Then
Regan Armitage stepped back into the shadow of a shop entrance, warned by the shout.
“Rachel!”
A girl ran past on the other side of the road. A man and a woman stood on the top step of the Sunset guest house. The man shouted again. But Rachel, whoever she was, got lost in the gloom.
Regan stayed still; wondered if he should come back tomorrow. The point of arriving at this time of night was that everybody should be asleep. After a few minutes of indecision, he watched the pair go back inside. Another minute and the light in the downstairs bay window switched off. Regan breathed a sigh of relief. He leaned out from the darkness, looked up and down the road, saw no one. He decided to wait another quarter of an hour.
The minutes ticked slowly past, Regan expecting someone to happen by and ask him what he was doing. But no one did. When the time was up, Regan hefted the heavy backpack from the ground, the strap cutting into his shoulder. Quickly he walked the hundred yards or so to the guest house and turned into the dark, narrow alley which ran alongside it.
A wooden fence separated garden from alley. A few days ago, he’d loosened a couple of the boards. He bent over, got his fingers around the edge of the rotting wood. He was relieved when both came away easily. He shoved the backpack through and then, after a glance up and down the alley, followed it.
Regan found himself in a long, narrow back yard. Like the girl, he paused, listened. Nothing. No noise, no light spilling out of any windows. He smelt engine oil. Under a tarpaulin was an old motorbike. He carried the pack to the back door. He knelt down and nudged at a cat flap in the door. It moved freely. He quietly unzipped the pack and pulled out a plastic jerry can, the kind drivers use as emergency back-up. He unscrewed the cap; took a wooden lolly stick from an inside pocket, and wedged the flap open with it.
The cat chose then to exit, pushing its way out through the hole. It was a tight squeeze. The animal rubbed itself against Regan. He stroked it briefly before tipping the contents of the jerry can through the flap into the room beyond.
The petrol fumes were powerful. Got right up Regan’s nose. Felt like the gas was scraping his sinuses, making him feel giddy and nauseous at the same time. The cat didn’t like it either and backed away. Regan poured until the can was empty. Next, he pulled some rags out of the bag and laid them on the tiled floor.
Regan took his final tool. A brass Zippo lighter. It was a beautiful object; Regan flicked the wheel and the gas caught, producing a yellow flame. He lit a rag and, when it was burning, dropped the lighter inside. Immediately the flames expanded, a wave of blue rushing across the kitchen floor. For a moment, Regan watched — transfixed by the beauty — until, behind him, the cat hissed. Regan turned and saw the animal dive through the gap in the fence, back lit by the blaze. Alert now, Regan grabbed the backpack and hustled too.
In the alley, Regan glanced over his shoulder. He was shocked by how quickly the fire had taken. He could see the flames. He’d need to be quick. Walking as fast as he dared without bringing attention to himself he soon arrived at the phone box. The hinges squeaked as the door opened and closed. He lifted the receiver. His plan was to ring the fire brigade so the conflagration would be put out, but not so soon that the house itself could be saved. It would mean the guest house was out of business — which was the objective.
When Regan put the receiver to his ear, however, he heard nothing. He rattled at the contacts. Still silence. He looked down. The cord had been cut. The panic bloomed in his gut. There was no way he’d be making the call from here.
He left the phone box and began running …