Hot Seat

by Simon Wood

  ‘The sprinklers?’ Rags said.

  The sprinkler system should have been dousing us, but nothing. Crichlow must have cut the water supply.

  ‘Forget the sprinklers. Do you have your mobile?’

  ‘Yeah. My pocket.’ He tapped his right-trouser pocket.

  I fished his phone out and punched in nine-nine-nine. I had to shout over the roar of the fire for the emergency-services operator to hear me. Her voice trembled when she told me the fire brigade would be there as soon as possible.

  ‘I don’t think they’ll get here in time,’ Rags said.

  He was right. I ended the call by breaking into a cough. My throat was raw already.

  ‘Keep the pressure on your wound. I’m getting us out of here,’ I croaked.

  The vapours inside a jerry can ignited and it flew across the workshop, smashing into a wall.

  ‘I like your optimism,’ Rags said.

  ‘Shut up and don’t move.’

  I punched in Dylan’s number. It rang until voicemail kicked in. I cursed and called Steve’s number. He answered.

  ‘Crichlow is the one who killed Jason. He’s torched the workshop. Rags and I are trapped,’ I said.

  ‘Turn around! Turn around! Aidy’s in trouble,’ Steve yelled. ‘How bad is it, son?’

  I stared at the flames vaporising the paint off the walls. ‘It’s bad. Crichlow has dumped the oil barrels out and doused everything else in petrol.’

  ‘Can you find a safe spot until we get there?’ A tremor had entered Steve’s voice. It hurt to hear it.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Stay low. Soak your clothes. We’re coming. It’s going to be OK. Say it.’

  My head was aching. It felt as though the smoke was in my brain. ‘It’s going to be OK.’ My words came out dry.

  ‘Say it like you fucking mean it, goddamn you.’

  I palmed away a tear. ‘It’s going to be OK.’

  ‘That’s my boy. Move this fucking car!’ Steve said before hanging up.

  I tossed the phone back to Rags and snatched a hose line from the hook on the wall. Even though Crichlow had cut off the mains, I was banking on there still being pressure in the lines.

  ‘You won’t put this out with that.’ Rags laughed, but it immediately turned into a coughing fit.

  ‘I’m just buying us some time. Prepare to get wet,’ I said and doused him with water.

  The moment I felt a change in pressure in the hose I turned it and doused myself.

  The fire was spreading. The oil continued to expand across the floor. For every inch the pool grew, it set light to something else. Our safe haven wouldn’t last. The speed at which the fire was consuming the workshop was staggering.

  ‘We need more than this to stay alive,’ Rags said.

  We did and we had it. For all the combustible materials in the workshop, there were a few that weren’t.

  ‘Race suits? Do you have any?’

  Rags’ eyes lit up. ‘In the bag over there.’

  He pointed to a sports bag on top of a tool cabinet. I grabbed it and opened it up. It was Haulk’s kit bag. It contained his suit, boots, gloves and helmet.

  I stripped off my jeans and shoes and changed into Haulk’s flame-retardant clothes. Since Haulk was taller and bigger than me, his clothes hung on me, but they didn’t have to fit. They just had to protect me.

  ‘Got another suit?’

  ‘In my office.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Do you think you can make it to the door?’ Rags asked.

  Racing suits are flame retardant, not fireproof. They are meant as a temporary barrier giving the driver a couple of minutes of protection at most. I could make it to one of the doors, but I’d never survive long enough to open it.

  A thunderclap rocked the workshop. The fire had caught up with Haulk’s car and the petrol tank had exploded, spraying burning petrol over a tool chest.

  ‘How do you fancy driving out of here?’ I said.

  Haulk’s car might be on fire, but the flames had yet to make it to mine. The only problem was that I had to cross through a lake of burning oil to get to it. I pointed at my car.

  ‘Are you crazy?’

  ‘Crazy is the only thing that’s going to get us out of here.’

  I pulled on Haulk’s Nomex balaclava and his helmet, then snapped the visor down.

  As Rags trickled out what water was left in the hose line, burning leaves dropped down and landed on his head and back. It was what was left of the many winners’ wreaths hanging on the wall. He yelled out and I slapped them away with my gloved hands.

  ‘You need to move fast.’

  I stepped up to the roiling wall of fire. I had thirty feet of it to walk through. I tried not to think about how hot it was and walked into the flames.

  The heat was immediate and intense. I felt it come at me from all angles, latch on to every inch of me and squeeze. It penetrated the suit immediately, hungry flames seeking a path through the fabric to get to my skin. It easily found the two weaknesses in my protection: where the legs of the suit slotted into the tops of my boots and where my balaclava was exposed under my chin. I felt my ankles and the underside of my jaw burn and the soles of my feet tingled as the burning oil ate my boots.

  My view of the world vanished. The helmet’s visor charred and turned opaque in seconds. I ignored the blindness and focused on where I’d seen my car before my vision disappeared.

  I placed each foot as squarely on the ground as possible, but slipped on the burning oil. I pitched forward and landed on my hands and knees.

  Panic knifed through me as quickly as the pain. I was on my hands and knees in a bed of flames. That one thought helped me scramble to my feet in a second.

  I felt a new and more intense heat in my hands. I didn’t understand it for a second, then I got it. The suede patches on my gloves were on fire. I fought the urge to yank them off and expose my naked hands to an oil fire.

  ‘Keep going, Aidy!’ Rags screamed.

  That’s it, I told myself, keep walking. You can do this. My mantra kept the panic in. I made it through the fire.

  The second I was clear of the flames, I yanked the gloves free and tugged the helmet off. Every inch of the suit was scorched and blackened, including Haulk’s helmet. The heat had destroyed the fancy design incorporating the Dutch flag. Nomex really was a lifesaver.

  I ran up to my car. It was hot to the touch, so I used a burnt glove to open the door. I threw myself behind the wheel and slammed the door shut.

  I felt safe inside the car, but it scared me to see what the oil- and water-temperature gauges were registering.

  I put my finger on the starter. ‘Please start.’

  I pressed down. The engine turned over and over, but it wasn’t catching. The fuel was probably evaporating in the engine.

  Then the engine caught and fired. ‘God bless Honda and their reliability.’

  I put the car in gear and drove into the fire. The car pushed back the flames. I couldn’t believe I’d just walked through this.

  I punctured the flames and found Rags on his feet on the other side, holding his mobile in one hand and my shirt to his neck. I clambered from the car.

  ‘It’s your grandfather. He’s outside. Jesus Christ, the tyres are on fire.’

  He jammed the phone in my hands and aimed the hose at the tyres.

  ‘Steve?’ I said into the phone.

  ‘We’re outside. We’ve kicked in the door to the offices. Can you see us?’

  I wiped my eyes. I’d been tearing up since I walked through the fire. I looked back. Between the smoke and the flames, I couldn’t see them. I could barely make out the outline of the offices.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Fuck. We can’t open the loading doors. They’re locked from the inside.’

  I coughed so hard I folded over. I felt the smoke in my lungs, choking me from inside. ‘And I can’t get to them.’

  ‘We’re going to get you out of there, son. Just
keep believing that.’

  He was clinging to that belief. I heard it in his voice. As long as he believed, I did too.

  ‘We can plough through the doors,’ I heard Dylan shout in the background.

  ‘No, the inside of this place is a fireball,’ I said. ‘You’ll burn up getting to us. I’ve got my car going. It’s got extinguishers. I’ll drive out from this side.’

  ‘Are you going to smash through the door?’ Steve asked.

  Smash through it? I couldn’t see it. It was lost in the smoke. In the gloom, I could miss the door and drive the car into a support pillar and that would be the end of the car and me. I went up to the prefab siding. It was corrugated metal. It was strong, but it wasn’t reinforced like the rollup door.

  ‘Steve, I’ll never find the door in all this shit. This siding. How strong is it?’

  ‘Not that strong.’

  ‘I think I can rip through it. Come around to the other side.’

  ‘Do it. We’ll be waiting.’

  I tossed the phone back to Rags. He dropped the hose to catch it.

  I got back behind the wheel and strapped myself into the harness. I pulled hard on the straps. I needed to be in tight. Any slack and the impact would break my back.

  I needed a long run up for this. I put the car in reverse and rolled it back into the smoke and the flames. Rags and the wall disappeared. Flames licked at the bodywork. Paint blistered. Smoke blackened the windows. I prayed the tyres wouldn’t melt. I backed up until I bumped into the opposite wall.

  ‘OK, here goes.’

  I floored the accelerator, but the tyres slipped in the burning oil. The car barely accelerated while the tyres spun.

  ‘Shit.’

  I backed off and tried to feather the throttle, but the car still only reached fifteen miles an hour by the time it re-emerged from the smoke.

  Rags lumbered over to me and opened the door. He looked awful. I couldn’t tell if it was smoke inhalation or the blood loss.

  ‘I can’t get any traction on this sodding oil,’ I said.

  ‘Shit.’ He thumped the roof of the Honda. ‘He can’t get any speed with all this fucking oil on the floor,’ he yelled into the phone. A moment later, a grin broke out across his face. ‘Your grandfather is a fucking genius. Get this thing on the rolling road.’

  That would do it. The rolling road faced the prefab siding. If I built up enough speed on the rollers and jumped the car out, I’d have the force to tear a hole through this building without the run up.

  Rags staggered over to the rolling road and pulled off the safety plates as I manoeuvred the car on to the rollers. Rags flashed me the thumbs-up and backed away.

  I put the car in second and stepped on the accelerator. The car gathered speed fast on the near frictionless rollers. I watched the needle climb on the display. Thirty. Forty. Fifty. Sixty. Sixty miles an hour should do it. Now to jump it out of its rollers.

  The car’s weight kept sitting squarely in the rollers. To get it to fly out of them, I needed to give it a little help by rocking the car back and forth.

  I stamped on the accelerator then jumped off the pedal, just for a moment. The car lurched forward on the rollers then rolled back. Before the car settled back entirely, I stamped on the power again then jerked my foot off.

  Rags got in on the act. He dropped my shirt and threw his weight against the car to give it that little bump that could make all the difference. Blood poured from his uncovered wound.

  ‘That’s it!’ Rags yelled. ‘Faster now.’

  The needle said I was doing seventy, but it wasn’t coming out of the rollers. I took the car up to eighty. The tyres whined on the steel rollers.

  I stamped down on the accelerator then jumped off. The car rocked back and forth in the rollers even more. As its momentum brought it forward, I stamped on the accelerator again. The car climbed high in the rollers before dropping back down. This was it. One more time. That was all it would take.

  ‘You’re almost there,’ Rags said, before his words lost their strength. His eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed, sliding from view. I couldn’t stop now. Not when I was this close.

  As the car bounced back down into the rollers and momentum rocked it, it lurched forward again. I buried the accelerator into the floor. The car lurched up the rollers and over the top. The second the wheels touched the ground, the tyres screeched on the concrete floor and the Honda rocketed forward and slammed into the corrugated siding. The impact snapped my teeth together, but the car burst through the wall, tearing a sheet of the siding off as it went. There was a ledge on the other side and the car dropped three feet before coming to an abrupt stop in the bushes. The deceleration hit me across the chest like a four by two. I tried to breathe but my body had forgotten how. It took a moment for it to remember again. I released my harness, flung open the door and rolled out. Fire lit up the hole I’d punched through the side of the building.

  Steve and Dylan raced towards me with Claudia and Barrington close behind.

  ‘Get Rags. He’s just inside.’

  Claudia and Barrington broke off towards the hole.

  Steve yanked me up into his arms. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘I’m OK.’ Those two words never sounded sweeter.

  Last Lap

  I was alone at home when DI Huston rang.

  ‘How are you doing?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  It had been four days since the fire at the Ragged workshop. The gash Crichlow had given me hadn’t been serious. Soft tissue only, according to the doctor, but it was annoying. Every time I moved or stretched, the two edges of the wound seemed to shift. I was still coughing out the smoke from the fire and I’d picked up a couple of second-degree burns under my chin and around my ankles. I’d also come away with a mild case of whiplash when I crashed my car. These injuries would keep me out of racing for a couple of weeks. Not that I had any racing to go back to. Ragged Racing was no more.

  ‘You up for a road trip?’ Huston asked.

  ‘Who’s driving?’

  ‘You. You’ll have to meet me here.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘At that factory you told me belonged to Andrew Gates.’

  ‘I’m leaving now.’

  I arrived at the factory to find Huston outside, leaning against her car. It had been a couple of days since I’d seen her. After the fire, Rags and I spent two days being questioned by HM Customs and the police from our hospital beds. Despite helping to identify a murderer and bringing down a drug-trafficking ring, no one seemed to be in a hurry to congratulate me. Oh, well. Huston opened my door and helped me out.

  ‘I’ve got something to show you,’ she said. ‘This way.’

  Crime-scene tape crisscrossed the entrance to the factory. I felt uneasy at the thought of what she’d show me. I prayed it wasn’t a body. She snapped the tape and I followed her inside.

  The area where Gates and Crichlow had interrogated me weeks earlier was staked out. A rust-coloured stain over four feet in diameter tainted the concrete floor.

  ‘Is that blood?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I thought Rags had lost a lot of blood from his neck wound, but it paled in comparison to what had been lost here. I couldn’t imagine anyone surviving that amount of blood loss.

  ‘We’ve tested the blood. It’s the same blood type as Dominic Crichlow’s. It’ll be a while before DNA testing proves whether it’s his or not.’

  No DNA testing was required. It was Crichlow’s. Gates had caught up with his brother’s killer and gotten his revenge. I winced at what Gates had done to spill so much blood.

  ‘Have you found a body?’ I asked.

  ‘No.’

  And I doubted that they would. With all the properties Gates owned, what was left of Crichlow was likely propping up a foundation somewhere.

  ‘Have you spoken to Andrew Gates?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s an absentee landlord now, so I doubt we’ll get the chance.’
/>
  ‘He’s gone?’

  ‘He, his family and his mother left the country on different flights to different countries the day after the fire.’

  ‘Where do you think they’ve gone?’

  ‘I’m sure they’re sunning themselves in a non-extradition country somewhere. We’ll find out which one eventually. Not that we’ll be looking too hard. It’s only the guilty preying on themselves. The innocent have already been avenged. We have what we need. The only question I have is, did you tip him off about Crichlow?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Someone told him. Now, I wouldn’t blame you if you did after what Crichlow did to you.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Is that your official answer?’

  ‘It’s my only answer.’

  She eyed me up, looking for a sign that would give me away. She wouldn’t find one. There wasn’t one to find.

  ‘OK. I had to ask.’ She had a file folder under her arm and held it out to me. ‘I thought you’d like to take a look at these.’

  The file contained eight-by-ten photos of Crichlow, Rags and a bunch of men I’d never seen before. Some of the shots showed them stripping the wheels off the Ragged cars. Others showed the tyres being pulled off the rims and packets of white powder being loaded into bags. Several of the pictures were taken at the accident-repair garage in Milton Keynes. The rest were taken at places I didn’t recognize.

  ‘After a ton of man-hours, our techs managed to get these off Jason’s phone a few days ago. If you’d given me the phone when you’d found it, we could have prevented last night.’

  It might have prevented the fire at Ragged, but it wouldn’t have prevented any of the other collateral damage associated with the case.

  ‘You might be interested to know that the crash centre you discovered belonged to Andrew Gates. I’m guessing we’ll find out that all these buildings pictured belong to Gates and that Crichlow was using them as a front. I think these pictures are what Crichlow was after the night he killed Jason. He was scrabbling to cover his arse. It would explain why he ransacked Jason’s flat and when you started getting close, he planted the razor on you.’