did just fine on the job today,’ Steve put in. ‘You get used to the way he talks after a while.’
‘Yeah?’ Joe said dubiously. ‘Well, we’ll see how long he lasts...’
This conversation had struck a chord in Simon, who had already noticed how some of the crew were ignoring him and how he was always on the fringe of their horseplay; and the next three days merely confirmed that impression. Jim had not been much help. ‘You’re different,’ he said. ‘You’re a rich and famous artist, totally outside their experience. They don’t know what to do with you, so they act as if you’re not there. They’ll get over it.’
As he capped the fuel can, Simon wondered how many more days he’d have to spend mopping up before he was allowed to join their ranks. While it was an exclusion he understood, he could have done without it.
As for Shea, she was spending long hours water-bombing, and Michael did most of the ground crew drops. In her off-hours, whether she was eating, talking, or playing cards, she always seemed to be surrounded by men. As the lone woman in a male environment, the deft way she handled them was admirable. But he was beginning to feel like a large and hungry dog whose chain was too short to reach the feed dish.
He scrambled up the side of a hill to cut down six or seven blackened tree stumps, and half an hour later was on his way back to the base. Michael was the pilot.
Because he was far less tired now than he had been the first day, Simon headed for the command post to check on the fire’s progress. The fire boss was talking on the radio, and waved at him genially, and two other ground crew nodded at him. As he bent over the infra-red maps he heard Shea’s voice coming from the next room. It took him a moment to realise she was using the telephone.
‘No, I can’t get away—the fire’s still out of control. But I’ll be off next weekend, because I’ll be up to maximum hours by then.
‘I didn’t promise!
‘Peter, I told you when we first met that in the summer I don’t have a schedule, I just have to go where the work is. That’s the way it is.
‘I am not married to a helicopter! But this is how I earn my living. Look, there’s no point fighting about this—couldn’t we meet on Saturday as we’d planned?
‘I see. I really hate this, Peter—’
There was a sudden silence, as though the man at the other end had slammed down the phone. A few moments later Shea marched through the room, saying crisply to the fire boss, ‘Thanks for the use of the phone, Brad.’
In one swift glance Simon had seen her flushed cheeks and brilliant eyes. Not sure if it was rage or tears that had given them their sheen, he kept his eyes assiduously on the map. The door swung shut behind her, and as if in sympathy the radio crackled with static. Simon finished what he was doing and went to find his brother for a swim. He hoped it hadn’t been tears.
As always, the cool water of the lake felt like the nearest thing to heaven. Afterwards Simon hauled on a pair of clean jeans and his running shoes, relishing the breeze on his bare chest. He angled up the hill to where he had parked the truck; Jim had been roped into a poker game back at the base. Eight or nine of the ground crew were standing between him and the truck, including two men new to Simon. There was a litter of empty beer cans on the ground.
‘Who’s the blonde?’ one of the new men asked, tipping back a can to drain it.
Steve answered. ‘Name’s Shea Mallory, Everett. She’s a helicopter pilot.’
‘No kidding. She ever go swimming?’
There was a warning note in Steve’s voice. ‘She goes up at the other end of the lake, and we stay at this end.’
Everett was patently unimpressed. ‘Yeah? Now if I met her down by the lake, let me tell you what I’d do to her—’
His string of obscenities fell on Simon’s ears like live coals. Not even stopping to think, he dropped his shirt and towel on the path. In a blur of movement he seized Everett by the shirt-front, lifting him clear off the ground. ‘You listen to me,’ he snarled. ‘If I ever see you within ten feet of Shea Mallory, I’ll drive you straight into the middle of next week.’
‘I didn’t—’
‘Do you hear me?’ Simon shook the man as if he were a bundle of old rags. ‘Or do I have to show you that I mean business?’
‘Yeah, I hear you. I was only kidding; no need to—’
His muscles pulsing with fury, Simon grated, ‘And I don’t want you ever mentioning her name again. Have you got that, too?’
‘Sure. Sure thing.’
Feeling the sour taste of rage in his mouth, Simon shoved the man away. Everett staggered, belched, and edged himself to the very back of the small group of men. Into the small, gratified silence Steve said with genuine warmth, ‘Good move, Simon. Want a beer?’
Simon’s heart was pounding as hard as though he had indeed come across Everett mistreating Shea. But he was quite well able to recognise what the offer of a beer represented. He had been accepted. He was now one of the crew. ‘Thanks,’ he said, nodding at Steve.
The beer slid down his throat, loosening the tension in his muscles. Joe started telling a very funny story about a fire-fighter and a porcupine, then Steve described a moose in rutting season who had kept him in the branches of a pine tree for over eight hours. Simon, feeling he had to keep his end up, told them about a bad-tempered stag he had come across when he was sketching in the Scottish highlands, and finished his beer. Declining Charlie’s offer of a second, he asked if anyone wanted a drive back to the base. ‘We’re gonna finish up the beer before we head back,’ Joe said. ‘Brad don’t like us to drink in the bunkhouse. See you later, Simon.’
There was a chorus of grunts and goodbyes. Feeling as though he had won a major victory, Simon got in the truck and drove away from the lake. His headlights bounced on the ruts and potholes; the only other light came from the dull red glow of the fire on the horizon, and the far-away glitter of the stars. The trees that crowded to the ditch were blacker than the sky, he thought absently, easing the truck over a ridge of dirt baked hard as stone, and enjoying the cool air on his bare chest. He’d left his shirt and towel behind, he realised ruefully. Maybe Everett would bring them back for him. Then again, maybe he wouldn’t.
His foot suddenly found the brakes, his eyes peering through the dusty windscreen into the woods. He’d seen a flicker of white move through the trees, he’d swear he had.
It must have been a deer. They had white tails.
But the brief image Simon had glimpsed from the corner of his eye did not fit that of a deer. He let the truck jounce down the hill and round the next corner, and then came to a halt and turned off the engine. After opening the door very quietly, he slid to the ground, and pushed it shut without letting the catch click. Keeping to the grass verge, letting his eyes adjust to the dark, he rounded the corner and began creeping back up the hill the way he had come.
His trainers rustled in the grass. A bough brushed his shoulder, and a mosquito whined in his ear. The stars were dazzlingly bright. Maybe he’d imagined that flicker of movement, he thought. The fight with Everett had got his adrenalin going and his imagination had done the rest.
He
