phoebe’s head and making her want to scream in frustration.
She made it to the ambulance, tugging open the door and clambering into the front seat. She picked up the radio but the external noises were so intrusive she knew she wouldn’t be able to make herself heard. She put her sunglasses on top of her head and massaged her temples. A flash of light in the rear-view mirror caught her attention. A fire engine was coming up the driveway behind her.
It came to a stop two metres from where she sat.
Four fire officers climbed out and Phoebe knew them all but had eyes for only one.
Max was back.
Which, judging by the immediate pitch in her belly as she took in the broad bulk of him, was a good thing.
Except the three other officers had swung immediately into action, and there was a major fire raging somewhere nearby. So, not so good?
She climbed out of the ambulance and waited as Max issued directions to his men before coming to her, his strides making short work of the distance, his gait giving no indication of the heaviness of the protective clothing all the firemen wore. He wore his helmet but had his visor up and over one shoulder he’d slung an oxygen cylinder. He looked like a man in control.
‘Max! What’s going on?’ Over Max’s shoulder Phoebe could see his crew working in an efficient but hurried manner. Two were unrolling hoses while the third was taking more oxygen cylinders from the truck.
Max answered her question with one of his own. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘There’s a little boy inside, suffering a serious asthma attack. We’re just about to take him out to the hospital.’
‘Not right now you’re not. You need to get back inside.’ Phoebe felt Max’s hand in the small of her back as he tried to guide her in the direction of the house.
‘I need to get Benji to hospital.’
‘Phoebe, I don’t have time to argue. You need to listen to me.’
