here, okay?”
The kid stares at me. He’s shaking.
“It’s okay,” I say. “It’s alright.”
He glances at the window, like he’s seriously considering doing a bunk from the first floor. Weighing it up in that tiny brain of his, already considering suicide as a viable alternative to letting me pick him up. Be a real kick to the balls for me if he pitches out that window.
“Wait a sec—”
The boy moves and I’m there. I grab him by the throat. One hand clamped tight, shifting to move into a headlock. He lets out a scream that sets my ears ringing; I tighten my grip on him. Fuck it, I’m not going to get any awards from the NSPCC, but I’m not used to handling kids. I just hope the lad doesn’t break my hold, and that I don’t accidentally break his neck. He keeps on wriggling until I give him a swift backhand to the arse.
The boy goes limp for a second, starts kicking again as soon as I pull him out of the room.
“ Naaaaaaaani!”
I think about belting the kid again.
“ Naaaaaaaani!”
A thick layer of smoke at shoulder level now. It’s enough to choke the lad, let me get my hearing back. Through the ocean in my eyes, I can make out flashes bouncing against the wall of smoke, strobing blue. And somewhere beyond my heart beating in my ears, I can hear sirens.
Looks like Daft Frank got his mobile working.
I take the stairs, and my back spasms hard. I drop to my knees halfway down, reach out and grab at the banister, manage to correct myself before I take the rest of the flight on my head. I catch the stench of what I reckon is burning furniture. And there’s that stabbing fear that Plummer fills his properties with all manner of cheap shit just to say they’re furnished, so that stench is probably toxic. I turn to look at the kid; he’s got the right idea, his hands up over his nose and mouth.
“You okay?” I say.
The kid doesn’t say anything. He’s too scared.
He’s not the only one.
Back to my feet, the kid weighing me down. He’s tensed right up, gone rigor-mortis rigid. I hope to fuck he hasn’t died of fright. A quick glance in the kitchen once I drop into the hall, and I realise my exit’s blocked, the fire raging out of control back there.
So I head for the front door. My senses gone, packed up with snot and fear, can’t think. I pull down on the door handle. Yank it hard, but it won’t go all the way.
The bastard’s locked.
I scream for help. The boy joins in.
Nice to know he’s still with us. More volume.
I bang on the door with my fist, risk messing up knuckles that have only just managed to heal.
There’s a flash in the kitchen. Just once, blinding white in the corner of my eye. Then a mule kick of heat to the back.
A crack against the front door. At first I think it’s my head, then that it’s the entire fucking house coming down on top of me.
Another crack. Pounding the door off its hinges. I duck down as the door flies open. There’s a hand on me. I look up. A fireman, full uniform, oxygen mask, looks like a cross between those blokes at the end of ET and Jesus, this halo of flashing light behind his helmet. A blast of fresh air grates through me, brings up the shite in my lungs, and the fireman drags me out of the house.
I hit the grass, coughing up lumps of lung and blackened phlegm. Then I throw up. Sit back on my knees, taking deep gulps of air with my eyes closed, my cheeks wet and stinging with tears.
When I open my eyes, the street’s heaving with people. A two-engine alarm, this one. People from neighbouring houses out to see the show, hugging themselves, suddenly chilly with the idea that this fire could spread.
A paramedic comes over to me, tries to help me up.
“Fuck off.” I push his hands away, feel my knees start to give, then grab onto him.
He leads the way. Feels like my head’s packed with fibreglass. The flashing lights blur into one dull strobe. Someone drapes a blanket over my shoulders — like I need warming up,
The kid stares at me. He’s shaking.
“It’s okay,” I say. “It’s alright.”
He glances at the window, like he’s seriously considering doing a bunk from the first floor. Weighing it up in that tiny brain of his, already considering suicide as a viable alternative to letting me pick him up. Be a real kick to the balls for me if he pitches out that window.
“Wait a sec—”
The boy moves and I’m there. I grab him by the throat. One hand clamped tight, shifting to move into a headlock. He lets out a scream that sets my ears ringing; I tighten my grip on him. Fuck it, I’m not going to get any awards from the NSPCC, but I’m not used to handling kids. I just hope the lad doesn’t break my hold, and that I don’t accidentally break his neck. He keeps on wriggling until I give him a swift backhand to the arse.
The boy goes limp for a second, starts kicking again as soon as I pull him out of the room.
“ Naaaaaaaani!”
I think about belting the kid again.
“ Naaaaaaaani!”
A thick layer of smoke at shoulder level now. It’s enough to choke the lad, let me get my hearing back. Through the ocean in my eyes, I can make out flashes bouncing against the wall of smoke, strobing blue. And somewhere beyond my heart beating in my ears, I can hear sirens.
Looks like Daft Frank got his mobile working.
I take the stairs, and my back spasms hard. I drop to my knees halfway down, reach out and grab at the banister, manage to correct myself before I take the rest of the flight on my head. I catch the stench of what I reckon is burning furniture. And there’s that stabbing fear that Plummer fills his properties with all manner of cheap shit just to say they’re furnished, so that stench is probably toxic. I turn to look at the kid; he’s got the right idea, his hands up over his nose and mouth.
“You okay?” I say.
The kid doesn’t say anything. He’s too scared.
He’s not the only one.
Back to my feet, the kid weighing me down. He’s tensed right up, gone rigor-mortis rigid. I hope to fuck he hasn’t died of fright. A quick glance in the kitchen once I drop into the hall, and I realise my exit’s blocked, the fire raging out of control back there.
So I head for the front door. My senses gone, packed up with snot and fear, can’t think. I pull down on the door handle. Yank it hard, but it won’t go all the way.
The bastard’s locked.
I scream for help. The boy joins in.
Nice to know he’s still with us. More volume.
I bang on the door with my fist, risk messing up knuckles that have only just managed to heal.
There’s a flash in the kitchen. Just once, blinding white in the corner of my eye. Then a mule kick of heat to the back.
A crack against the front door. At first I think it’s my head, then that it’s the entire fucking house coming down on top of me.
Another crack. Pounding the door off its hinges. I duck down as the door flies open. There’s a hand on me. I look up. A fireman, full uniform, oxygen mask, looks like a cross between those blokes at the end of ET and Jesus, this halo of flashing light behind his helmet. A blast of fresh air grates through me, brings up the shite in my lungs, and the fireman drags me out of the house.
I hit the grass, coughing up lumps of lung and blackened phlegm. Then I throw up. Sit back on my knees, taking deep gulps of air with my eyes closed, my cheeks wet and stinging with tears.
When I open my eyes, the street’s heaving with people. A two-engine alarm, this one. People from neighbouring houses out to see the show, hugging themselves, suddenly chilly with the idea that this fire could spread.
A paramedic comes over to me, tries to help me up.
“Fuck off.” I push his hands away, feel my knees start to give, then grab onto him.
He leads the way. Feels like my head’s packed with fibreglass. The flashing lights blur into one dull strobe. Someone drapes a blanket over my shoulders — like I need warming up,
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