Burn Patterns (16 page)

‘Antiques. Opal.' She waited.

‘I punched a bloke.'

‘A fellow worker?'

He constructed a bravado smile. ‘Some of the boys give me shit. Hopalong. Festus or Chester, you know. The deputy or whatever from Gunsmoke with the limp. Missa Dylan, Missa Dylan. So, enough is enough.'

‘Is that the only reason they gave?'

He glared. ‘So I still got to do an interview to get to work with you, huh?'

‘Not at all. Let's compare notes. I'm not allowed in the room either.'

‘I'll tell you a story.'

‘I wish you wouldn't.'

‘You're a psychiatrist, you love this shit.'

She didn't bother correcting him. Was he flirting with her? The wine tasted like cold mineral water with barely a hint of grape. It was perfect.

Chuck took a gulp of his beer. He seemed surprised to find a gut, loosened his belt a notch. He glanced up at her, embarrassed. ‘I wasn't always a fire investigator. I used to be a firey. Part of a platoon. It's good work with fine men, men you can count on.'

She nodded. She found them fine men and women too.

‘Yeah, you know. The Fire Lady. Well, this day, the one I'm talking about, to explain a few things, this day, it was winter. It hadn't rained but it was cold. So there were fires. You know, summer is bushfire season, winter is house-fire season. Candles,
open fires, heaters next to curtains. Faulty electric blankets. It was a busy day.

‘We got back to the station, already feeling the weight. Eight at night, we haven't eaten. Steaks were on the barbecue out the back when the call came in. A dosshouse near the harbour. Shit.

‘You got to hate old building fires. You can't see anything from the outside, can't attack the fire from out there either. May not even be any rear access. Wooden beams, not steel. Not many windows or ventilation, which, you know, is good or bad depending on where you are, where the fire's at, which fire genius you're talking to.

‘Sure enough, we're fighting to get the pump close. Cars are parked in the street, which isn't wide. We have an art gallery on one side with the staff running in and out trying to save the artworks. On the other, it's art supplies, so you don't want that stuff to go up. There's a pub across the street with patrons offering drinks, advice, applause. The cops are trying to clear things, including a bunch of deros from the building. Two appliances are already there. A clusterfuck.

‘Jock's running out two lengths of forty-mil hose. I connect the mate end into the delivery. The pumpy, it was Marco, is finding the hydrant. I can see him and some cops with axes attacking a car parked over the fire-hydrant cover. We're sent up the stairs to try and suppress the source of the fire from inside. A couple of crews are already in there, primary search and another hose. We don our masks and BA. My peripheral vision is already gone. Jock barks, “Water on. Line one.” Helmet on. Jock has the branch and I back him up on the hose, a metre back, feeling it getting heavier as it fills with water.

‘There's an old lobby. Water is dripping from the ceiling sprinklers, but they're not going now, either out of water or busted from their first work-out. Twenty or so fire alarms are squealing and squawking up and down the building. No crackles yet. No smoke, but I see the glow of fire up the stairs, ready to get it on.

‘The lights are out, the electricity isolated by the SO. Getting toasted by live wires lying in all the water is not good. Blue and red flashes come in windows and the doorway from our
appliances and the police. Soon someone will set up lights, arc them in through windows, maybe.

‘The second floor is deserted. There's smoke up near the ceiling but the corridor is pretty clear. We pass the other crew on the third floor, where the fire is. Heavy dark smoke on the ceiling, getting thicker and lower. They are gas-cooling the thermal layer at the ceiling, trying to take the heat down, slow down any flashover. Half the floor at that end is flame.

‘We keep going up. The flames are yellow and new up on the fourth floor down the D-end, powerful and hot. The fire has found or made a hole in the roof, is gorging on air. It's roaring up here. Windows are exploding. Wood is too. I can hear metal screeching and groaning. It's a corrugated tin roof I guess. It's at the point where you no longer care about restricting oxygen to the fire, because you have to ventilate. Clear the smoke, attack the fire directly.

‘I realise the noise is not metal. I hear voices. We hit the doors, one at a time working our way towards the fire. Serious heat. Our tunics are good from two hundred to a thousand degrees, but the masks are fogging. Jock's hitting it, but our water is vapourising even though he's got it on full jet. I hit the next door, it pops but I can't get it open. I can hear coughing. Someone is slumped on the other side of the door. I try to push the door. I reach around and feel a person. They tap my arm. I push the door. I get them out. Jock turns to look. I can see because his helmet torch flares in the smoke. It's a young chap, dressed in a shirt and collar, coughing. You know there's a lot of bad shit in the smoke. Not just carbon monoxide and carbon dioxide. Plastics. Paints. I'm trying to get him up by his arms. The guy's coughing, calling. I can't make it out. I get him to the stairs, where smoke is coming up as well as down. There's a firey there now feeding Jock's line.

‘“The others,” the young guy bawling in my ear.

‘“What others?”

‘“In the room. The room.”

‘Fuck. I hand him over, run back to Jock.

‘The floor is looking bad. A piece of ceiling halfway down has fallen in a big chunk, now the flames are above and below. Jock
pours water at it. “Time to go,” he yells.

‘“There's more. In the last room we were in.”

‘Silence. We both know. Shit. I'm not even sure where the room is anymore. The neutral plane is almost at floor level
–
full smoke. We have spot fires breaking out, dancing angels in the smoke. We have floor subsidence under the roof fall.

‘“One look,” I tell him.

‘I feel my way up along the left wall, patting each closed door until I reach an opening. Jock is at my shoulder. I'm in. I feel bodies, legs in the middle of the floor. Another person under the window. Flames are starting to lick in through the open doorway. They've opened the window to breathe and now the fire wants some too. Jock's painting the door jamb, beating the fire back. I stand, knowing my back is to the door. I grab the bloke's ankles, drag him backwards and out. I can't really see Jock, only the flash of his luminescent stripes. I can't see his hose line. I get this bloke up on my shoulders. My knees are strong. I'm a bull. I keep the wall to my right shoulder.

‘I hand this one over to a crew at the stairs. They're screaming, “Pull back. Retreat. Pull back.” My radio hasn't been working all job. I call, “Roger.” I'm getting short of breath.

‘An alarm is still going. How? It's me. It's my air. I'm down to sixty bar. I can't believe it. The cylinder can't have been full. Then I remember my consumption is bound to be way up. I'm running. I'm hauling bodies. Which is when I should have pulled the pin. That was the time. Abandon ship. No air. You can't save everyone, right?'

Iris nodded. It is true. Is this the point of Chuck's story? The reason he's telling her? What is his burden? What does he need her to know?

‘I didn't do the smart thing. I wasn't finished. I bumped my way back along the wall again. I passed Jock, who was pulling out. He couldn't get enough water in. Deep in a fire, it's like being under water. The eddies of smoke, drifting yellow flame, licking orange. It's all in slow motion. The noises are distant too. Like all you can hear is your breathing and your boots on the floor, everything is slow and floating.

‘A chunk of the floor is completely gone. I have to skirt a big
hole. I hit the open door, fall into the room as bricks and metal crash down in the corridor. It's a lot of weight. Something has given up the ghost.

‘I close the door. Hope the fire goes somewhere else first. It likes the least resistance. It goes where it's easiest. I find the man near the window, fuck me, there's another one under him. I know I am sucking last breaths from my oxygen cylinder. This is when I find I've lost my hooligan – my prying, levering tool. So, I'm patting myself down, seeing what tools I might have on me because I know there's steel mesh on all the windows. The front corner of the ceiling starts to glow pink.

‘I've still got the hook knife. I don't know how it stayed tied on or how I didn't trip over it. I can make out the lock with my helmet torch. I get the hook knife, dig it under the window, bend. I dig it into the mesh, twist, keep hacking and twisting at it until the whole thing comes away. The window is also locked halfway down. It's a sash. So I get my hook knife and try to smash the wood. It won't break. I hate wood.

‘There's a wooden cabinet, like a bedside table under the sill. I throw it at the window. Right through, like Hercules. I lean my head out. I rip my mask off, get a mouthful of air, but smoke cuts into the back of my throat like steel wool, my eyes water.

‘There's no fire-escape outside this room. I can see the metal steps going down under the fire, but none outside the window I'm at. Firefighters are down in the alley, but I can't see hoses, let alone pumps. It's all dead-man zone down in the alley, the building's sure to collapse on you. I set off my PDA. It's loud, but they don't seem to hear it.

‘I take off my useless BA, throw it at one of the firefighters, four floors below. Of course, I don't hit him. But it gets his attention. My PDA is still blaring. I take my helmet off, I wave it. I'm still not sure he sees me. I wave my arms. The stripes on the end are really noticeable, especially to other firefighters. The fire is in the room now. It's coming down from the ceiling onto the wardrobe. The door is glowing. It's starting to shimmy across the ceiling towards the window. Air is a motherfucking double-edged sword.

‘Outside I see the boys running up the lane with ladders. I
wave the helmet again, until I know they are setting up under. Fuck me, they had to reposition the ladder twice, but I hand out the first old guy and realise it is going to take time for them to half-carry, half-pass him down the ladder. That's when I get the idea of the mattresses. I grab the mattresses off each bed, put them behind us, like an extra turtle wall. I lift the last guy up to the window to get air. I have to lean out myself cos I'm nauseous, about to faint. I pass over this guy. My mattress is on fire. The firefighter is carrying him down and I try to get out the window. Halfway out I'm stuck. My tunic, or something on the tunic, is catching. I'm on my back now, half out the window, hanging on to the top of the ladder with one hand. The flames are actually coming out the window and over me. I shake off my right glove, unzip my tunic and slide out backwards. I'm falling. I'm heading headfirst down from four floors up. My left hand grabs the ladder and I spin but my hand slips so I throw out my leg. It slides between rungs of the ladder and I bend it, like a hook. Pop. Fucked knee, but I'm hanging on the ladder, my leg folded under so I can grab another rung under with my hands. I know my leg is fucked up, but all I care about is the fresh air. Cold, sweet air is whooshing into my lungs like cider on a hot day.

‘You've probably seen the shot of me handing out the old blokes and falling out of the window.'

‘Yes, I have,' said Iris.

‘A news crew.'

‘That was you.'

‘Famous.'

‘Quite a hero.'

‘Pah,' he snarled.

‘Jock?'

‘Was as much a hero. Took it better than me too.'

‘I don't understand, Chuck. Jock made it out?'

‘Yeah. When they said abandon ship, he did. No reason to feel guilty either. He did a bit, though.' Chuck looked from his empty beer glass to his empty whisky glass.

Iris said, ‘Do you want another?'

‘Another beer.' He named the type, let her go to get him one.
The pub was emptying of the lunch crowd. Younger people were filtering in, dressed in shorts and t-shirts, tattoos twirling up their arms.

If Iris had heard Chuck's story at the practice, she might start to fashion this incident. She'd audit it, look for the patterns. What it said about the chapter of his life as a firefighter. He was a brave man. A hero. Did he miss it? He certainly remembered it. In very specific detail. Why was Charles Koch so obviously suffering all this time later from depression, anger, the many signs of things gone wrong rather than right?

Iris returned with a pint for Chuck, a Diet Coke for herself.

‘Cheers,' he said.

‘So, big story, Chuck.'

‘Yeah, it was the day I fucked up my knee, so I'm out of the job. As talkback radio suggested, the men we saved were hardly any prize catch. Life's a bitch. That was fifteen years ago. I became a fire investigator, I find the cause of fires. Many are accidental, some are lit by this sneaky boots I call Zorro. Now he's done the school, nothing surer. Up-to-date, you reckon?'

Iris saw a lot of resentment and anger in Chuck, hostility towards authority.

He studied the sky. Maybe he'd smelled the first hints of the sea breeze as it flicked around them with a mix of salty ocean and diesel fumes from the harbour.

‘What do you want from me, Charles?'

‘I was a great firefighter.'

‘Clearly.'

‘I'm a good fire investigator too. I'm not a joke.'

‘Yes. I understand.' Iris smiled.

‘At last. Now, how about a profile of my baddie?'

Iris grimaced. Her next explanation was not what Charles was looking for. ‘The trouble with profiles is they are brilliant – after. After you've caught the person.'

‘You caught the dickhead in the housing estate. Told the police how to trap him.'