She pounds up the muddy path, crying out as sharp stones and rough tree roots cut into the bare soles of her feet. Fear gives her wings. She hears him following, crashing through the undergrowth, still shouting, calling her a ‘frigid bitch’, commanding her to ‘Stop! Wait!’
It’s not him she’s scared of anymore. Even the feeling of disgust is gone. All of her fear is concentrated in one horrific premonition – what she will see when she gets to the crest of the hill.
He comes up behind her just as she comes out of the trees on to the lawn. He grabs her arm to steady himself, more than to hold her back.
‘Oh my God,’ he shouts. And then louder, the same words, again and again, ringing with despair. While he stands rooted to the spot, she sprints ahead of him across the lawn, to where two fire engines are pulled up in front of the barn, with their hoses trained on a bonfire of flames coming from the windows on the upper level below a gaping hole in the roof.
She hasn’t enough breath left to scream. As she crosses the grass, five or six girls, crying and dishevelled, in a state of drunken panic, run to meet her. The girls surround her babbling incoherently. ‘Thank God, we couldn’t find you…’ ‘You didn’t answer your phone…’ ‘We thought you were inside…’ They hug her and each other. ‘It’s OK, we’re all accounted for now. Just you and Ben were missing…’ ‘We’ve done a head count. Everyone’s out…’ ‘Everyone’s safe…’
Ferociously, she shakes away their clinging hands and throws them to one side as she pushes past. Now she’s found her voice – shouting at the top of her lungs as she runs towards the police officer keeping watch over the motley crew of teenage partygoers gathered on the lawn.
‘Tom! Where’s Tom? Tom… Has anyone seen Tom?’ All she can see is a circle of dumb, shocked faces, looking at her. Why won’t they tell her where he is? She screams, high-pitched yelping animal screams she didn’t know she was capable of. ‘My little brother’s inside,’ she cries hysterically, fearing the worst. The officer holds her in a vice, gripping her wrists firmly, to stop her beating him round the face, as she tries to break free and force her way into the barn.
‘Calm down,’ he shouts. ‘If you want to help your brother, you’ve got to calm down.’ The officer puts his face close to hers. ‘Where was he? Where did you last see him?’
‘In the bedroom,’ she screams. ‘At the top of the stairs. He’s up there. Let me go.’
As the officer breaks away to alert the fire brigade, Harry steps in and folds Celeste firmly into his arms. Her shoulders are bare. She is trembling. All her strength is gone.
In a waking nightmare, she sees Ben crossing the lawn and closing in on them. She can’t bear to look at him. He’s become a monster. Her legs give way and she falls to the ground.
Ben heard the police officer’s question and his instinct for self-preservation takes over. He runs after him.
‘He’s in my bedroom,’ he says. ‘We left him in my bedroom, playing with my Xbox.’ His face is stricken. He nods back in her direction, collapsed on her knees in the grass holding her head in her hands. ‘She locked him in,’ he yells frantically. He stares at the officer with wild eyes, wide with terror. ‘I told her not to… But he’s only eleven. She locked him in to keep him away from any trouble at the party.’
She hears him but she can’t speak. Her shock and horror at his words is unspeakable. Her senses are overwhelmed with the crackle and roar of the flames, and the beat of the music, belting out from the speakers in the living room that is unbelievably still untouched by the fire. Her head is filled with the sweet, smoky, voice of the pop singing goddess Roxhanna as the brutal lyrics resound and reverberate in the night sky like the soundtrack to the raging fire. ‘Gonna lie here and watch you burn… Gonna die here as the flames climb higher…Can’t hurt me with your cries…You choked me with your lies…Nothing left but smoke and fire…’ She chokes on the pungent smell of black smoke that’s hurting her lungs… and the wine and the shots and the spliffs he made her smoke…
She leans forward and retches into the grass.
He stuffs his fist into his pocket and holds out his bedroom door key to the police officer… just like a small boy putting out his hand for the cane.
But the police officer has already charged past him, ignoring his injured outstretched hand, yelling at the top of his lungs to the fire crew and gesturing to the window of Ben’s bedroom.
‘There’s a boy trapped inside – top of the spiral staircase, first door on the right-hand side of the landing. The child’s in the bedroom.’
A key will only slow them down.
Ben’s wild staring eyes are fixed on the officer’s back as he runs towards the fire crew. He closes his fist on the key and after a moment’s hesitation, he zips it into the interior pocket in the lining of his leather jacket.