by Lowe, L. Lee
A series of muffled explosions shook the building. The fumes and panic were beginning to take their toll, Jesse realised in anguish—the press of bodies had lessened. Sharp gunshots resounded in a loud volley overhead. Jesse looked up—no fuck no the wood in the old building was cracking from the heat and pressure. Then with a deep rending sound like Grendel’s lunatic howl—a monstrous death rattle that would echo for years to come and tear the psychic fabric of the city—a section of ceiling came crashing onto the frenzied mass of bodies, followed by two or three lengths of wooden beam and a shower of bright deadly sparks. The lights went out. But not the screams, the cries, the groans, the strangled whimpers . . .
It had to be now. The entire rear wall of the building was alive with flames. He would not let her die. He would not! For a split-second he thought he heard Emmy’s voice once more. Jesse, where are you? It’s so hot . . . Terror greater than any he had ever known seized him. Jesse . . . He was running through the night . . . running along the river . . . always running . . . Jesse . . .
Not Emmy, but Sarah.
She’s alive! he thought with a surge of exultation as transforming as a vision, as powerful as the inconceivable energies of a quasar—and this gave him the final strength to summon the fire and carry it with him through the one gateway which stands outside all time and all space, which obeys no laws except its own: that ultimate trapdoor of the universe, which has been called by a multitude of empowering names—
—the expanding mind . . .
~~~
Jesse revived to the sound of sirens. He lay face-down on a patch of damp ground, protected by a bush or hedge whose lower branches were scratching his back. Cautiously he moved his head. Every muscle from crown to toe ached—though not painfully, not even unpleasantly—as if he’d passed through a cosmic meat-grinder. And perhaps he had: there was not a particle of his body which didn’t feel new and strange and utterly alive, buzzing with fiery and vernal charge. In some way he couldn’t possibly explain, he had twisted spacetime by an imaginative leap into another pattern, slight but very real. He opened his eyes. Strong searchlights illuminated the remains of the old warehouse, now blackened and smoking, yet with most of its walls and roof still intact—miraculously, newspapers and pulpits would later claim. The fire brigade was pumping forceful jets of water at the smouldering ruin but no flames were visible. Police and emergency vehicles were everywhere, and he could make out a TV van as well. People were milling about, although the police seemed to be doing a good job of keeping the mob in check.
How many people died? Jesse asked himself. For above the cacophony of motor vehicles and pumps and shouting voices and sirens and bullhorns and cries and thudding axes and guttural oaths and rescue equipment whining and biting its way towards the next victim, he could hear the keening, the soft weeping of those who had cause to grieve.
And then, with the immediacy of a tsunami: Sarah . . . ? He was about to crawl out from under his protective cover when footsteps approached from the other side of the shrubbery. He waited, not quite sure why he didn’t want to be seen. They wouldn’t spot him—there were two of them, a man and a woman—unless they circled round; even then, they would probably have to come very near. In this smoke-palled night his body was just another patch of darkness. And their attention was elsewhere. He breathed carefully, trying not to stir. He could hear every word they spoke, so that a new fear took hold.
‘They’re looking for some kid, a runaway. Dirty blond, about seventeen.’ The man.
‘They think it’s arson then?’ Middle-aged, educated, posh.
‘Yes. The Powers boy—Michael. Mick, he’s called. My son goes to school with him. He told the police he saw this lad start the fire. A Molotov cocktail or something like that.’
‘Who is it?’
‘Some street kid with a record a mile long. History of violence. Apparently he’s been staying with that psychiatrist and her foreign husband. You know the one I mean. The magazine photographer. Never trusted him, myself. I even overheard the daughter arguing with the police. Defending a fiend like that. Can you imagine?’
Sarah—alive!
‘Those Swedes are way over the top. Didn’t something go wrong with the son too?’
‘A heroin addict. Died of an overdose a couple of years back.’
‘You’d think they’d have learned their lesson. Why take some delinquent in? They’re lucky he didn’t rape the daughter. Or murder them all in their beds. They’re pretty well off, from what I’ve heard.’ Jesse could imagine the woman shaking her head.
‘Family money, apparently. Swedish industrialists.’
‘No wonder he can afford to fool around with his pictures. But they certainly got burnt over this psycho.’ The woman didn’t seem to realise what she’d said.
‘Some kind of new therapy, my wife told me.’
‘Half-mad themselves, some of those psychiatrists. Tricked by every sob story you can imagine.’ Her voice rose in parody to a nasal whine. ‘Mummy beat me senseless. The old man was on the dole—he drank. I had to steal to eat. And sell a few drugs to feed my little brothers and sisters. Not my fault, is it, if I had to kill a few people.’
The man laughed, but uneasily. ‘He’s certainly killed enough tonight.’
And more in the same vein. Then their voices faded away. Jesse lay still, his heart leaden. All those kids . . . Sarah, he thought, I tried. I wanted it so much.
~~~
After an hour or more of circling round and round the site, keeping well out of view, Jesse gave it up as hopeless. He’d glimpsed Sarah several times, Finn too. But they were never alone. Once a police officer had been speaking to them; another time Sarah was clutching Finn’s arm and staring at a figure being zipped into a bodybag; the last time she was standing near one of the portable searchlights, and her expression was so bleak—her face smoke-blackened, tear-streaked, and etched with exhaustion—that Jesse had come very close to running out and gathering her in his arms. But he couldn’t take the risk, for there were any number of people in the vicinity. As he watched, another girl whom he didn’t recognise came over and hugged Sarah tightly. He realised with a jolt that there were entire areas of her life he knew nothing about, that he would never come to share. He hadn’t even got to see her dance in a proper ballet, onstage, when dancing meant so much to her.
It was time to leave.
Chapter 40
‘Is that you, Jesse?’
Jesse whirled at Meg’s voice. He had drawn the curtains as soon as he’d come into his room and draped a blanket over the window for extra safety before switching on a light. His shower had been brief but blistering. Working quickly, he’d packed his rucksack, written a letter to Finn and Meg about Peter, and a short note to Matthew, and printed out a few lines of Shakespeare for Sarah, now folded under her pillow. Then he’d erased all his files from the laptop. On second thought he’d formatted the hard disk.
When he’d finished, he turned out the desklight, lit a cigarette, and sat down to wait. Meg would forgive him this once for smoking in the house.
Jesse had gone to the window to look out when he heard Meg speak.
‘Don’t put on the overhead light,’ he said.
She came into the room and shut the door. Jesse checked the curtains and blanket, felt his way to the bedside table, and moved his lamp to the floor before switching it on. He sat down on the bed, and Meg pulled out his desk chair and turned it to face him. There were lines of fatigue bracketing her eyes and mouth from the long hours of emergency duty. She took in the rucksack propped by the door, the neatness of the room. It already looked empty, unoccupied. Her eyes searched his.
‘The police are looking for you,’ she said. ‘They said the house was dark and no one answered the bell. I told them I’d call as soon as I knew anything.’ She gave him a wry smile. ‘Sometimes it helps to be a member in good standing of the professional classes.’
‘I’m only waiting to say goodbye to Sarah and Finn. Do you
have any idea when they’ll be back?’
‘Finn rang me to say they’re on their way. They were making sure your body didn’t turn up.’
Jesse nodded. He’d be able to get away before the sun rose.
‘Where will you go?’ Meg asked.
Jesse was grateful that she didn’t try to argue with him, talk him out of leaving. He shrugged.
‘I’ve got a few ideas,’ he said, ‘but the less you know, the less you can reveal.’
‘We don’t live in a police state,’ she protested.
‘That’s not what—whom—I’m thinking of,’ he replied.
‘You don’t want anyone looking for you, do you?’
‘It’s best that way. You know it yourself. Sarah—’ Jesse stopped, unable to go on.
Meg was silent for a long while. The fire lay between them, burning as though it hadn’t been extinguished, consuming their lives. But neither of them spoke of it.
‘I think you’re wrong, Jesse,’ Meg said at last. ‘It’s not that she won’t love others someday. But—’
Jesse reached over and with his fingertips gently silenced her.
‘Please, Meg. Haven’t I got feelings too?’
He could feel her lips tremble under his touch, and she blinked her eyes rapidly until he dropped his hand.
‘All right,’ she said.
They both heard the car pull into the drive. Jesse rose, smoothed the bed, and hoisted his rucksack to a shoulder. ‘It’s safest to talk in the basement. In the darkrooms, where nobody can look in.’
She followed him downstairs.
~~~
In the hallway Sarah clung to Jesse without saying much except his name, over and over again. Then she went to wash her face and hands while Meg made a pot of extra-strong coffee and some sandwiches. In the darkrooms Finn found them folding chairs, which they positioned round one of the mounting tables. Finn spiked all but Jesse’s coffee generously with whiskey, and Jesse stirred four heaping teaspoons of sugar into his own mug. He gulped most of it straightaway, mindful that he needed the energy and not caring if he scalded his tongue. He wasn’t hungry but forced down a sandwich. Now he was drinking his second mug more slowly, wondering if he should ask Meg to let him have a flask for the road, inhaling the potent steam. But the rich smell of the coffee did not quite drive away the other, more acrid odour. Sarah’s clothes and hair and skin still reeked of smoke, Finn’s as well.
‘You’ll take care of Nubi’s grave for me, won’t you?’ Jesse asked quietly. ‘Plant some flowers, a rosebush maybe.’
‘We’ll look after it till you come back to do it for yourself,’ Finn said.
Jesse gazed at Finn, who shifted on his stool, then dropped his eyes and shifted again. After a long silence Jesse asked, ‘How many died tonight?’
‘Nine at the fire, some from asphyxiation, some crushed or trampled, and a half-dozen others are in critical condition in hospital.’ Finn spoke evenly, but his hand shook as he sipped from his mug, and he spilled a little of his coffee while setting it back down. He didn’t seem to notice.
Jesse closed his eyes for a moment. So many.
Sarah spoke for the first time. ‘It was an accident.’
Jesse looked down at his hands, his face tight and inscrutable.
‘Fire has a way of taking over that only a professional understands. Fire is vicious—and fast.’ Finn pressed a hand to his lower face and kneaded—clawed—the skin beneath his beard.
‘Katy?’ Meg asked.
‘She’s OK,’ Sarah said. She waited, but no one spoke. Her eyes sought Jesse’s. ‘You put it out.’
‘Saving a lot of lives,’ Meg added.
Jesse gave a bitter laugh.
‘The fire-fighters are completely baffled. They’ve never seen anything like it,’ Finn said. ‘Their chief was being interviewed on TV as we left, and I caught a bit of his report. A fire of that magnitude doesn’t just die off at its peak.’ Finn paused to swallow more coffee. ‘Fire is insatiable. It subsides only after it’s exhausted its fuel. Or a greater force stops it.’ He raised an eyebrow, a hint of his old self in the gesture. ‘A wonder, some are saying. A miracle.’
Jesse shrugged. ‘Let them wonder.’
‘There won’t be any evidence.’ Finn said. ‘Not for something like this.’
‘Does it matter? With no identity? They’ll have a picnic with me. And if they ever make the connection to Ayen’s facility . . . They’ll lock me up and throw away the key. Or worse. Whatever I am, it doesn’t fit into their cosy little universe. And what doesn’t fit is best removed, like a tumour. Or dissected for its secrets.’
There was no answer to this, and they all knew it.
Finn dropped his gaze to the scarred work surface, to the abrasions and cuts the years had etched into the wood. Then with a single violent movement he snatched up a pencil and snapped it in two, the sound splintering as much against their skin as their ears. Tossing the jagged halves to the floor with a soft inarticulate oath, he looked at Jesse.
‘Where the hell will you go?’
Jesse gave Finn the same answer he’d given Meg.
‘At least sleep for a few hours,’ Meg implored. ‘You’re exhausted.’
‘I need a headstart more than I need sleep,’ Jesse said.
‘You’ll not get far in the middle of the night, running only on adrenaline and caffeine,’ Finn countered.
They were quiet. Finn could hear the breathing of his family, of the house itself, which stirred above him like a restless giant, as if it too could not understand what was being worked under its eaves. Even Peter’s death hadn’t shaken its foundations, for any old house had seen its share of dying. But now . . . its walls would bear Jesse’s furnacings—his imprint—forever.
Finn asked Jesse for a cigarette, his words rueful. ‘I seem to break all of my rules for you.’ He let Jesse light it for him, inhaled, grimaced. Another long drag, then he offered it to Jesse. ‘Here. I’m not even enjoying it. Want to finish it?’ He pushed over an empty plate as an ashtray.
Jesse accepted the cigarette, drawing a circle in the air in front of him with the tip, then another. Everyone watched the glowing trace rather than their own thoughts. Sarah had caught a corner of her lower lip between her teeth and was gnawing on it—she’d draw blood if she continued. Jesse blew out a small cloud of smoke, which obscured his face briefly before drifting away.
After a puff or two, Jesse bent forward with a sigh, stubbed out the half-finished cigarette, rose and stretched. He rubbed the back of his neck wearily. Despite the coffee, he was tired. More than tired—drained, caffeine-razzed, even a bit feverish. How long would it be before he slept in a bed again—or slept at all?
He ought to tell them about Peter. He would tell them. A letter wasn’t good enough.
The doorbell rang.
Meg and Finn exchanged glances of alarm. For a moment no one moved, no one spoke. Even the house seemed to hold its breath. Then Finn stood and crossed to a panel near the door. Long ago he’d had an entryphone and security system installed. He put his finger to his lips in warning, waited a precise number of seconds, let the callers ring a second time—longer, more persistently—then pressed the button.
‘Yes?’ he asked, his voice deliberately gruff. No one likes to be disturbed in the wee hours before dawn.
‘Police.’
‘Yes, what is it?’
‘May we come in?’
‘At this time of night? Morning, actually?’
‘We’re sorry to trouble you, but we need to speak with you and your wife. It’s important.’ He didn’t sound sorry.
Finn sighed loudly. Then he signalled to Meg, who understood his cue.
‘Finn, who’s there? What do they want? My god, it’s nearly four o’clock. Is something else the matter?’ She spoke fast and pitched her voice high, as if awakened in sudden fright.
‘Look,’ Finn said, ‘can’t it wait till morning? We’ve just got to bed a little while ago. The fire, you
know, at that awful party. My daughter was there.’
‘We know. That’s why we’re here.’
Finn sighed again, even louder. Jesse smiled at the performance.
‘It won’t take long, Sir.’ The other voice was younger, more obsequious.
‘How do I know you’re the real thing? There’ve been a lot of burglaries in the neighbourhood.’
‘For god’s sake, we’ve got our warrant cards.’ The older man again.
‘Just asking.’
‘That’s all right, Sir. Better to be safe.’
There was an unintelligible whisper.
‘Are you going to let us in?’
‘OK. OK. I’ll be down in a few minutes. I don’t fancy a nudist party. Just give us a chance to get some clothes on.’
Finn released the button. They all looked at each other. Now what do we do? passed in silent communication between them.
Jesse recovered first. ‘Have you got the keys to your Harley down here?’ he asked Finn.
‘There’s a spare set in my desk.’
‘Good. Will you give them to me?’
‘Why? What do you have in mind?’
‘Don’t worry. You’ll get it back in one piece.’
‘It’s your pieces I don’t feel like collecting!’
‘I’ll be fine.’
‘You can stay in the darkrooms till they leave.’ Meg said. ‘They won’t have a search warrant.’
‘No, it’s best this way.’ Loki must be grinning over his dice, raffish when someone seized his chance. ‘Go upstairs and put my rucksack by the kitchen door before you let them in. Do you think you can stall them in the sitting room? Behind closed doors? I’d like to have a few minutes alone with Sarah.’
Sarah made a noise at the back of her throat—not a sob, precisely, more like a soft hiccup or a single cello note, sorrowfully drawn.
‘No problem,’ Finn said. ‘But there’s no way I can keep them from hearing the sound of the bike, unless you wheel it away.’
