Curtis couldn’t give a shit. ‘I was civil, after what she’s done. I coulda told her what I thought of her.’

We sat on a shaded mound on the edge of the oval, beside the water fountain. A great view of the fire.

‘You gotta move on, don’t you?’ Curtis asked.

‘I guess.’

‘So I said, I hope it all works out, Trace, and she said, I reckon, next time, look out for your woman.’

‘Stand by your man …’ I sang.

‘Though I reckon she’s going out with that Duncan guy in Year Eleven. You know, the state footballer.’

The art room popped and crackled; one of the walls had already collapsed. The paint had blistered, and you could see a Bulljaw outline, and the remains of our mural. ‘I suppose it doesn’t matter that they painted over it,’ I said.

Another unit arrived and parked. More hoses, more men running around in search of hydrants, flame and smoke and small spray-pack explosions. ‘Pity, we had some good times in there.’

‘She seemed sorry.’

‘Who?’

‘Trace. Probably wanted to get back together.’

‘Perhaps she is sorry?’

The roof fell in, lifting a sea of embers.

‘Best teacher I ever had,’ I said.

‘Nick?’

‘Said it like it was.’

Miss White came over. ‘Clem, Curtis, you Year Twelves could help, keep the little ones back.’ She gave us a look, turned and ran away.

‘Fuck off, you old slag,’ Curtis said.

Another wall collapsed, crushing tables and chairs. ‘My sculptures,’ I said.

‘My paintings,’ Curtis added. ‘My charcoals of Trace … from the early days.’

‘You sittin’ with a stiffy.’

‘Jealous.’

‘Of Tracey?’

‘Vicky?’

‘She’s classy. Intelligent. Motivated.’

‘Do tell.’

‘On Saturday she asked me to go on this bushwalk. Eight kilometres, gradients like this.’ I might’ve exaggerated. ‘Come on, Clem, keep up. See, she’s driven.’

‘Had any luck?’

‘It’s not like that.’

‘Bullshit.’ He studied the flames. ‘It was probably John. He hated this place.’

Two firefighters finished disconnecting gas bottles and rolled them away.

Curtis was caught in the orange glow. ‘Long way to go for nothing.’

‘Wasn’t nothing.’

‘No gold?’

‘Wasn’t about that.’

‘What?’

The water stopped, and the captain said, ‘Fuck it, let it burn out,’ and the firefighters stood watching the last of the flames.

‘We got home and Mum storms out and says, You coulda killed yerselves.’

‘I heard,’ Curtis said. ‘The whole street heard.’

‘She went quiet for a couple of days, then last night it all comes out. I’s sittin’ with Pop and I said, Maybe we shoulda kept going? Even if we looked, and it wasn’t there? Then he told me, his phone call in Coober Pedy, Mum telling him there were plenty of maps. The fella at the pub had sold dozens of copies—and she’d seen them. Eggers, round the block, had one, and the Irish fella, across from the stadium, him and his brother had one. Nan told me, but she wanted you to think … I asked him how he felt and he said, Not bad, Clemo. I wondered why he seemed so resigned, and he said, Least we got to see a bit of country.’