18
We spent our Sundays at the Halfway House, often joined by Uncle Richard. It was a family-friendly pub, despite its dubious name. They didn’t mind us kids hanging around the place, playing darts or snooker. And we knew not to question how much Dad drank, or how merry he became, staggering down the street when it was time to go home.
One Sunday afternoon, we had been playing in the pub garden, when it started to hail. I picked up Alicia and we ran inside, shutting the heavy oak door behind us.
“Wow!” Alicia gasped, entranced as the icy cold stones pummelled the pavement.
“It’s just hail,” Sam said. Nothing impressed him these days, unless it was a famous footballer, or a video game.
As we walked into the bar, I saw Dad slip someone a card. He did it stealthily, like he didn’t want to be caught. For that split second, I thought maybe Dad was a spy. An international man of mystery. He was certainly brave enough.
“What was that, Dad?” I whispered.
Dad pulled a wad of cards out of his pocket to show me.
“Richard made up a batch of these for a joke,” he said, “but I like them.”
He peeled one off and handed it to me. I looked at it, confused. It was scorched around the edges, like it had been rescued from a fire. The card was more or less blank. It simply said ‘FRY’ with a phone number on it.
“What does FRY stand for?” I asked.
“Fire Releases You.”
“But what’s it for?”
“Richard and I have a little business.”
“What sort of business?”
Dad glanced around to check no one was listening.
“Dealing with fires.”
“So, you’re still a fireman?”
“That’s right.” His eyes glinted slightly. “Only, I don’t work for the fire brigade no more.”
On Guy Fawkes night, we went down the Common to watch the fireworks. The place was teeming with people. There were squeals of delight from children as the rockets and Catherine Wheels whizzed through the air.
“Mine!” Alicia squealed, as we spotted someone selling hot chestnuts.
To my surprise, Dad actually bought her some.
I saw a number of people I recognised. Some kids from my old school and other familiar faces. I said hello to a few people, but their conversations bored me. I had nothing in common with kids my own age anymore.
We pushed our way to the front and Sam hung over the fence, desperate to get a better look.
“Look Dad, it’s your mates,” I said, pointing out some of the blokes from the Fire Brigade.
"Ain't no mates of mine,” Dad said.
"Yes, they are. Look, there’s Jed, and Perry and that’s Ron, ain’t it? Remember, he came round for tea, once."
"They ain't no mates of mine!”
Dad’s face grew hot and purple.
“You don’t know when to shut your trap, do you?” Sam hissed at me.
I looked over at the men again. They were darting little glances at Dad. Not friendly glances. They looked worried, as if they thought he was going to make trouble.
“I need a beer,” Dad said abruptly. “I’ll see you kids in a bit.”
Sam went after him, probably hoping to get a drink for himself. Alicia and I stayed on the sidelines, watching the fireworks. I couldn’t help wondering why the other firemen weren’t talking to Dad. Was it his new job venture? Did they even know about it? Dad had made it sound rather secretive.
I glanced over at him and saw him push his way to the front of the drinks queue. I wondered how bad his drinking had been while he was still a firefighter. I had thought that losing his job was the reason Dad drank so much. But perhaps he had had this problem before, even while he was out rescuing people and putting out fires. Perhaps his drinking had put his mates in danger.
We all enjoyed the fireworks, but Dad drank far too much and pushed Sam into the road on the way home.
“Careful! I nearly went under a bus.”
Dad only laughed in response.
He was properly blotto when we got home, and he passed out on the kitchen floor. He was still there in the morning. I didn’t even attempt to move him. All day, we walked around him, stepping over him if we needed something from the kitchen. Poor Alicia must have thought it was normal.
Dad was right as rain the next day. He sat at the table for breakfast as if nothing had happened. I wondered if I should say anything, but I didn’t want to start an argument. It was far easier to say nothing.
“Jody, I think it’s time you helped with the family business,” Dad said.
I bit my lip. “I’d love to, Dad. But what about Alicia? Someone has to take care of her.”
“Sam can do it. I only need you on an occasional basis. Most of the work is at night.”
He wouldn’t go into any more detail than that, and I worried about it a great deal. I tried so hard not to torment myself with images of the fire that had killed Mum, but from time to time, I still felt like I was right there, amongst the flames. I could be doing something completely unrelated, like folding the washing and the room would just fill with smoke. I knew by now that it was my mind playing tricks on me, but it made me nervous all the same. I wasn’t cut out for firefighting. I wished Dad could see that.
When the time came, Dad didn’t give me any warning. I was fast asleep in bed, having not long put Alicia back to sleep. I didn’t feel Dad lift me out of bed and carry me outside. I woke up as the van weaved its way through the dark streets. I blinked in confusion at the street lamps.
“What’s going on?” I asked, staring out the window.
“It’s time for work,” Dad said. “I need you to do something very important for me, Jody.”
“Why can’t Sam do it?” I asked, yawning.
“Sam’s getting too big. I need someone a little smaller. Slighter.”
I narrowed my eyes. “What do you want me to do? I don’t know how to put out fires.”
“I need you to climb through a window, and let me in.”
“But why?”
“Because that’s what we’re being paid to do.”
I opened my mouth to object, but then I thought of something else.
“What about Alicia? Who’s looking after her?”
“Don’t fuss! Sam’s at home. He can see to her, if need be. We won’t be long.”
He stopped the van outside a building with slanted windows. They were all closed, except for one up on the first floor, a really tiny one.
“You really think I can fit through there?”
“I know you can.”
“But what about the people who live there?”
“They’re on holiday. They want this done before they get back.”
Against my better judgement, I got out of the van and followed Dad towards the building. The whole street was in semi-darkness, lit only by pale moonlight.
Dad gave me a hard hat to wear, with a torch attached.
“Don’t put the light on until you get into the house.”
Then he made me climb up onto his back.
Reluctantly, I did as I was told, gripping the windowsill of the room I was supposed to climb into.
“Pull yourself up,” Dad urged.
It was harder than it looked, but I managed it. I was frightened, but I climbed into that empty house because I couldn’t let my dad down.
I was terrified that I was going to be grabbed by angry homeowners, thinking I was a common burglar. But Dad wouldn’t be up to anything like that. Dad had been a fireman. He was a hero.
I switched on the light on my hat. I appeared to be in a child’s bedroom. There were toys everywhere. They had the latest of everything. Many of the toys were still in their boxes. Whoever owned them hadn’t even opened them yet. I saw one of the tiny dolls that Alicia loved so much, and for a moment, I was tempted to take it. Never in a month of Sundays could we afford such wonderful toys.
This ain’t our house, I reminded myself. The
se things don’t belong to us.
I found my way out onto the landing, and down a grand staircase that swept into a large, luxurious lounge. The shag pile carpet felt warm and soft beneath my feet. In one corner, there was a grand piano, and in another, a large portrait of the family. A family that included a mum and dad, as well as a gaggle of beautiful children, all looking happy and perfect. I stared at it for a moment, unable to tear myself away.
Next, I found the kitchen and ogled the large oven and the sparkling white worktops. The back door had the key in the lock, as Dad had said. I unlocked it and it swung open.
“What took you so long?” hissed Dad, as he stepped out of the cold.
“Ain’t this a beautiful house?” I said.
“Ain’t it just?”
“Now what?”
Dad fumbled in his pocket and brought out a lighter. He ran his thumb over it. The orange flame glowed in the darkness.
“Dad, what are you doing?”
“We need to make it look like an accident. That’s the main thing.”
He shone his powerful torch around the kitchen, settling on the hob.
“That’ll do it,” he said, switching it on. He picked up a newspaper which had been lying on the side and dropped it onto the open flame. I watched as the fire consumed the letters. The paper curled and disintegrated in the heat.
“We’ll wait a bit, to make sure it gets going,” Dad said. ”Might need to put a bit more on.”
“What if the cozzers come? Will we be arrested?”
“It’ll be fine. They don’t patrol round here at night. No one will discover the fire until it’s too late.”
“And you’re sure the family want us to do this?”
“That’s what they’re paying us for.”
We watched as the fire spread along the kitchen surface. It grazed at the wire where the kettle was plugged in, nibbling its way through the cord like an invisible mouse.
The smoke wafted across to me, and I covered my mouth and nose. I didn’t trust those wafer-thin wisps of smoke. I didn’t like the way they crept up on me, swirling around and wrapping me in invisible cling film. I fought the impulse to put it out.
“I really think we should go now,” I said, through my hand.
Dad settled himself down at the table.
“Sometimes it takes a while,” he said. “We don’t go until we’re sure the job is done.”
All the way home, my mind was going like the clappers. My dad had been a fireman. He was supposed to prevent fires and save people from getting hurt. And now he was in the business of starting fires. If he could do this, then what else was he capable of? An image flashed through my mind of him attacking Mum the night she died. I had buried that memory for a long time. I needed my Dad, I couldn’t afford to hate him. I tasted the smoke at the back of my throat and coughed to force it out.
“You alright there, Jody Bear?”
“I’m fine.”
I concentrated hard on the street lights, counting how many there were all the way home.
19
A few weeks passed before Dad had another job for me.
“Just a small one,” he told me. “A newspaper office.”
Butterflies fluttered around in my tummy all the way to the appointment. I felt as if I were going to a funeral. I didn’t get carsick. It was the thought of what I had to do.
Once again, we worked in the dead of night. My stomach tied itself in knots as Dad boosted me up through the window and I clambered down into the eerie darkness. I hated that moment, stepping into an empty building and shining my torch around to see what was there. One day, I was certain, we were going to get the wrong building. Or else, someone would be there who shouldn’t be. I imagined someone lying in wait for me with a gun. If I had to die, I hoped it would be quick.
I could hear the sound of my own breathing. I panted like a dog, too high on adrenaline to quieten myself down. My breathing was so loud, I was certain someone would hear me, or else they would trace me from the saliva droplets on the floor. I knew about DNA. Sam loved to talk about fingerprints and blood spatter. How bodily excretions could be used to pinpoint exactly how a crime had happened.
“Forensic scientists can use the tiniest clue to solve a mystery,” he had told me the previous evening.
“If you’re so impressed, why don’t you become one?”
But I already knew the answer. Sam wasn’t good at book learning. He could get by, but he would never be good enough to go to college. None of the McBrides ever did.
My heart beat loudly in my ears as I tiptoed down the stairs of the empty house and let Dad in. I couldn’t get the door open quick enough. I had a strong instinct to run outside, but Dad placed a steadying hand on my shoulder.
“What are you waiting for? Get to work.”
He handed me a lighter. My hands shook as I flicked it. I was used to handling lighters. I had used them all the time to get the oven going at the B&B. But this was different.
“What are you going to set light to?” he asked me.
“I don’t know. The bin?” I eyed the wastepaper basket. It was made out of wicker. Ought to go up nicely.
Dad laughed. “It’s flammable alright, but can you think of something less obvious? We want to make it look like an accident, remember. Try the curtains.”
“Aren’t curtains obvious?”
“These ones are next to the heater. That will get the fire going nicely.”
“Right.”
I felt like he made up the rules as he went along.
“Hop to it.”
I held my lighter to the curtain and watched it catch fire. The immediacy of it terrified me. The blaze ignited with frightening speed, whizzing up the wall before I could draw a breath.
“Nice,” Dad said, satisfied.
I ran towards the exit, but he caught me by the sleeve. “Woah there! Watch your step. We don’t run from the fire, that’s how you make mistakes. Make sure you don’t drop nothing. We can’t afford to leave clues.”
I thought again about Sam’s forensic scientists. I hated what we were doing and I hated being so close to the fire. I couldn’t understand how Dad could be so casual about it, as if he were teaching me to fish.
The fire crackled loudly, and I jumped as the rail on the top of the curtains gave way.
Dad caught me by the arm. “I told you not to run.”
“But the fire…”
“You didn’t listen. As punishment, you’re going to stay here and count to twenty, then you can follow. If you come out too soon, I’ll send you back in.”
“Dad!”
But he wouldn’t change his mind. I listened to his retreating footsteps and began to count, as the smoke surrounded me. I was delirious with terror. The fire leapt up a second wall and it felt like the ceiling had come alive. Yet I knew that if I didn’t do what Dad said, he would send me back in, as he had threatened. I squatted down low and counted to fifteen. All the time, there was this intense heat on my back. My eyes were streaming and as I reached for the door handle, I found it hot to the touch. I wrapped my t-shirt around it and pulled, ignoring the burning sensation in my hand. Once I was out of that room, I knew the exit was just down the stairs, but I was convinced I would never make it.
My lungs felt like they would burst. I took the stairs two at a time and barrelled towards the door, rattling the handle in panic. The door swung open and I shot out into the cold night air, like water from a hose.
“Dad!” I hissed into the night. But there was no answer.
A thousand invisible ants crawled all over my body.
Had he gone back in to look for me? Was he trapped inside?
I ran around the outside of the building, checking every window, but there was no sign of him and the fire exit had locked behind me.
There was nothing for it but to ring 999. If Dad was trapped inside, then the only the Fire Brigade could get him out now. I saw a red telephone box across the street and ran towards it. I
darted inside and lifted the receiver, but as I started to dial, I noticed Dad’s van, now positioned right outside the burning building. Dad sat at the wheel, calmly smoking a fag as he waited. He didn’t look remotely worried. He wasn’t even looking out for me. For all he knew, I could be dead.
20
Alicia wasn’t in her cot when we got home. I checked our room first, then Sam’s.
You have to watch her.
I ran from bedroom to bedroom, checking in the wardrobes and under the beds. My frantic search ended when I stepped into the bathroom and found bog roll wound round the loo. Alicia was filling the sink with water, giggling in delight, as it slopped over the sides.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake!”
I picked her up and plonked her back in her cot, ignoring her indignant wails. Then I cleaned up the mess before Dad saw it. You never knew how he was going to react to something like that. He might laugh, but equally, he might lose his nut.
In the morning, I asked Sam if he had heard Alicia get up, but he just shrugged and helped himself to the Weetabix. He didn’t have the parental instincts I did. If Alicia had climbed out of her cot while I was home, I would have woken in a heartbeat. It didn’t reassure me about leaving her alone with him.
In spite of our chaotic lifestyle, Alicia continued to hit milestones. She had been early to walk, but was slow to speak. For a long time, she preferred to make up her own language rather than learn ours. I always felt she was a bit different from other children and I felt guilty about it. I wanted so much for her to have a normal childhood. But how could she be expected to be normal, growing up in a house like ours?
Dad was doing a roaring trade with his fire-starting business. He and Richard would sit and plan whilst burning logs on the hearth. Although Richard never came out on the jobs, he dealt with the money side of things. It all seemed quite involved. There were maps and lists and notebooks with clients’ names in. Richard was careful not to put their full names, just a clue as to who they were. He had a book full of cryptic entries like ‘Fred The Mac’ or ‘Old Man Station’. It didn’t make the slightest bit of sense to me. Dad always drank during these meetings. He needed beer to concentrate, the way other people needed coffee.
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