Stone Cold Red Hot - [62]

My arm was swelling, the pellets sinking deeper into puffy flesh and bruising edging the wounds. It was hot to the touch. I used the tweezers to dig out the bits letting myself howl and moan when it hurt. Which it did. A lot. Some of the fragments were sharp edged and tore at my skin as I pulled. Each wound bled afresh which I hoped would wash out any dirt. At last I thought they were all out. I dabbed disinfectant on the first one and screamed at the bite. I couldn’t bear it.

I mixed water from the kettle with salt and used that. That hurt too. Holding my breath I slathered Germoline around the holes and wrapped a large sterile dressing over the area. One-handed I couldn’t fasten it as snugly as I wanted, I’d ask Sheila to re-do it later. The huge dressing had been in the first aid box for ages, I’d always wondered why they had included it – it seemed so extreme. Now it had found a home.

In the lounge I poured myself a generous measure of brandy and sat on the sofa with my legs up. I sipped at the drink, the glow fierce in my tongue and warm as it went down my throat to my stomach. I gazed out at the garden, losing myself in the patterns of the tree branches against the sky. The sun edged its way into the garden and in through the large windows, it reached the sofa. I drained the brandy and got the cotton throw off the easy chair, lay down again and covered myself with it.

The sun was warm on my face and chest, amber light through my eyelids. I soaked in the glow as I spiralled into sleep.

I woke with a start. It was three o’clock. For a moment I panicked about picking the kids up until I remembered Ray’s assurance that he would do it. The phone was ringing, then the answerphone kicked in.

I sat up, balking at the pain as both my arm and leg protested. My mouth was dry, my tongue like a pumice stone, my throat felt raw. I could hear a man’s voice leaving a message. I got to my feet testing my weight on my damaged leg. I could walk if I took it slowly.

I got a glass of water in the kitchen and chugged it down. Digger looked at me expectantly then padded over. His wagging tail thumped against my leg and all the nerve endings shrieked in agony. I gasped aloud and gripped the sink until it felt safe to let go. Digger had slunk back under the table. I chucked him a dog biscuit. No hard feelings.

The light on the answerphone told me there were two messages. I played them back. Dianne had heard about the fire, from Ray, and would call round later to see how I was getting on. The second message was from the detectives following up an enquiry into the fire; they would be contacting me for a statement. Good. I wanted those thugs sent down. I wondered whether they had other witnesses; had anyone actually seen who threw the petrol bombs? Could they prosecute them all for involvement, conspiracy to endanger life or whatever? The tapes would help build the case, too. Had Mandy Bellows heard about it all yet? If she’d not been ill would action have been taken already and the fire not happened? If we’d got into the house more quickly, if we could have got in the front? If the police had sent a riot squad instead of two patrol cars? I realised what I was doing and shook my head. All the supposition in the world wouldn’t change the facts. Nor would feeling guilty.

I was half way upstairs when the phone rang again. I reached it and snatched it up before the tape could kick in.

“Hello?” I sounded croaky.

“Is that Sal?” A man’s voice.

“Yes.”

“It’s Stuart Bowker. We met the other night.”

“Oh, yes.” A blush washed my face and neck. Thank God he couldn’t see me.

“I…well, I hope you don’t mind me ringing. I got your number from Diane. I thought perhaps you might like to go for a meal sometime or to see a film or something.”

“Oh.” There was a horrible pause then we both spoke at once and both stopped. I tried again. “Well, I’m not really up to it at the moment.” It sounded like a brush off. Was it? I couldn’t work out what I felt except horribly embarrassed.

“OK,” he said, “maybe some other time. I’ll give you my number.”

“Right.” I had lost the power of articulate speech. He reeled it off but my biro wasn’t working. I pressed down hard on the paper instead.

We said goodbyes. I replaced the receiver and groaned to myself. Before I could move away it rang. Him again?

“Hello?”

It was the police. Arranging to take my statement? I didn’t catch what she was saying and had to ask her to repeat it.

“Your car, we’ve found your car, you reported it missing. Well, it’s turned up over in Sharston. I’m afraid it’s a write off, it’s completely burnt out. They must have doused it with petrol and set fire to it.” She gave me the address, I scratched that on the paper.

I didn’t have any great bond with my car, I never relished it or cherished it like some people do. None of my cars had ever had a name or been invested with a personality. A car was a car. I used it to get me, the kids and the shopping from A to B, that’s all. So I was surprised at my reaction. I think the news had just come at a bad time. I put down the phone and burst into tears. I found a box of tissues and curled myself into the armchair in the corner of the kitchen and bawled for England. Quarter of an hour later, with a nose like Rudolph’s, and only able to breathe with my mouth open, I disposed of all the crumpled tissues and packed away the first aid kit.