able to sit up, and resumed her slow journey towards the house. Approaching the scene of the attack still gave her a twisted feeling in her gut, but she kept going, determined not to let anxiety win. Otherwise, she’d be running for ever.
She reached the door, turning the chair sideways so she could reach the bell, and pressed, hearing the chime, aligning the chair so her dad could help her up.
But no answer came.
‘Come on, Dad.’ She tried again.
After another moment she decided he hadn’t heard the bell and resorted to her phone, calling the home number. She sat back as it started to ring, watching for shadows in the light coming through the glass. Still nothing. Perhaps he was out.
Hawkins dug in her bag for the keys, edging her chair closer and fighting with the lock till it released. She pushed the door open.
‘Dad?’ she called into the empty hallway. ‘You there?’
The lights were on in the front room.
Silence.
Then the smoke alarm went off.
‘ Dad? ’ Hawkins shouted, looking around for passers-by, seeing no one. Next door worked long hours and wouldn’t be in, and she’d have to go the long way round on chair-friendly paths to reach the property after that, still with no guarantee they’d be there. She turned back to the house, straining her ears for any sign of a response. And still the alarm blared.
Suddenly she was fighting her way out of the chair, dropping to her knees inside the front door, looking back. There was no way she’d be able to pull the wheelchair up the step without standing.
She had to leave it.
Hawkins crawled forwards, ignoring tortured stomach muscles, picturing her dad lying on the floor with smoke curling around him. She reached the lounge, battling the urge to crumple and curl, checking the room for occupants.
‘ Dad? ’ she shouted again, over the incessant beeping, which she could now tell was coming from the kitchen.
Hawkins renewed her efforts and struck out for the next doorway, trying to speed up. What the fuck had he done? Had he been smoking again? He had promised everyone before Christmas he’d quit.
She tried to work out how long Mike had been gone, realizing it could only have been minutes at most. If her father was in physical distress, she was the worst assistant he could have hoped for. It was one thing being found, quite another if your supposed saviour then buckled, too.
She made it to the kitchen, quickly checking the floor, relieved to find it was clear. But that lasted only for the brief second before she realized that her father might be upstairs, still in need of resuscitation. And, in her current state, Hawkins had no chance of making it up there without help.
Then her eye was drawn to the black smoke rising from the top oven, forcing her to make a snap choice. Even if she went for the stairs, by the time she reached the landing the whole house could be alight.
She had to stop this first.
Hawkins set off towards the far side of her kitchen, knees crunching against the tiles, seeing flames starting to lick the underside of the grill. She realized with dread that reaching it would require her to stand.
She came to a halt by the lower oven, hunching for a moment to relieve the worst of the pain, trying to block out the alarm. Picturing the flames getting worse.
She grabbed the nearest handle, dragging her right leg forwards until her foot was flat on the floor. Without pausing, she pushed upwards, bearing violent protest from her stomach wall. At first she made progress, but then her head went light and she dropped back, breathing hard. She stared at the floor, recharging for another attempt. And then she saw it: a tiny patch of discoloured grout between two of the tiles. At any other time, in any other kitchen, it would have meant nothing, but its significance rocked her. This was thespot where she’d been found just six weeks ago, near to death. Which meant the patch was probably blood.
Her blood.
Hawkins’ head swam, a mixture
She reached the door, turning the chair sideways so she could reach the bell, and pressed, hearing the chime, aligning the chair so her dad could help her up.
But no answer came.
‘Come on, Dad.’ She tried again.
After another moment she decided he hadn’t heard the bell and resorted to her phone, calling the home number. She sat back as it started to ring, watching for shadows in the light coming through the glass. Still nothing. Perhaps he was out.
Hawkins dug in her bag for the keys, edging her chair closer and fighting with the lock till it released. She pushed the door open.
‘Dad?’ she called into the empty hallway. ‘You there?’
The lights were on in the front room.
Silence.
Then the smoke alarm went off.
‘ Dad? ’ Hawkins shouted, looking around for passers-by, seeing no one. Next door worked long hours and wouldn’t be in, and she’d have to go the long way round on chair-friendly paths to reach the property after that, still with no guarantee they’d be there. She turned back to the house, straining her ears for any sign of a response. And still the alarm blared.
Suddenly she was fighting her way out of the chair, dropping to her knees inside the front door, looking back. There was no way she’d be able to pull the wheelchair up the step without standing.
She had to leave it.
Hawkins crawled forwards, ignoring tortured stomach muscles, picturing her dad lying on the floor with smoke curling around him. She reached the lounge, battling the urge to crumple and curl, checking the room for occupants.
‘ Dad? ’ she shouted again, over the incessant beeping, which she could now tell was coming from the kitchen.
Hawkins renewed her efforts and struck out for the next doorway, trying to speed up. What the fuck had he done? Had he been smoking again? He had promised everyone before Christmas he’d quit.
She tried to work out how long Mike had been gone, realizing it could only have been minutes at most. If her father was in physical distress, she was the worst assistant he could have hoped for. It was one thing being found, quite another if your supposed saviour then buckled, too.
She made it to the kitchen, quickly checking the floor, relieved to find it was clear. But that lasted only for the brief second before she realized that her father might be upstairs, still in need of resuscitation. And, in her current state, Hawkins had no chance of making it up there without help.
Then her eye was drawn to the black smoke rising from the top oven, forcing her to make a snap choice. Even if she went for the stairs, by the time she reached the landing the whole house could be alight.
She had to stop this first.
Hawkins set off towards the far side of her kitchen, knees crunching against the tiles, seeing flames starting to lick the underside of the grill. She realized with dread that reaching it would require her to stand.
She came to a halt by the lower oven, hunching for a moment to relieve the worst of the pain, trying to block out the alarm. Picturing the flames getting worse.
She grabbed the nearest handle, dragging her right leg forwards until her foot was flat on the floor. Without pausing, she pushed upwards, bearing violent protest from her stomach wall. At first she made progress, but then her head went light and she dropped back, breathing hard. She stared at the floor, recharging for another attempt. And then she saw it: a tiny patch of discoloured grout between two of the tiles. At any other time, in any other kitchen, it would have meant nothing, but its significance rocked her. This was thespot where she’d been found just six weeks ago, near to death. Which meant the patch was probably blood.
Her blood.
Hawkins’ head swam, a mixture
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