‘This is Don Griffith’s farm,’ I said. ‘Or was.’

Superimposed over smouldering wreck, I imagined grass and little Suzy Griffith playing under a sprinkler. ‘I think I know them,’ Jack said.

‘I made a home visit last year when Suzy was recovering from measles.’

Aflame, trees were like giant sticks of incense, the normally peaceful mountain an apocalyptic volcano, a nearby Etna or Vesuvius. We were buried already and might never see the sun again. And yet, we drove on.

We stopped at a few other properties to warn people. In most cases, they’d already left.

Eventually, we reached a property just outside Linlithgow. It sat in smoke-cloud darkness while approaching flames were still a distant, dull roar. ‘It’s Peter Brin’s place. You know him. The service station owner. He’ll have thought he was well prepared.’

Peter’s house was raised from the ground, its stumps holding taut flywire, the type designed for screens. It wasn’t enough. Flying embers could get through screens, creep under the house, set fire to his floorboards. We drove as close as we could to the house then Jack climbed out. I followed.

Through the smoke, eventually I made out Peter, struggling with a large petrol-operated pump, equipped with a long hose and a fog nozzle. The equipment should have been able to convert a stream of water to a fine mist. He was so immersed in his work he didn’t notice us until Jack shouted at him.

‘You can’t fix it!’

Peter gave his hose one more shake, as if to wake an unconscious snake. ‘I’ve been working with motors for thirty years!’

An ember storm whipped around us, flames screaming into the wind. Peter kicked his water pump once more with his work boot.

‘There’s nothing wrong with your motor!’ Jack shouted. ‘It’s the petrol… It’s evaporated!’

Peter looked horrified. He checked the petrol meter and his face went even paler.

Jack checked his radio. ‘Peter, you need to get to the oval. CFA tankers are protecting people there.’

Dumbly, Peter nodded.

Jack turned to me. ‘You should go there as well.’

‘Only if Caleb’s there.’

Jack yelled something about Caleb into his radio, then shook his head as the response came through.

‘I’m staying with you,’ I insisted. ‘He has to be somewhere. How could I just sit there and wait?’

What I saw next stunned me. As we sped around a corner into Linlithgow, with smoke visible in the distance, we reached a group of young men sitting on a hotel balcony drinking beer. Three or four vehicles were neatly parked alongside.

Jack lowered his window to shout at them. ‘You’ve got to get out of here!’

One beer drinker was very drunk. He called, ‘Jack Laskin, that you? It’s me! Pauly Romer! You gotta have a gander at this! You can see smoke from the side window!’

He made it sound exciting, like Australia Day fireworks.

‘Pauly, have you seen Caleb anywhere?’ I demanded.