by Mark Stewart
THE KINDLING ignited. Patrick’s eyes sparkled in the light of the fire. Four flaming trails rapidly ate their way through the house. One trail led out of the lounge doorway towards the kitchen. A second trail moved rapidly over the meticulously polished mahogany balustrade before making its way upstairs. The third devastating trail led into the study. Its floor to ceiling bookcases full of law books and a painting by an unknown artist started to smolder. The final branch had almost encircled the lounge. The four-metre high ceiling and expensive gold coloured drapes were ablaze.
Patrick grinned, tossing a house brick through the window.
“Fire, have fun. I’d like to stay and watch, but, I must to be going.”
Shards of glass littered the edge of the weed free and expertly maintained, Rose garden. Hungry flames devouring the oxygen from the open window made the fire roar louder.
“What a great view,” announced Patrick to the house. “Sitting for years near the ocean watching the ships floating by, the wind brushing against your roof tiles and glass windows, I’m jealous. I’m glad you won’t see it again.” He cocked an ear and turned to stone. Slowly he shook his head and whispered. “House, what made the noise? It couldn’t possibly be Kendal. It’s too soon. The noise sounded like a cough or a moan. No, it couldn’t be. Brain, don’t be stupid, it’s just the house. I’ve done my homework. The parents took the baby on holidays. I should know I’ve staked this house out for weeks. I’ve walked the floor and bedrooms nearly every night. I’ve watched Mrs. Nabatinee sleep. I’ve even stroked her hair as she dreamt. It pains me to burn their house. Just like the good Lord says, what you sow is what you reap.”
The noise changed to a definite cough. A faint cry followed. The fire’s roar turned to laughter. The antique leather chair adjacent to the window started smoldering.
Pulling at his balaclava Patrick began to tremble. He spat on the carpet and kicked out at the walls.
“Fire, stop laughing. I can’t leave. Not now. Either way, I have to know if the baby is home.”
Staring at the flames, he started to sway from side to side. He shook his fist at the smoke.
“I’m not a murderer like you. I’m not. I don’t care about Mr. Nabatinee. However, if the baby and its mother are home, I have to save them.” His eyes widened. “Hey house, I’ll be a hero. What a challenge. What a thrill. I’ll be on a new high.”
The heat created by the fire made the walls of the house creak louder.
“Fire, stop laughing at me and don’t argue, you’re not Doc Clarke.”
As the heat from the fire intensified, window after window, shattered. Fresh oxygen from the smashed glass fanned the fire. The flames grew and spread faster throughout the two storey mansion.
“Fire, I told you to stop laughing at me. Talk to me in words I can understand. What is it you’re trying to say? You don’t believe I’ll rescue anyone except myself. You don’t believe I know the way to the baby’s room? I’ll prove it. Upstairs the second room on the left. I used to cuddle the baby back to sleep. I’d stop when Mrs. Nabatinee’s husband, Claude came home. I feel sorry for Candice. Her husband always came home late. He’s a sleaze. If Candice were my wife, she wouldn’t be alone for five minutes. Claude, you’re never in the office when I call. I must admit I know where you go, Mr. Goody, two shoes. I’ve seen you down at the hotels many a night being entertained by the young whores. You’re such a liar, telling your wife you’re in the office when you’re not.”
The fire started to lick the window frame where Patrick stood before consuming it in a ball of orange.
The last remaining escape route quickly disappeared.
The heat felt unbearable. Already the fire appeared to have engulfed all the downstairs room. Fiery darts rained from the ceiling. The carpet fibers were already singed, giving off a putrid smell. The balustrade appeared well alight. Every wall in the house was ablaze.
Time was fast running out. The house wasn’t going to stay upright for long.
Patrick coughed out smoke and sprinted up the stairs. The house started to implode. The lounge ceiling creaked and collapsed. The noise sounded deafening when the plaster crashed onto the floor. He stepped off the staircase, glanced over his shoulder and saw a fireball rising from the fallen lounge ceiling. Patrick turned his back and ran into the baby’s room. The small area was full of smoke making breathing almost impossible. Visibility had dropped to a half metre. He ran to the middle of the room and almost fell over the cot. He yelled and started to turn in circles.
“The cot’s been moved. How? There must be someone else here. Show yourself. I demand it.”
Patrick turned in slow circles waiting for a response.
“If we’re to get out of this hot house before Kendal arrives we have to leave now. If you want me to save you, now is the time to call for help.”
Again, Patrick waited for a reply. The only noise he heard came from the fire and the creaking of the house. Feeling despondent he shrugged his shoulders.
Patrick reached into the cot and gently picked up the baby. Snatching the blue blanket off the cot’s railing, he wrapped the baby tight.
“Do you hear the sirens little one? Detective Kendal is on his way. Three months he’s been trying to catch me. He could add an extra string to his bow if he found me here. I have to admit he is good, clever too, but not clever enough. Underneath his coat, he’s just another dumb cop. I can already smell his cheap two-dollar deodorant. I know where he bought the last one. I’m certain he only goes there to flirt with the young whore behind the counter. He calls her by name. She’s a flirt too. She tries to drum up business by battering her eyelids at all the men. How pathetic. Claire is her name. I’m good at remembering names, and I never forget a face. Why would Kendal flirt when he’s married to an attractive woman? He’s worse than Mr. Nabatinee. It would serve him right if Margaret Kendal left him. I should DOB him into his wife. If I’m lucky, she’ll turn her attention to me.” His grin widened. “I’d make a great partner.”
A figure of a woman clawed at the cot and stood half bent. She coughed several times before staring at Patrick through narrowing slits.
“Please help me,” she begged. “I can barely see through the smoke. I don’t know why the smoke alarms didn’t wake me. Please help me save the baby.”
“I disconnected the smoke detectors and stole the batteries last week. I don’t want the neighbours to be alerted too early.” Leaning closer to the squatting woman Patrick coughed out smoke. “I know you.”
“Please help me,” whispered the woman.
“Why should I? You’re Claire, the whore from the shop. I’m totally disgusted. Not only are you after Kendal, you’re also Nabatinee's mistress. Hey, do you know Ms. Jemima Jones lives on the corner? The old bag’s house was next, but I’ve changed my mind. I need a more of a grand finale than her ugly looking house. The fire won’t be spectacular enough. She doesn’t live far from her best friend, Mrs. Sallows. I burnt her home to the ground six months ago. The house is still a pile of rubble. I did feel a little guilty for five minutes. The sweet old couple they were. Now they live in a caravan on the south side of the city. They don’t even have a view of the ocean. Mr. Sallows bragged too much about having the best view of the beach. He should’ve bought fire insurance when he had the chance. One should never brag about not having house insurance. Live and learn I always say.” Patrick grinned. “What a waste.”
“I’m Claire, the babysitter. I don’t understand what you’re saying. The Nabatinee’s went out for tea and asked me to babysit.”
“Why aren’t they in Perth? I saw the plane tickets. Tell me now.”
“They postponed their business trip. Candice didn’t want to go. Her mother might be dying.”
Claire’s voice trailed off into incoherent mumblings.
Patrick picked the woman up by her hair and whispered sarcastically.
“Babysitter, Babysitter, how quaint. How convenient. How thoughtful of Claude Nabatinee. It’s okay
; I’m here to help.”
Claire mouthed the word help.
“Struggling to talk? Need help you say? Don’t want to commit to idle chatter. Considering the circumstances I shouldn’t either. Are you scared? Do you feel helpless? You want to know why I’m in the house don’t you? You’re growing a little suspicious of me because of my balaclava? I can tell you’re in trouble. Your words are floundering. I know your body is shutting down and you’re dying from the lack of oxygen. I know you’ll agree no matter what I say. I have the power to let you live or die. You’re completely at my mercy.”
Patrick loosened his grip on Claire’s hair and watched the woman crumble to the floor un-conscience.
“It’s time to go. If plan ‘A’ doesn’t work, there’s always plan ‘B.’ Shame I don’t hear a fanfare being played by a forty piece band.”
Patrick wrapped the baby tighter in the blanket and prepared to jump out the open window.
“What are you doing?” called a voice from the doorway.
Patrick stepped back from the window, turned and glared. “Hey, how did you get here?”
“The same way you did, up the stairs.”
“Dr. Clarke, I don’t want to talk to you. You shouldn’t be here; it’s too dangerous.”
“Neither should you. I’m here to help. Take off the balaclava.”
“No. I don’t need your help. I’ve got the baby. I’m a hero.”
“If you jump you will not survive the fall,” warned Dr. Clarke, pulling at her French knot of blonde hair. She shook her head and allowed her hair to cascade over her shoulders.
“Yes, I will. Jumping is plan ‘B.’”
“The four-metre fall is a long drop.”
Patrick looked out of the window. Turning to face the woman, he growled.
“Dr. Ashlee Clarke, don’t worry, I’ll live.”
“Do not speak my full name. Dr. Clarke is enough. Respect between patient and Doctor must be adhered to at all times.”
Three fire trucks, an ambulance, and seven police cars turned into the court. The firemen buckled their helmets and prepared to fight the fire.
“Make your decision. The sirens are close. If you jump, you might live, but the baby may not. If you hand over the baby, I will cover your escape. You do want to escape?”
“Of course, I do.”
“Come on hand over the baby before the house implodes.”
Patrick nodded and handed over the baby.
“Tell me why you kidnapped Kendal’s little girl?”
“The rules of the game bore me. I want to start a new game.”
“You should stick to the original rules.”
“No, and I hate the way Kendal calls Tegan his little Tacca.”
“Why?”
“He wanted his firstborn to be a boy.”
“I think you are wrong. If you take the first letter of each of her names, it spells TAK. Tegan Alexandra Kendal. He has replaced the K with a C, and added a C and an A.”
“Shut up. Just shut up. I don’t want you here,” barked Patrick.
“It is okay. You have to tell me the location of the girl. Is she in this house?”
Using a clenched fist, Patrick punched his balaclava several times.
“Stop asking me questions. Why must everyone insist on asking me questions?” He marched over to the window. Staring over his shoulder, he snarled. “Coming?”
“What about the woman lying next to the cot?”
“The sirens have arrived. If you want to save her, go right ahead. I don’t care.”
Patrick pocketed his balaclava and jumped.
CHAPTER THREE
