I took off my jumper so I was wearing only my vest top and pressed it to my face as an improvised mask, then ventured out through the din and the flames towards Donovan, stopping two or three metres away, the heat stinging the exposed skin of my face, shoulders and arms.
Donovan didn’t move or make any noise.
On the floor close to him was a discarded can of lighter fuel. I remembered that Sam had bought it several months back to refill a culinary blowtorch he’d purchased. Another needless kitchen gadget.
Like the hatchet knife.
I looked for it but I couldn’t see it.
It was no longer on the floor in front of the range cooker where it had fallen from Donovan’s grip.
I studied Donovan’s prone body more closely. He really wasn’t moving.
To my left, fire blazed across the kitchen island.
On my right, the flames had begun to climb towards a wall-mounted cupboard.
Ahead of me, the microwave smoked and steamed.
A bright blue light flashed on the smoke alarm overhead.
This was probably a bad idea.
I should just get out.
But I couldn’t leave him to be consumed by fire. I thought I understood now that he’d tried to help me, even if that hadn’t been his original intention when he’d come here today.
I nudged him with my toe.
Nervous energy streaked up my leg.
No response.
I bent down and reached out tentatively, then shook him by his shoulder.
Still nothing.
He wasn’t faking.
He wouldn’t be faking.
And not only that.
It had taken me too long, in the darkness, to notice the puddled liquid the toe of my training shoe was resting in.
It wasn’t accelerant.
It was blood.
A moment of pure, still terror – of utter disbelief – and then I grabbed hold of his upper arm and rolled Donovan over onto his back.
The front of his sweater was drenched and I could see two or three ragged holes across his torso in the light from the flames. His neck, throat and face were splattered with gore.
Then his eyes sprang open and he inhaled sharply.
A ghastly, rattling noise.
I scrambled back a short distance, fire scorching the countertop of the island unit behind me, the alarm blaring from above.
With an enormous effort he rolled his head towards me and raised his right hand very slightly.
But there was no threat in it and there was barely any strength.
His gloved fingers unfurled to reveal a bar of light amid the acrid smoke.
His smartphone.
The screen was lit up.
‘Ambulance . . . coming,’ he wheezed.
A call was counting upwards on-screen.
I could see through the glare that he’d dialled 999 just under a minute ago.
He beckoned to me, parting his cracked lips to say more, but this time when I leaned forwards all he managed to do was to let his phone slip out of his hand.