Town of Fire

by Rebecca Fernfield

  TOWN OF FIRE

  BLACKOUT & BURN SERIES Book 4

  Rebecca Fernfield

  TOWN OF FIRE

  BLACKOUT & BURN SERIES

  BOOK 4

  By

  Rebecca Fernfield

  Ebook first published in 2018 by REDBEGGA LIMITED

  Copyright REDBEGGA LIMITED

  The moral right of Rebecca Fernfield to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  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, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  www.rebeccafernfieldauthor.com

  rebecca@rebeccafernfieldauthor.com

  www.facebook.com/rebeccafernfield

  Created with Vellum

  For Safiyyah, Evie, Harrison, Mia & Jacob.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  Sam opens an eye and immediately shuts it against the thin shaft of light seeping through the gap in the blinds. He pulls the edge of the sleeping bag to his neck, searching in his half-sleep for understanding, then groans with realisation. He’s on a camp bed in the nursery manager’s office playing prison guard to a bunch of raving and murderous fanatics. A dull ache throbs inside his skull.

  With a weariness that is overwhelming, he unzips the sleeping bag, staggers to the manager’s desk, slumps down on the high-backed office chair, and sinks into its padded leather. His head pounds and his stomach aches as he waits for the exhaustion of sleep to pass.

  As his eyes clear he checks his watch. Five-thirty am. What the hell was he doing awake at that time in the morning!

  Forcing himself up, he pulls on his jeans, shirt, and shoes then makes his way outside to the improvised latrine. He sucks in the cool air of early morning, welcoming the cold, and shaking off the remnants of sleep as he relieves his bladder then goes back to check on the prisoners. It was unreal. Only the other day he’d been a quivering wreck and now he was the one making sure the whole town didn’t go into total meltdown. He opens the door to the small room designated as the guards’ headquarters. “Morning, Baz.”

  Baz, his legs splayed and his head nodding, starts at the sounds of Sam’s voice and jerks upright, suddenly alert. “Morning, Sam.”

  Sean and Ollie lie on improvised beds, dead to the world. Ollie snorts, his mouth open, head back.

  “Get one of these buggers up and get some rest.”

  Baz runs his hand through his hair. His eyes are bloodshot. “I’ve got another hour on watch, and then I will.”

  “Quiet night?” Sam nods in the direction of the cells. He’d last checked at two o’clock, shone the torch through the peephole to a grunt, but, apart from one angry scowl, the other men had been asleep, slumped against each other or curled against the wall.

  “Yep. Just a lot of shouting and banging until about midnight then it all went quiet. Not a dicky bird since.”

  “Good.” Sam’s relief is undisguised. “They’ll need breakfast at eight am. There’s enough water for a bottle each and cereals too though don’t overload the bowls—we’ve got to make it last.”

  No response from Baz and his eyes flit to the wall. “Baz? A bottle each and a bowl of cereal at eight am. Got it?”

  “Sure.” He stares back at Sam.

  Recognising Baz’s dissatisfaction, Sam chooses to ignore it. “Good. Well … at least there’s steak for later.” He forces a smile.

  “Cannot bloody wait for that!”

  “About two o’clock. Bring the missus and the kids to the park. Martha’s organised games for the kids.”

  “Sounds like a party.”

  “She thinks it’ll help keep things calm.”

  “You expecting trouble?”

  “No—just a lot of hungry kids and stressed parents—the games and entertainment will bring a bit of relief.”

  “Aye,” Baz agrees. “You’re doing a good job, Sam,” he calls as the fireman leaves the room. “People will remember it.”

  Sam stops and the weariness fades. “You think?”

  “Sure. It’s been crazy around here. You’ve brought a bit of sanity back into everyone’s lives.”

  “Thanks, Baz. That means a lot.”

  Banging and dull thuds vibrate from the back of the building as fists beat on the thick doors of the Victorian cells. “Sounds like our guests are waking up.”

  A voice shouts and then another joins it. The doors bang against their frames.

  “Yeah,” Baz returns with a sigh. “Bunch of arseholes.”

  “Don’t underestimate them, Baz,” he warns. “They’re dangerous. Don’t forget that,”

  Jay pulls his legs up to his chest and rests his head in his hands. Sleep had been difficult; the room is stuffy, rank with body odour and the stench emanating from the slop bucket. Worse is the fear. It rose within him like a snake curling through his innards, wrapping around his lungs then tightening around his throat. He takes a breath; it amplifies the hard and sickening beat of his heart and does nothing to ease the tightness across his chest.

  An arm jostles Jay as Khaled pushes up from the floor. The sour waft of his breath is warm on Jay’s cheek as the man crouches then stands. He stretches, runs fingers through his dark curls, then jabbers in Arabic. The other men grunt or laugh and jabber back as Khaled steps over legs, makes his way to the cell wall, and looks out through the small, barred window before striding back to the door. He hammers against the wood. Shouts, listens, then bangs again. The cell reverberates with noise and Jay covers his ears, blocking the painful vibrations assaulting his ear drums. The massive door bangs against its frame, and the metal of its bolts and locks clangs. Jay wants to scream at Khaled to shut up, to just sit down and shut the fuck up, but the consequences, he knows only too well, would be brutal. He strokes a soft finger over the swelling on his forehead. Blood is caked across his brow. He picks at the dried mess avoiding the tender area around the wound. Dark blood pushes into his nails. His belly aches with a queasy and rancid hunger.

  Abdullah, a thin weasel of a man with narrow shoulders and a beaked nose that springs from between his eyes like a claw, coughs and spits on the floor. Dirty bastards. They were all dirty bastards. Dirty bastards full of hate. What the hell had he, Jay, done? He swallows as his chest tightens a little more. He was trapped in a room full of monsters who made Derek and his gang of teenage wannabe gangsters look like sugarplum fairies. The men continue to jabber, their language incomprehensible to him. He twists the ring on his pinky finger - a gift from his father - and a lump sits in his throat. Don’t cry. Don’t you dare cry. Man up!

>   Joining them in prison had seemed the right thing to do—the best way to stay safe. The first few days at Olney had been alright. Casey and Rob were both inside, serving out the last couple of weeks of their sentences for dipping a couple of rival gang members, and he’d tried to keep a low profile, but then Khaled had latched onto him. When a group of muslims had ganged up against Jay, it was Khaled that had come to his rescue, and when the taunting began it had been Khaled who’d stuck up for him. Rob had been vocal against them, warned Jay to stay away, said they were all extremists, they weren’t being nice for no reason, that they were sucking him in and once they’d got him they’d never let go. One quick stab to the back was all that it had taken to shut Rob down. After that Jay had joined them; a new religion, a new name, a new gut full of hate. Rob had been right; Khaled was dangerous and there was no escape. Now, here he was—locked up with the monsters. A terrorist; just like them. Jay’s skin crawls.

  He leans back against the wall as they continue to jabber and hammer on the door. A boot kicks at the sole of his trainer.

  “Karim!”

  He stares into Khaled’s scowling face, uncomprehending.

  “Karim!”

  Another kick.

  “What?” His voice is terse; he regrets it instantly. Khaled’s lips curl against his teeth.

  “I was talking to you, Karim. Don’t you know your name?”

  Jay’s heart thuds against his ribs. Don’t call me that! My name is Jay. “Sorry, Khaled.”

  Khaled continues to eye him, a hard squint seeking him out. “I said that today we will crush these people; their blood will run in rivers through the street. Insha’allah.”

  Jay stares back into Khaled’s gleaming eyes. Insanity lies there.

  “Karim?”

  Oh, God! Forgive me. “Yes, Insha’allah.”

  Chapter 2

  Sarah swings her legs to the floor as she sits up in bed, roused by the call of ‘Mum!’ from downstairs. Gabe lies asleep, his back to Sarah, oblivious to his son’s shout. Typical! The man could sleep through a hurricane. She glances at the digital radio on her bedside table, confused by its blank screen until she remembers; another day without power. When would it end? The past few days had been more than a little challenging. She picks up the small square travel clock, set on her bedside by Amy, her fourteen-year-old daughter, and presses the button to illuminate its hands. It had been Amy’s idea to set the travel alarm - a leftover item from Sarah’s professional life before the children were born - as soon as the sun was at its peak in the sky. The small clock reads five thirty. Five thirty! What on earth was Joe doing up so early? That beat his usual weekend morning by an hour.

  “Mum!”

  “Shh!” She grabs for her dressing gown and moves quickly to the door.

  Downstairs the boy is in the kitchen holding his belly. He stands almost camouflaged in his dark blue and red dressing gown despite the hood with its luminous spider-man eyes.

  “What’s up, Joe? You’ll wake your dad and your sister shouting up like that.”

  “Sorry, Mum.” He pulls the edges of his dressing gown tight, covering the bare skin of his belly.

  “What’re you doing up so early?”

  “It’s light outside.”

  “Yes, sweetheart, but it’s summer so the mornings are light.”

  “Oh.”

  Sarah can’t help but smile at her son, hair tousled from sleep, standing in the bright light of early morning with just his pyjama bottoms on, he’s the mini-image of his father. A wave of love spreads over her. He’d been an unexpected arrival, one that had nearly given his dad a heart attack, but he’d brought enormous joy into their lives.

  “Now tell me, little mister, what’s wrong?” His hand rubs against his stomach. “Does your belly hurt?”

  “I’m starving and I can’t find anything to eat.”

  Sarah’s heart sinks. Worrying about how she was going to feed Gabe and the kids over the coming days had kept her awake until the early hours. Today was taken care of thanks to Sam and Martha, but after that she really had no idea what they’d do. Last night, to her relief, she’d managed to placate the kids with the last of the dry cereal. There were tins in the cupboard and some salad vegetables that were still edible in the chiller but what she’d do after they were gone, if she could even persuade them to eat the hodge-podge she’d be able to offer, was giving her serious anxiety.

  “Well, let me take a look.” She pulls at a kitchen chair and climbs. Reaching to the back of the very top cupboard, she takes out a packet. “I’ve got something I know you’ll like.”

  “What is it?” Joe’s eyes shine with excitement as he stares at the packet.

  “Sweet waffles.”

  “Waffles! You hid them?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, because I knew you’d gobble them all up if you snuck down here at five-thirty in the morning.” She tousles his hair then opens the packet. “Just one, though.”

  “But I’m starving, Mum!”

  “I know, but they’ve got to last, and there’s four of us in this house, so you need to share.”

  “Share! No way.” He grins as he holds the packet away from her outstretched hand.

  “Yes, share.” She takes the packet from him as he bites down onto the sweet waffle with relish. “Naughty!” Eight in the packet. Her own belly aches with hunger. If the kids had two at each meal time … she closes the wrapper and puts them back in the cupboard. “You mustn’t eat these without asking. OK?”

  Joe nods as he chews the last mouthful. “Did you even taste that?”

  He nods with a wry grin. “Can I have another one, please?”

  “Save it till later, sweetheart.”

  “But I’m starving, Mum.”

  “I know, but just wait until breakfast time—then you can have another one.”

  She reaches into the fridge and takes the large bottle of milk. Usually chill and bright, the interior is warm and dark. She takes a tentative sniff of the contents—very nearly on the turn, but perhaps Joe won’t notice—he definitely won’t notice if she puts in a spoonful of Nesquik. “Strawberry milkshake or chocolate, Joe?”

  “For real?”

  “Just this once.” Sugary drinks were a no-no in the house and the only reason they had the cartons of powdered flavouring was because Gabe had bought them after a trip to the shops with Joe. At the time, Sarah had been annoyed with Gabe and chided him for letting Joe twist him round his little finger; she tried so hard to keep their food wholesome and healthy, but now, with this food crisis, she was glad of the sugar-loaded powder.

  Joe returns an incredulous ‘strawberry’ and wanders through to the living room.

  “You’ll have to drink it at the table,” she calls after him.

  Stomach grumbling, she prepares the strawberry milk. Her usual morning routine consisted of a quick shower and hair wash, then teeth brushed followed by a cup of tea before the real work of getting everyone ready for school began: load the washer, empty the dishwasher, dry any pots et cetera, et cetera. This morning there was no water to fill the kettle with, nor electricity to boil it and, although her washing basket was filled to over-flowing, the washing machine was of no use. An odour of sweat rises to her nostrils and she wrinkles her nose as she realises that she is the source of the unpleasant odour.

  “Drink’s ready, Joe.”

  She leans up against the kitchen sink and looks out into the garden taking in the bright red geraniums at their glorious best in this summer’s dry heat. If the pots weren’t watered soon though, her carefully selected and potted plants would wilt and die. The hose was no use but there was water in the butts. Yes! There was water in the butts and after the storm they would probably be full. Maybe they couldn’t use it for drinking, but for washing? Definitely.

  Joe returns to the kitchen just as she steps towards the back door. “Where you going, Mum?”

  “Just outside for a minute, sw
eetheart.”

  She slips out of the back door and walks then almost runs to the garden shed. Dancing with bare feet over the dry grass, she side-steps the thistles, and narrowly misses a fresh and curling cat turd. Damn that cat! She’d clear it, or rather, scoop it with the small shovel her granny always used for ashes, and fling it back across the fence for the neighbour to deal with. Megan was more than welcome to have it back. She’d check on the water first though.

  The water butt stands grey and heavy, unused and neglected, a feature of the garden that nobody noticed. She lifts the lid—three-quarters full. The water is black in its plastic container. She grimaces for the second time that morning. Could they really use this for washing? If it came to it, could they drink it?

  A bird chirrups from the shrubs that line the garden’s boundary and she scans the garden with fresh eyes. It was a large plot, laid mainly to grass with pretty borders. A trampoline sits at its end and, to the side of that, a football net. It was pretty, especially in the spring when her purple lilac blossomed above pink peonies. It was also completely useless. She thinks back to her grandmother’s house. Each week they’d visit and each visit they’d make a trip to the back garden where her grandmother would pick at the succulent tomatoes growing in neat rows. The next week it would be peas, or runner beans from the tee-pees of canes. She had fruit trees too, even soft fruit which she trained along the fence, and there were bushes of berries: gooseberries, raspberries, blueberries, redberries and, at the height of summer, rows of strawberries and yes, they were laid on straw.