Hope Farm (25 page)

All of this I took in very quickly, in the moments before Miller appeared from around the far side of the building. Into the shadowy crowd he moved, his bare torso wet with grease or sweat, and as he came he broke open a path of commotion. People stood up, backed away; Willow was knocked and went sliding from her chair to her knees, clutching her glass; another chair, empty, flew to one side like spray from a biting axe.

‘Shit,' I heard Ian murmur beside me, and I started towards Dan. But then I stopped. What was I going to say? My shame gave a wrench, and I stayed where I was.

Past the first fire drum Miller strode. He tripped as he reached the porch, and almost fell in Dan's lap — and I saw the bemused almost-smile that crossed Dan's face in the moment before Miller took hold of him, the friendly way his hand went up to Miller's shoulder. Then they were on the ground, a conjoined mess of limbs, thrashing furiously back and forth. The small crowd made way.

‘Whoa, easy,' someone called.

Another thrash, a swift slipping-through, and Dan was up, scrambling to his feet. He was hurt, though — he hobbled a few steps then stood crookedly, one knee bent, wiping at the blood that was coming from his nose, shining on his lips.

Miller, behind him, took longer to get up, but showed no sign of injury. He steadied himself, blowing, before advancing again on Dan.

‘Look out,' somebody yelled, and Dan turned — but then Miller had him, one hand at the side of his head, the other at his throat. Dan's fingers clamped over his, their arms interlocked and taut. Back went Dan and forward went Miller, their steps slow and trembling.

‘Miller,' said Dan in a gasping voice. ‘Miller, calm down.'

Miller didn't speak. His mouth was open and with each breath came a moaning sound, breaking into grunts as he pressed forward, bull-like, his head lowered. Back and back stepped Dan, until he reached one of the cars and stopped. Miller kept pushing; Dan's knees bent and he sat on the car's bonnet. Miller pushed further and Dan's upper half gave and gave until he was lying flat and Miller had him pinned against the bonnet. Dan's arms were up, hands braced against Miller's chest, but still the downward force continued, still Miller bent over him, slowly, slowly, Dan's shaking arms giving way.

‘Miller,' Dan wheezed again. ‘What are you doing?'

From where I stood, paralysed, I could see the gap closing between them, Miller's face inching closer to Dan's. I caught the wet shine of Miller's lips, his open mouth.
He's going to bite him
, I thought.
He's going to bite his face off
.

‘Help,' I heard myself croak, and I scanned the shadowy group of frozen onlookers. ‘Someone.'

‘Miller!' came Val's voice from the back of the crowd. ‘Get off him!'

Gav made a tentative step forward, hands raised like someone being arrested in a TV show. ‘Hey, hey,' he said weakly. ‘Everyone just calm down, shall we?'

Heedlessly, Miller's face went on moving towards Dan's.

‘Help him, someone!' This time my voice was loud and shrill, and Gav took another reluctant step closer.

‘Come on, now,' he said. ‘Let's just all settle down —'

He didn't get to finish his appeal though, because at my yell Ian had shot out from beside me and across the dark ground. Silent and fast he went — and before I could wonder what he was doing, heading not for Miller but for the house, and before Gav could work his way any nearer to the two figures bent over the car, Ian was up the steps, gripping the rail. Through went his body, swinging into space, skinny legs punching, feet connecting with the rim of one of the fire drums — the one further from where I was, but nearer to Miller and Dan — and the rusted cylinder was tipping, swinging over and down in a great whoosh of sparks. Like living things the burning wood leapt out, propelled by a landslide of livid coals, spilling right to Miller's heels — one long, char-striped piece landing, propped like a dog begging, against the back of his knee.

Miller roared and spun, swiping at his legs. He staggered away from the fire, which lay like a rug patterned hot white and orange, its edge curling at the timber coffee table.

‘Move the table!' someone called.

‘Get some water!'

The crowd milled and jabbered. Somebody stumbled, fell to the ground. They were like bees drowning, uselessly buzzing at the foot of the porch, caught in the twin pools of darkness either side of the spilled fire.

‘Tip beer on it!' called a voice, followed by a slow, rattling laugh.

Somewhere among the stoned dithering I caught sight of Dan, still at the car, grimacing as he tried to walk.

Miller hunched and moaned, batting at his leg. Then he straightened. He heaved a great sigh, and tipped his head back as if appealing to the stars. His fists went up and I saw them shake as he squeezed them. ‘That,' he growled, ‘was
my
baby,
mine
!' He rammed at his own temples. His burned leg twitched as if of its own accord. Like an enormous toddler distracted from a tantrum, he appeared to have completely forgotten about Dan. Heavily, he rotated his vast body and began to shamble in the opposite direction, along the row of cars. ‘Ishtar,' he grunted. He stopped and put a hand on the bonnet of his brown station wagon, like a rider greeting his horse.

A fresh jolt of fear hit me. He was going to the hut. I couldn't stop him, and how could I warn her — how could I possibly get there first? I looked again for Dan, but there was something else catching at my attention, a sound, rustling below the voices — a busy, papery sound — and from the direction of the house there came a flaring of bright light. I saw it gild Miller, dancing in the raw-looking skin at the back of his leg where his pants had been burned away. I turned.

The little carpet of burning wood and coals that Ian had spilled was still there, licking at the table, which no one had moved. But the light, and the heat I was beginning to feel now, building, rolling outwards, were coming from the house, from one of the front windows and the front door. The house was on fire.

My mind dashed back to Miller and Dan on the ground, the panicked retreat of onlookers, some jumping up onto the porch. The open windows and candle-lined sills. I pictured the candle knocked, tipping, falling inside the room, lying there unnoticed, the crawl of its flame at the base of the curtain, its steady climb and creeping growth, feeding on the perished fabric, the aged, porous timber floor and walls.

But this fire was not creeping now. This fire was big already, shockingly, frighteningly big, and growing as I watched — bank after bank of orange blooms unfurling. At first I could see the open window, with the flames coming up from inside, and the beginnings of flames only at one side of the front door; then within moments the flames were filling both spaces, tearing upwards in vigorous sheets, the window's curtain showing only as a strip to one side, exploding into liquid white and then gone. Then the frames of both window and door were not visible any more either — there were just two holes, one vaguely square and one vaguely rectangular, with the flames rushing from them, pouring out, and up.

There was a sudden, frenzied stirring in the middle of the small crowd, and then first Val's shout — ‘
Jindi!
' — followed by gibbering from Willow.

‘The kids!' someone yelled.

‘Quick!' came another voice. ‘Round the back!' There was a rush down the side of the house, leaving a few people stomping at the small fire and milling round in the glare of the big one, calling to each other.

‘Where's the phone? Someone call triple-oh!'

‘Get the hose.'

‘Buckets!'

Dan was still near the other car. He didn't seem able to walk, but I could hear him shouting directions, pointing to the tap.

I knew I should help; I knew where buckets were, in the laundry and the shed. I knew there was a hose round the back. But Miller — and Ishtar. Teetering on my toes, I hung in an agonised moment that felt like forever. The sound of the fire stretched and warped in my ears. Miller's steps thudded in slow motion; his hand reached for the door of the station wagon.

And then I saw the movement behind the windscreen, the wisp of a figure sitting there. Dawn. I saw her lean across, her pallid face staring out at Miller as he tugged uselessly at the door handle. I saw the bunch of keys dangling from her finger, then swallowed by her closing fist.

Miller pulled at the handle. Again, hard. Then he tried the back door. Slowly, disbelievingly, he circled the car, going from door to door, rattling uselessly at each.

The engine started and, with Miller howling and slapping uselessly at its exterior, the car backed — wobblingly, almost stalling — out from between those parked either side and then around in a semicircle. There was a scraping of gears and it leapt forward, almost hitting Miller, and with a triumphant blast of the horn started up the driveway, gathering speed. Just before it reached the gate, the headlights went on, and the bright beam lapped at the opening in the band of trees, the sandy surface of the road. Then, its one working tail-light bobbing, the car exited the gateway, turned, and disappeared in the direction of the main road.

Miller, out on the packed dirt, had dropped to a crouch, hands to his temples.

Dawn
. I couldn't believe it. Even as I turned and began to run towards the back of the house, calling, ‘I'll get the hose,' I had a fleeting urge to laugh, to whoop out loud.
Dawn!

Hot air rippled the stars overhead, and one of the side windows already showed flickering, the weatherboards pocking with pink, black-edged splotches. It was amazing how quickly the fire had taken hold. The kitchen was full of yelling, and people running in and out; as I tried to marshal the hose into loops neat enough to carry I caught sight of Sue trying to hold onto Willow, who was swaying like a spooked animal, bleating wordlessly.

I was almost back to the porch, half dragging the hose, when Ian appeared by my side.

‘He's walking,' he said, low and terse.

‘What?'

Someone — Gav; the light slashed across his glasses and I caught a whiff of patchouli — took the hose from me and hurried off with it.

Ian nodded towards the track that led up to the main gate. ‘Miller. He's gone off on foot. If we're quick we can go the back way and beat him there.'

Once we were at the bottom of the hill and out of earshot it was as if the fire didn't exist. But when we crossed the road and entered the bush, the moonlight turned everything to shades of ash, and it was so still it felt as if all the air had been taken, dragged away.

We plunged along the path, the creek beside us silvered and silent. Scratches stung on my bare legs, and my chest ached from the smoke.

Ian led, made the turn-off at the big wattle — but when we got to the cleared area and the hut revealed itself, a dark rectangle, no light showing anywhere, he slowed and waited for me to draw level. We paused. There were no noises other than insect ones.

‘Come on,' whispered Ian, but he didn't move.

I went first, my breath hitched up short, edging across the clearing and then around the side of the building.

The front door was open, showing dark space. I froze, motioned to Ian. Waited. No sound. I inched closer, reached the bench, which stretched — a pointing arrow — to the open door. I could feel Ian right behind me, his breath on the back of my neck.

At the doorway I put my ear to the opening. Nothing. I poked my head in, stared into the darkness until shapes began to form: the fireplace, the couch, Ishtar's bed — empty.

Slowly we stepped in.

‘Ishtar?'

No answer. It was hard to see properly — things looked different in the dark; puddles of shadow like black liquid; shapes squatting, still and sinister. I went to the bench and found the torch, clicked it on.

The bed with the sheet thrown back. Dirty plates in a pile on the table. The bag of apples, dull red in the torch's beam. Cobwebs, dust. Everything shabbier, uglier in the weak cone of light, but no more than the usual mess — and no blood, no signs of struggle or force.

Ian's whisper was barely audible. ‘Are we too late?'

I shrugged. Went to my room, shone the torch all round it. Nothing. My bed, my own dank, kicked-off sheet. The apple core on the mattress.

‘Ishtar?'

The room sang its emptiness but still I knelt and reached with the wand of light under the bed, glaring on balls of dust and more cobwebs.

‘We're too late,' whispered Ian behind me.

I looked up at him. ‘Or maybe she's already gone? Maybe she —'

He raised a hand. Someone was coming.

I got up.

It was him — the heavy tread outside, the low, sonorous voice coming into earshot, spooling out.

I switched off the torch.

Even though the main door was open already he rammed into it, sending it back against the wall with a clap. He moved so quickly into the room he hit the couch, and it went scraping over the floor. He reeled back and collected himself, standing with that loose-armed, ready posture, head swivelling.