by Rachael Blok
INTO THE FIRE
ALSO BY RACHAEL BLOK
Under the Ice
The Scorched Earth
INTO
THE
FIRE
RACHAEL BLOK
www.headofzeus.com
First published in the UK in 2021 by Head of Zeus Ltd
Copyright © Rachael Blok, 2021
The moral right of Rachael Blok to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (HB): 9781838931704
ISBN (XTPB): 9781838931711
ISBN (E): 9781838931735
Head of Zeus Ltd
First Floor East
5–8 Hardwick Street
London EC1R 4RG
WWW.HEADOFZEUS.COM
For my children
Contents
Also by Rachael Blok
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
PART ONE
NOW
Prologue
BEFORE: FRIDAY, TWENTY-FOUR HOURS EARLIER
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
NOW
Chapter 11
BEFORE: FRIDAY
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
NOW
Chapter 15
BEFORE: FRIDAY
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
NOW
Chapter 30
BEFORE: SATURDAY MORNING, HOURS EARLIER
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
PART TWO
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
PART THREE
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Epilogue
About the Author
An Invitation from the Publisher
PART ONE
NOW
Prologue
LOIS
Pumpkins fill the kitchen and Lois’s hand is bleeding. The thin carving blade bends in the orange flesh, snagging on her attempt at a goblin’s eye. She tries to pull it out, rescue the design, but it’s stuck, and even tugging won’t release it. Abandoning the blade, she goes to the butler sink and stares out at the blue sky, lying heavy and low over the Hertfordshire fields, rolling down from the big stone house. The tiers of the Roman amphitheatre lie to the right, the ruins of its old stage still used in the summer. The scene is almost set.
Ebba had guessed they’d be back around six. They’d just have to make do with the pumpkins already finished, fat with their garish grins. She will light the candles once it’s dark.
‘Lois?’ Iqbal says, entering the kitchen. ‘The new catering staff are arriving soon. I’ll hang the sweets in the garden and the tray of drinks is still out there. I’ll bring it in once the helicopter has left. I think they’ve just taken off.’
‘Let’s take the pumpkins out in a minute. There’re ten, one for each of us. I’ve given up on the last one, so that can be mine – more mutated than ghoulish. Thanks.’ She smiles. The house will be transformed, ready for the party’s return.
She had almost gone with them today, but what with the letter, it hadn’t felt right. Someone had to stay, and Ebba is better at selling than she is. She’ll take more pleasure later, when everything is announced. The deal is almost done.
Sliding the brass tap handle to the right, the water is cold; a gush runs over her hand and the wound reopens, blood spreading into the water and turning it pink.
A crack sounds overhead and she leans forward, looking out over the sink up into the sky, searching. It’s loud like thunder, or the heavens splitting.
A black mass is falling. Crashing down, spinning. It’s so high up that at first she can’t make it out, then a scream builds, spilling out of her throat like it’s been cut.
‘Iqbal! The helicopter!’ she screams, running from the kitchen. Knives clatter to the stone floor and she slips on some pumpkin flesh, discarded and splayed on the huge flagstones, scrubbed and polished for the weekend.
‘Iqbal!’ she screams again. She runs out of the back door, out into the October air, past the coffee cups from earlier, past the tray of cocktail glasses, and she takes the steps in one leap, landing on the grass, her feet skidding from under her on the autumn wetness, which seems to have painted each blade.
‘I’m calling 999!’ Iqbal’s voice comes from behind her and she gets up, drinking air, gulping it. Her chest is tight.
‘Ebba,’ she says, not daring to think. Her legs run again, running ahead of her mind, which has slowed to a photo-frame image of her sister as a child.
The helicopter falls fast. It’s almost down, dipping left, right. The pilot must be fighting hard and, for a second, she thinks it will land. Land hard but squarely.
The air is fast with the spin of the blades and just as it looks as though it will finally settle, next to the stone ruins of the Roman amphitheatre, it tilts, comes down wounded on its side, crashing on the old stage. The uneven stone makes for an uneasy bed.
The bang is loud. She reaches the top of the path, overlooking the outdoor theatre’s low stone walls, the circle at the centre, the grassy rises. Ebba, Filip, Aksel, Richard, Sarah, Marieke. The people who helped her build Archipelago. The people who, yesterday, were drinking champagne and laughing. So alive. But she can only think of Ebba. She stands and screams.
Smoke rises, black; the helicopter lies, a felled bird, its heart still beating, sounding out the last pattern of its wings.
BEFORE
FRIDAY, TWENTY-FOUR HOURS EARLIER
1
LOIS
‘I can see a car!’ Ebba’s shout is loud from up on the landing. She runs down the wide wooden staircase, sweeping its curve to the main hall. Her blonde hair is tied in a loose bun and she wears a blue dress.
Breathe, Lois thinks, trying a calming mantra, but her brain is fizzing with fear. So much rides on this weekend and glossy social situations make her want to bolt.
Ebba springs, poised, almost leaping the last step. Landing like a cat.
Lois had changed last minute from jeans into a vintage tea-dress. It’s laid-back, but a step up from her usual T-shirts. How to look prepared and ready, not as though she’s taken her eye off the ball. She’d had to check it with Ebba. She’s only really used to jeans.
Breathe, she thinks again, running her hands down the thin material of the skirt, coarse, with tiny beads. Her heart races. They’ve spent two years waiting for this; they’re introducing the new game and the franchise agreement at the confidential press briefing tomorrow.
Thoughts of Helen edge in, of how decisively Lois had been dumped. Helen’s face, bored with her, any trace of affection gone. In some ways, the deal has demanded so much of her it has helped with the heartbreak. But the wounds are still raw. They snag open and weep when she’s not looking.
‘We’re almost there!’ Ebba spins her round, kissing her hard on the cheek and pulling her into a hug so tight Lois feels airless. ‘Can you believe it? All your work. All your talent!’
‘Us, our work. Our talent,’ Lois says, grinning. ‘I might have the ideas, but that’s all it would be without you. You made it fly.’
‘We. We made it fly.’ Ebba laughs. ‘I could scream right now!’
‘Don’t!’ Lois glances nervously at the tray of champagne glasses, fizzing near the main door, sitting on the metal ledge of a white console table that rises from the floor in a large O. The hall is a mix of vintage and modern design, pieces bought from Europe during their negotiations. Their house has only recently been reclaimed, and they’ve worked hard to exhibit part of their history and their future. ‘We’re ready. I think.’
‘I’ll take the guests into the drawing room.’ Iqbal appears at her elbow and Lois nods.
‘Thanks, Iqbal. You’ve been a star, as usual. How are the others working out?’ Lois frowns, thinking of cracked glass, the strangeness of caterers in the kitchen.
‘Good. It’s all good.’ He smiles, stepping backwards, winking. ‘I’ll direct the luggage to the rooms. You can both relax. Please. Let me take care of it. Let me organise the weekend; remember I’ll be avoiding the small talk where possible.’ He pulls a face.
‘Iqbal, I can’t believe you pulled off all the organisation for this weekend! You could go into wedding planning. You’d make millions.’ Ebba smiles.
‘Just doing my job. We’ve got this covered: I’ll organise, you’re people focused, and Lois is the tech. We’re on it. I’m going to be all over the details. Just leave it to me,’ Iqbal says, and Lois thinks again how lucky they are to have him on board. He’s taken on so much recently, but they’d all agreed it was important, and didn’t want to trust the organisation to people lower down in their team. Ebba, the florist of the house, has planned flowers for every room as well as running the contracts and the agreement. Lois has worked on the tech presentation with Iqbal, who has planned everything else.
Ebba opens the main doors, tall and heavy. The cold air of the autumn day rushes in like a fan. There’s the smell of rain, but it’s dry at the moment, holding out, as though it knows.
Lois smiles at her sister, checking as she always checks, flushing with pleasure that Ebba is riding high on the weekend and that the stress hasn’t become too much. Ebba had been with their dad when he died. She’d called the ambulance and sat with him. Lois isn’t sure she’s ever really got over it. Since the death of their father, stress has been something that stalks them, like a predator. But Ebba’s been soaring on this deal, carving herself out in stone instead of sand.
‘It’s just the police,’ Ebba says. A half laugh of anticlimax falls from her mouth.
‘We’ll stay outside, ma’am,’ the officer says, turning naturally to Ebba. ‘We’re on duty all weekend. We swap shifts later and a senior officer is visiting.’
Lois can hear them talking to Ebba as they move outside. ‘The house was checked first thing. Nothing to worry about, just a precaution. There’ll be someone along later this evening.’
‘Lovely, thank you so much,’ Ebba says, and Lois can hear her coming back up the steps.
‘Are we stupid to go ahead, when Marieke is still receiving threats?’ Lois asks, knowing they’ve already talked about it, but doubt races her to the finish line.
‘We’re sticking with Plan A,’ Ebba replies. ‘We’ve done all we can. It wouldn’t do to uninvite her, at this point. You know what she’s like! Courage, Lois. We can do this. I know crowds make you nervous, but you’re on home ground here. The deal is done. You just need to smile.’
Leaning back against the oak-panelled wall, Lois nods. The threatening letters Marieke has been receiving, warning her to stay away from Archipelago, scare her – it’s the unknown quantity that’s frightening.
Ebba puts her arms around Lois again, leaning close. ‘For Dad,’ she whispers.
Ostle House sits on the edge of St Albans. The cathedral rises in the distance. They moved back into their childhood home, surrounded by two acres of land, two years ago, buying it with every penny they had; filling it with all the designs, plans and dreams for Archipelago. The family home had been lost when they’d lost their father. Everything had gone. The memories had called them back. It had been hard to lose so soon after their father’s death. Something he had invested in needed to remain. They’d agreed immediately.
‘Imagine how proud Dad would be today.’
Lois’s design studio is still in the attic of the old nursery upstairs, which had been their playroom when they were children. Now they have factories, staff, and an office near King’s Cross. Archipelago is bigger than she ever thought it would become. It’s exhilarating and terrifying. Only a couple of days away from announcing their agreement, launching her game: her tech baby.
The thought of it, factories in Holland and Norway, springing open like buds, scattering handsets and games globally. Lois couldn’t face breakfast that morning, nerves in the form of nausea coming in waves. Twenty-four hours to go.
2
MAARTEN
‘Nic, what about this one?’ Maarten hunkers down to look at the costumes, aisles full of witches and ghosts. He pulls out a purple mesh outfit for a ten-year-old; a cape flares at the back with shiny stiffness.
Nic rolls her eyes. ‘I’m not six, Papa.’
Standing, exhausted with looking, Maarten stares at the rows and rows of polyester, thinking his daughters would do well to stay away from naked flames. ‘Well, you need something to wear at the weekend. Sanne’s all sorted and we can’t have you with no costume. Should we try somewhere else?’
As well as trick or treating, there’s the station party on Saturday. As DCI, he’ll have to go and take the whole family. They’re all dreading it, even Liv, who is good at these things. She’d known the names of his team almost before he did. She has gifts, has made up bundles of sweets for children, hand-printed cards with the kids for all his team. But last night an arrest had vomited on him and he feels like staying as far away from the station as he can.
There’s a noise; the sound of a familiar voice. It’s soft, but clear, like a wind chime. The ring floats lightly on the air and he knows before he looks up that she’s standing before him, as if a ghost from one of the hangers has sprung to life.
It must be twenty years.
‘Maarten?’ Her face mirrors his shock. She stands at the end of the aisle, just over a metre away. The burn on his cheeks matches her colour. And he feels confusion, his fingers hot as they rise to rub his mouth. He can still feel the stain.
She recovers first and
steps forward, leaning in to kiss his cheek. Smiling. Her scent is a memory, coloured in reds and pinks, softness. The darkness of a past buried stirs; shadows quickly widen. The night in the rain. Adrenaline sharp, the taste of beer. A bunch of flowers in his hand. A man, laughing. Her voice, Maarten! Stop!
Something pulls on his hand and it takes him a moment to realise that it is Nic, calling him.
‘Papa?’
He can’t look down immediately, can’t turn his eyes.
‘Maarten! It’s been so long.’
He’s never one for small talk, but right now all his words have left him.
‘The same old Maarten,’ she says, eyebrows rising, and he stumbles over whatever he was going to say, thinking of a secret, which she knows. Only her. And it rushes at him, with edges tacky and torn.
‘Marieke,’ he manages finally, and Nic pulls again on his arm.
‘Papa, that costume over there?’ She points, ignoring Marieke, and Maarten wishes he could step into the folds of the red and black costumes, retreat and take cover.
‘Sorry,’ he says, ‘we’re shopping and we don’t have much time.’
It’s a coward’s way out. But she brings back a host of unwanted memories.
He allows Nic to pull him away and he can feel Marieke’s eyes on him.
‘Papa, why have you gone so red?’ Nic asks, as a string of questions sit waiting, collecting, ready to pour out. Things he hasn’t thought of for years.
‘I’m hot, Nic. It’s so hot in here. Can you pick something and we’ll go home to Mama?’
The breath of perfume is still hanging close to his mouth, and he feels heady. In a second, he will recover, but the ghosts lift themselves for All Hallow’s Eve and he feels himself untether. Adrift.
*
‘Maarten!’
The shout from the super sounds across the floor and, still reeling from his encounter with Marieke, he tries for a wink at Sunny and Adrika, with whom he’d been going over a case.
‘Best answer that one,’ he says.
