Page 54 of Love, Just In

Gemma and I follow the GPS towards Mayfield, but as soon as we turn onto the correct street, there’s no more need for a map. A thick funnel of smoke twists up into the sky like a furious tornado over a house engulfed in lashing flames. We park near a gathering of onlookers, and the intense heat of the blaze stings my cheeks as we step over ash and rubble to reach the police crossing.

A cop directs us to a taped-off zone facing the burning house from across the road. Gemma clicks the camera into the tripod and begins filming the blazing building that cracks and pops, while police, firefighters and paramedics dash about in a race against the inferno.

‘Why so many ambulances?’ Gemma wonders, and my gut makes a sickening twist.

‘There must be people inside the house.’

Just ahead of us, a reporter from the local newspaper is interviewing a police officer. I zip open my microphone bag and plug the cable into the camera. ‘Let’s go,’ I instruct Gemma, and she hefts the camera over her shoulder and trails me over to them.

The reporter angles his back to me, trying to cut me out, while I hold out my microphone with Gemma filming behind me. This is the dog-eat-dog part of the media world: there really is no such thing as an exclusive.

The moment the irritated reporter wraps up his interview, I step through to the officer. ‘Josie Larsen, NRN News. Are there any people inside the house?’

Her steady tone suggests she’s done this multiple times before. ‘Yes, there are, but I cannot confirm their number at this time.’

I shift on my feet. ‘How many people have been evacuated? Have there been any fatalities?’

‘There are no confirmed fatalities at this point, and I believe that three people have been evacuated so far and are on their way to hospital.’

‘Do you know how the fire began, and do you expect any charges to be laid?’

‘We will have to wait for the results of the investigation, which will take place in due course.’

Over her shoulder, two firefighters draped in protective gear dart out of the house with a stretcher holding a small body wrapped in a blanket. I thank the officer and direct Gemma to point the camera at the action. A paramedic rushes over to meet the stretcher, and I doa double take at the broad shoulders and familiar muss of dark curls. Zac, soaking wet from the water hoses, begins checking the vitals of the figure who looks no more than four feet tall.

‘That’s a kid,’ I realise out loud, my throat clamping. A second later, I ask Gemma to aim the camera at something else.

Shit.Maybe it makes me a gutless news reporter, but I just can’t film a child in these conditions.

I scan for someone else I can interview, but my eyes keep returning to Zac, who’s still hunched over the small body. A second paramedic helps him heft the stretcher into the back of an ambulance.

‘That might be family over there. Should we grab one of them?’ Gemma says, pointing at a huddle of adults standing several metres away. Soot coats their tear-stained faces, and one man is convulsing into a woman’s shoulder.

My chest clenches up. ‘No, I’m going to try to talk to one of the ambos,’ I decide, before asking a police officer if we can interview a paramedic.

‘They’re a little busy right now,’ he snaps.

‘I just need a couple of minutes as soon as one is available, OK?’ The public has a right to know what’s happening in their community, regardless of how the cop feels about it.

I write up a script in my head and ask Gemma to film my piece to camera with the burning house in the background. The moment I’m done, a hand taps my shoulder.

‘Here you go,’ the policeman grunts as Zac steps forward, his distressed eyes falling on mine.

‘Hi,’ I mumble, taken aback. ‘I didn’t expect you to—’

‘The supervisor’s busy, so … just talk to me,’ he says in a rush. ‘But I’ve only got a minute.’

His hazel eyes glitter against the black soot lining his skin, his expression bleaker than I’ve seen it in a long time.

Paramedics of Zac’s ranking are discouraged from talking to the media—it’s the onsite supervisor’s job—which makes me think he’s doing this for me. I want to reach out and pull him close, to ask if he’s OK with all this trauma around him, but instead, I snap into reporter mode. I fire questions at him about the state of the victims while his colleagues exchange updates through the radio crackling from his belt.

‘Sorry, but do you mind turning the radio down?’ Gemma jumps in between questions. ‘It’s really loud through the mic.’

Zac wrinkles his brow at her. ‘Well, given one child just died and there are more inside the house, I’d rather not miss anything for the sake of a bit of evening entertainment.’

My insides crush.

If it bleeds, it leads.

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