Gabriel is still hiding. He’s crouched down behind the hedge that borders the house across the road, the one that belongs to Mrs Thin and Mr Fat. He doesn’t know the surnames of the people who live around them.
Every weekend Gabriel sees Mr Fat in the driveway of their house, under his car, his feet sticking out. Swear words coming out too, and he says he’s tinkering. Tinkering is a happy word, but Mr Fat doesn’t sound happy. He’s throwing out words like Fuck this for a lark and Who engineered this piece of crap anyway? and Gladys! And Mrs Thin is running out and saying Yes George and he says Get me a beer before I moer this fucking piece of shit to pieces and she’s saying Language, George, the neighbours, but Mr Fat just pulls himself back under the car on a funny little pallet with wheels and Mrs Thin goes back into the house.
So, it’s Mr George Fat and Mrs Gladys Thin’s house, their hedge, where Gabriel is hiding. Across the road, his house is blazing, but Gabriel knows Mum is out of danger, because he’s seen her, and he knows Harry’s safe because Mum’s holding her.
One of the onlookers is yelling. There’s someone else, an old man, he cries.
Gabriel raises his head above the hedge, and waits for them to storm the house and bash down the front door and make their way down the burning passage and use their crowbars to force open the door and find the old man and bring him out, but they aren’t moving. They’re spraying the house with their thick hoses, huge spurts of water lit pale orange in the dark, playing in the dark, water falling with a sizzle and puff of steam on the roof of the house and on its walls, but no one is going inside.
It’s too late, he hears someone say. Mrs Pink Hair from the house on the corner. She’s talking to Mr Rose Grower from the house next door to hers. Her voice sounds excited, and almost happy. Her face glows in the light from the fire from the house where—
Gabriel doesn’t want to think about that. He lifts his hands, feels the sting from where the glass cut him, smells the throat-choking smell of petrol, imagines the small flare of a match in Mum’s hand, the thin thread of fire, the flames on their way. Voices are calling his name. He ducks back down.
Gabriel, Gabriel, Gabriel.
He curls himself into a small boy-sized ball. Tucks his head between his knees. He is a small boy in shorts and a T-shirt. A small boy who was asleep with his sister. He doesn’t know anything. He didn’t see anything. He is hiding behind the hedge in Mr George Fat’s garden and all around him he can hear the voices calling.