Ben thanked him and hurried to Jake’s house, where Django was filtering the chatter on the two-way and trying to keep the channel open for emergencies only. ‘Sorry, mate,’ Ben muttered. ‘I need to get through to Gilburn.’ He reached for the dials, effectively cutting everyone off.

‘Have your men come back from Blackman’s Creek?’ he asked Don’s wife without preamble.

‘Mike and our tracker came in about an hour ago, and Don’s sent them down with the others to help Big Mac. They said Paddy stayed with the young doctor and they were on their way back to the hospital. Haven’t they arrived yet?’

‘Not yet,’ he said tersely, and disconnected the call. ‘Keep listening, Django, and keep in touch with me on the walkie-talkie. I’m going down to Wallaby Creek.’

He raced outside and ran straight into a wild-eyed, frantic Sandra. ‘You’ve got to find Terence,’ she shouted above the noise as she grabbed his coat.

‘That’s where I’m going,’ he said as he tried to prise her clutching fingers from his sleeve.

‘Then I’m coming too.’

‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘You have to stay here.’

‘You can’t stop me. I have to get to Terence. He could be—’

‘You will stay exactly where you are,’ he said, straining to keep his exasperation under control. ‘And if you want to help, then see to it these men have food and plenty of water to take with them.’

Ben left her on the boardwalk and ran towards the fire truck, which had a huge bowser fitted with over ten thousand gallons of bore water in it. He stood on the running board and waited for Charley Sawyer to clamber on to the back by the ladder with his four helpers, and then looked over the gathering of vehicles that were waiting for the signal to move out.

‘Stay together and follow me,’ he shouted.

As the convoy rumbled down the road and along the track which would lead them to the main road, Ben didn’t see Becky come racing out of the house, or hear her frantic cries.

*

Bert Davenport watched the chaos through bleary eyes as he finished the bottle of whisky and reached for another. He had no stomach for fighting fires. The bastards could all burn in hell as far as he was concerned. And if the fire took Morgan’s Creek – well, it served them bloody right.

He turned from the filthy window, staggered across the room and swept the empty bottles and abandoned glasses off the bar. No one had been near him since Jake had closed the pub, and his anger was such that if Sal had been here, he would have killed her. But as she wasn’t, he took it out on the few sticks of furniture and the ornate heritage mirror behind the bar.