Chapter 36

Tuesday 2nd November, 6:32am

‘I didn’t see anything. Do you want me to take a look?’ Mark’s staring at me, hesitating, holding back. Boiling anger dissolves to cold fear. I know what I saw.

Riley barks and barks and barks. I nod.

‘I’ll get the bloody dog in while I’m out there.’ Irritation is palpable in his voice. The face, I’m sure I recognised it, the photos in the attic. Was it . . . ? I can’t say it to myself, let alone out loud to my husband.

The bang is huge. An explosion of sound vibrating through the building, rattling the mugs and plates on the table.

I stare at Mark, see astonishment turn to concern.

‘What the hell?’ he says.

I don’t wait to reply, I run to the kitchen door. ‘The twins,’ I call back to him as I wrench the door open and dash into the hall. The far window is alive with flicking yellow light.

Mark pulls up beside me. ‘What the fuck?’

‘Mummy?’

Sophie’s on the landing peeping over the bannister, Tom beside her.

‘Quickly, kids, into the kitchen!’ I shout.

Mark drags the front door open, the gagging stink of hot fuel and sharp tang of smoke sucks in on an icy blast of air. He steps across the threshold, I follow. We stand together for what seems like an age but can only be a fraction of a second. He edges forward, stops on the top step, his hand held out to shield his face from the heat of jumping, eager flames.

‘How . . . ?’ he says.

I glance back at the landing. ‘Get dressed, kids, anything, fast as you can. We need to get out.’

The Armstrong Siddeley’s bonnet has crumpled into the base of one of the giant urns, strappy leaves and soil spew across the steps and gravel.

‘The tank was drained, the engine stripped out . . .’ Mark glances over his shoulder at me.

‘Forget it, we have to go, get the kids out, Mark. Now!’

Flames flare up the front of the house. Flaking paintwork, crumbling facia boards, rotten sash-windows lap up the fire. My heart is racing, how much time do we have before the whole house goes up?

‘Hey!’ Mark sprints down the front steps, crosses the drive onto the lawn. I peer through choking black smoke, scan the dark garden. A figure stands in front of the bank of yews. At this distance it’s impossible to make out who it is. A man though, judging by height and build. The face at the kitchen window?

‘Mark!’

My husband’s not listening, can’t hear me over the roar of the fire and the crunch of his feet on gravel. I make to follow him, glance back. The hall is empty. Utterly still and silent. My chest tightens.

‘Kids, let’s go.’

No response.

‘Kids? Come on!’

I run across the hall, smoke stings my eyes, scratches the back of my throat. The landing’s empty. I sprint upstairs.

‘Tom, Sophie? Come on. Let’s go.’

Tendrils of smoke creep from the office, the room shivering with yellow light. My guts churn with fear. Where are they? I run along the landing, slam the bathroom and office doors, head back to Tom’s room. The usual chaos of toys, clothes and clutter. No Tom. I snatch up his inhaler from the bedside table and shove it into my coat pocket.

‘Kids, we need to get out!’ Panic in my voice.

Sophie’s room: crumpled covers, pink bubbles of the lava lamp lethargically rising, falling. Where the hell are the twins?

‘Tom, Sophie?’

Our room: an empty bed. Crashing somewhere overhead, a whooshing wheezing sound like the house gasps for air. The fire is moving fast. I’m shaking, panic racing through me.

The spare room door is wide open, the corner of the bed and top of the fireplace visible in the moonlight. Smoke hasn’t reached it, the room strangely quiet and calm. The twins won’t go in there. I head to the stairs and stop at the top of the flight.

‘Tom, Sophie? Are you downstairs? Please, kids! Answer me!’

I look again at the spare room, bright with moonlight, nothing moves. I have to be sure.

I jog the length of dark landing.

‘Tom, Sophie?’

I slow, walk the last few steps. The air is thick and frigid, cloying on my tongue. Cigarettes, a strong, stale odour of cologne. My heart thunders in my chest, silence hissing in my ears. More of the room comes into view, the bed, fireplace, dressing table. I can’t see the twins.

‘Tom, Sophie?’

My voice is halting, unsure, my mouth dry from heat and smoke. I’m close enough to reach out and touch the door. My fingers are trembling as I lunge for the small brass knob. Moonlight glints off the metal, the door swings towards me, slams shut.

‘No!’ I hammer on pot-marked paint. ‘No!’

I kick the door, rattled the knob.

‘Tom, Sophie? Are you in there? Try and open up from your side.’

I pound my fist against wood, rattle, shake the door in its frame. Nothing gives way.

I drop to my knees and pull the tiny metal key from the lock, put my lips to the keyhole.

‘Tom, Sophie, I need you to help me. Are you in there?’

Silence.

‘Kids?’

I glance over my shoulder, heavy rapid footsteps on the stairs. Mark stops at the top of the flight, sees me, runs to where I kneel.

‘What the hell are you doing?’

‘The door’s jammed. The twins must be in there.’

Smoke fills the far end of the landing, a billowing wall of grey creeping towards us.

‘We haven’t got much time, Kate. The fire’s almost on the stairs.’

Mark pushes me away from the door, rattles the doorknob, steps back and kicks his foot against the brass.

‘Stop! For God’s sake, stop it.’ I tug at his arm. ‘If you smash the lock we’ve no way in.’

Mark boots the bottom of the door. Hard blunt blows. He grabs, twists the handle again and again. I glance behind me, there’s smoke at the top of the stairs.

‘Why would the kids be in there? It’s the last place they’d go,’ says Mark.

Cold penetrates to my bones, my hands, numb. Our breath fogs between us. Mark sees it. An explosion, splintering glass, flame gushes from the office. Smoke smarts my eyes as I stare into Mark’s face.

‘He has them. I know he does.’

‘What? Don’t be absurd. I’m getting something to smash the door in.’ Mark turns towards the landing, I grab his wrist.

‘Wait, let me try. We should stay together.’

Mark glances towards smoke curling along the runner, a curt nod. ‘Make it fast, Kate.’

I square up to the door, take a breath, reach out, take hold of icy, dented metal. Turn the doorknob. Metal slides under my palm.

The door stays shut.

‘Kate . . .’

‘Wait!’ I say.

‘Have you heard them in there?’ Mark hammers his fist on the door. ‘Tom, Sophie!’

Mark’s voice booms in my ear. I hear his rising panic, close my eyes, force myself to breathe slowly, in, out, in, out, in, out.

A slow, gentle twist of my wrist. The doorknob turns, the mechanism clicks. The door swings away from me. Mark presses us forward, we tumble into the room.

It’s weirdly quiet, no smoke, no sounds of the fire, no crashing timbers. The undercurrent of stale cigarettes is here. Mark strides past me, looks about the room, at me. ‘Not here, Kate. Come on!’

I can’t believe it. I was so sure . . .

Mark heads for the door. I pull up the corner of the duvet. No one under the bed.

‘We need to get out, Kate!’

A cough, muffled, barely audible. I look towards the French windows, grab the chaise longue, pull it away from the doors. There’s no one behind it.

‘Mum!’

Sophie, her voice shaking and unsure. I spin around, look at Mark, scan the room. Huddled in the footwell of the dressing table are the twins. Tom’s coughing, crying, Sophie shaking, her face, pale as paper. Relief crashes over me. I drop to my hands and knees, grab them, help them scramble out. I try to smile, to hide how terrified I’ve been for them, and still am for us all.

‘What are you doing in here? We need to get out,’ I say, trying to keep the anxiety from my voice.

‘The shouty man . . .’

Sophie speaks so softly I barely hear her. Tom’s nodding for all he’s worth.

‘Here. Take a puff,’ I say, handing my son his inhaler.

‘Come on,’ says Mark, heading for the door.

The slam rips through the room, rattles the mirrors on the dressing table. The glass in the middle mirror cracks, a jagged section topples forward, smashes into thousands of glittering shards that scatter the table top and floor. Mark stands stock still in front of the door. He snatches at the doorknob, tugs, yanks it. It won’t open. I know it won’t.

‘What the fuck’s going on!’

‘I told you, Mummy, the scary man!’ Sophie’s breath is hot against my cheek. Tom wheezes, coughs, hangs on so tightly to my wrist I feel his bones on mine.

Mark turns to face us. Words fail me. No time to explain.

Freezing cold air like a thousand icy fingers jabs my skin. Mark feels it too, I see it in his face, in his confusion, his eyes searching mine for an explanation.

Laughter, a low, dreadful sound fogging my brain, strangling my thoughts.

Sophie dives under the dressing table, Tom scrambling at her heels. They crouch at the very back, pressing against black wood and each other, hands over their ears, eyes scrunched shut.

I grab Mark’s hand, shake it.

‘Mark! Mark, listen to me. Block him, don’t let him in.’

My husband’s face is at once terrified, confused, contorting as the laughter grows. I hurry to the dressing table, crouch before the footwell.

‘Kids, listen to me. Block him out.’

I grab Sophie’s upper arm. She jerks away, huddles closer to Tom. I glance back at Mark, his head in his hands, smoke curling around his ankles, seeping in from beneath the floorboards and door.

The laughter grows louder, stronger in my head. Can’t think. I screw my eyes shut. Don’t listen to him. Think, Katie, think.

Only one thing comes to mind.

‘Sing a song of sixpence a pocket full of rye . . .’

My voice is weak, high, reedy. I gulp in air, smoke catches my throat. I cough and cough, a sourness of burning in my nostrils, on my tongue. I open my eyes, look at my cowering, terrified children. Try again.

‘Sing a song of sixpence a pocket full of rye, Four and twenty blackbirds . . .’

I tug Sophie’s arm again, she peeps at me between matted strands of hair. ‘Sing with me.’

‘Sing a song of sixpence a pocket full of rye.’

My voice steadies. Sophie, then Tom’s voices blend with mine, grow louder, stronger as we sing. The children fix their eyes on mine. I smile, keep singing.

‘As loud as you can. Concentrate on the words, don’t let him in.’

The children nod in unison. Mark’s halting baritone joins with the song.

‘Don’t stop,’ I say, pulling the twins from beneath the dressing table.

‘Strip the bed,’ I shout to Mark. ‘Throw the mattress out of the French windows.’

Three quick strides and Mark’s opened the windows, kicking at the rotten balcony. Metal groans, bits fall, hit the terrace with a dull clang.

Our voices chime together, louder, stronger.

‘When the pie was opened the birds began to sing.’

‘Sophie, help me pull off the sheets,’ I say, throwing the duvet to the floor.

Tom wheezes. Coughs. His skin’s grey, lips blue-white. I pull him towards the chaise longue.

‘Sit,’ I tell him, pulling the inhaler from his fingers, holding it to his lips. ‘Take it slowly.’

Tom’s eyes find mine as he inhales. I smile, hope I look calm, reassuring, no hint that my heart feels it might burst from my chest.

‘I’m so cold, Mum.’

I take off my coat, wrap it around my son.

‘Keep singing in your head, Tom. Try not to breath in too much smoke. We’ll be out of here in no time.’

Tom’s nodding, a half smile. I kiss the top of his head.

‘Help me with the mattress,’ says Mark, pushing the chaise longue with Tom on it to one side.

We drag the mattress from the bed, pummel it through the window.

‘Down came a blackbird and pecked off her nose.’

Sophie sings so loudly she’s shouting out each word.

‘Don’t step on what’s left of the balcony, Kate. It won’t take any weight.’

We hurl the mattress over the narrow balcony. It lands amongst the pots on the terrace.

‘I’ll knot the sheets,’ I say.

Mark flings the duvet and pillows out after the mattress.

We tie the fabric to the leg of the dressing table, dangle the end out of the window. ‘It’s a bit short but it’ll do,’ I say. ‘Take Tom, Mark. I’ll hang onto the sheet up here and make sure it takes your weight.’

Sophie presses at my side, singing at the top of her voice. Mark takes hold of the sheets, Tom piggybacking, his arms tight about his father’s neck.

‘Follow Daddy and Tom, Sophie.’

‘You’re coming?’ Sophie’s eyes are huge in her white face, her lips moving with the song.

‘Straight after you, Sophie. As soon as you’re down, take Tom and Riley and run to Mrs Cooper’s in the village, okay?’

The smoke seeping through the floorboards and under the door is getting thicker. The fire’s reached this floor. I hang onto the sheet. It jerks as Mark, bit by bit, makes his way to the ground.

Sophie screams, eyes fixed on the room behind me. I force myself to keep looking at my daughter’s face, not to turn round, not to look at the space behind me.

She moves fast, her backward step a reflex. I grab her wrist, my fingertips slipping against her skin as she falls. The balcony shudders, metal groans, tilts towards the terrace.

‘Sophie!’

I’m snatching at air, flaking rust, flaying rose stems. Sophie slides on her back, hits the lip of the collapsing balcony. For an instant, she seems to stop moving, her fingers finding the edge of the metal. Mark’s on the ground, arms outstretched, bending, cowering beneath the torrent of falling debris.

Snapping, cracking metal. The balcony ripping away from brickwork, falling, jerking though thick rose branches. Sophie looks up at me as she lies on the listing balcony floor, her eyes terrified. The balcony hits the terrace. Silence. Mark’s calling Sophie. He rips rose branches to one side. The balcony landed flat on the terrace. Sophie lies inside it, covered in dust. My daughter’s eyes are wide open, fixed on mine, not moving.

Tom’s screaming. An unending noise splitting frosty air. He stands on the terrace steps clutching my jacket to his face. Mark’s calling Sophie’s name over and over. Answer him, Sophie. Please, please, answer him. He reaches her, leaning over, scooping her into his arms, half drags, half carries her to where Tom stands. He sits her with her brother, her back to the terrace wall. Her skinny arms around his neck clutch him tight.

‘She’s alright, Kate. She’s alright!’

Mark stands, looks up to where I kneel at the edge of the room. He’s not looking at me. His eyes skid past me, focus on the room at my back. The stink of cigarettes overpowers the stench of the fire. The cold is as deep as a meat safe. Mark’s running across the terrace, stops beside the broken balcony.

‘Jump, Kate.’

Most of the mattress is buried beneath the balcony. Mark grabs a corner, tries, fails to pull it free. I glance at the ground, how many metres to a landing of smashed tiles, jagged metal, broken pots? Mark drags the duvet and pillows, covers the space beneath here. I can’t jump. Won’t jump.

I look across the terrace to where the twins stand huddled together. Sophie, then Tom start to sing. They’re safe. Whatever happens, my children are out of this place.

I keep my back to the room, edge towards the sheet. Cold penetrates my hoody, my tee-shirt, burns into my skin. Laughter rings in my head, a warning growing louder, stronger. Impossible to keep it out. A shadow, deepening about me, as if someone stands at my back, leaning over me, blocking the light. I’m shaking, fear as much as cold. I grasp the sheet in both hands. I have no choice but to turn around.

I take a breath, steady myself, concentrate on the sound of my children’s voices. I close my eyes, swing my legs over the edge, lower myself, elbows on the floorboards.

I won’t listen to you. You can’t harm me. I won’t let you take my family from me.

I open my eyes. The room is a storm of swirling smoke, dust and amongst it all, a deeper darkness. It moves between me and the dressing table. One section of mirror remains, the ancient pitted glass dark, clouded. For an instant I fancy I see something, a curve of a lip, but then there’s nothing. Only dust and smoke.

I push myself backwards. My feet find the fabric, rough brickwork. I lower myself slowly, the sheet taut, hand over numb hand, bouncing my feet off the walls, finding a foothold on a broken rose stem, an old stretch of wire. Mark has my ankles, my calves, his hands around my waist as my feet find the ground. He pulls me to him, holds me so tight he crushes the air from me.

‘I’m sorry, so sorry, Kate.’

His body is at once warm and solid, but shaking violently. Over his shoulder, I stare at an empty terrace.

‘Where are the twins?’

Mark takes my hand, we run to the terrace steps.

‘They raced off to get the dog before I could stop them.’

We clear the steps, head for the front of the house.

‘Lyle’s done this.’

‘Lyle?’

‘I couldn’t catch him earlier, but it was definitely him. I got a really good look.’

‘Where did he go to?’

‘He ran off towards the village.’

Fear burns like acid in my gut. I’m running flat out, lungs bursting. We round the corner to the front of the building. Sparks shoot into a star-filled sky. Flames spew from windows, roar through the roof. Frost smothers the lawn and driveway, sparkling in the light from the flames.

‘Tom! Sophie?’

The garden, lawn and driveway are deserted. I stop, stare up at the burning building, Mark pulls up beside me.

‘They’ll be heading to Shirley’s,’ I say.

Would Oliver Lyle harm my children? If Mark’s right about the house . . .

‘Stay here, I’ll check the kennel,’ says Mark.

The scream is behind me, a deep, long, low howl that doesn’t stop, gets louder as I turn to the sound. After the bright firelight I can’t see, my eyes adjust, the dark garden comes into focus. A tall, dark figure runs from the lawn, crosses the drive, comes straight at me. I throw up my hands, cry out.

His shoulder smashes into mine, spins me around, knocks me to the gravel. He sprints to the house, charges up the front steps.

‘Stop!’ I shout, jumping to my feet.

The man turns to face us, stares through choking, thick black smoke. Oliver Lyle’s eyes hold mine for an instant, cold hatred makes me gasp. He turns away, turns to the house, steps through the dark, gaping hole of the open front door.

‘The guy’s crazy,’ says Mark, staring after Lyle. ‘No way’s anyone getting out of there.’

Barking cuts across the roar of the burning building.

‘Riley!’ I look about the garden, trying to fix where the sound comes from. The horizon is a pale white line towards the lane and village, dawn bleeding into the darkness.

‘Come on,’ I say, sprinting up the drive.

I hear them, our children, their voices shouting, Riley barking, barking, barking.

We turn the bend in the drive, Mark takes my hand, pulls me along so fast my feet barely touch the gravel.

The twins stand at the head of the drive, Riley a bundle in Tom’s arms, Sophie waving insanely, beckoning us to hurry. She stumbles forward, flings herself at me. I hug her. Hug Tom.

‘Come on!’ shouts Mark, taking Tom’s hand.

Towards the village is a widening band of bright sky. Frozen mist hangs across the fields, ghostly white in the strengthening daylight. Mark, the twins and Riley have reached the turn in the lane, they stop and stare back at me.

‘Come on, Mummy!’ says Tom.

I look at the house, at Haverscroft. Rafters glow like red-hot ribs. Can a broken soul heal? Can it mend? Perhaps, once the fire burns out, whatever was left here will be at peace. Alan Wynn might know. But right now, my family are waiting. And we’ve waited far too long. I run to join them.