Into the Fire

by Rachael Blok

  Like a war.

  There’d never been a drill. Some countries rehearse for earthquakes. No one rehearses for an explosion from heat so quick it’s like a bomb.

  Sudden loud screaming for the door, a swell, a crush. Not enough exits. Many families worked in the factory together. Some could see they had already lost loved ones and instead of running away from the debris, ran towards it.

  The fire had spread quickly at the far end of the factory, searing all it touched. Running, standing, crying, workers screamed for family, for friends.

  The building had been six storeys high. For the fire to begin here, on the ground floor, meant that above them would only turn to chaos.

  Time ticked urgently, both sped up and slowed down. A flood of feet from the building, like a landslide.

  Rajita had been up ahead. Relieved she was getting out, Iqbal ran. Panic jolting him into action.

  Screaming, shouting. The workers wore blue masks over their faces, bright orange covers for their clothes for work with electronics. They moved like lava.

  But Obaidur, his friend, had crawled under a desk and wasn’t moving anywhere.

  ‘Obaidur, come out! We have to leave!’ he’d shouted.

  Obaidur had shaken his head, buried his face in his knees and pulled his arms tight around his legs. Moaning, saying something over and over.

  The desks were knitted in closely. To get to Obaidur, Iqbal hadn’t needed to move a step.

  He’d grabbed Obaidur’s arm and pulled, yanking so hard it hurt, dragging him behind him.

  It was difficult to see. Dust, grey and opaque, saturated the air. Only the noise of the crowd and the light from the door pointed the way out.

  The screaming, wailing – the sound of fright, like a physical force.

  By then he’d lost sight of Rajita. He forged ahead, praying she was out.

  Once out, the street was like a film reel sped up. Movement flickered, as his eyes got used to the light. People were running, screaming, bleeding. The midday sun, hot. The dust from the street kicked up. Groups of people carried makeshift stretchers, made with tools from the factory. Most of the floors were garment factories. The colours were bright from those workers with no uniform. Blood splattered skin indiscriminately. Children ran screaming.

  But no Rajita. He saw the man who worked near her station and he grabbed his hand.

  ‘Rajita? Rajita?’ he shouted. But it was like he was speaking a different language. The man’s face was covered with dirt, and blood was making its way down from his brow.

  She was nowhere.

  Hordes spilled out, crushed, some on the ground, trampled. It would be impossible to use the door. He picked up a stick and hurled it at a nearby window. The thin glass gave way immediately, already shattered in part, and he climbed inside, taking off his shirt and laying it over the broken glass, cutting his feet and arms.

  The dust and debris from the building had permeated the air with impressive power. Moving was like swimming in a muddy sea.

  ‘Rajita! Rajita!’

  Minutes lasted years; his chest was choked, dizzy. The blurry air pressed heavy.

  She was nowhere. Instead, he’d seen a white girl. A westerner. She’d gripped the wall, blinded by dust. He’d run to her, screaming, We must get out!

  Toxic smoke, toxic air, burned his lungs. He wouldn’t survive another five minutes.

  He offered a prayer to Allah.

  The sound of the foundations shaking came like thunder.

  The intensity of the burning materials was acrid; the room span as he pulled her arm.

  The rest he couldn’t remember.

  He’d woken in hospital over two weeks later. They told him he’d been wrapped up with the girl, his body protecting her from debris, when they’d found them both. Pulled them out just in time. She’d been conscious and when they took her to the private hospital, different to the ones they’d taken the workers to, she’d forced them to take him. Insisted on paying. He’d woken in his own room, sanitised and looked after. Money easing his recovery with food, water, no queues for treatment. The white girl from the factory had been by his bed when he’d woken. She’d held his hand. She’d said her name was Lois.

  But Iqbal had always known that, in trying to save him, Lois had taken him out of every place Rajita might search for him. He’d not been on any of the lists from the state hospitals to which the workers had been taken. In trying to do the right thing, she had removed him from the world of his wife.

  If Rajita searched for him, she’d have found nothing. Once he was able, he’d spoken to her friends. With the factory burnt, employment had vanished. They lived with no savings, their wages the only income. He heard that Rajita had thought he died in the fire. With nowhere to go, she’d been forced to take a job as a maid in a big house. There were always people to speak to, to arrange employment overseas: the Middle East, Singapore, Hong Kong, London. She’d been employed by the end of the week, still searching for him. No one knew where.

  The trail for Rajita had gone silent.

  He knew with that kind of job it all depended on the employer. Some were kind, providing health insurance, providing holidays. Some took passports, freedom. Rooms that barely contained a single bed. Factory work might have felt like slavery, but you were free to leave. Being a maid wasn’t always something you could walk away from. The line of freedom, he had learnt, is blurred.

  *

  His shaking slows; his breath calms. The garden returns, the chill of England. This air, so fresh and so clear. Standing, he pulls open the door.

  With Obaidur’s email, the secrets of that time are cracking open.

  One of the men here cheated his best friend and could destroy Archipelago. He must find out which one. As much as he wants to remain here in the cold air, he knows he must go back inside.

  Back into the smoke.

  The air that reminds him of Rajita.

  Rajita.

  14

  LOIS

  The dining room looks different. There’re no piles of papers, no tech, no huge projection screen. Usually it’s light-flooded, a room of space and air.

  Tonight, curtains are drawn, candles are lit. Flesh is on display. Sarah, who Lois thinks of as dressed in jeans and a polo shirt, wears a dress that curves low. She is fiddling with it now as she enters the room.

  ‘I honestly don’t know why I bought it. My daughter watches some reality programme, set in London, and they’re always wearing these kinds of things. Alice helped me stick it on firmly with tape, but now I can’t leave it alone. I’m terrified it’s going to fall open and I’ll have to leave before dessert.’

  Aksel had looked at her twice and made his way over to her earlier. He had left Ebba’s side and touched Sarah’s lower back as he greeted her. Richard had taken a step closer towards his wife, and Lois wondered if Aksel intended to make others jostle: was it just games? Ego?

  Richard glances over at his wife again now.

  ‘Well, I think Richard approves,’ Lois says. She pulls at her own dress, feeling over-exposed, vulnerable. What is it with dressing up, offering their skin up for approval, for exposure? For attack.

  ‘I’ve had two kids. This dress doesn’t forgive that.’ Sarah rolls her eyes, wriggling her shoulders, then throws them back. ‘Well, I’m in it now. Maybe a few glasses of champagne will help. It’s a celebration, after all. You look amazing, Lois. You’re actually glowing.’ Sarah peers at her.

  Lois looks to the floor. The misery of her secret is crushing.

  ‘Oh, Lois, come on. You’re a star!’ Sarah smiles, squeezing her arm. ‘We’re so lucky to have been in the right place at the right time. Richard’s parents dying was so sad; but now we’ve done something real with the money, something that felt right for the kids. They’ve loved being a part of it.’

  ‘Thank you. Sorry! I’m so nervous.’

  ‘Don’t be. Richard was nervous too, earlier. Something—’ She shrugs. ‘Well, something threw him off. Maybe
it’s having to wear the DJ. He’s more at home in jeans.’

  ‘Is there a problem?’ Lois asks, nerves pulsing quickly.

  ‘Forget I said anything.’ Sarah whispers, ‘You’ve got this, Lois. You’ve got this in the bag.’

  *

  ‘Iqbal, I’m barely coping,’ Lois whispers; she hands him yet another undrunk glass of champagne and he hands her back the non-alcoholic fizz she’d nipped out to get earlier. ‘I’m terrified. I’d forgotten how much Marieke scares me. I can barely say two words to her.’

  ‘Ha! You’re fine. Always the weather. Talk about the weather.’

  ‘I can’t even remember my own table plan. I think I might faint.’ Lois is hot and cold all at once. The odds of surviving dinner feel higher than an Everest climb right now. She’s never been more uncomfortable.

  ‘You’re up at the other end, opposite the main door. There are place cards out – Ebba did it earlier.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she says, looking at the round table, also elegantly dressed. ‘Are you holding out as long as possible before you join us? There’s loads of food, someone has organised some great catering.’

  ‘You know I’m much happier on the edges. I’ll join you all soon.’ He winks.

  Lois squeezes his arm as she makes her way to her seat. Iqbal is her partner when it comes to creating the games. Her right-hand everything. ‘I’m not sure I’ll get through this without you.’

  The time they met: the heat, the flames. It never really leaves her. It’s the most vivid memory she has. It had brought her Iqbal; he’d helped her realise her designs.

  But meeting him… It had left them both scarred.

  She knows she will lose him soon.

  His tragedy, she thinks again, with the usual burst of pain, ever sharp, had ended up saving her. She tightens her hold on his arm, kisses him on the cheek.

  ‘None of this would have happened without you,’ she says.

  He grins. ‘Of course it would. Now, don’t force me to sit down all evening and make small talk – let me organise things and then disappear out the back once it gets late.’

  Going back to the table, she thinks of the money heading into Iqbal’s account next week. But she knows he plans to leave once the deal is launched and their expansion complete. He works hard for the charities they support, speaking about his time in the factories, the hidden workforce.

  Slipping into her chair, she paints on her smile, as thick as the lipstick painted on earlier. As she sits, the already short dress becomes even shorter; she quickly pulls her napkin out of the waiting wine glass and drops it over her thighs.

  ‘Lois, I have the pleasure of you this evening?’ Aksel says. He lowers himself in the chair next to her and, lifting up the water jug, fills her glass. He slides the edge of his hand down her bare arm.

  Lois’s body reacts for her, goosebumps rising, arm hairs standing on end. He creates a conflict in her like no one else here. They need him. They need him for the deal. But something about him makes her want to scream. ‘Seems so,’ she replies, not quite remembering why she had put him near her. She takes a sip of the water and looks at his hands, his expensive cufflinks, thinking how he speaks casually, implying something personal, private. He really is attractive, she thinks, of course Ebba is drawn to him. Ebba’s heightened colour earlier when she spoke about Aksel makes Lois uneasy. She doesn’t want Ebba to fall for Aksel. It would become too complicated. Her sister, with this man… She feels her stomach twist.

  As he looks at her, she feels herself blush, remembering what he might be thinking of.

  ‘Here, let me refill your glass,’ he says, leaning over her. He uses his arm furthest away from her, curling round into her; his breath touches her cheek as he leans in, coils in, slithers in.

  She catches a glimpse of Ebba, her hand on Filip’s arm, who glances down at the table, looking downright miserable. Is it his wife? Lois wonders. He had seemed so uncomfortable earlier. And he is drinking heavily tonight.

  Aksel is talking to her and she still cannot face looking him in the eye.

  ‘You look beautiful tonight,’ he confides. ‘I almost didn’t recognise you,’ he says. ‘Almost.’ And his eyes hint that he’s always thought of her as beautiful and she can’t even look past him now to Ebba. He’s everywhere; panic stirs. She swallows hard.

  She coughs, raising a hand in an apology and pushing her chair further back.

  Aksel is still running through a list of praise: the house looks amazing, Lois’s hair really suits her…

  ‘Your dad would be proud of you both, you know,’ he says.

  ‘Sorry?’ The slip into sincerity catches her off guard.

  ‘Your dad. He’d have been proud. He was always proud of you both, but this would blow his mind. It’s good to remember that. My dad died when I was young, but we didn’t get on. I’ve spent my life trying to prove to him I was worth it. But he’ll never know. And maybe I’ll never stop trying.’ He smiles, lifting his glass, taking a drink.

  ‘I… I didn’t know,’ Lois says.

  ‘Why would you? But you can do all this for yourself. Not just for a ghost. He was always proud. You’ll find some relief in that. Remember it.’

  And she nods as he moves to the deal. Aksel had worked for their father for quite a few years. He had been a protégé. They had known Aksel since they were small.

  Lois looks at him again, thinking of him as a small boy, running after his father. Tears come quickly and she blinks them away. God, she’s crying at everything at the moment. He’s talking now about how much he was looking forward to the afternoon of games they’d planned for tomorrow.

  There is a baby inside of her. Will it ever know its father? Will she cope? Can she be a mother?

  The police officer – Maarten, she thinks – sits down on her left, and she excuses herself to Aksel, welcoming Maarten Jansen.

  She’s thankful to be able to look away. Aksel’s beauty is a bit blinding but it’s like a mask. And then flashes of what is on the inside. You can never read anyone.

  ‘Thanks so much for the invite,’ says Maarten.

  ‘A pleasure,’ she says, thinking how nervous the letters still made her, glancing quickly to Marieke. ‘Everything looking safe?’ she asks.

  ‘I think so,’ he says. ‘A big night for your company?’

  And she nods, pleased he doesn’t say anything else. Aksel has turned to speak to Marieke, who sits on his right, and she immediately likes Maarten, who is gentle. He doesn’t push his gratitude on her, as is the way of some people at the moment. She finds the more successful the company becomes, the more and more pleased people become at receiving her attention. It’s quite overwhelming.

  ‘My kids will go crazy when they hear where I’ve been,’ Maarten says. ‘My eldest loves your game.’

  ‘Really? Vertigo?’ Lois asks, and her interest sparks. ‘What level’s she on?’

  ‘Level six. She’s currently battling out of a zombie maze. Without much luck, so far. It’s amazing you managed to scale the VR sets down for kids’ games – amazing we can afford it!’

  Lois laughs. ‘How old is she?’

  On more comfortable ground, Lois thinks about children playing her game, as Iqbal hits a gong and Ebba rises.

  ‘Welcome, everyone.’ Lois sees eyes from all around the table look to Ebba and glasses rise, ready for a toast. Filip stares at Marieke, who is talking to Aksel as her glass lifts in the air.

  ‘Welcome,’ Ebba says. Her eyes are bright as she looks round the table. ‘It’s taken quite a few years to get to this point, but I have to say, I’m liking the view!’

  There is laughter, some glass clinking.

  ‘Tomorrow, we begin the process of announcing our agreement. We commence work on producing the new game, and the US projection figures are more than promising. I couldn’t be prouder of Archipelago, our fledgling company, about to soar like an eagle. And I couldn’t be more pleased to welcome you all. To friends, to success, and to Archipelago!
’

  As Ebba lifts her glass, she smiles at Lois and mouths, ‘To Dad.’

  Dinner has begun.

  NOW

  15

  FILIP

  There’s smoke.

  He’s still alive.

  Sirens scream in the background, but smoke will be followed by spreading flames.

  Filip’s sure he can smell oil. A handbag has emptied by his head. He is almost flat in his seat, hanging to the side. A lipstick, a packet of tissues, a mobile phone screen – shattered. The everyday items take him aback. They don’t fit with the twisted metal, the screaming.

  ‘Come on!’ he shouts, coughs, through the wispy grey. ‘We need to get out of here!’

  Marieke first; she was opposite him in the seat so she must be near.

  ‘Filip?’ Her voice is weak, but he can make her out. She hangs above him; her feet half kick and her head hangs. The helicopter has landed on its side, and her seat is raised high.

  He releases the seat belt. There is blood on her face and he lowers her in his arms. A branch of a tree has smashed through to the left side, near her face.

  ‘I’ll get Aksel – he was near the front,’ Ebba says from the side, or behind him. The disorientation makes him spin. Her top is ripped and her face is black with something. It looks like oil.

  ‘Hurry,’ he says. He doesn’t notice Marieke feeling heavy, but his whole body aches as he carries her out. Through the grey, he sees Lois and Iqbal up on the edge of the surrounds of the Roman theatre. Lois begins to run. The smoke obscuring his view darkens; it’s black and still thickening.

  Iqbal emerges, running, holding Lois back, shouting, ‘I’ll get her! Stay put!’

  ‘You can’t save me twice, Iqbal!’ Lois is crying.

  Filip has to duck down through the twisted metal to reach the open air. He catches his arm on something and he knows he’s cut himself, but he can’t feel it. His body is slow, like he’s under water. One step at a time. Marieke stirs in his arms; he manages another step, towards the blue-grey of the sky.