Lennon holstered his pistol as he picked his way through the semidarkness, avoiding the debris on the uneven floor. A few small windows up at ground level allowed thin light through their dirtcaked panes, but not enough for him to be sure of his footing. He’d already stumbled over a stack of cans, spilling something that smelled like petrol or white spirits. It had soaked into his trousers and begun to sting the skin on his shin and calf.
Arches led further into the cellar in all directions. Lennon had to hope there were more ways in and out. There, up ahead, he could make out a haze of light. He advanced toward it, ducking his head beneath an arch. Old furniture, cardboard boxes, papers and fabrics were stacked against every wall. The musty smell mingled with that of whatever he had spilled at the bottom of the stairs. Something wrapped around his ankle as he struggled through the gloom. He kicked it away, losing his balance in the process. The stacked chairs he grabbed collapsed under his weight, and he fell to the floor as they clattered around him.
Lennon lay still and listened. Small things scurried amongst the boxes, disturbed by his intrusion. Tiny clawed feet dashed across the back of his hand, a tail brushing his fingers, but he did not slap the creature away. Slowly, his breath held tight in his chest, he rolled over onto his back. He froze and watched a shape come closer, framed by the weak light from the windows. Lennon wondered if the other man could see him lying there amid the upended chairs. The noise would surely have drawn his attention.
The petrol smell grew stronger as the form dipped beneath the arch and closed in to where Lennon lay.
“I know you’re there,” the shape said.
Lennon recognized the voice. His heart lurched.
“You should’ve shot me when you had the chance,” the shape said. “They’ve got your woman and your girl upstairs. When I’m done with you, I’ll have a go on them. The mother’s not bad looking, even hurt as bad as she is. Tell you the truth, I don’t know if she’ll still be breathing by now.”
The silhouette swelled in Lennon’s vision. “Well, if she’s not, it’ll be a pity. I’ll just have to content myself with the wee girl. I’ll do her quick, though. No sense in stringing it out for a little ’un. Not her fault she’s got a useless shite like you for a father. No, I’ll go easy on her. But I won’t go easy on you.”
An arm swept out. Liquid splashed around Lennon. The petrol smell invaded his nose and mouth, made his throat tighten. He pushed himself back, his elbows and heels fighting against curtain fabric.
“Ah, there you are,” the silhouette said. He tossed the can in Lennon’s direction.
It clattered on the floor, throwing a streak of pungent liquid across his lower legs. Lennon scrabbled back, no longer caring about the noise, until his head and shoulders pressed against the cold brick wall. He pushed himself up on his feet and drew his Glock.
The silhouette dissolved into the darkness. “I’m going to burn you, Jack. I’ll watch you dance for a while. If you’re lucky, I might put you out of your misery before it gets too bad. If you’re lucky.”
Lennon aimed at the voice, trying to fix its position among the cellar’s reverberations.
There, a spark in the black, the killer’s face illuminated for an instant. Lennon’s finger tightened on the trigger. The spark again, but this time the match caught, throwing its yellowy glow just far enough for the killer to see the pistol aimed at his forehead.
Lennon’s Glock boomed as the killer ducked, the noise filling every corner and crack of the cellar. Lennon followed the match’s fall with his eyes. The flame sputtered before it caught the vapors from the can. Lennon threw his body to the ground as the heat surged around him and the killer screamed.