Acrid smoke caught the back of his throat and Razor gave in to an uncontrollable bout of coughing. Pain gripped him in a tight embrace. A weird, flickering orange light was all around and he opened his eyes to see flames erupting through the roof of Riverside Cottage, his home for four years. He was lying on the lawn and made an attempt to get to his feet.
‘Stay where you are, my lovely.’ Miranda pressed him back down.
‘But… Kev… and Alex,’ he said, squeezing out words between coughs. His lungs felt as if they, too, were on fire.
‘I know,’ said Miranda and ran towards the house.
‘No,’ he croaked, but she reached the back door and plunged into the inferno. Strong hands grabbed his sore shoulders as he attempted to follow her.
‘Don’t be a fool, Ray—it’s about to go,’ said Tom Talbot.
Seconds later, the roof caved in, a fireball burst through the doorway. Razor howled.
Something covered his face. He couldn’t move his hands to get rid of it. His eyes opened and focused on a white ceiling and walls and the medical equipment all around him.
‘It’s alright, sir,’ a woman in a green tunic reassured him.
‘Where am I?’ Razor croaked, his voice muffled by the thing on his face. His face, hands and chest hurt like the devil and he felt wet. He could not sit up.
‘You’re in an ambulance, on your way to hospital. There was a fire, but you were lucky, though you do have some burns that we treated at the scene. I imagine they are rather sore. You’ve also breathed in smoke which is why you’re on humidified oxygen. I’m Alice. Can you tell me your name?’
‘It’s… er… Razor… Raymond Holmes… er… call me Ray.’
‘Well, Ray, I’ll take care of you until we reach the hospital. How is the pain?’
‘Bad.’
‘Okay, Ray, I’ll add a little something to make you feel better.’
‘But Miranda and Kev… and Alex? They were still inside.’
‘The fire brigade are dealing with it. I’m sure they’ll let you know how your friends are later. Now, take deep breaths. It’ll help with the pain, though it might make you woozy.’
Razor inhaled. ‘You’re right, I am a little wooz…’
Razor awoke with screens all around. A nurse smiled down at him. A doctor studied a tablet computer.
‘Good morning, Mr Holmes,’ said the nurse.
‘Morning?’ asked Razor. Where had the night gone?
‘Morning!’ said the doctor. ‘And how are we feeling today?’
‘We?’
‘How are you feeling today, Mr Holmes? Any pain?’
‘Some… not too much… my chest hurts.’ He tried to touch it but found his hands were swathed in dressings. They felt stiff.
‘Best not to prod anything for the moment,’ said the doctor. ‘You have several mostly superficial burn injuries and they will feel sore for a few days, though I doubt there’ll be any long-term effects. A deeper burn on your chest may take a little longer to heal, but the prognosis is excellent and I doubt there’ll be much scarring, if any. Questions?’
‘Yes,’ said Razor, comforted that medical people were caring for him, though he felt distant and confused. ‘Can I get something to eat and drink?’
‘I expect so, but it must be soft on account of your throat. You’ll be moving to a ward soon, but I’m sure something can be arranged, can’t it nurse?’
‘Yes, doctor.’
‘Excellent. Well, I’d best be on my way. Goodbye for now, Mr Holmes.’
Razor fidgeted in his bed, waiting and listening to the hubbub of the busy hospital ward on the other side of his cubicle’s curtains. Drugs subdued his pain. Just before he thought he might expire of hunger, a nice middle-aged lady called Angela came in with a trolley and offered him water and chicken soup. Grateful, he accepted though he needed Angela to hold the glass to his lips and to spoon soup into his mouth.
Later, a smiling grey-haired lady called Doreen helped him up and guided him to the bathroom. Later still, memories of the previous evening returned, at first as vague as a snatch of a night’s dream. Tears started—there was no way Miranda and Kev could have survived the roof collapse, but none of the staff admitted to knowing anything about them.
As he settled into the boredom of hospital routine, drugs kept pain at a distance, doctors came and went, asking questions, nodding heads and occasionally prodding, nurses talked to him and Angela fed him more soup and water. Sometimes he slept. Sometimes he listened to the radio. Miranda was on his mind whenever he woke and in his dreams.
He marked the passage of time by the arrival of meals and sleeps. Slowly, his brain cleared as his medications were reduced. A grizzled police officer turned up at his bedside. ‘I’m DS Prince,’ he said showing an ID card. ‘I’m part of the investigation team looking into the fire at Riverside Cottage in Willoton. You are Mr Raymond Holmes, are you not?’
Razor nodded.
‘Excellent. Do you mind if I sit?’ Without waiting for a reply, DS Prince pulled up a chair, sat down and took a notebook from his pocket. ‘Do you feel up to answering a few questions?’
‘Yes,’ said Razor, ‘but, please, can you tell me how Miranda is?’
‘I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t believe I know the lady.’
‘And what about Kev? Kevin Crumb, that is. They were in the house.’
DS Prince shook his head. ‘Mr Holmes, I’m afraid I have bad news—the fire brigade recovered two bodies from the house.’
Razor wept.
‘Can you confirm who was inside at the time of the fire?’ asked DS Prince when Razor was back in control.
‘Me, Miranda and Kev.’
‘So, there were three of you?’
‘Four. Alex was there as well. He started it—the fool used petrol and set himself alight.’
‘Was that Mr Alexander Bond of the Manor, Willoton?’
‘Yes. How did you know?’
‘We have reason to believe he was one of the bodies.’
Razor gulped, grasping at a new hope. ‘And the other?’
‘A large male who appeared to have suffered a broken neck and another significant injury before the fire. Would you know anything about that and why he was in a cupboard?’
Razor had forgotten until then. ‘Oh… that was Kane.’
‘Kane?’
Razor nodded. ‘Kane Cullum.’
The detective started. ‘Kane Cullum? We know him very well. Who’d have thought it? Can you explain why you didn’t mention him earlier, and can you account for how his neck got broken?’
‘I can… and I will, but weren’t there any other bodies? Miranda and Kev were quite small.’
‘I’m assured there were only two.’
‘Thank God for that… but I don’t understand. She pulled me from the fire, but when she went back for Kev, the roof came down. There’s no way she—they could have got out.’ Tears started again.
‘Yet,’ said the detective, ‘only two bodies were found. You’d better tell me what happened.’
Razor forced his emotions back under control and took a deep breath. ‘Alright, detective—I hope you’ve got plenty of time.’
He recounted the whole story and over the next two days had to retell it to several other police officers—he wondered if they just wanted to hear his bizarre tale for themselves. All insisted that only two bodies, now confirmed as Alexander Cedric Bond and Kane Frederick Cullum, had been discovered, though, as they all pointed out, the fire had been intense.
The only good news for Razor was learning that the police had never suspected him of attacking the barmaid—the picture in the paper had merely been of someone she’d identified as a possible witness.
Razor lost all hope and retreated to his private hell of grief and loss, almost oblivious to the surrounding hospital, except when they forced him from moping in bed to get up and walk. Losing Kev hurt, for the little guy had proved himself a real friend, but losing Miranda was devastating. Everything he valued was gone.
Despite his misery, DS Prince piqued Razor’s interest by mentioning an arson attack on Heartfields Ltd, Flit and Alex’s workplace. ‘It happened three days before the fire at your cottage. The video was taken by a security camera at an adjoining business.’ The detective touched the screen on a tablet and started the clip. A slim man, face hidden between a cap and a scarf, appeared at a window, pouring liquid from a jerrycan. Moments later the first flames kissed the night sky.
‘That was Alex,’ said Razor.
‘Mr Alexander Bond? Are you positive?’
Razor nodded. ‘It’s the way he moved. Besides, he said he’d done something to Heartfields.’
‘We suspected so. There was no sign of a break in, so we considered it likely that it was an inside job. Thank you for your help.’
‘But why did he do it then?’ asked Razor.
‘We are working on the theory that it was to destroy traces of his embezzlement. Heartfields’ directors had become aware of a problem and were planning a major audit in the next two weeks. We will require a further statement from you.
‘However, before that, you ought to see this. It might help—though you may find it distressing. It was taken from a traffic camera at the Severn Wharves in Glevchester. I’m sorry it’s grainy, but the techies had to magnify it.’
‘Go on then,’ said Razor, resigned.
The clip showed a main road lined with old buildings with a handful of people in summer clothes walking by. Razor’s stomach lurched. He knew what would happen, but how could a ten-inch screen hold so much hurt and guilt? Yet the different perspective on events ingrained deep in his memory bewitched him and he couldn’t look away.
Raymond, wearing the expensive lightweight Italian suit he’d once been so proud of, hurtled from a passage. An instant later, Flit followed, wearing the new blue dress he’d so admired. On screen, Raymond stopped and turned, reaching for her hand, but before they could touch, the heel of her shoe stuck between slabs and she stumbled. The lorry entered the picture, and although the video was silent, the shriek of brakes and her cry as she fell into the road rang loud in his memory.
‘Stop!’ Razor said, guilt unbearable.
The detective shook his head. The video continued.
Razor knew he’d failed to get to her, believed he’d hesitated because he’d been such a bad husband and suspected her of infidelity. It was terrible to see again, but the screen showed Raymond lunging for her—it looked as if he’d reach her in time, until the huge figure of the masked mugger burst from the passage and crashed into him, leaving him dazed and helpless in the gutter.
DS Prince mercifully stopped the video, but Razor’s memory of the events returned as the missing details dropped back into place. It was all there—getting to his feet, dazed and horrified, seeing Flit lying in the road, motionless and bloodied, the ashen-faced lorry driver scrambling from his cab.
DS Prince allowed him a few minutes to recover. ‘Do you recognise the man who attacked you?’
‘I do now—it was Kane Cullum.’
‘Sure?’
‘Yes.’ Tears drenched Razor’s face, yet, despite the grief and the horror, there was a sense of release, of redemption. Maybe he shouldn’t have run, but after that first second of instinctive cowardice he’d done his best. Despite everything, his guilt had kept telling him, he would have saved her had it not been for Kane Cullum. Grief for Flit and hatred for Kane overwhelmed him.
DS Prince allowed him a few moments. ‘There is one more thing, Mr Holmes—it’s taken from a security camera across the road. Do you feel up to it?’
Razor nodded—nothing could be worse than what he’d already seen.
The clip started with a row of shops shut up for the night.
‘Look at the doorway on the far right,’ said DS Prince.
A slim figure, both hands to his head, lunged from the shadows and dropped to his knees.
‘The time signature of this,’ said Prince, ‘matches that of the incident involving your wife. Do you recognise the man?’
‘It’s Alex,’ said Razor.
‘That is what we thought. It confirms that Mr Alexander Bond arranged for you and your wife to be mugged in order to retrieve the memory stick.’
‘You doubted me?’ asked Razor. It was no surprise.
‘We had to check.’
‘How come you’ve only just found the clip?’
‘My colleagues had, of course, collected all relevant video records from the time of the incident, but were unable to recognise Kane Cullum, and there was no reason to suspect the onlooker across the road had anything to do with it. We tried to locate him as a witness, but not too hard as the evidence appeared clear and the inquest would be a formality.’
‘Did you find the memory stick?’ asked Razor as a random thought popped into his head.
‘No, but considering the extent and heat of the fire, we wouldn’t have expected to.’
‘So, Alex got away with it.’
‘Other than burning to death, he did. Still, the Fraud Squad would have liked to have discovered quite how much he took and how he did it.’
Razor nodded, feeling better, though the guilt hadn’t quite left him—a horrible suspicion remained that had he paid more attention to Flit, she would have told him about Alex and he could have protected her. Worse, what if she had told him and he hadn’t been listening?
During the six days he spent in hospital, he became so used to being addressed as Raymond or Ray or Mr Holmes, he could have forgotten that for a short while he’d been Razor. When well enough to leave, he rented a small but comfortable flat above a hairdresser in the middle of Sorenchester—his insurance company had shown itself efficient if not generous.
Living with regret and loss was hard. He wished he could have apologised to Flit, though knowing he had tried to save her was comforting. The worst part was a yearning ache for Miranda and, despite all the annoying prattle, he missed Kev—and not just for his cooking.
The inquest into Flit’s death, a day he’d have once done anything to avoid, came and went. As DS Prince had suggested, it was a formality. He gave an honest account of the incident and the jury returned a verdict of Accidental Death, though acknowledged the criminal activities leading up to it. No one blamed Ray.
It was a relief, though it did not entirely eradicate his guilt—he should never have taken her for granted. Still, he could now accept that she was gone, and resolved never to make such a foolish mistake again.
All alone, life held no meaning and Ray feared he might end up suicidal like before. Instead, he took to walking again, using the short hours of winter daylight to search for Kev’s house and the secret garden or taking the bus into Glevchester to search for Miranda’s mansion. He could find no signs—almost as if he’d imagined them.
Google searches failed to uncover any records of any Kevin or Miranda Crumbs that fitted what he knew. It took a few days before it occurred to him that cousins could come from the aunt’s side as well as the uncle’s and might not share the same surname. In desperation, he searched for Uncle Bob, hoping he might have been Dr Robert Crumb. Again, he found no likely candidate. All he could discover about the Sorenside Brewery fire was that it had occurred on 1st April 1999 and that the fire brigade had been slow to attend because they’d thought it a hoax.
One day in late November, he thought about Rocky. Might he be able to help? After all, he’d mentioned knowing Uncle Bob.
Wrapped up against a cold northerly wind, Ray walked to The Olde Toll House, enjoying the fresh air and his aching muscles. No one was home, but Rocky had pinned a note to the repaired and repainted front door.
In Norway, out standing in my fjord—back in the spring.
Disappointed, he turned for home, taking an indirect route along lanes, byways and footpaths to give himself more thinking time. In summer, it would have been a scenic walk, but snow flurries grew more persistent, blowing into his face. With the afternoon darkening, he realised he’d taken a wrong turning. It wasn’t much to worry about—he could hear the main road not far away and from there it wouldn’t take too long to get back to his flat. A tall dry stone wall blocked his way.
He scrambled over and dropped into what he soon recognised was Fenderton churchyard. He and Flit had once attended a carol service there. It had been a happy evening, shortly before his promotion. He recalled the pleasure of belting out the old favourites by candlelight, sipping mulled wine and kissing her beneath the mistletoe in the porch.
Something was nagging at his brain as he headed towards the lychgate. He stopped, turned back and examined a small, plain gravestone.
In memory of Kevan Crum
who shuffled off this mortal coil
1st of April 1999 aged forty-two
The similarity of the name, the date and the weird quote—one of Shakespeare’s he suspected, gave him a momentary frisson. But it was clearly just a coincidence. With a sigh, he started homeward.
As the nights lengthened and darkened, December blew in. The shops displayed their version of Christmas cheer, the streets filled with lights and the children grew excited. One chill evening, with snow threatening, Ray returned to his joyless flat from another fruitless day trudging the streets, looking for a friendly face. As he opened the door, he almost trod on a small brown envelope on the doormat. He picked it up and read the attached note.
The handwriting was Miranda’s.
Dear Mr Razor,
Kev thought you might want this.
See you soon,
M.
The memory stick dropped into his hand.
Hope returned, bringing a smile to lips long out of practice.
It was time to start living again.