He won’t move. She shakes him, calling out to him, her voice a thin, distressed ribbon of noise. ‘Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!’
A slight stirring followed by a snore. It’s pitch-black but she can see his mouth as it shifts and wobbles about, the snore escaping and disappearing into the silence and darkness of the room.
The carpet is soft under her feet, her toes curling against the fringe of the pale blue rug at the side of their bed. She moves around to the other edge of the mattress, her hands reaching to touch her mother. She paws at the bed sheets, is able to feel her mother’s body beneath the covers. It looks snuggly warm in there; she would love to climb in, cuddle up, tell them that something is wrong, but knows that she is too big for that sort of thing now. Not enough room. Her legs are too gangly, her body too long and bony. Soon, she will be at big school and girls at big school can’t climb in bed with their parents when they’re scared. And she is really, really scared. Because something is happening. Something bad. And it’s taking place in their house.
A painful lump is lodged in her throat. It feels like a big rock is stuck in there. Or a spoonful of sand. Her mouth feels dry. She stifles a cough. It hurts too much and she is sure that once she starts, she won’t be able to stop. Water. She needs a drink of water but needs to wake her mother first. She shouldn’t really go downstairs on her own. It’s too dark and it’s far too late.
‘Mum, wake up. I think Daddy left the fire on.’
That’s what it must be. The smell is really strong and it’s getting worse. Both of her sisters are still sleeping. At least she thinks they are. She didn’t check. She raced out of bed as soon as the smell woke her.
Tiptoeing out of her parents’ bedroom, she peers into Jenna’s room. It’s really, really dark in there. Too dark to see properly. She has blackout blinds in her room because of the light from the lamp post outside that keeps her awake at night.
Backing out onto the landing, she heads towards her own bedroom, eyes wide as she searches for her twin sister. She pats at the bed but feels nothing but cool sheets. She isn’t there. Maybe she’s in the bathroom.
The smell is stronger nearer the bathroom. She opens the door, steps inside, finds it empty. Where is she? The thought that her twin may be downstairs stoking up their open fire sets her heart racing, makes her stomach shrivel. It’s dangerous. They’re only allowed to do it if their parents are in the room watching them. Never when they’re on their own. Ever. They were all given a stern talking to the time Jenna took it upon herself to add more logs to it without asking. She remembers the look of horror and anger on their dad’s face, how his forehead creased like crêpe paper and how his mouth trembled as he spoke to them. He did his best to look calm but they could all see that he was on the verge of being properly angry.
Turning to look down the stairs, she switches on the light, stops, blinks and lets out a small cry. Smoke. There is smoke coming up the stairs, seeping out from under the living room door. Great curling grey tendrils billowing out from under it.
She runs back to her parents’ bedroom, calling out to them to get up.
‘Wake up! Wake up! There’s smoke. Fire. There’s a fire!’
He mother wakes first, mouth puckered, lips thin and angry at such an abrupt awakening. She pulls at her mum’s hands, tries to drag her out of the bed, then leans over and pummels at her father’s slowly rousing body, dragging at his limbs, pushing at his back.
‘Come on! Get up! We need to stop the fire! Get up, get up, get up!’
A thump of feet on the rug as her mother stands up and sniffs at the air. Then more shouting as her mum pulls off the bed sheets and pushes at her husband’s body. He sits up, eyes white in the murkiness of the room, voice low and croaky.
‘What? What the hell is going on?’
And then he knows. It takes only seconds for the unfolding situation to hit him, for the acrid smell to curl its way into his throat, into his lungs. Burning his chest. Choking him.
He grabs at his wife and daughter, pulls them towards the window and rattles at it. It’s locked. No key. Stupid. So stupid. He hid it away, didn’t want the children opening the windows upstairs and falling out.
‘Downstairs! I’ll grab your sisters, you two go downstairs, unlock the front door and get outside.’
They follow his instructions, him behind them as they all stumble on to the landing but it’s too smoky, too hot, the fumes rising rapidly, obstructing their airways, scorching their skin. Clouds of grey billow around them, stinging their eyes. They stand at the top of the stairs looking down but escape seems impossible. Nowhere to turn. No way out.
Behind them, the sound of a girl gasping for breath, her hacking cough and croaking voice filters through their shouts and cries as she staggers towards them, still groggy from sleep. Then a man shouting, his bellowing loud and insistent. Powerful, yet also brimming with fear.
‘She’s not here! Where the hell is she? She isn’t here, for God’s sake!’
* * *
Outside, a child sits alone, eyes raised to the sky. She stares at the blanket of stars overhead, is mesmerised by the way they twinkle and shine. They remind her of a kaleidoscope, all those sparkling, glittery dots; the way they form a pattern above her is almost magical. She likes patterns, pretty twinkly patterns. She imagines herself up there, hopping from star to star, each one a stepping stone to somewhere else, each one forming a route away from here.
Her hands feel sore. She sighs, holds them out, tries to inspect them, her vision marred by the darkness. It was tricky, getting the fire to start. Not half as easy as she imagined. People think that you just pile things up and take a match to them and poof! But it doesn’t always work like that. You also need air circulation. She read about it in a book at school. So she tried and tried again, rearranging the logs, shifting them about until eventually a spark took hold and the flames began to rise. Then came the tricky part. Using the tongs, she lifted out one of the logs and laid it on the rug in front of the fire. She expected the orange glow to die down, for the flames to flicker to nothing. But they didn’t. Small embers fell onto the rug, glistening and glowing like a tiny little volcano erupting before her very eyes. She stifled her giggle, not wanting to wake anybody, and stood up, stepping back to watch it happen.
The rug soon began to smoulder, but it wasn’t enough. She wanted a bigger pattern and was almost ready to add another log when suddenly, whoosh! A big flame danced in front of her, rising up, the heat and ferocity of it making her dizzy with glee. Orange, flecked with pale blue, swayed and pirouetted, holding her captive to its beauty. It grew and grew until she realised that it was time to leave. Pretty patterns were beautiful but this one was hot and the smoke was catching in the back of her throat.
As quietly as she could, she tiptoed out to the hallway and turned the key that was hanging in the door lock, then stepped outside and shut the door behind her.
And now here she sits, waiting for everything to begin. For the fire engines to arrive, for everyone to see how clever she is for managing to escape unhurt. For them all to see how silly it is to not have a fireguard in place. Her mother had said for years that logs could drop out at any time and that it was a health and safety hazard. After lighting it, she placed the matches back on the shelf so people wouldn’t suspect anything. It was just an accident after all. A horrible, horrible accident. Fires are dangerous. Everybody knows that but Daddy kept on saying how cosy it was and how sensible his girls were, that nobody would ever mess with it because they were all so careful, weren’t they? He had stared at them all in turn when he had said it, a stern look on his face, and all three of them had nodded and looked suitably worried. Except her. She had done her best to look aware and pretended to listen hard to his words of wisdom, but her mind had floated off elsewhere, small sparks of ideas already forming in her mind. The fire didn’t worry or frighten her because she had read all about it in school and it’s a good job she did because it was now raging behind her, the windows aglow with russet and golden flames, smoke building behind the glass, billowing and building, fighting to be out.
She shivers. It’s cold out here. She wishes the fire engines would hurry up and arrive, for somebody to come and get the rescue mission underway. For everyone to see what a clever hero she is for getting out of there.
Her body is twisted towards the house, her small frame half hidden amongst the shrubbery, shielded by the garden shed as she watches the beautiful formations coming from inside the house; the grey and black that contrasts against the golden ochre flames. It’s such an attractive sight. Fire is an angry thing, just like her. It also controls everything. She likes control too, knows what it is and how to use it. Just like the flames currently raging through her house, she is the one in control here and it feels good. Her own warm glow settles inside her, blossoming and unfurling, filling her full of goodness. That’s how she envisages it, like a flower in summer, coming into its own. Having everyone notice it because of how strong and beautiful it is.
A distant siren pierces her thoughts. She sits upright, ready for them. Ready to tell them her story, how she tried to wake the others before running downstairs and unlocking the front door. And then they will gather round her, awestruck by her bravery, telling her how wonderful and clever she is for doing that. Because she is. She created this situation, tried to save everybody, and people will love her for it, hailing her as a hero. Or a heroine. Because she is, after all, only a little girl, and girls are always heroines, aren’t they? Especially her.