Where There's Smoke

Kate sprinted into the kitchen. She turned on both taps full to fill the washing-up bowl and then, leaving them running, dashed to the phone. Her hands were shaking as she dialled 999.

“Emergency, which service do you require?”

“fire. My flat’s on fire.”

A second later another operator came on the line. Kate tried to keep her voice level, but couldn’t stop the tremor as she gave the details. The smoke alarm continued to shrill in the background.

“Is there anyone else in the property?” the operator, a woman, asked.

“No.”

Miss Willoughby’s flat had remained vainly for sale ever since the old lady had died. Kate was thankful now that it was empty.

“Can you go outside?”

“No, the exit’s on fire, for God’s sake!”

She heard the panic in her voice, but the operator remained calm as she told Kate to go to a room facing the street, close the door and open the window. “Stay by the window so they can see you,” the operator said. “And hang a towel or something out of it as a marker.”

The smoke was already thicker, given a toxic bite from the melting plastic of the cat flap. Coughing, Kate hung up and ran back to the kitchen. The washing-up bowl was overflowing and, without turning off the taps, she picked it up and staggered out with it. Water sloshed onto the T-shirt she wore to sleep in as she reached the top of the stairs and heaved the entire bowl towards the bottom. Without waiting to see what effect it had, she stumbled back down the hallway and into the lounge.

The air in there was clearer, and it wasn’t until she had closed the door that it occurred to her that the room was directly above the fire. Belatedly, she wondered if the bathroom would be safer. But she balked at the thought of going back out into the smoke.

Leaving the room dark, she crossed to the window. It was a sash, and years of paint had stuck it together. Every summer since she had been in the flat Kate had meant to repair it, but never had. It slid open easily for six inches and then jammed. She struggled with it for a few seconds and then gave up. A bar of cold air breezed against her midriff. She had forgotten to grab a towel, so she stripped the cover off a cushion and draped that through the gap instead. Resting her head against the cold glass, she looked out. The street was empty, with no sign of the police patrols Collins had promised. The path in front of the front door was lit by a moving, multi-coloured light. Flickering patches of blue, red and orange danced on the garden as the flames shone through the stained-glass facets. A faint tinkling came to Kate as, one by one, they shattered, until the harlequin glow was a uniform yellow.

There was a movement in the shadows. She peered into them and saw Dougal sitting on the garden wall. The cat’s eyes gleamed with reflected light as he watched the fire.

Kate’s breath misted the window, and when she wiped it clear Dougal had gone. Dimly, in the distance she heard the wail of a siren.

Water dropped from the ceiling. A sooty pool of it scummed the floor, covering the cracked ceramic dies. The walls and ceiling were blackened, the woodwork of the doors and door-frames charred and blistered. Miss Willoughby’s welcome mat lay where it had been pushed into a corner by the pressure of the hose, a shrunken black square.

Hanging over everything was the tickling, charcoal reek of dead fire.

The fire officer straightened. Behind him other uniformed men were coiling the hose and packing it away. Glass crunched under his feet. The bulb in the ceiling had shattered, but enough light came from the stairs to see by.

“We’ll have to wait for the forensic results, but I don’t think there’s much doubt,” he said. He was a stocky, middle-aged man. His hair had been flattened by the yellow helmet he now held under one arm.

He nodded down at the cat flap at the base of the door. It had melted and congealed like candle-wax, a surreal twin to the one set in the inside door.

“They poured petrol through the outside flap, then stuck a piece of cloth through and set fire to it.”

He nudged with his foot at a charred fragment that could have been fabric.

“Whoever did it knew enough not to get their fingers burned by sticking their hand through with a match. You’re lucky it was only in the entrance area. There’s nothing much in here to burn. Not until it got into one of the flats, anyway. Our friend either didn’t know that, or expected it to be contained. Not that that’s any excuse. It could still have been nasty if you hadn’t got a smoke alarm.”

He looked at the stubs of smoky glass in the top half of the front door and shook his head. “Any idea who might have done it?”

Kate hugged her bathrobe more tightly around her. The porch was cold from the water dripping from every surface. “He’s... uh, the police are already looking for him.” Her teeth chattered, from reaction as much as cold.