“Is she OK?” she asks Deacon, as if I’m an invalid. Her voice drips with sympathy.
Deacon nods, seems to sense that I don’t want a fuss. “She’s fine now. Aren’t you, Isabel?”
Alicia peers at me sweetly. “Oh, but you’re so pale! Would you like me to call you a taxi?”
“No!” I sit up abruptly. “No, I’m fine. My eyes were just playing tricks on me, that’s all.” I force a smile onto my face.
“So you want to go back inside?”
“Yes,” I say, though it’s the last thing I feel like doing. “I’m not going to bloody well miss the New Year.”
Not because of her.
As I follow them back into the restaurant, I feel a gentle tap on my shoulder. It’s the owner, Mustafa.
“Isabel, isn’t it?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Did you enjoy the cocktail?”
“Er…yes, thanks.”
“Maybe you’d like another? On the house of course.”
I shudder. “That’s alright…I’m on the wine now, thanks.”
“Wine it is then,” he says, signalling to the barman to pour me a glass.
“Well, thanks. That’s very kind of you. Cheers!”
What does he want?
I take a tentative sip and turn to walk away.
“I hear you were worried about fire safety?”
“Just a misunderstanding,” I say, embarrassed.
Mustafa rubs his bushy moustache. “Maybe, but you can’t be too careful with fires.”
“There have been a lot of them round here lately,” I agree.
“Still, I think most of the businesses have done OK out of the insurance money.” He sticks his hands in his pockets. “As long as the police can’t prove it was arson.”
How cynical!
“In fact, I could do with a bit of that insurance money myself!” he laughs. “I bet we all could.”
I smile politely, thinking he’s finished, but he goes on,
“As long as the family was away, say, on holiday, for example. Then there would be no chance of anyone getting hurt. We’re off to Turkey at the end of next month, as it happens.”
I gape.
What is he saying?
He lets out an unconvincing laugh.
“Ha! Ha! Something to think about, anyway!”
I stare after him as he disappears into the kitchen.
What on earth just happened? Did he proposition me…to burn down the restaurant?
I shake the craziness out of my head.
What a night!
I return to my table and my friends, but the night has lost its magic.
As the clock strikes twelve, I feel strangely removed from everything. My friends kiss and hug, but I feel hollow inside. Someone hands me a glass of champagne and I down it before anyone even has a chance to clink my glass.
“Are you sure you’re OK?” Deacon asks, as he sees me into a taxi. “You’d be welcome to stay at ours again.”
“No, I’m fine,” I insist, pulling my pashmina tightly around my shoulders. Alicia materialises next to him and wraps her serpent like arms around his neck, staking her claim. I climb into the taxi and a lump forms in my throat as it pulls away. I don’t want to think about what goes on between them, but I really can’t help it. I imagine them laughing and tumbling into bed together and I feel queasy at the thought.
“I’ll drop you on the corner, love, if that’s all right?” the driver says, as he turns into my street. I nod. One of my neighbours is having a party and the street is chock-a-block with cars. I pay my fare and start to cross the street when another car catches my eye, a dirty white escort. I can just make out the registration plate in the moonlight: F-R-Y. FRY. I stop abruptly and try to get a look at the driver, but the car begins to pull away.
“No, wait!” I yell. I run after it, chase it all the way down the street until it picks up speed and roars away. And still, I run after it, but my stiletto-clad feet are no match for a car and finally, I have to admit defeat.
SMASH!
What was that?
For the first time, it occurs to me that this is not such a great neighbourhood to walk through in the middle of the night. I clutch my bag and walk faster, my heels click-clacking noisily on the pavement. I hear footsteps behind me and walk faster. The footsteps quicken too. I glance round in fear, but it’s just a young boy mimicking me. His friends laugh.
“What’s the rush, darling? Left something in the oven?”
I smile nervously, feeling a little foolish, but I keep moving. My heart pumps loudly in my chest until I’m back in my house, with the door safely locked behind me.
Upstairs, I find Fluffy stretched out contentedly at the foot of the bed. I climb in and close my eyes, listening to the soft, rhythmic hum of his snores. But every time I start to drift off, Alicia’s demonic face flashes before me.
“Haven’t you figured it out yet?” she cackles, her whole mouth aflame. “Don’t you understand the significance of FRY?”
*
I rise at the first light of dawn and head for the only place I know that’s open at such an ungodly hour – the gym. I have so much pent up energy that a workout might be just what I need.
I do a token warm up, then jump on the treadmill and set it for a run. The machine squeaks in protest as I adjust the pace, faster and faster. Faster than I’ve ever run before. Sweat streams off my body, and still it’s not enough. I can’t get that terrible image out of my mind.
My face is as red as a beetroot as I make my way to the showers. I shed my clothes and step under the jet, enjoying the soothing sensation as the cool water washes over me. I close my eyes and massage shampoo deep into my scalp. Oh, that’s so relaxing.
“BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!”
Is that… the fire alarm?
I jolt to life, leaping out of the cubicle and skidding on the tiled floor. I lunge for my towel, pausing only to wrap it round me and rush towards the door. As my hand closes around the handle, I glance back at the other women in the room.
“Why isn’t anybody leaving?” I ask nervously.
“I’m not going outside in a towel!” one girl laughs.
“Don’t worry. It’ll just be a false alarm,” her friend says. “It happens all the time.”
“But what if this is the real thing?”
“Hey, aren’t you the one who was yelling ‘Fire!’ at Mustafa’s last night?”
“I…”
“I thought so! Look, when we smell smoke, we’ll leave.”
I stand anxiously in the doorway, unsure what to do.
“Someone’s been deliberately starting fires,” I warn them. “This could be the real thing. We’ve got to get out of here!”
But nobody is listening to me.
Chapter Thirteen
I scuttle out into the gym, my towel wrapped tightly around me.
Out here, people seem to be taking the alarm much more seriously. I follow the throng out through the fire exit, into the biting cold January morning.
My teeth chatter noisily as I shift from one foot to the other. It’s bitterly cold. My hair is wet and my towel damp from the shower.
“Brr…” I hint loudly, but nobody’s kind enough to offer me their jacket.
“Hey, love, you’re dropping your towel!” someone says, helpfully.
Cheeks burning, I wrap it more tightly around me, the remainder of my self-respect forming a puddle on the floor. Why did I have to pick this morning to walk here? If only I had driven, I would now be snuggled up in my nice, warm car.
A few more people trickle out of the building. The place isn’t nearly as busy as normal, being that it’s New Year’s Day. But the real fitness fanatics are all here. I watch as the girls from the changing room swan out, now fully dressed. They giggle as they walk down the street, apparently unconcerned by the whole thing. Before I met Alicia, I probably would have been one of them, but things are different now. I have to treat every fire dri
ll as if it were the real thing.
“Hey, is that smoke?” someone says, sniffing the air.
“Fire!” someone else exclaims in excitement. “There really is a fire!”
The gym manager gesticulates wildly, urging everyone to move away as a turret of grey smoke billows out from an open window.
Nee-Naw-Nee-Naw-Nee-Naw
The crowd whistles and cheers as a fire engine whirls into sight. I watch with admiration as firefighters leap out and start tackling the blaze. Then another sound fills the air. More sirens. The police are coming. Heat rises in my cheeks. I can’t let them catch me at the scene of another fire.
I have to get out of here!
My arms and legs have turned to jelly, but I will them into action. Frantically, I elbow my way through the mob and dart round to the back of the car park. I gaze down the dark, damp alleyway. Then at my naked feet. Dare I?
I dare. I start to run, slowly at first, then faster, faster. Soon I am running as fast as I did on the treadmill. I try not to care how much the gravel stings my feet, how narrowly I miss stepping on a broken bottle. I don’t have time to worry about any of that. I have to get away from the fire.
You can do this! You can do this!
Sheds and back gardens fly by. My house isn’t that far away, or at least, it never seemed so before.
My heart fills with relief as I charge down the street to my house. The chipped red paint and unwashed windows have never looked so charming. I collapse in a delighted heap on the doorstep, a huge stitch in my side and I reach down for my keys. And that’s when I realise. My keys are in my handbag. Which is in my locker. Which is at the gym.
How could I be so stupid? In my blind panic, it never occurred to me that I had no way of getting into the house. I hold my head in my hands. I am at a total loss for what to do. It’s bitterly, bitterly cold. My hands and feet are starting to turn numb and yet I can’t go back to the gym, not when it took so much effort to get here. And not while the place is swarming with police.
I have to think quickly. Do I wait it out here, or should I try to get to a friend’s house? Kate’s is probably the nearest, but even her place is a ten minute walk.
Or… I could go next door. Mr Krinkle would probably let me use his phone to call Kate and ask her to pick me up. I sigh. The thought of having to explain myself to Mr Krinkle is horrendous, but I don’t have any better ideas.
I stagger next door, my feet cut and bleeding. I ring the doorbell and wait. When there is no response, I ring again. Still nothing. I peer in through the window, but it looks dark inside. I can’t believe it. Mr Krinkle never goes out!
Dammit!
I walk back to my house and try the door, in the vain hope that I forgot to lock it when I left the house this morning. I didn’t. My eyes flit over the house. There must be some way to get in.
The front window is slightly ajar.
It’s very small and rather high up, but maybe, if I could find something to stand on, it might be possible to haul myself in? I wander round the front garden and return with a large flowerpot. I set it down and pray that it will take my weight.
Gingerly, I step up onto the flowerpot and reach for the window ledge. I push the latch and the little window opens further. It looks like there is just enough room for me to crawl through. There’s nothing much to break my fall on the other side, so it looks like I’m going to have to do a nosedive down onto the living room carpet. This could hurt, but I don’t care.
I start to heave myself through, inching forward on my stomach, squeezing myself through the very small space until I am ready to make my descent. I am just about to take the plunge, when…
“Arrgh!”
Someone is grabbing my ankle.
“Help!”
“Come down from there!” a voice commands.
I kick out as hard as I can, but I’m no match for the strong arms that bring me crashing back down into the garden.
I struggle to my feet, attempt to run, but I am shoved against the wall.
His eyes meet mine. They are cold and unfriendly.
Oh god, it’s the police.
Not Penney and his mate, but a couple of others, one male, one female.
“Do you live here?” he asks, his arm firmly on my shoulder.
“Of course I do!”
“Do you have any identification?”
“No, I’m locked out and I don’t have any pockets.” I gesture down at my towel which, by some small miracle, is still wrapped around, or rather welded to, my body.
“Is there anyone who could verify your identity?”
“Mr Krinkle next door…except he’s not in at the moment.”
“What about your other neighbours?”
“I don’t know them. They’re new.”
I shiver uncontrollably. I was so close, I could cry.
The female officer looks at me with concern. “You must be freezing. Why don’t you come down to the station with us while we sort this out? We can get you some nice, warm clothes to wear. “
No!
“Please, this really is my house! If you’ll just give me a leg up, I can get back inside and then I can show you some ID.”
The nice officer looks at her partner, but he shakes his head.
“Come on,” she says, “I bet you could use a hot drink.”
“Am I under arrest?” I ask nervously, as they shoo me into the police car.
“Oh no,” Nice Police Lady assures me. “We’re just going to get you some warm clothes and check that you are who you say you are.”
Well, that doesn’t sound so bad…
I keep my head ducked down low as we drive through the streets of Queensbeach. Luckily for me, it’s still early in the morning and on New Year’s Day to boot, or I’d be the gossip of the town.
Nice Police Lady ushers me quickly into the police station. She provides me with a dry towel, an old tracksuit and a pair of plimsolls. I pull the clothes on gladly, not caring how I look.
“That’s better. Now if you’ll follow me, I’ll get you a nice, hot drink.”
She leads me through a maze of corridors, ending in a dark, dingy room.
I freeze in the doorway.
“Isn’t this an interrogation room?”
She laughs. “It’s an interview room, yes. There isn’t much space I’m afraid. We have to use whatever room is available. “
Cautiously, I step inside.
“Do sit down. Hot chocolate do you?”
“Um, yes, thanks.”
She leaves, closing the door behind her. I shudder. The room is cold and forbidding. There are no pictures and no windows. The clock on the wall is stuck on twelve, yet it keeps on ticking. I sit down, but then jump up again. If I listen carefully, I’m sure I can hear the echoes of all the people who were here before me; the guilty and the innocent, each protesting their case with equal vigour, an endless stream of questions and accusations, ricocheting off the walls.
What’s taking so long?
I glance down at my wrist but my watch is still at the gym along with everything else. Where is Nice Police Lady? It seems like she’s been gone ages, though it might only have been a matter of minutes. I edge towards the door, am about to turn the handle, when it comes swinging open and almost knocks me flying.
“Sorry about that.” Nice Police Lady hands me a steaming hot cup – it’s one of those plastic ones you get from a vending machine. “Got a bit caught up. Do take a seat.”
She sits down at the table. Reluctantly, I sit down opposite.
“OK, so we’ve verified who you are, but I have to admit, I’m still rather curious as to how you came to be in this predicament?”
I bite my lip. “Like I said, I got locked out of my house.”
I pick up my drink and take a tentative sip.
“Oh, so you have one of those doors that locks when you close it?”
“Not exactly.”
“Then how did you get locked out?”
I scour my brain for a feasible explanation, but nothing comes to mind. I take a deep breath.
“There was a fire at my gym,” I reluctantly explain. “I’d been waiting out in the cold for a long time and I thought it would be quicker to just go home. I only live around the corner.”
Her eyes widen. “You walked home in just a towel? And without your keys?”
“Yeah, well I probably wasn’t thinking straight,” I admit. “It was really cold.”
There is a knock at the door and another police officer walks in.
He looks at me with a smug, satisfied smile.
It’s my old friend, DS Penney.
“Isabel Anderson,” he says grimly. “Well, isn’t this a surprise?”
I glance back at Nice Police Lady.
“What’s going on?”
“My colleague here just wanted to have a word with you. I understand you’ve met DS Penney?”
I nod, slowly.
“What’s this about?”
“Just a little chat.”
“No,” I shake my head. “I’m not talking to you anymore without a lawyer.”
I had hoped mentioning a lawyer would put him off, but he nods his approval.
“I’ll see if the duty solicitor is available.”
Now what?
He returns a few minutes later accompanied by a stern-looking woman who reminds me of my old headmistress, in her brown suit with a gold scarf tied around her neck.
She introduces herself, but I am too nervous to catch her name. Penney and Nice Police Lady leave us alone to confer.
“I didn’t do anything!” I tell her, as soon as he’s gone. “Someone’s trying to set me up.”
She nods doubtfully, as if she’s heard it all a thousand times before, which she probably has. I tell her the whole story, from the beginning and she nods thoughtfully, but I’m not sure she really buys it.
“When they ask you a question, just say ‘No comment’,” she tells me.
“Shouldn’t I just answer the questions? I’ve nothing to hide.”
She shakes her head, adamantly. “No. Just say ‘No comment’.”
Penney and his colleague come back in. Penney switches on the tape and reads me the caution.
“Isabel, you’ve already admitted that the lighter found at scene of the caravan park fire was yours. Is that correct?”
Fry Page 11
