in the shadows, watching, waiting. He’d been there two hours, biding his time, making sure. He’d seen a rat scuttle into the alleyway opposite; a tabby had brushed against his trousers
then slunk away; the last piss-heads had staggered past ages ago. Apart from the occasional firework, the place was dead.
The man didn’t want to be here tonight. The pictures on the news had forced his hand. He lifted his gaze as a cascade of colours burst across the night sky. It put him in mind of the Beatles’ Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds . The man
was still smiling as he checked the time. He’d already checked his pocket to make sure the matches were there. Humming softly, he adjusted the rucksack, headed for the house.
The baby was fractious, the now-frazzled woman inexperienced, unable to contact the only person she could ask for help. The little one couldn’t be hungry; she’d refused the bottle again. And her nappy was dry. The mousy
woman checked it anyway. She took the naked child into her arms, gently tucked the tiny head under her chin and stroked the smooth perfect skin. The baby wriggled and squirmed, hot, flushed, crabby.
The woman tried to recall what the books said. Some recommended soothing motion to calm a crying child. A drive in the car often helped. No, she decided, too many people around. On edge anyway, she jumped at what sounded like distant shots, quickly
realised it was only fireworks. The booms and bangs had spooked her a couple of times already that night. Maybe the sudden noises were unsettling the baby.
The nursery would be quieter. Supporting the baby’s head, she cradled the tiny form gently in her arms and stole up the stairs. A soft tap set the rainbow swaying. The baby seemed to follow the motion with her eyes. The books said babies
couldn’t focus before six weeks old, but this baby was clearly special. The woman smiled proudly as she gazed at the tiny face, her incipient panic replaced by renewed confidence.
After all, it was early days. It would get easier in time. Everything would get so much easier.
13
Scarlet flames licked at the agonised face, jagged fire-fingers stretched towards the skull, the tiny body was already charred black. Thirty or more firefighters stood round helplessly, beaten back by intense heat, choking smoke.
Bev, restrained by Oz in a powerful grip, kicked and fought, desperate to free herself, desperate to save the baby, knowing it was too late. Scalding tears streamed down her cheeks as she watched the baby’s head become a ball of fire.
Bev screamed then, a lung-bursting, ear-piercing scream that shattered her sleep, jarred her awake. Heart racing, pulse pounding in her throat, she could barely catch her breath. Only vaguely aware of its ring, her hand reached automatically for the
phone.
Something big was going off on the Wordsworth estate. A control-room operator at Highgate said they’d received five triple-nines. “It’s being treated as a major incident, sergeant. Thought you’d want to know.”
“Cheers.” She squinted at the clock: half-one. “What’s happening?”
“Fire. Domestic. Blake Way. Still patchy but four occupants unaccounted for.”
With a foot on the floor it took five minutes. She ran six reds and nearly mowed down a drunk who was doing a big Fred Astaire number in the middle of the Moseley Road. Emergency vehicles nose-to-tail blocked Blake Way. Nearest
access was round the corner. She ditched the MG, legged it the rest of the way. A cacophony of sound: engines, pumps, generators, radio transmissions, shouted instructions. Eyes closed, it was the noise of a fairground. No eau de candyfloss, only smoke.
Cloying clinging suffocating fumes.
It was impossible at first to see past the vast bulk of the fire engines. Their revolving lights cast sickly blue-grey hues on the faces of the crowd. It looked as if the entire neighbourhood had turned out: women smoking, men with pyjama bottoms
flapping under their coats, kids feigning
then slunk away; the last piss-heads had staggered past ages ago. Apart from the occasional firework, the place was dead.
The man didn’t want to be here tonight. The pictures on the news had forced his hand. He lifted his gaze as a cascade of colours burst across the night sky. It put him in mind of the Beatles’ Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds . The man
was still smiling as he checked the time. He’d already checked his pocket to make sure the matches were there. Humming softly, he adjusted the rucksack, headed for the house.
The baby was fractious, the now-frazzled woman inexperienced, unable to contact the only person she could ask for help. The little one couldn’t be hungry; she’d refused the bottle again. And her nappy was dry. The mousy
woman checked it anyway. She took the naked child into her arms, gently tucked the tiny head under her chin and stroked the smooth perfect skin. The baby wriggled and squirmed, hot, flushed, crabby.
The woman tried to recall what the books said. Some recommended soothing motion to calm a crying child. A drive in the car often helped. No, she decided, too many people around. On edge anyway, she jumped at what sounded like distant shots, quickly
realised it was only fireworks. The booms and bangs had spooked her a couple of times already that night. Maybe the sudden noises were unsettling the baby.
The nursery would be quieter. Supporting the baby’s head, she cradled the tiny form gently in her arms and stole up the stairs. A soft tap set the rainbow swaying. The baby seemed to follow the motion with her eyes. The books said babies
couldn’t focus before six weeks old, but this baby was clearly special. The woman smiled proudly as she gazed at the tiny face, her incipient panic replaced by renewed confidence.
After all, it was early days. It would get easier in time. Everything would get so much easier.
13
Scarlet flames licked at the agonised face, jagged fire-fingers stretched towards the skull, the tiny body was already charred black. Thirty or more firefighters stood round helplessly, beaten back by intense heat, choking smoke.
Bev, restrained by Oz in a powerful grip, kicked and fought, desperate to free herself, desperate to save the baby, knowing it was too late. Scalding tears streamed down her cheeks as she watched the baby’s head become a ball of fire.
Bev screamed then, a lung-bursting, ear-piercing scream that shattered her sleep, jarred her awake. Heart racing, pulse pounding in her throat, she could barely catch her breath. Only vaguely aware of its ring, her hand reached automatically for the
phone.
Something big was going off on the Wordsworth estate. A control-room operator at Highgate said they’d received five triple-nines. “It’s being treated as a major incident, sergeant. Thought you’d want to know.”
“Cheers.” She squinted at the clock: half-one. “What’s happening?”
“Fire. Domestic. Blake Way. Still patchy but four occupants unaccounted for.”
With a foot on the floor it took five minutes. She ran six reds and nearly mowed down a drunk who was doing a big Fred Astaire number in the middle of the Moseley Road. Emergency vehicles nose-to-tail blocked Blake Way. Nearest
access was round the corner. She ditched the MG, legged it the rest of the way. A cacophony of sound: engines, pumps, generators, radio transmissions, shouted instructions. Eyes closed, it was the noise of a fairground. No eau de candyfloss, only smoke.
Cloying clinging suffocating fumes.
It was impossible at first to see past the vast bulk of the fire engines. Their revolving lights cast sickly blue-grey hues on the faces of the crowd. It looked as if the entire neighbourhood had turned out: women smoking, men with pyjama bottoms
flapping under their coats, kids feigning
Similar Books
