Town of Fire

by Rebecca Fernfield

  Martha sighs next to him, whether in relief or exasperation he doesn’t have time to decide.

  “Sam!”

  Bill! “There are two fire extinguishers in the park,” Sam fires at him. “Third station to your left.”

  “Got it.” Bill runs to the third station without further comment.

  “Martha.” Sam grabs her elbow, wheeling her to face him. “Make your way to the carpark and go out through the gates.”

  “But-”

  “Out through the gates, Martha.”

  Standing on tip-toes, she places a firm kiss on his lips then runs across the grass and past the museum. Relieved, he turns back to the fire. Despite the smoke and the chaos of running people, he can discern a clear line where the fire is biting at the summer-browned grass. Behind the stretch of burning grass, a pathway that meanders through the park forms a boundary of sorts. Behind the path is a large and derelict tennis court sprouting with weeds and beyond that a twenty-foot garden wall divides the park from the neighbouring property. If he can put the fire out as it burns across the grass then they have a chance of catching it before it spreads any further.

  As Bill reaches for the extinguisher at the third station, Sam searches the first for the other cannister. Where the hell is it? Sam knocks the barbecue’s lid closed to kill the flames and spots the cylinder hidden under a coat. He flings the coat to the side, grabs the extinguisher and makes his way to the wall of flames.

  Unnoticed, a flame licks at the grass and creeps beneath a tree, devours last year’s dried pine needles, and leaps into its low branches. Three children, run down the path and onto the safety of the tennis court. The youngest, a boy of three begins to cry. His sister, the eldest by eighteen months, grabs his hand and calls through the smoke. “Mummy!”

  Sam strides towards the fire racing out from the tipped-up barbecue and passes Bill as he opens up his extinguisher. An explosion of white powdery foam fills the air with a hiss. Bill sprays it in controlled sweeps, driving the fire back to the tarmacked path.

  The fire devours the low branches of the dying pine tree, eats at its dried and rotting trunk, then leaps upwards jumping from bough to bough.

  Jessie hits at the smoking grass with the fire blanket she’d found hanging by the door of the museum’s café along with a third, smaller extinguisher.

  “Frannie! … Josh! … Ben!”

  The woman’s shout is high-pitched, more of a scream than a call. Instantly alerted, Jessie turns. A woman, blonde hair scraped back, knuckles white as she grips the handle of an empty pushchair, shouts through the chaotic crowds. A man pushes past her as he grabs the arm of a teenage girl. The pair run towards the exit oblivious to the woman’s desperate calls.

  “Frannie!” The shout is louder, more desperate.

  Through the chaos of smoke and shouting a child’s scream. “Mummy!”

  Jessie follows the voice beyond the wall of flames. Three children stand huddled on the old tennis court. A quick assessment of the terrain and it’s clear that they’re trapped on three sides. A tree to their right is aflame and, although it’s unlikely to fall, burning embers, red and angry, are swirling around them. Behind them is a wall too high for them to climb. To their left, beyond the tennis courts the wall links to the old stables and joins the corner of the museum. A door sits between the two buildings. The way is clear but the children don’t move.

  “Run to the door!” Jessie shouts. Oblivious they remain huddled on the tennis court. Flames reach the top of the burning pine and its dead wood crackles. Embers whirl over the children. The smallest, a tiny boy of about three, screams as hot and burning ash lands on his head. The tree begins to lean.

  Jessie has to act. Now!

  Holding the blanket over her arm like a shield with the extinguisher tucked into her waistband, she takes a breath and runs at the fire.

  “Jessie!” Bill shouts as she enters the flames.

  The heat is immense. Holding the blanket over her legs and torso, she sprints through the flames and across the burning grass to the path then throws herself down and rolls. The small extinguisher pushed into her waistband jabs at her hip with each turn.

  Old and untended, the derelict tennis courts are pitted and overgrown with grass, and edged with shrubs now showered with burning embers. Fire dances on the tarmac, lighting the dried moss, lichen, and grasses growing through its decaying surface.

  Jessie bats at the embers as they fall around her and runs to the children.

  The tree crackles as flames devour its needles, twigs, branches and boughs. It’s trunk splits as its bark burns and it leans a little closer to the tennis courts.

  “Come with me.”

  The girl, blonde plaits framing a tear-stained and terrified, heat-reddened face, stares back at Jessie. “Come with me,” Jessie repeats as she throws the blanket over the children’s heads. The tiny boy screams and a burning branch breaks from the pine tree and crashes to the tarmac sending a shower of burning needles, twigs and embers across the group.

  The children scream and cling to Jessie.

  “We have to go,” she urges with growing frustration as they grab at her jeans. What was wrong with them? Why won’t they move? She can pick one up and run, probably two, but not all three. She’ll have to try a different tactic. She crouches, her eyes meeting theirs as the tree shrieks, its boughs twisting. The air is full of black, billowing smoke and burning orange flames. “Listen. I know it’s frightening, but we have to run to that door. Do you see it?” Jessie points to the ancient door set within the wall that bridges the house and stable block.

  “But it’s on fire,” the blonde girl says looking at the tiny fires that litter the tennis court, burning the weeds and grass that have broken through the rotten tarmac.

  Behind them the tree burns with fierce intensity.

  “We don’t have a choice. We have to run across.”

  “But it’s burning,” the girl repeats.

  Jessie reaches for the small fire extinguisher wincing as the cannister passes over bruised flesh. “I’m going to make a path, OK. Just follow me.” She unclips the nozzle, pulls the lever and sprays a circle of white foam around the children then directs the spray in front of them. “Follow the white path.”

  “He won’t move.”

  “Hell!” Jessie stares at the tiny boy. He clings to the girl. She bends down and scoops him up. He screams as his grip is tugged from the girl’s cardigan. The tree creaks and shudders. They have to move now. “You two.” She does her best to keep her voice calm and soft. “Each of you hold a corner of the blanket and follow me.”

  The older boy looks at her with worried eyes.

  Please move! “We can do this.” She pulls the blanket to cover their hair. “Hold hands. Get ready. Go!”

  Spraying the foam before her, she follows the path of white making sure to walk at a steady pace. The desire to run is enormous, but the tiny boys would never be able to keep up with her pace. “Follow me. Don’t stop”. Time seems to slow as she treads to the closed door, holding the girl tight to her chest, her head buried against Jessie’s neck.

  The burning pine shatters.

  The door slams open.

  “Run! Jessie, run!” Alex charges forward, hands outstretched, eyes focused on the space behind her.

  A whoosh of heat pushes against her back, searing the air and burning at her earlobes. Her lungs burn as she gasps for air. Alex pushes past her. She sprints to the door, knocking against the jamb as the tree smashes down onto the tennis court. Clinging to the boy she pivots then slams against the stable wall. A flash of blue and she stumbles, knocking her knees against the cobbles, her arms wrapped around the boy’s tiny body, a protective hand spread across the back of his skull.

  Breathless, and hugging the boy to her, she stares out through the doorway. It is entirely filled with flames and burning branches.

  Alex!

  Still gripped by tiny fists, the blue blanket hides the children as Alex sets them on
to the cobbles.

  Chapter 12

  As Mad Dog strides across the road, the sun reflects with a hard and unforgiving heat from the black tarmac. Dark patches spread from the pits of his T-shirt and sweat beads, then trickles down his temples, disappearing into the dark edges of his neatly trimmed beard. His fists clench as the Police Station comes into view.

  He takes a sharp left and marches to the car park where Riley has parked the van. His men turn in greeting.

  “The van loaded?” he asks.

  Riley opens the van’s rear doors. An assortment of tools sits in a neat pile to one side. On the other there are coils of rope and neatly folded dust sheets along with a thick pile of plastic sheeting.

  “You get the cable ties?”

  “In the bag.” Riley gestures to a plastic ‘forever’ supermarket shopper hanging on a hook.

  “I sharpened everything.”

  Mad Dog turns to Cash and nods his appreciation. A short stocky man, he could always be relied on to remember the finer details.

  “Thanks, Cash. No point carrying an axe if it can’t even cut through butter.”

  “Oh, they’ll cut through more than butter alright. Butcher’s standard they are.”

  “What about the other?”

  Riley steps forward and reaches beneath the dust sheets. He pulls out a long faux leather case and hands it to Mad Dog. “Fully loaded. Another round in the side pocket.”

  Mad Dog grunts his appreciation, takes the bag and slings it over his shoulder. No point giving anyone concern by carrying a firearm in clear view. No point giving themselves away either.

  “Ready?”

  “Ready.”

  Riley steps into the van and passes axes, knives, crowbars, and a long-handled lump hammer to the crew.

  “Watch those blades,” Cash urges as Riley hands out the knives. “I nicked them from Henson’s and he keeps them sharp, and I mean real sharp. They’ll cut through bone like a slab of butter.”

  Satisfied grunts. Mad Dog looks on the long and heavy blades with fresh eyes. The knives were designed to pare flesh from bone, slice through bone and cartilage. His plans didn’t involve wholescale butchery but, if it came to it, then these were the perfect weapons.

  “Aye up!” Riley calls as he puts a protective hand on the open van door. “Looks like we’ve got company.”

  Walking up the street, from the direction of the Police Station is Chugger. At his side is his infamous chainsaw.

  “Is he coming for us?”

  “Who? Chugger? Nah.”

  “But he’s working for Sam.”

  Mad Dog steps out as it becomes obvious Chugger is heading in their direction.

  “How do, Chugger. What gives?”

  “I heard talk that you want to pay the Police Station a visit.”

  “You heard right. You got a problem with that?”

  Chugger stares hard at Mad Dog. The man’s breadth almost matches Jack’s own but Mad Dog towers above him. Still, head-butting with Chugger wasn’t something he’d take on lightly - Mad Dog wasn’t the only one with a reputation for channelling the spirit of a Beserker - plus he had the advantage of the chainsaw, and that gave him a psychotic edge that even Mad Dog balked at.

  “Nah, mate. Its been sticking in my guts that those animals weren’t finished off.”

  A lopsided smirk creases Mad Dog’s mouth as he listens. “We’ve had a chat—since we heard you were coming-”

  “News travels fast.”

  “Aye—and me and the lads—we’ve decided not to stand in your way.”

  “A wise choice.”

  “Sam’s a good bloke, but he made a mistake bringing them here. So, if you need me on board,” he raises the chainsaw, “then I’m with you.”

  “Good man.”

  “Can’t believe they saved food for them whilst our kids starve,” Riley adds as he reaches for the bag of cable ties from the hook inside the van. Riley pockets the keys. “Time to put a stop to this shit.”

  “They won’t have mouths to eat through by the time I’ve finished with them.”

  “I’m gonna make the bastards a new arsehole to shit through.”

  “How many are there?”

  “Twelve. Six in one cell and six in the other.” Chugger replies. “The lads caught another group that were hiding in the toilets at the park.” His chainsaw hangs beside his leg. “I should have chopped them to pieces when they got off that lorry.”

  “Police should have done it when they got to the borders.”

  “The whole lot of ‘em want nuking.”

  “Let’s just concentrate on sorting out the ones that tried to kill us.”

  “Sam’s an arsehole letting them live.”

  “Who says he’s boss anyway?”

  “He’s not. He just thinks he is.”

  “He’s afraid,” Mad Dog explains. “He was too afraid of the consequences to execute them. The police, government, justice system, career politicians – they’d all come after him once this is over. He’d be the one on trial.”

  The men grunt in agreement.

  “No way terrorists are taking food and water from my kids’ bellies.”

  “Let’s go.”

  Leather jacket zipped to the neck, and Bowie knife strapped to his calf, Mad Dog places Percy over his shoulder. Named in honour of his Uncle Percy ‘Slasher’ Docherty, the improvised cat-o-nine-tails, a three-foot chain woven through with barbed wire wound into a nearly seven-inch ball at the end, is a weapon he won’t stint to use. Uncle Percy had earned his name back home in Northern Ireland when the troubles were still, well … troubles. According to family lore, Slasher Docherty had saved more than a few Loyalists from Republican vengeance. Uncle Percy, so the stories went, had lost control of his violent inclinations on more than one occasion, slicing and dicing when he was only meant to put the mockers on the paramilitary thugs. Mind you, no one crossed Uncle Percy, and Mad Dog was damned sure no one would cross him either. The fanatical loons locked up in the cells would be shitting in their pants before the sun set on this beautiful English day. Let them see that they’d picked the wrong town to mess with.

  What Sam and the liberal, self-serving arseholes that inhabited government, didn’t appreciate was, that people like that, people who wanted to kill you dead in the street, or blow you up in your beds, needed the queasy, watery sensation of absolute fear squirming in their intestines at the very thought of facing the English. Sam wasn’t the man to do that job. Jack ‘Mad Dog’ Docherty was. He’d do it for England, he’d do it for the people of this town, he’d do it for his wife and his children. He’d do it for Queen and he’d do it for Country. The government sure as hell wasn’t up to the job. Once he’d finished with the animals you’d only have to whisper ‘England’ to a jihadi and they’d shit themselves.

  The van’s engine thrums, its heavy vibrations mingling with the pounding of Mad Dog’s heart, his body alive with adrenaline. Powered up, he cuts at the air with a gloved fist, gesturing for his men to move forward.

  At the old Police Station, Mad Dog steps through to the reception area. The door ahead, the one that will lead him to the cells is propped open with a wedge of wood. The place had changed though he could still see the room as it was when he’d been a teenager attending the Magistrates Court. The place echoes with the old magistrate, his gavel knocking on the desk, his shout of ‘Send … him … down’ issued in a deeper tone for effect.

  Sweat trickles down Mad Dog’s back as he strides to the open door. Same place, same layout, just painted cream. A door closes and locks—Sam’s Protectors locking themselves inside their mess room; no see, no talk. Good lads—they’d made the right choice. As Chugger had said, there was no point getting beaten up for the sake of a bunch of murdering bastards that wouldn’t spit on you if you were on fire.

  He turns to his men. “If anyone tries to stop us—none of ours get hurt.”

  “Got it.”

  “Clarify hurt.”

  �
�ABH not GBH.”

  “Got it.”

  Chapter 13

  “Get that door closed,” Jack commands. “And close the one behind us.” He wasn’t about to make things easy for the terrorists if things didn’t go quite to plan, mind you, he had no intention of plans not going his way.

  Despite the breeze, as the doors close, the place is rich with a mouldering and muggy stench; the stink of sweat, rancid breath, shit, and piss. Mad Dog slides the peephole of the first cell open. The stench becomes intense. He scans the small room: six men sit, squat, or lie on the carpeted floor. Two stand and glare at the peephole. A slop bucket stands beneath the small, barred, and locked window, no doubt one source of the offending stench. He slams the peephole door shut as one of the men bares his teeth and lurches forward. The flying spittle, and bared, grubby teeth remind him of Shauna’s chihuahua. A nasty little mutt that looked cute but that snapped and snarled like a demented beast at anyone who tried to stroke it.

  Mad Dog eases Percy off his shoulder and wraps the first foot of chain around his gloved hand. “Chugger, start the motor.”

  The buzz of the chainsaw fills the corridor. With Chugger at his shoulder, and Percy in his right hand, Mad Dog opens the door. His broad shoulders fill the doorway, his hair brushes the top of the frame. The man with the snapping yellow teeth lurches at him but jumps back as Chugger steps forward with his chainsaw. The rotating blade fills the cell with its angry buzz.

  “You!” Mad Dog jabs a finger at the youngest man in the cell. “Come here.”

  Mad Dog smirks as the lad’s eyes widen, fear flickering in their depths, as he steps forward. A scowl sets on Mad Dog’s face as a protective arm shoots across the lad’s belly creating a barrier.

  “Out,” Mad Dog barks at the lad. He pushes against the arm but a hand pushes back at his shoulder and he steps back.

  The man spits at the lad in pigeon English. “You no move.”

  Either the bloke is speaking English for Mad Dog’s benefit or the lad doesn’t speak their language. Either way, the lad will move. Percy clinks on the floor, its barbs scratching against the caustic tiles.