It’s an internal matter until the investigation is complete.

Oh, come on, Ben.

He looks down, hesitates. It’s been … difficult. That newspaper article came out and, you know, all the usual hype—‘bravery’, ‘risking his life’. Calling him a hero.

Well, you know what Coop’d think about that.

Yeah, but there are a lot of people angry.

It’s Laura who interrupts, Laura, whose calm has vanished. Angry! He rescued that woman and he nearly died saving the little girl. For god’s sake! Have you SEEN him, Ben?

Silence.

Ben?

He glances up briefly, then down again. Avril feels like slapping him. She leans forward, and her voice is acid. Seventy per cent burns and the other thirty’s on the inside of his arms and chest, and do you know why? Ben? You do, don’t you. Because he used his own body to protect that child. He was shielding her until the beam hit his head.

He’s still not saying anything. Avril turns away in disgust. He knows all this. They all know.

Laura is direct: Just who, precisely, is angry—and why?

There’re reasons for SOPs, Laura. Ben looks up at her, then at Avril. Phil Battersby got hurt, getting Coop out. Getting that beam off him.

His words are like a punch. Avril feels sick. Laura’s looking at her with the same winded expression, because in that instant, they both understand.

Is Phil OK?

It’s his back, lower spine. Pretty bad. He’s had a rough time.

Why didn’t anyone …? Laura’s crying.

He’s still a hero, Avril thinks, clinging stubbornly to the loop of words repeating in her head. Tell that little girl’s family he’s not a hero. He saved a child’s life, she says, but it sounds like a whimper.

Ben nods. And you should be proud of him. Bloody hell, I’m proud of him. Plenty of guys reckon they’d do the same if they had the guts. But … it’s complicated.

~

I’m not going home, she announces after Ben leaves. I’m not driving. I’d probably wrap the car around a tree.

OK, sweetie. Laura’s distracted, agitated, hugging herself like she’s trying to stop shivering. Want some coffee? she adds, as though remembering where she is.

Suddenly Avril’s exhausted. She doesn’t want coffee. She doesn’t want to talk. She gets up and feels in the pocket of her coat for her cigarettes.

When she comes back upstairs, Laura’s in with Coop, so she curls up in the armchair, her back to the world, the sweet, comforting smell of nicotine in her hair.

27

Laura

Twenty-eights shriek and rustle high in the salmon gums, sending down a dust of dry leaves. Laura shivers on the verandah, hugs herself. The smell of burning is overpowering.

Cooper.