The Darkest Hour (9 page)

‘Bad things can happen.’

Don’t listen to this – hang up, hang up!
But she couldn’t move. ‘Imagine coming home after nightshift; first you smell the smoke, then you see the fire engines, then the police turn as you approach, their faces sombre, and you know without being told that–’

Lauren pressed the ‘end’ button on the handset. Kristi was on her knees by the tub, soaping Felise’s narrow back. Lauren pushed the back off the phone and yanked out the battery.

‘What are they ringing you for?’ Kristi slapped the washer into the water. ‘Your time off is just that. They should leave you alone.’

‘Ow,’ Felise said. ‘You’re pulling my hair.’

‘Sorry, honey.’ With one wet hand Kristi looped Felise’s straggling blonde hair up onto her head, and with the other she pressed the washer onto the back of her neck. ‘There. How’s that?’

Felise giggled. Lauren squeezed her hands and the dead phone between her knees.

Thomas knows
.

Lauren got dressed in a daze.

Thomas knows!

But how could he know?

She buttoned her uniform shirt, then glanced in the mirror as she attached her epaulettes. She looked haunted. She
felt
haunted.

How the hell could he know?

She sat on her bed, hands clenching the mattress, and tried to work out what to do. It was Kristi’s deepest fear that Thomas would one day turn up and want to be part of Felise’s life, so the mere mention that he was in the country would send her into a frenzy. To then say that he’d been in touch, that he’d made threats, was unimaginable. But to leave her here, innocent, unknowing – was that inviting disaster?

She checked the clock. It was after five, and she’d have to leave soon to get to work by six. She had to go, there was no way around that. She needed to talk to Joe. She’d spill her guts about everything – well, maybe not everything, maybe she’d keep Blake to herself. But just being able to talk the rest over with him would make it clearer in her head. Joe had a wondrous knack of listening and helping you talk things through that showed you the way.

Kristi and Felise would be okay. Thomas had given her twenty-four hours, after all. He wouldn’t do anything to them tonight, would he?

She shivered, suddenly sick.

Why on earth would you believe him?

Sal Rios couldn’t believe what he’d just heard.

Thomas leaned back in the passenger seat as if they were out for a Sunday drive, as if he hadn’t just threatened to burn down a house with his daughter in it.

‘Here,’ Thomas said.

Sal glanced in the rear-view mirror, trying to see against the glare of the late afternoon sun. ‘There’re still cars coming.’

‘There’ll always be cars coming. Just pull over.’

‘It’s too shallow.’ On the other side of the road the waters of Botany Bay glittered beyond a narrow strip of beach. ‘Some kid’ll find it, hand it in.’

‘Drive to a cliff then.’

‘Nice evening like this, people are out walking. We’ll be seen.’ And what could be more obvious, raise more suspicion, than a man throwing a mobile phone off a cliff into the sea?

‘Fuck ’em,’ Thomas said.

That had been his attitude all along – towards the couple who’d stopped their kissing to watch him climb the path from the water near Vaucluse and dump his scuba gear in the boot before getting in the car; towards the people he’d made scatter with his stare when they went to empty the flat; and just now on the phone towards Kristi’s sister. Sal felt sick. He couldn’t understand how Thomas could do it, and how he wasn’t seeing the risk all these things were creating.

But he knew he couldn’t really claim to be surprised after what happened with Blake. He’d only wanted to teach Blake a lesson, secure in the knowledge that he wouldn’t tell the cops because his reason for going into the alley would count as a breach of his probation. But Thomas had gone nuts, and then those other two had walked in, busy with each other, and though he doubted they’d ever tell the cops what they’d seen, their fleeing had brought the paramedic. Kristi’s sister. What kind of bad luck was that?

‘Here,’ Thomas said again.

‘Let me take care of it,’ Sal said. ‘Please. I’ll pull it to bits then smash them and scatter them in dumpsters.’

‘You don’t trust me, huh?’

‘No, no, it’s not that.’ Sal hated his new nervousness. He tensed his lats against the seat. ‘You’ve got enough to do, that’s all.’

Thomas shrugged and tossed the phone into Sal’s lap. ‘Better do it properly.’

You’re one to talk
.

When Sal heard that Kennedy had lived long enough to tell the paramedic that Thomas had stabbed him, he knew his fears about everything collapsing around him were coming true. The only way to be safe was for Thomas to get out of the country. But would he do that? No.

Sal seriously doubted that the cops would pay attention to the paramedic, even if she did exactly what Thomas said.
This could go on forever
.

His blood chilled at the sound of a siren. It’d be just his luck to get pulled over now, only a couple of minutes away from the factory, with everything there in the boot. But a fire engine rushed past, going the other way, and Sal turned into the industrial area with no drama.

Most of the businesses were closed. He drove slowly, looking for the sign.
Preston’s Plastics
. There it was, opposite a panelbeater’s, along from a welder’s. The door was open. Sal eased the car up onto the concrete forecourt.

‘What’s this guy’s name again?’ Thomas said.

‘Colin Preston. His sons Gary and Grant work here too.’

Sal looked around but couldn’t see anyone watching. Preston was a friend of his late Uncle Paulo, and Sal had never met him. This had been arranged by Julio.
Julio wouldn’t let me walk into a trap
. But Julio was dying, and who knew what connections might be loose in his head?

An older man appeared in the doorway, startling him. Preston, he guessed.

‘I’ll pull up the roller door so you can bring the car in,’ Preston said.

Sal nodded. Good idea. Even if nobody was watching, it couldn’t be a good idea to lug the components of a drug lab out of the boot and into the factory one by one.

On the train Lauren sat at the end of the carriage, next to the guard’s compartment, hugging herself in the plain jacket she wore over her uniform. A man in a grey suit shook out a newspaper in the seat opposite her, and trains going the other way rushed past the window behind him, but all she saw was Kennedy’s pale face.

Thomas had done it. He’d killed Kennedy.

Thomas had killed Kennedy because he was free to do so, because she hadn’t turned him in for Blake. And now Thomas had threatened her, had told her to tell Ella and the other detective that she’d been wrong. It was an impossible task for so many reasons. For one, she’d written Kennedy’s words down, she’d made a statement and agreed that it was correct and signed her name to the thing. For another, Joe had heard Kennedy cry out Thomas’s name too, and then given his own statement about the fact. To try to put the detectives off now would simply stick her in the situation of having them wonder just what was going on and look at her more closely.

But what choice did she have? She felt sick at what Thomas had said. His own ex, his own child! She thought of the old house, the light from the bare bulb shining off Felise’s hair as she told stories to a circle of dolls and bears in the attic. Above the roofline the sky would be turning dark. The pigeons would be roosting in the top of the blocked-off chimney, and Kristi would be dancing in the kitchen to the radio, hits of the eighties, up to her elbows in mashed potato. The ground floor would be quiet and dim. The windows weren’t barred. Lauren shivered. It would be easy to get in. Easy as pie.

And how did he know? How could he possibly know that Kennedy had told her his name, and that she’d told the police? Nobody knew about that except her and Joe and the police themselves. Which meant . . . what? He knew people inside the police?

Maybe he hadn’t been bullshitting about his contacts in the alley that night with Blake.

E
lla lay back with a sigh. She’d thrown one of her mother’s frozen, single-serve, somebody-has-to-feed-poor-Ella vegetable lasagne dinners into the microwave to defrost while she’d showered, switched it to cook while she’d made her bed with clean sheets (was there anything as lovely as a fresh bed when you were exhausted?), then shovelled the meal down while sitting propped up against the pillow.

Now she pulled the covers up to her chin, the fumes from the Dencorub she’d put on her shoulder filling the air. The sun’s last glow still lit the sky. She watched the shadows of next door’s palms move on the ceiling through half-closed eyes. The ache was easing in her back and legs. It was so wonderful to lie down . . .

She was drifting off when the phone rang.

She couldn’t not answer it: what if there’d been a break-through?

‘Hello?’

‘Ella, carina, how are you?’

‘Hi, Dad.’ She took the phone back to bed. ‘Is everything okay?’

‘I just spoke to your mother,’ he said. ‘She said she hadn’t seen you, but she thought you were going to visit.’

‘I said it depended on work.’

‘She’s worried,’ Franco said. ‘Do you think you can ring her?’

‘I’ve been up all night and all day.’

‘Five minutes, that’s all she wants.’

It wouldn’t be five minutes if her mother got going. ‘Okay.’

‘Thank you. Ciao, bella.’

She had to get out of bed again to find the phone book and look up the hospital switch number. They put her through to her mother’s room.

‘Hi, Mum.’

‘Ella! Are you okay?’

‘Actually I’m exhausted,’ she said, the phone between the pillow and her ear. ‘I’ve been up since yesterday morning.’

‘They shouldn’t work you so hard.’

‘It was my choice to stay, it’s a big case,’ Ella said, her eyes closed. ‘How’s your infection?’

‘Fine, good, all gone.’

Sure
.

‘Did you ask about holidays?’

‘I can’t, Mum, with this case.’

‘They don’t need everybody on it, do they?’

Ella yawned hugely. She could feel sleep creeping up on her again. ‘I’m really sorry but I have to go.’

‘Well, if you have to.’

‘I’m sorry, Mum. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.’

She dropped the phone onto the floor and snuggled deeper under the covers.
At last, a big case, I have my big ca
. . .

Joe had the truck running when Lauren rushed up minutes before six. She jumped in and slammed the door and Joe accelerated out of the station.

‘We’re backing up day shift at a burns case in Darlo. Everyone else is tied up.’ He roared down George Street. ‘Night’s going to be shit if the start’s any indication.’

Lauren tried to clear her mind. She wouldn’t be able to talk to Joe until the job was over. ‘Is it a bad one?’

Joe nodded. ‘Attempted suicide.’ He braked hard as a pedestrian ran across the street in front of them. ‘Guy tipped petrol on himself and lit it. He’s in an eighth-floor penthouse and the lift’s fucked.’

Lauren took in a deep breath. The case would take an hour, at least. Then they might have to come back to the station and shower and change. Bad burns left crews smelling like cooked meat, and not in a good way.

So we won’t get to talk for a while. Put it to the back of your mind, try not to stew
.

As if that was even remotely possible.

‘Got gloves?’ she said.

Joe nodded.

Lauren got a pair for herself and yanked them on as Joe turned into the street. It was clogged with traffic, cars squeezing past a fire truck and police cars and an ambulance. Joe pulled up behind them.

Lauren grabbed the radio. ‘Thirty-four’s on location.’

‘Thanks, Thirty-four,’ Control replied.

The radio crackled. ‘Thirty-eight to Control, permission to speak direct with Thirty-four?’

‘Thirty-eight, go ahead.’

‘Thirty-eight to Thirty-four, set up the stretcher in the foyer, then bring up the carry sheet, clean sheets and a blanket, thanks.’

‘Thirty-four copy,’ Lauren said.

‘Jacob sounds happy,’ Joe said.

‘His first big burns.’

Lauren took the rolled bundle of plastic carry sheet and linen that Joe handed out of the truck. He jumped down and pulled the stretcher out, and people watched from the footpaths as he manoeuvred it up the kerb and into the building’s foyer. A middle-aged man in ironed jeans and a white buttoned-up shirt dropped his mail on the floor and grabbed at the end, trying to help.

‘You’re right, mate,’ Joe said. ‘Where are the stairs we’ll be coming down?’

‘There.’ The man pointed across the tiled floor at a heavy grey door. Joe lowered the stretcher to half-height and positioned it so they could come down the stairs and out of the doorway with the patient feet-first on the carry sheet, and put him straight onto the mattress.

‘Mate, have you got a minute?’ Joe said to the man. ‘There’s an important job I need you to do. Stay here and guard this, and don’t let anybody move it in any way, okay?’

The man nodded seriously.

‘Thanks, buddy,’ Joe said, following Lauren to the grey door. ‘Appreciate it.’

The stairwell echoed with their footsteps. The air was cool and smelled of paint and concrete. They were both puffing by the time they reached the eighth floor. Lauren heaved the door open to inhale a lungful of burnt meat stink. She pulled a face at Joe.

The door to the penthouse was propped open by a chair. Inside, the lounge room had once been white and gold. Smoke now stained the ceiling and walls, the carpet was charred, and the twin white leather lounges were half-burnt. Everything was soaked through from the sprinkler system. In the middle of the floor paramedics Jacob Milne and Renee Webb and two fire-fighters struggled to control a thrashing charred man.

‘Et me ii!’ he screamed.

‘Mate, just relax, would ya?’ Jacob said. ‘Let me give you a bit of morphine and you’ll feel much better.’

‘Jut et me ii!’

Lauren caught hold of the man’s flailing right arm. The heat that remained in his flesh from the fire came straight through her gloves. It was like holding something fresh out of the oven but alive. She could feel the pressure in the swollen tissues. His skin was charred, white in places, and he was naked except for a singed leather belt and a leather shoe on his left foot. All his clothes and hair had been burnt off. His eyelids were gone, the outer edges of his ears burnt away, his lips shrunken and blackened. He stank of burnt meat and petrol.

His right foot was bare and undamaged, the shoe and sock remnant tossed aside. A tourniquet was still clipped around his ankle and an open cannula packet lay nearby.

‘I almost had the line and he just started fighting,’ Jacob panted.

‘Ripped the oxygen mask off too,’ Renee said.

‘Let’s get the line first,’ Lauren said. ‘He might settle down with some morph on board.’

Joe changed position to help hold the man’s leg still while Jacob tightened the tourniquet and palpated a vein on the top of his foot.

‘Do we know his name?’ Lauren said.

Renee shook her head. ‘He wouldn’t say.’

‘I’m in,’ Jacob said. ‘Going for five of morph.’

In less than a minute Lauren felt the man relax. Burns that went so deep that the skin was charred black or white killed nerves, so he was only feeling pain from the shallower burns in the areas around his ankles, and probably in his airway too, she thought. But the trauma of the event, plus whatever mental state he’d been in to do this in the first place, would be causing him deep distress. Morphine helped with that too.

She leaned over him. ‘What’s your name?’

He turned his head to look at her. It was eerie, seeing his eyes between their burnt-off lids. ‘Anfony.’ The damage to his mouth and lips made his words indistinct.

She smiled at him. ‘We’re going to help you feel better, okay, Anthony?’

‘Wi ii iii?’

‘I’m sorry, say that again?’

‘Wi. I. Tie?’

‘Will you die?’

He nodded.

Lauren didn’t know what to say, where to look. Nobody survived burns like this for more than a few hours.

‘At okay,’ he said. ‘Ont oo ii.’

Lauren squeezed the side of his foot, the only place where he would feel her touch. ‘I’m Lauren, this is Jacob and Renee and Joe. We’re going to do a couple of things then take you to hospital.’ She reached for the oxygen mask hissing on the carpet. ‘I need to put this on your face, okay? Just tilt your head forward, that’s the way.’ She slipped the elastic down over his burnt scalp and fitted the mask gently to his face. ‘There we go.’

Renee unfolded the carry sheet then took the linen into the bathroom to wet it thoroughly with clean water. Joe set up a bag of Hartmann’s to run into Anthony’s right foot, and Jacob cannulated his left foot for further fluid.

Lauren said, ‘Anthony, how old are you?’

‘Orty un.’

‘Forty-one?’

‘Ess.’

‘You tried to kill yourself, is that right?’

‘Ess,’ he said. ‘Etrol.’

‘With petrol, yes, I can smell it. Can you tell me why you did it?’

He let out a high-pitched keening. ‘I ite.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘I. Ife.’

‘Your wife?’

He nodded. ‘Ee ied. Anter.’

‘Cancer?’ Lauren said.

He nodded again.

‘She died of cancer.’

He made the same high-pitched sound. He was crying, she realised. He had no tear ducts, his airways were damaged, and this was how his crying sounded. He reached towards her with one burnt claw of a hand and she took it gently. Maybe his skin couldn’t feel the contact, but he needed it anyway.

‘I ife.’

The doctor at St Vincent’s knew him. ‘He was in last week with a tablet overdose,’ she said to Lauren outside the resus room. ‘We pumped his stomach and made him an appointment next week with a social worker, the earliest one we could get. His wife died in here three months ago of an inoperable cerebral tumour. Lovely young woman, only diagnosed four months before that. I was on duty when she came in with severe headaches.’ She shook her head. ‘CT scan, here’s your death sentence.’

Lauren nodded. She didn’t need to ask what would happen to him now; she knew he’d be stabilised, given more fluid and morphine, and his family notified. Then he’d be put in a single room somewhere, his morphine kept up so he was comfortable, and let die.

‘So sad,’ the doctor said. Her beeper went. ‘Excuse me.’

Lauren headed for the bathroom, locked herself inside a cubicle, and sat on the closed toilet with her elbows on her knees and her face in her hands. She stank, and every breath she took reminded her of Thomas’s threat.

First you smell the smoke, then you see the fire engines, then the police turn as you approach, their faces sombre, and you know without being told . . .

She’d already lost one sibling.

She would do exactly what Thomas said.

It was a long night, made longer by the effort it took to keep the secret from Joe. Lauren felt it as a pressure building up in her chest, wanting to force its way from her mouth. But she only had to inhale to remember the price Thomas had threatened – even after long showers, hair-washing and a clean uniform, she could still smell the burnt man on her, and on Joe. Patients commented on it, asked about it, and Lauren lied, saying they’d been to a factory fire and it was the plastics that smelled strange, because you couldn’t say they were inhaling microscopic particles of charred human flesh.

At 8am Joe drove her home. ‘Got big plans for the day?’ he said.

‘Not much,’ she lied. ‘You?’

‘Sleep this morning, of course. Then this afternoon me and Claire’ll probably do something.’

She nodded. ‘Still doing that overtime day tomorrow?’

‘Try and keep me away.’ He rubbed his fingers together. ‘You are too, right?’