his throat as soon as he breathed in. Looking up, he could see pale grey smoke hugging the ceiling. At the back of the hallway it snaked down the stairs and through the cast-iron banisters. He pulled out his phone, dialling 999 as he made his way upwards.
‘Emergency helpline, which service did you require?’ The woman on the other end of the phone sounded bored. One too many crank calls to really care any more.
‘Fire, ambulance, police.’ McLean went for the triad. He gave the address as he reached the landing. Two doors: the student flat and the merchant banker, who was working overseas at the moment if memory served. The glass fanlight above one flat was dark, the other rippling with orange dancing light and boiling black smoke. It oozed through the keyhole and under the door.
He took the rest of the stairs in leaps, covering his mouth and nose with the sleeve of his coat as the smoke began to thicken. Ignoring his own front door, he went straight to the flat opposite and hammered on the wood.
‘Mr Sheen? Can you hear me? Mr Sheen? It’s Tony McLean. You have to wake up. There’s a fire.’ Even as he said the words, choking as oddly sweet smoke bit at the back of his throat, he could hear how stupid he sounded. He stepped back, looking up at the fanlight, waiting for the bulb in the inner hall to come on. Nothing. Or was there? Light flickering?
Not waiting to be certain, McLean kicked at the door with all his might. It cracked, but held. He kicked it again, sending one panel flying back into the flat beyond. Looking through he could see only smoke swirling around; in moments it had begun to billow out through this new gap. He reached inside, feeling for the latch, hoping that his neighbour didn’t have a deadbolt. Luck was on his side.
The heat pressed around him as he opened the door, smoke flooding out onto the landing. He took a breath of the relatively fresh air and stepped carefully in. The floor creaked under his weight, seeming to sag inwards, and he was suddenly all too aware of the raging inferno beneath. He should really leave this to the firemen, but what if they got here too late?
He opened the door to what he hoped was the bedroom. Smoke billowed about the room and across the narrow hall; Mr Sheen was not one to sleep with his window open. McLean wanted to shout, but he was afraid of breathing in deep enough to do so. He hurried as fast as he dared to the bed, reaching for the sleeping figure, shaking him hard by the shoulder. Nothing.
Bending down close, he tried to see if the man was breathing, but it was too dark, too full of smoke. Tears blurred his vision. Smoke burned at his throat. He was dimly aware of more noise, the roaring of flames finally breaking free. There was no time. He dragged back the covers, pulled Mr Sheen out of bed and threw him over his shoulder. As he gasped for breath, staggering back out into the hall, McLean was glad that his neighbour was a thin old man. Even so, the weight made him stagger, and the heat was more unbearable still. The living-room doorburst into flame in front of his eyes, like something from a cheap horror movie. The light it cast over the inner hallway showed polished floorboards blackened and twisting. Flames underneath were eating away at the ceiling and joists in the flat below. Soon the whole lot would come crashing down. If he didn’t make it out in time, he’d be going with them.
Hefting Mr Sheen’s pyjama’d form onto his back more squarely, McLean staggered forwards. He could hear the floorboards groaning under his weight, feel the whole floor shifting and buckling like a sinister bouncy castle as he took the mad option and ran for it. He sprang forward at the last, crashing through the open doorway and onto the relative safety of the stone landing as the floor finally collapsed.
A great gout of flame billowed out over his head, singeing his hair and catching Mr Sheen’s pyjamas alight. He fell to his knees. For a moment he was
‘Emergency helpline, which service did you require?’ The woman on the other end of the phone sounded bored. One too many crank calls to really care any more.
‘Fire, ambulance, police.’ McLean went for the triad. He gave the address as he reached the landing. Two doors: the student flat and the merchant banker, who was working overseas at the moment if memory served. The glass fanlight above one flat was dark, the other rippling with orange dancing light and boiling black smoke. It oozed through the keyhole and under the door.
He took the rest of the stairs in leaps, covering his mouth and nose with the sleeve of his coat as the smoke began to thicken. Ignoring his own front door, he went straight to the flat opposite and hammered on the wood.
‘Mr Sheen? Can you hear me? Mr Sheen? It’s Tony McLean. You have to wake up. There’s a fire.’ Even as he said the words, choking as oddly sweet smoke bit at the back of his throat, he could hear how stupid he sounded. He stepped back, looking up at the fanlight, waiting for the bulb in the inner hall to come on. Nothing. Or was there? Light flickering?
Not waiting to be certain, McLean kicked at the door with all his might. It cracked, but held. He kicked it again, sending one panel flying back into the flat beyond. Looking through he could see only smoke swirling around; in moments it had begun to billow out through this new gap. He reached inside, feeling for the latch, hoping that his neighbour didn’t have a deadbolt. Luck was on his side.
The heat pressed around him as he opened the door, smoke flooding out onto the landing. He took a breath of the relatively fresh air and stepped carefully in. The floor creaked under his weight, seeming to sag inwards, and he was suddenly all too aware of the raging inferno beneath. He should really leave this to the firemen, but what if they got here too late?
He opened the door to what he hoped was the bedroom. Smoke billowed about the room and across the narrow hall; Mr Sheen was not one to sleep with his window open. McLean wanted to shout, but he was afraid of breathing in deep enough to do so. He hurried as fast as he dared to the bed, reaching for the sleeping figure, shaking him hard by the shoulder. Nothing.
Bending down close, he tried to see if the man was breathing, but it was too dark, too full of smoke. Tears blurred his vision. Smoke burned at his throat. He was dimly aware of more noise, the roaring of flames finally breaking free. There was no time. He dragged back the covers, pulled Mr Sheen out of bed and threw him over his shoulder. As he gasped for breath, staggering back out into the hall, McLean was glad that his neighbour was a thin old man. Even so, the weight made him stagger, and the heat was more unbearable still. The living-room doorburst into flame in front of his eyes, like something from a cheap horror movie. The light it cast over the inner hallway showed polished floorboards blackened and twisting. Flames underneath were eating away at the ceiling and joists in the flat below. Soon the whole lot would come crashing down. If he didn’t make it out in time, he’d be going with them.
Hefting Mr Sheen’s pyjama’d form onto his back more squarely, McLean staggered forwards. He could hear the floorboards groaning under his weight, feel the whole floor shifting and buckling like a sinister bouncy castle as he took the mad option and ran for it. He sprang forward at the last, crashing through the open doorway and onto the relative safety of the stone landing as the floor finally collapsed.
A great gout of flame billowed out over his head, singeing his hair and catching Mr Sheen’s pyjamas alight. He fell to his knees. For a moment he was
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