LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

wall-hanging. Anything else?’

      ‘Their...clothes. At least...at least some. And...’

      She faltered, but he knew what she wanted to say. Their smell. Their presence. The last place they’d been.

      He might not be able to save that for her, but he’d sure as hell try.

      ‘And their fire engines,’ he added, reverting, with difficulty, to the practical. ‘Let’s make that priority one. Hopefully, the pits are still clear.’

      The pits were a fallback position, as well as the bunker. They’d built this house with love, but with clear acceptance that the Australian bush was designed to burn. Many native trees didn’t regenerate without fire to crack their seeds. Fire was natural, and over generations even inevitable, so if you lived in the bush you hoped for the best and prepared for the worst. Accordingly, they’d built with care, insured the house to the hilt and didn’t keep precious things here.

      Except the memories of their boys. How did you keep something like that safe? How did you keep memories in fire pits?

      They’d do their best. The pits were a series of holes behind the house, fenced off but easily accessed. Dirt dug from them was still heaped beside them, a method used by those who’d lived in the bush for generations. If you wanted to keep something safe, you buried it: put belongings inside watertight cases; put the cases in the pit; piled the dirt on top.

      ‘Get that shirt on,’ Julie growled, moving on with the efficiency she’d been born with. She cast a long regretful look at Rob’s six-pack and then sighed and hauled on her sensible pants. ‘Moving on... We knew we’d have to, Rob, and now’s the time. Clearing the yard’s the biggie. Let’s go.’

      * * *

      The moment they walked out of the house they knew they were in desperate trouble. The heat took their breath away. It hurt to breathe.

      The wind was frightening. It was full of dry leaf litter, blasting against their faces—a portent of things to come. If these leaves were filled with fire... She felt fear deep in her gut. The maps she’d just seen were explicit. This place was going to burn.

      She wanted to bury her face in Rob’s shoulder and block this out. She wanted to forget, like last night, amazingly, had let her forget.

      But last night was last night. Over.

      Concentrate on the list. On her dot-points.

      ‘Windows, pits, shovel, go,’ Rob said and seized her firmly by the shoulders and kissed her, hard and fast. Making a mockery of her determination that last night was over. ‘We can do this, Jules. You’ve put a lot of work into that fire plan. It’d be a shame if we didn’t make it work.’

      They could, she thought as she headed for the shutters. They could make the fire plan work.

      And maybe, after last night... Maybe...

      Too soon. Think of it later. Fire first.

      * * *

      She fixed the windows—fast—then checked the pits. They were overgrown but the mounds of dirt were still loose enough for her to shovel. She could bury things with ease.

      She headed inside, grabbed a couple of cases and headed into the boys’ room.

      And she lost her breath all over again.

      She’d figured yesterday that Rob must have hired someone to clean this place on a regular basis. If it had been left solely to her, this house would be a dusty mess. She’d walked away and actively tried to forget.

      But now, standing at their bedroom door, it was as if she’d just walked in for the first time. Rob would be carrying the boys behind her. Jiggling them, making them laugh.

      Two and a half years old. Blond and blue-eyed scamps. Miniature versions of Rob himself.

      They’d been sound asleep when the road gave way, then killed in an instant, the back of the car crushed as it rolled to the bottom of a gully. The doctors had told her death would have been instant.

      But they were right here. She could just tug back the bedding and Rob would carry them in.

      Or not.

      ‘Aiden,’ she murmured. ‘Christopher.’

      Grief was all around her, an aching, searing loss. She hadn’t let herself feel this for years. She hadn’t dared to. It was hidden so far inside her she thought she’d grown armour that could surely protect her.

      But the armour was nothing. It was dust, blown away at the sight of one neat bedroom.

      It shouldn’t be neat. It nearly killed her that it was neat. She wanted those beds to be rumpled. She wanted...

      She couldn’t want.

      She should be thinking about fire, she thought desperately. The warnings were that it’d be on them in less than an hour. She had to move.

      She couldn’t.

      The wind blasted on the windowpanes. She needed to tape them. She needed to bury memories.

      Aiden. Christopher.

      What had she been thinking, wondering if she could move on? What had she been doing, exposing herself to Rob again? Imagining she could still love.

      She couldn’t. Peeling back the armour, even a tiny part, allowed in a hurt so great she couldn’t bear it.

      ‘Julie?’ It was a yell from just outside the window.

      She couldn’t answer.

      ‘Julie!’ Rob’s second yell pierced her grief, loud and demanding her attention. ‘Jules! If you’re standing in that bedroom thinking of black you might want to look outside instead.’

      How had he known what she was doing? Because he felt the same?

      Still she didn’t move.

      ‘Look!’ he yelled, even more insistent, and she had to look. She had to move across to the window and pull back the curtains.

      She could just see Rob through the smoke haze. He was standing under a ladder, not ten feet from her. He had the ladder propped against the house.

      He was carrying a chainsaw.

      As she watched in horror he pulled the cord and it roared into life.

      ‘What’s an overhanging branch between friends?’ he yelled across the roar and she thought: He’ll be killed. He’ll be...

      ‘Mine’s the easier job,’ he yelled as he took his first step up the ladder. ‘But if I can do this, you can shove a teddy into a suitcase. Put the past behind you, Julie. Fire. Now. Go.’

      He was climbing a ladder with a chainsaw. Rob and power tools...

      He was an architect, not a builder.

      She thought suddenly of Rob, just after she’d agreed to marry him. He’d brought her to the mountains and shown her this block, for sale at a price they could afford.

      ‘This can be our retreat,’ he’d told her. ‘Commute when we can, have an apartment in the city for when we can’t.’ And then he’d produced his trump card. A tool belt. Gleaming leather, full of bright shiny tools, it was a he-man’s tool belt waiting for a he-man. He’d strapped it on and flexed his muscles. ‘What do you think?’

      ‘You’re never thinking of building yourself?’ she’d gasped and he’d grinned and held up a vicious-looking...she didn’t have a clue what.

      ‘I might need help,’ he admitted. ‘These things look scary. I was sort of thinking of a registered builder, with maybe a team of registered builder’s assistants on the side. But I could help.’

      And he’d grinned at her and she’d known there was nothing she could refuse this man.

      Man with tool belt.

      Man

Скачать книгу