Helen nodded and turned her head to the wall.
Moments later, the first blow struck. Then the second, harder this time. A brief pause and Helen whispered:
“Again.”
The blows rained down now, each impact jarring Helen’s body,causing her to cry out. And slowly she started to relax, the pain taking her away to another place, away from life, away from herself. The tension that had been building up inside her for weeks was already receding, replaced by a relaxed exhaustion that was familiar and comforting. Perhaps it hadn’t been a mistake to come here after all.
33
At first, she wasn’t sure if she was dreaming. Someone—or something—was pressing down hard on her, depriving her of breath. She lashed out with her arm, expecting to meet resistance, but connected with... nothing. Now she started to cough—savage and harsh—and, rousing herself, slowly opened her eyes.
Shewasn’tdreaming—but still none of this made sense. She’d had a good night with Darren and they’d come upstairs together around ten p.m. He said he’d stay the night with her, so why was her bed now empty? He’d done a bunk before, broken his promises, but still it must be the middle of the night, given how dark it was. Denise fumbled for the clock radio but couldn’t find it. Why was it so bloody dark in here?
She coughed some more. Painful, rasping, insistent coughs. Suddenly Denise couldn’t stop coughing, bringing up great clods of mucus and even a little of tonight’s dinner. She swallowed it back down, butthe acidic taste of vomit lingered in her mouth, along with something else. The taste of smoke.
Now Denise was wide-awake. Why hadn’t she noticed this before? The whole place stank of smoke. The whole place wasfullof smoke. A horrible fear now gripped Denise, and her mind immediately whirled back to a promise she’d made to herself some weeks back to replace the batteries in her smoke alarms. Why hadn’t she done it? Why was she such a lazy cow?
Her hand fumbled its way to the bedside light and she clicked it on. As she did so, her free hand shot to her mouth. Black smoke was pouring in under the closed bedroom door, invading the room and claiming it as its own.
Throwing off the duvet, Denise stumbled toward the door. Grogginess was making her clumsy, while her rising panic made breathing hard. Was Callum in? Had he come home or stayed out with friends? Denise grabbed the door handle, determined to run straight to his bedroom—then pulled her hand away sharply. The cheap metal handle was red hot. Looking down, she saw a long livid line forming on the palm of her hand, as a biting pain took hold. Whimpering now, Denise stood stock-still, the horrible craziness of this situation temporarily paralyzing her. Then thoughts of her son forced their way back into her consciousness, spurring her on. She grabbed a drying vest from the radiator, wrapped it round her good hand and worked the handle again.
It wouldn’t move. This made no sense—there was no lock on this door. She tried again harder, yanking the handle back and forth, and this time she became aware of a noise. It was the sound of the wooden doorframe bending and buckling in the intense heat.
“Please, God, no. I can’t die here. I don’t want to die here,” Denise muttered to herself through tears as she pulled and pulled to no avail. Suddenly she let go of the handle, fear and exhaustion robbing her of her conviction. Sweat was pouring off her now, but it evaporated almostas quickly as it appeared, leaving a sticky, salty residue clinging to her body. She was finding it harder and harder to breathe—she would only last another minute at best—so summoning what courage remained, Denise grabbed the door handle and pulled it for all she was worth.
This time the door gave, swinging violently and unexpectedly toward her. It all happened so quickly thereafter that Denise had only a moment to react to what she saw, a second in which to throw her arms up to her face in horror. A vast wall of flame was charging directly toward her, destroying everything in its path.
34
Callum Roberts took a big drag, inhaling the smoke slowly and letting it hang in his lungs, before exhaling. He felt the rush immediately and drew heavily on the joint again, before offering it to Dave, who was waiting impatiently for it. As his friend reached over to take it, Callum pulled it away again, having one last toke from it and earning himself a punch on the shoulder for his cheek.
Slowly his mood was lifting. He hated it when his mum had that man over. It was bad enough just thinking about what they got up to. It was even worse having to listen to it through the paper-thin walls. His own mother giving it away to someone who wouldn’t hang around once he’d got what he came for. Callum could always tell when her date nights were coming up—a sudden burst of cheerfulness, followed by steadily rising anxiety as the day approached, punctuated all the while by endless trips to buy perfume, dresses, new underwear. The whole thing made him sick to the stomach.
Callum marched to the fridge, pulled out a can of beer and drank half of it down in one go. He always made himself scarce when his mum had company, seeking refuge with whichever of his mates would have him. As it turned out, Dave’s parents were away for the night, meaning Callum could stay over without having to face their sly looks and whispered, disapproving comments. Strange really how Dave could be so sound, yet they were such total dicks.
Quite a few people had come round to Dave’s now, word having spread of an impromptu party. With the new arrivals had come booze, dope and more besides, all of which Callum helped himself to, despite the fact that he had arrived empty-handed. To his mind, he deserved it after his shitty day.
He felt pleasantly light-headed as he made his way across the room toward the balcony. Dave lived on the top floor of a sixties apartment block. All the flats here were originally council-owned, but were later snapped up by smug homemakers like Dave’s folks. Now they were pretty plush and every flat came with a small balcony, commanding decent views over Southampton.
From across the room, Callum spotted the pretty blonde again—what was her name? Kerry? Carrie? She had been round Dave’s on previous occasions, and even though she was a stunner, she never seemed to have a boyfriend in tow. Callum had a mind to do something about that, given half a chance.
When he stepped out onto the balcony, he was immediately struck by the noise and energy of the banter—unusual for these potheads. He’d planned to sidle up to the blonde and get to work on her straightaway, but everyone seemed to be staring out from the flat toward something that lay beyond. There was a definite charge and excitement to their chat, and curiosity now got the better of Callum—he brushed past his intended target in the hope of getting a better view.
There was a fire. Smoke was billowing into the sky nearby, and if youstood on tiptoe, you could just make out the tops of the flames leaping into the night sky. Sirens could be heard in the distance and closer, there was a strange buzz, as the fire drew local residents out onto the street. What was that buzz? Fear? Or excitement?
Already a disquieting thought was starting to arrow its way through Callum’s brain and he pushed his way farther forward, straining to get a better sense of the exact location of the fire. He got a few muttered “Fuck’s sakes” from the people he barged aside, but he didn’t care. Sweat was breaking out on his forehead now, despite the bitter cold, as dread slowly crept over him.
He suddenly realized Dave was at his side—he too had been drawn out by the sight of the fire. And he seemed to echo Callum’s growing fears as he turned hesitantly to his friend and muttered:
“Looks like it’s over your neck of the woods, mate.”
35
A large crowd had gathered already and Helen had to shout to be heard as she barged her way to the front. The burning house was a detached two-up, two-down on a run-down housing estate. The front garden wasn’t well kept and the house was little better. But whatever unsightliness it offered was now obscured—the whole house was ablaze, huge flames punching out of the shattered windows.
Helen had made it across town in record time, kicking herself all the way for taking her eye off the ball at such a crucial time. Her blood had run cold when Sanderson called her with the news—three more fires had broken out. Helen had detailed other officers to investigate the first two, a furniture showroom in Bitterne Park and an outdoor car park in Nicholstown, while she’d biked straight to the residential blaze in Bevois Mount. This was the third fire that had been called in, and instinct drew Helen to it.
Firefighters were battling to get into the property, but the fire wasat its peak now. Stalking round the house to see if the crews on the other side were faring any better, Helen was alarmed to see how completely the fire had taken hold. Cheap plywood walls, synthetic flooring, worn-down carpeting—the whole place was a fire hazard. Helen prayed that there was no one left inside when it went up.
