Stone Cold Red Hot - [53]

“Try the back,” I yelled and ran after him round the side of the house to the back garden. I slipped on the way, my shoes full of water. My fake glasses fell off and I cracked them with my hand as I landed. I felt someone grab my arm and turned, ready to wrestle free, but it was Johnny.

“Y’alright?”

“Yes,” I struggled to my feet.

The garden was unkempt, overgrown grass and brambles, silvered in the strong moonlight, caught at our feet as we hurried after Carl. The hoarse screams and cat-calls of the crowd were muffled too but their message of hatred was all too clear. Smoke plumed up from the roof and drifted our way but otherwise there was no sign of the fire. Carl kicked at the door, three or four times. He ran back and Johnny had a go too. My teeth were clenched together tight as I willed the lock to give. They took turns kicking and shouldering it and finally the wood split across and the frame splintered. Another kick from Carl and the door skewed off it’s hinges and fell dangling at the side of the entrance.

There was darkness within. We stepped directly into the kitchen. I could smell the sharp fumes of petrol and oily smoke. I braced myself for the sound of screams or cries but heard nothing beyond the roaring off the fire upstairs and popping and banging sounds. Where were they? Oh, god, where were they?

Carl rushed ahead. “Carl, wait,” I yelled but he paid no attention. I grabbed Johnny’s shoulder. “Wait,” I repeated. The sink was just by me and above there were thin cotton curtains at the window. I ripped these down and turned the tap full on, soaking them and myself into the bargain. I shoved one at Johnny and tied the other round my nose and mouth. I pulled off the wig first, the false hair was slippery and I wanted the cloth to stay on.

There was an explosion then, loud and shocking, and a short scream. I didn’t know where Carl had gone. Johnny set off down the hall that led to the stairs. There were two rooms off it. I could just see the doors in the gloom. I opened each and called inside. No movement, no answer. I couldn’t see but I knew I shouldn’t turn the lights on. Were they in there but hiding from us? Thinking we were the ones out to get them? I tried to listen, to sense if anyone was crouching silent below a table or behind the couch. Where are you? My mind screamed and my heart raced in my chest. I found the bottom of the stairs, now I could see flames coming and going on the landing but mainly smoke, rolling in clouds before me. It became dense quickly. I crawled up the stairs keeping as low as I could. My eyes stung and watered, I felt the smoke locking my throat up. I was drowning. Another explosion sent a ball of flames the length of the landing, briefly illuminating the area. I saw Johnny’s trainers disappear into a doorway. The noise was horrendous, and the toxic stench of burning plastic reached me. I tried to follow but I could no longer breathe. My lungs were sticking together, my balance going. I pushed off the wall and tumbled down the stairs. My heart was thundering. I crawled to the back door and gulped in air then returned, holding my breath and I pulled myself up the stairs. Where were they?

I took the first door again, just inside I stumbled over legs. Jeans. Johnny. So hard to see. No air to speak. Heard him choking, vomiting. Pulled at his legs. He shuffled my way. Another sound, a child’s cough. In his arms, the toddler. Out the door, we wriggled, slow, painful. Flames nibbled along the carpet, caught at the bottom of my leg, the nylon melting and sticking fast. Johnny yelped. Hurt too. Had to get out, get out fast. Felt for the first stair, yanked us closer, no air. Buzz of darkness at the back of my skull, swimming closer. Pushing Johnny, tumbling down, bump, bump, bump. The child cries. Can’t find the door. Where’s the door gone?

“Bennie?”

“Take them out.”

Voices, hands lifting me up.

Outside, gulping for air and there is none. Then a mask on my face and my panic subsides. An ambulance. The people calm and steady. Johnny on a stretcher. The child, on the paramedics knee, pulling at her oxygen mask, her face streaked black, her clothes thick with soot.

A fireman approaches us, huge in his gear.

“There are others inside?”

I nod. Remove the mask to speak, my voice is pathetic, and I can’t say more than a couple of words without coughing. “There’s a baby and a little boy, their mother, and a policeman.”

He thanks me and runs off.

The ambulance was parked beside the police cars, in the middle of the road. I sat just inside, the back doors were open. The crowd had melted away. Neighbours remained, worried faces, sharing cigarettes and quiet conversations, coats pulled tight. I could see Darren, his face upset and wobbly standing beside his mother.

The moon was glorious, high, bright as neon.

Someone touched my arm. Mr Poole.

“You OK?” His eyes glistened.

I nodded. Clamped my mouth tight to hold the tears.

One of the engines was running foam into the upstairs window. A second ambulance arrived. The crew began to get out stretchers and blankets.