‘Henry Bell was an innocent man, after all, and Jack couldn’t accept the responsibility for taking what was left of his life. “Whatever my failings, I can never act an executioner.” That was what he wrote.’
Jerry took hold of Dawn’s hand. Neither of them spoke but then they didn’t need to. They both knew what they were going to have to do next.
Jerry’s friend Mick had a Transit van which he used for his mobile car-cleaning business. He came around to Jerry’s house the following day and picked them both up, and they all drove around to Dawn’s flat. On the way they stopped at the Esso service station on Chiswick High Road and filled up a red plastic petrol container.
‘What are you two up to, then?’ asked Mick. He had a gingery buzz cut and a gap in his teeth he could whistle through, and he always splashed himself in too much Lynx aftershave, in the hope of attracting a girlfriend. ‘Spot of arson, is it? Never quite know with you two.’
‘We’re having a bonfire,’ said Dawn. ‘Kind of an early fireworks night.’
When she opened the door of her flat and stepped inside, Dawn sniffed. She could smell jasmine, from her Yankee Candle, but she could also smell that sour burnt odour of the black-faced man. She went into the bedroom with Jerry close behind her, and there it was, the wardrobe, with its door still locked. But she knew now that this wasn’t just any wardrobe. This was the wardrobe that had terrified C.S. Lewis, but also inspired him to invent a world where purity battled against evil, and the innocent were sacrificed for the greater good.
She pressed her hand flat against its polished walnut door, and said, ‘ Narnia ,’ and thought of all those bedtime stories that her mother used to read to her when she was young, with the White Witch and Mr Tumnus the faun and Aslan the lion. It gave her the strangest of feelings, both frightening and sad.
With Mick’s help, they dragged and heaved the wardrobe out of the bedroom, along the hallway, out of the front door and bumped it down the steps. They paused to rest for a moment or two and then they lifted it, grunting, into the back of Mick’s van.
Mick knew just the place. A developer was demolishing a block of 1920s flats on the Sheen Road. The site was screened off from the road with a green-painted hoarding, almost ten-feet high, and there were fires burning there constantly, so one more shouldn’t attract any attention.
While Dawn and Jerry kept watch, Mick unfastened one of the wire security fences at the end of the hoarding. Cars and buses roared past, cyclists cycled past, but nobody took any notice of them. They lifted the wardrobe out of the van and carried it through the gap. The sun was going down now, and the hoarding blocked it out almost completely, so that the demolition site was chilly and filled with shadows. The ground was strewn with rubble and broken bricks, and so they had to carry the wardrobe almost to the far end of the site before they found somewhere level enough to put it down.
‘Right, then, you going to burn it?’ said Mick. ‘Should have brought some hot dogs and stuff. We could have had a barbie.’
‘Sorry, Mick,’ Jerry told him. ‘I want you to go now, and leave us alone.’
‘Oh, that’s nice! I practically break my flipping back helping you carry that bleeding great wardrobe. I find you a great place to burn it, and now you won’t let me even watch!’
‘There’s a good reason, Mick. Honestly. Besides, if somebody sees us and we get into trouble, you don’t want to get involved, do you?’
‘All right. But you owe me five pints for this, got it?’
‘Mick – whatever you want, mate, it’s yours.’
‘All right. Five pints and a night with Rihanna.’
‘Whatever. I promise you.’
Mick went stumbling off over the mountains of broken yellow bricks. When he had climbed back through the security fence, Jerry unscrewed the lid of the petrol container and said, ‘OK, then,
Jerry took hold of Dawn’s hand. Neither of them spoke but then they didn’t need to. They both knew what they were going to have to do next.
Jerry’s friend Mick had a Transit van which he used for his mobile car-cleaning business. He came around to Jerry’s house the following day and picked them both up, and they all drove around to Dawn’s flat. On the way they stopped at the Esso service station on Chiswick High Road and filled up a red plastic petrol container.
‘What are you two up to, then?’ asked Mick. He had a gingery buzz cut and a gap in his teeth he could whistle through, and he always splashed himself in too much Lynx aftershave, in the hope of attracting a girlfriend. ‘Spot of arson, is it? Never quite know with you two.’
‘We’re having a bonfire,’ said Dawn. ‘Kind of an early fireworks night.’
When she opened the door of her flat and stepped inside, Dawn sniffed. She could smell jasmine, from her Yankee Candle, but she could also smell that sour burnt odour of the black-faced man. She went into the bedroom with Jerry close behind her, and there it was, the wardrobe, with its door still locked. But she knew now that this wasn’t just any wardrobe. This was the wardrobe that had terrified C.S. Lewis, but also inspired him to invent a world where purity battled against evil, and the innocent were sacrificed for the greater good.
She pressed her hand flat against its polished walnut door, and said, ‘ Narnia ,’ and thought of all those bedtime stories that her mother used to read to her when she was young, with the White Witch and Mr Tumnus the faun and Aslan the lion. It gave her the strangest of feelings, both frightening and sad.
With Mick’s help, they dragged and heaved the wardrobe out of the bedroom, along the hallway, out of the front door and bumped it down the steps. They paused to rest for a moment or two and then they lifted it, grunting, into the back of Mick’s van.
Mick knew just the place. A developer was demolishing a block of 1920s flats on the Sheen Road. The site was screened off from the road with a green-painted hoarding, almost ten-feet high, and there were fires burning there constantly, so one more shouldn’t attract any attention.
While Dawn and Jerry kept watch, Mick unfastened one of the wire security fences at the end of the hoarding. Cars and buses roared past, cyclists cycled past, but nobody took any notice of them. They lifted the wardrobe out of the van and carried it through the gap. The sun was going down now, and the hoarding blocked it out almost completely, so that the demolition site was chilly and filled with shadows. The ground was strewn with rubble and broken bricks, and so they had to carry the wardrobe almost to the far end of the site before they found somewhere level enough to put it down.
‘Right, then, you going to burn it?’ said Mick. ‘Should have brought some hot dogs and stuff. We could have had a barbie.’
‘Sorry, Mick,’ Jerry told him. ‘I want you to go now, and leave us alone.’
‘Oh, that’s nice! I practically break my flipping back helping you carry that bleeding great wardrobe. I find you a great place to burn it, and now you won’t let me even watch!’
‘There’s a good reason, Mick. Honestly. Besides, if somebody sees us and we get into trouble, you don’t want to get involved, do you?’
‘All right. But you owe me five pints for this, got it?’
‘Mick – whatever you want, mate, it’s yours.’
‘All right. Five pints and a night with Rihanna.’
‘Whatever. I promise you.’
Mick went stumbling off over the mountains of broken yellow bricks. When he had climbed back through the security fence, Jerry unscrewed the lid of the petrol container and said, ‘OK, then,
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