Blaze
Authors: Di Morrissey
Di Morrissey is one of Australia's bestselling writers. She began writing as a young woman, training and working as a journalist for Australian Consolidated Press in Sydney and Northcliffe Newspapers in London. She worked in television in Australia and Hawaii and in the USA as a presenter, reporter, producer and actress. After her marriage to a US diplomat, Peter Morrissey, they were posted to Singapore, Thailand, South America and Washington, DC. During this time she worked as a freelance journalist, TV and film scriptwriter and radio broadcaster, appeared in theatre productions and had several short stories published. Returning to Australia, Di continued to work in television before publishing her first novel in 1991.
Di has a daughter, Gabrielle Hansen, who is expecting Di's first grandchild, and Di's son, Nick Morrissey, is a Buddhist scholar and lecturer.
Di and her partner, Boris Janjic, divide their time between Byron Bay and the Manning Valley in New South Wales when not travelling to research her novels, which are all inspired by a particular landscape.
Also by Di Morrissey
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Heart of the Dreaming
The Last Rose of Summer
Follow the Morning Star
The Last Mile Home
Tears of the Moon
When the Singing Stops
The Songmaster
Scatter the Stars
Blaze
The Bay
Kimberley Sun
Barra Creek
The Reef
The Valley
Monsoon
The Islands
First published 2000 in Macmillan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited
First published 2001 in Pan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited
This Pan edition published 2008 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited
1 Market Street, Sydney
Copyright © Di Morrissey 2000
The moral right of the author has been asserted
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any informational storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.
National Library of Australia
cataloguing-in-publication data:
Morrissey, Di.
Blaze/Di Morrissey.
9780330424493 (pbk.)
Relationships â Fiction
Women â Fiction
A823.3
Typeset in 11.5/13.5 pt Sabon by Post Pre-press Group
Printed by McPherson's Printing Group
Papers used by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The manufacturing processes confirm to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.
These electronic editions published in 2010 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd
1 Market Street, Sydney 2000
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
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Blaze
Di Morrissey
Adobe eReader format: 978-1-74262-333-7
Online format: 978-1-74262-332-0
EPUB format: 978-1-74262-335-1
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With love and thanks to . . .
Boris Janjic . . . after too many years!
Opa and Nina Bubica
Jim and Rosemary Revitt
My mother Kay Warbrook, and my children Gabrielle and Nick, for their constant love, support, and stimulation
Ian Robertson for his wise counsel and friendship
Everyone at Pan Macmillan Publishers
All my friends and colleagues during my years in newspapers, magazines, television, radio, and film
Thank You . . .
Carolyn Beaumont, James Black QC, Mike Bloomberg, Susan Bradley, Jane Cadzow, Delin Cormeny, Ken Cowley, Barry Crocker, Jenny Cullen, Consul to Croatia Mirko Dolarevic, George Epaminondas, Louise di Francesco, Dr Merle Friedman PhD, Shelley Gare, E. Thomasine Griggs, Fran Hernon, Linda Jaivin, Phillip Knightley, Jenny Main, Jillian McFarlane, Maxine McKew, Sue Neales, Max Oldfield, Leonard Osborne, Roland Rocchiccioli, Sheila Scotter, Diana Simmonds, Kate Stead, Brian Stonier AO, Dawn Swain, Deborah Thomas, Dr Mckenzie Wark, Julia Zaetta, Carla Zampatti . . . and to those who preferred not to be named!
Author's Note
The poem at the end of this book was written by the English poet Adelaide Anne Procter and published in her anthology
Lyrics and Legends
in 1858. Her talent as a poet had been recognised and encouraged by Charles Dickens. My thanks to Rosemary Revitt for introducing me to Miss Procter's timeless work.
Di Morrissey
New York, 2000
Friday, 6 p.m.
T
he Division 7 fire chief was panting as he raced up the flight of steps to the entrance of the Triton building and into the elevator, stabbing the button marked 35. Running up steps wasn't his strong suit these days â he spent most of his time behind a desk and had a paunch to prove it. Keeping up with the fitter, younger guys was getting harder and harder. He knew where he'd rather be â with a Bud watching the LakersâBulls game, not responding to a fire call. But when one of the guys wants to be there for the birth of his first kid, what can you do but haul your ass back on the road?
âLooks like only the sprinkler system has been triggered, chief. Don't smell any smoke, do you?' The lieutenant, aide to the fire chief, trotted ahead.
âThese high-tech outfits can go off with anything â overheating, or a computer glitch. Gotta be sure.'
The lieutenant knew what his boss meant. You didn't take chances anywhere, but when the building was home to one of the biggest media empires in the world, you were doubly cautious.
Walking along the corridor of level thirty-five, their flashlights shone on soaked floor and walls. The problem was certainly sourced near here. The chief's walkie-talkie, clipped to his shoulder, crackled to life.
âChief, it's Joe in Fire Communications. From the board it appears to be an office in the right corridor, round about one fifty-nine.'
The private offices were spacious. Tall windows held views to Central Park, floors were softly carpeted and the touch of the interior designer reflected an expansive budget. The executive offices of
Blaze
magazine ringed the building on this floor, the editor-in-chief's leading to a private terrace. The inner area was open plan â ergonomic chairs tucked into desks, rental palms the only dividers. âThe worker colonies surrounded by the queen bees,' thought the chief.
His lieutenant rattled the doorknob of Suite 159 with one hand, pushing his mask over his face with the other.
âCan smell smoke now.'
âSeems contained. The door's locked,' the chief replied.
Their voices were muffled behind the breathing apparatus.
The lieutenant shrugged and, at the nod from the chief, banged his boot into the lock, followed by a hefty shove with his shoulder. The fire chief's hand rested on the small axe hooked to his belt, which bristled with a coiled rope, hoses, a knife, a small fire extinguisher and several tools. But the door gave way with a short sharp crunch.
The two men paused, staring across the room through the smoke from a bonfire of
Blaze
magazines burning on the carpet.
A woman was seated at a desk, her stockinged feet resting on a scramble of papers and photographs. Beside a framed picture of her with Jacqueline Onassis stood an empty bottle of vodka and a decanter of Scotch going the same way. She waved a Waterford tumbler at them, slopping its contents. Her Armani suit was drenched from the spray still bursting from the sprinklers in the ceiling.
âGood evening, gentlemen. You two certainly look the part. What can I do for you? Care for a drink?' Despite the effort at politeness, her voice was slurred. She chortled at the sight of the blue fireproof suits, the helmets, the ropes and gear attached to their bodies. She gave a cough, waving away the smoke from her face with a glossy poster and, putting down her glass, screwed up the picture and tossed it into the smoking pile.
Seeing the furious expression begin to darken the chief's face, the lieutenant rushed forward using his portable extinguisher to douse the burning pages.
âDear heart, where are the hoses? Where's the backdraft action? Not good enough, man. More bells and whistles.'
Beneath her practised flippancy, the chief recognised the edge of hysteria in her voice. He removed his mask and gazed at the woman. She was a bit above fifty, he guessed. His age. She had been well groomed before her drenching, and must hold an important position if this was her office. In seconds he'd taken in the expensive decor, the view to the park, the framed photographs of this same woman with a cast of celebrities.
âMa'am, I have to ask you to come with me. You can explain this scenario outside. Have you started any other fires in this building?' He strode towards her.
But she was quickly on her feet, hurling the heavy glass at him. The chief ducked, his lieutenant too stunned to make a move as the crystal shattered against a wall. âHave I started fires in this building! You bet your blue ass. And thank God for
Blaze
that I have. I've put more fires under those lazy sons of bitches than you've ever seen.'
