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water on to a sheet of corrugated iron to cool it before dragging it aside to reach the burning remains of bookshelves underneath it. He worked systematically: douse them; extinguish the flames and embers; tackle the next pile. The adrenaline pumping through his body and the years of training kept him moving, working in the cocoon of heat and smoke and noise. Beyond awareness of the fire, the other fire-fighters and the work they did right now, he didn’t
think
.
    He made himself
not
think of Jenn facing the fire, unprotected, with only a fire extinguisher. Nor of Jim, his friend, mentor, valued employee, lying so still.
    In the remains of the formal living room, the antique dresser stood scorched amid the ceiling debris, the glass doors smashed, dented Royal Agricultural Show trophies and the charred remnants of champion ribbons strewn around. A century anda half of Marrayin history. Fifty years of Strelitz history. Gone up in flames.
    Mark dragged his eyes away from the blackened awards. Fight the fire before anything else was lost. Questions, emotions and picking up the pieces had to wait.
    When his tank of water ran dry he backed out of the house, coiling the hose as he went.
    Paul Barrett, seemingly everywhere in his supervision of the fire crews, came to join him by the trailer. ‘You going for a refill?’ Mark nodded.
    ‘Birraga West brigade’s almost here,’ Paul said, always serious, never one to waste words. But the strain that had entered their friendship since their meeting yesterday showed in the stiffness of his body language. ‘The breeze is picking up, so we’ll probably get spotting. Can you move Jenn’s car and then look after any spots? I’ll send someone to help.’ The ambulance appeared from around the back and edged around the far side of the garage, its emergency lights flicking on as it headed away, along the driveway.
    ‘They’re taking Dad to Birraga,’ Paul said gruffly. ‘I don’t know if we can save the house, but at least he’s alive and stable.’
    ‘Whatever he needs, just do it. I’ll cover any extra expenses.’ He’d manage it, somehow, even without the parliamentary salary that had kept Marrayin and the other properties going these past years.
    Paul had no shortage of the Barrett stubbornness. ‘We’re not a bloody charity.’
    Mark understood that it was pride talking, and grief, and anger. ‘He’s employed by Strelitz Pastoral, Paul, and coveredby workers’ comp, and he’s also a valued friend.’
    ‘And what if he did it?’ Paul challenged. ‘Lit the fire?’
    Mark looked him squarely in the eye. ‘I don’t believe that any more than you do. Listen, I know all the Barretts have got good reason to be pissed off with me, but Jim is no arsonist. If he was, he’d do a damn sight better job of it than this.’

    Jenn hated hospitals. She especially hated Birraga hospital, and the hazy, shock-shadowed memories of a helpless child watching paramedics and nurses work frantically on her mother’s bloodied body, the harrowing images of her father’s death playing repeatedly in her mind, raw and inescapable.
    An adult could deal with it, she told herself now.
She
could deal with it. Put those memories in their rightful time and place and keep her perspective on the present. But the redeveloped emergency department remained too small to escape the sights and sounds of loved ones being assessed, and the hard plastic chairs could never be comfortable.
    With nothing to do but wait and keep the memories at bay, she itched for her phone, her laptop, even a notebook and pen to write down
this
story, the objective facts and events so she could de-personalise it, make sense of it all.
The home of former federal MP Mark Strelitz was today badly damaged in what is believed to be a deliberately lit fire. Property manager Jim Barrett, 65, of Dungirri, was injured and is in a stable condition in Birraga hospital. Detectives are …
    Here. The man asking for her at the nurses’