Out of Bounds by Kris Pearson Page B

the timber flooring had been retrieved. The best windows
had certainly gone. She kept well clear, not wanting too vivid a
picture of number fifteen’s eventual fate. If it ever came to that,
of course...
    On Thursday morning, an evil yellow digger
arrived on a truck and proceeded to bash its bucket into what
remained. Seventeen put up no fight at all. There was bare land
when she arrived home from work that day. A bright orange netting
fence strung with ‘Keep Out—Construction Site’ notices had been
erected across the road frontage.
    And by then, she was almost used to him. He
was always up and dressed by the time she woke, so that took care
of any awkwardness in the mornings. She’d find him in one of his
superb suits if he was heading into the city; in jeans if he was
aiming to be on site next door.
    His evenings were a mystery to her—he never
mentioned Claire, and he spent hours tapping away on his laptop at
the kitchen table. And being charming to her if she was home. Her
guard was dropping fast.
    By ten on Thursday night, she was in bed with
a new magazine, guiltily keeping half an eye on her larger TV.
She’d pushed the latch safely across.
    She’d survived four whole days living with a
man...
    Sometime after midnight, a noise scratched at
the edges of her sleep. An eerie crackling. Snapping and popping,
somewhere far too close.
    She woke enough to register the flickering
orange light through her curtains must be flames. The stink of
smoke confirmed it a nanosecond later.
    Number seventeen was on fire!
    Her sleep-addled brain took a little longer
to tell her number seventeen no longer existed. And at that exact
moment, the glass in her window cracked and exploded with the heat,
and the hungry flames roared up her curtains and rushed across the
ceiling.
    Get out, get out, get out!
    She lurched from her bed and staggered across
the room, blinded by the invading smoke. She groped in the murk,
cannoned into the end of the unaccustomed larger bed, and almost
pitched to the floor. Somehow, she stayed upright, grabbing,
grasping, feeling things cascade from the edge of her lowboy as her
frantic fingers scrabbled along in the eerie light. Her throat
closed up with fear. The blood beat a furious tattoo there,
pounding, choking, stifling. Her heart thumped as loud and fast as
a kettledrum. Sudden tears welled from her eyes, stinging in the
acrid air. Please God, where was the door?
    At last the handle. She wrenched it down, but
the door refused to budge. Stuck fast. Immovable. A hateful barrier
to her freedom.
    The latch. The latch.
    She fumbled and found it. Wrenched at the
metal, but her hands were drenched with perspiration from the
stomach-curdling fear pouring through her. No chance of a proper
grip on the bolt. Her desperate fingers couldn’t slide it
aside.
    Panic flooded every vein. “Anton! Anton!
Fire!”
    Please God—make him hear.
    She screamed and pounded, and tugged again on
the slippery bolt. Time raced by.
    “Anton! Help me!”
    She coughed and gagged, and in the nick of
time an old school-day rule blossomed in her smoke drugged mind. ‘Bend low for air’ it reminded her.
    She dropped to the floor, gasping for oxygen,
really choking now. At least it was a little better down there. A
fraction cooler. Slightly lighter. She lay down and pounded her
heels on the door like a two year old in full desperate tantrum
mode.
    “Anton!” she screamed, again and again. “Help
me!”
    If he yelled anything back, she didn’t hear
him, but suddenly the door shuddered against her heels, and she
sensed he’d thrown his weight against it. The sound of splitting
timber cracked out over the voracious roaring of the flames.
    Jetta scrambled sideways and buried her head
in her hands, praying he’d be successful, praying he’d save her.
The door gave several more almighty shakes and then crashed open
against her legs.
    Long arms reached down and dragged her into
the hallway, dumping her on the hard timber floor