The fire crackles as it consumes the settee and orange flames brighten the room as it licks along the walls and carpets. Uri’s heart beats hard as he pulls at the long coffee table. It’s lighter than he thought it would be and rickety. He ties the rope around its middle just as the fire engulfs the sofa and works its way to the easy chair on the other side of the electric fireplace. He grits his teeth, ignores the heat, pushes down the wrenching knot in his belly, and swings his legs over the window ledge. He pulls at the table as flames burn beneath its top. It jerks and tumbles onto its side, the rope slipping around its belly. He tugs again, yanking it away from the flames and the table judders across the carpet. Black smoke, thick and acrid fills the small flat as the fabric and sponge burns. Toxic fumes burn his eyes and make him heady. He gags.
Giving the rope a final tug, Uri wedges the table against the wall then clambers out of the window. He drops to the next level. The table thuds, clatters, then scrapes up to the open window. He stops for a moment. If the table comes out at an angle he’ll fall to the tarmac and from this height there would be broken bones. He eases down a little further. The table shifts and jumps to the window frame. It’s going to come through! Uri waivers. Should he get down as quickly as he can or go slowly? His heart beat is fast and painful. He moves down a little further. The tension in the rope gives way. The table slams against the window as it turns over and Uri jolts to a stop. Caught only by the lip of the table’s top, the legs jut out of the window. Smoke billows. Uri’s chest will burst if his heart hammers any harder. He tugs at the table. It creaks but doesn’t shift. Go! He works his way quickly down the wall, willing the table to stay in place. Flames lick at the window. He prepares to jump the last six feet. The rope breaks. Uri falls to the ground with a thud. The rope, burned through at its end, lands beside him.
“Uri!”
Hands reach for him and then he’s on his feet being pulled away from the building and out onto the road. His backside and right leg aches from the fall but he ignores the pain and grabs Viktoria, walking away from the burning building with a quick step. He doesn’t stop until she pulls at him.
“Stop, Uri. We’re safe here.”
The entire apartment block is on fire, flames burn bright behind each window and leap out where the glass has broken. On the roof a figure stands waving. Uri closes his eyes and turns to his wife. He’s seen too much death already today.
“We’re out, Viktoria, but we’re not safe.” Something bad was happening to the city, something evil, and he had to get his family to safety. “Bolstovsky has a house in the countryside—we’ll be safe there.”
Chapter 4
Nothing moves but the plumes of smoke spiralling into the sky as Jessie walks along the road. From her vantage point on the hill she counts eight tall black and billowing columns. She clenches her jaw as the gnawing in her stomach tightens.
“We should have gone straight to the police!”
“We couldn’t have done this any earlier, Jessie.”
“We could—we should have left as soon as-”
“If we’d left any earlier then the house would have burnt down and perhaps your mum too.”
She’s quiet for a moment. “But, if we’d gone out before the fire started-”
“We may not have got back in time. Listen. We can’t stop them on our own.”
“No, of course-”
“We inform the authorities-”
“If we can find any!”
“There’s bound to be someone at the police station—it’s not like at Stainthorpe—this is the city—there has to be someone there.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“There will be, you’ll see.”
Torn as she looks out across the city, she pulls at her rucksack. The sooner they’ve informed the authorities about the terrorist plot to burn its way through the country the sooner she can get back home and get her mother and sister to a safer place.
“It feels wrong to be walking away from them.”
“I understand.”
“It’s the right thing to do though, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is. Come on,” Alex urges and takes quicker steps.
Within seconds, he’s jogging at a steady pace. His arms pump rhythmically as his boots pound along the tarmac, his breathing steady. Determined to keep up, Jessie maintains his faster pace for the next ten minutes.
“The station’s on the next street,” Jessie says relieved as they take the road leading to the police station. Alex grunts in return and follows her lead as she runs faster. “Right at the top,” she says with a heavy breath.
The police station stands as a wide block along the street, banked either side by iron railings. The windows are dark. She’s disappointed. She had expected there to be lights, for the police station to be operating as normal, not sitting dark and sombre in the first thin light of morning. She runs up the steps with burning thighs and pushes against the door, half expecting them to be locked. They open inwards and she stumbles through.
The entrance has the characterless smell of a new building, a mixture of plastic, paper and fake plants, but with the underlying stink of stale body odour. The space is small—a waiting area with a few plastic seats blocked off by a firmly closed door and a counter fronted by a thick glass separator. Behind the glass is an even smaller space, bare and utilitarian, with a door at one end. It is unmanned.
“There’s no one here!” she says in dismay leaning into the glass and searching through the grey light for sign of movement.
“It’s only about five a.m.”
“Yeah, you’re right, but still … this place should be manned twenty-four-seven.”
“Ring the bell!” Alex says motioning to the plastic rectangle fixed to the counter.
“It won’t work,” she replies but presses it anyway. The button presses down but no sound comes. She raps against the glass. “Hello!”
Rap. Rap! Rap!
Alex walks to the door and pulls at the handle. It doesn’t budge. He knocks against the door then thumps it. The door judders.
“Hang on!” Jessie whispers and grabs his shoulder. “I think I can hear something.” Unseen footsteps thud behind the door and Alex steps back.
“Hold on!” The voice is muffled but its weariness clear.
Keys jangle and then the door behind the glass opens. Torchlight flickers and shines into Jessie’s eyes.
“How can I help?” the weary voice asks from behind the light.
The officer upends the torch on the counter top and it casts deep shadows on his face.
“We need…” she’d gone through what to say numerous times, but now she’s about to say it out loud it sounds far-fetched. “… to report a terrorist plot!”
“Oh, aye?” the police officer returns, his face dead-pan. He picks up the light and shines through the glass.
“Can you put that light down? It’s blinding me.” The light shifts and the officer peers through the glass. Squinting eyes and dark shadows make him ugly.
“A terrorist threat you say?” His voice lacks interest.
She hadn’t expected apathy. Wasn’t he going to take her seriously? “Yes. The fires-”
“We know what’s causing the fires, Miss.”
“Let me finish my sentence,” Jessie returns beginning to rile. He stares back at her through the glass. His lips purse.
“Go on then,” he returns with an edge.
“The fires are deliberate.”
“The blackout has caused shortages, Miss. We, along with the fire service, are doing our best in the circumstances to keep them under control.”
“Have you even looked out of the window?” Jessie shouts through the glass. “The city is on fire!”
“Now, just remember your place. Abusing a police officer-”
“Pah!”
“She’s telling the truth,” Alex says stepping up to the glass. “Terrorists are planning to burn down the towns and cities-”
“Ex
tremists are burning down the city! We overheard them talking about it and caught them trying to burn down a tower block in Eldrington Road.”
He looks at her with widening eyes at the mention of the road. “Just a minute,” he relents. “Let me get a notepad.”
“Notepad!”
He casts a steely glance. “Just hold your horses!” He leans out of sight then returns with paper and pen. “Name?”
Jessie falters for a second. “Lucy Shaw,” she lies. Alex doesn’t betray her deceit. She’s just an ordinary girl—that’s all she wants them to know.
“Alright, Lucy, tell me all about it.”
As Jessie describes the scene at the café, how they’d followed the men, and what happened in the basement of the tower block, the policeman asks Jessie to stop then disappears into the police station. Within two minutes he returns and opens the door leading into the station. Standing a good foot above Jessie, another officer waits in the room. He makes no effort to speak but from the look on his face they’re taking the story seriously—finally! He motions for Jessie to take a seat.
“Ordinarily I’d take you into an interview room and record our conversation, but none of them have natural light, so we’re going to have to sit here and I’ll take notes whilst my colleague asks the questions.”
As Jessie recounts her story the men’s faces remain unreadable.
“And you say you left them in the basement.”
“Yes.”
“And they were both dead?”
“Yes, both of them.”
“You killed them both?”
“Yes,” she admits.
“Then, I’m afraid we’re going to have to take you into custody.”
“What?” Alex shouts and pushes back from the desk.
“No way! I have to get back to my family,” Jessie exclaims looking from one officer to the other. Alex grabs her arm.
“Civilians can’t take the law into their own hands. You’ve admitted killing these men and it’s my duty to take you into custody.”
“Are you crazy? The country is burning down around us!”
The taller policeman stands and walks towards Jessie. “You do not have to say anything-”
“Wait! No!”
“… but it may harm your defence if you do not mention-”
“Alex!”
“… when questioned something-”
“Bloody jobsworth!” Alex shouts.
“… which you later rely on in court …”
As the officer continues his recitation of the Miranda rights Jessie backs away. There is no way they are going to arrest her. She has to get back home. She eyes the two men. Neither have firearms, and although both are taller than her, they’re overweight, middle-aged and in sunlight probably as grey-skinned as they look now—suited far more to sitting behind a desk than out on the beat arresting criminals. Think Jessie! The door behind is closed but not locked. Beyond is the small entrance hall and then freedom.
“Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”
“Alex.”
“Yes.”
“Let’s go.”
“Sure.”
As the officer reaches out to take Jessie’s arm she bats it away with her forearm simultaneously jabbing him in the throat with her fist. He gags and stares at her with bulging eyes as he stumbles backwards. Losing his balance, he knocks into a chair and topples to the ground. Next to her Alex punches the other officer and he knocks against the table. Without hesitation Jessie strides to the door and pulls it open.
“The city is burning down. Terrorists are trying to bring England to its knees and you want to arrest me! This is real. This is happening. Get off your arses and look outside this building. You’ll see the fires for yourself.”
The policeman scowls as he pulls himself to his feet but exchanges a worried frown with his colleague leaning against the table.
“I did what I had to do,” Jessie continues. “Those men were going to burn down that block of flats and kill as many people as they could and then they were going to do it all again. I got the information I needed from them—now you have that information—including names. Take control of that! Don’t lock me up for trying to save people’s lives.”
The officer opens his mouth to reply but Jessie turns letting the door slam behind her and walks out into the grey of early morning. She takes a deep breath as her hands shake.
“Let’s catch up with the others, Alex. I don’t feel safe here and it’s not the terrorists that scare me anymore!”
“It’s unbelievable.”
“It is. Does that mean I’m a fugitive now?”
Alex is silent for a moment. “Well, you gave a false name.”
“They know what I look like though.”
“I can’t believe that they’d punish you-”
“No? I’m not so sure and I’m not sticking around to find out.” Pulling at the rucksack on her shoulder Jessie picks up her pace and pushes through the trembling of her legs. Get a grip, Jessie. You’ve done your best. You told them—done your duty. But what if they find you? You’ll go down. You murdered someone. It was a terrorist. It doesn’t count.
Chapter 5
Nareen pushes back the duvet and sits on the edge of the bed. The sun is thin through the curtains and the fuchsia roses on the fabric give the room a tinge of pink. The baby shuffles in her cot. She has her father’s dark eyes. Everything about the delicate child is beautiful and Nareen’s heart swells with a love she never realised existed until the child slipped from between her legs and she held its tiny body against her bare breasts. Bending down, she scoops the child into her arms and strokes the back of her head. Breath, warm and sweet, brushes Nareen’s neck as the child lays its head on her shoulder.
Bam!
The front door bangs shut. Nareen flinches and holds the baby a little tighter. Heart pounding against her chest bone she walks to the landing. Her husband stands in the hallway pulling off his coat. The stench of fuel already wafting up the stairs.
“I told you not to come back,” Nareen says, keeping her voice low. She doesn’t want his mother, in the bedroom along the hallway, to wake. Doesn’t want her to worry or feel the shame her son has brought down on them—not yet.
Hamed grunts, hangs his coat on the hook, then walks through to the kitchen. Doors slam as he raids through the cupboards. Not wanting her daughter to be startled by the banging of her father’s anger, she sits the baby back in the cot, offers her a toy, then pulls on her dressing gown.
In the kitchen, Hamed leans into the fridge. He pulls out a container of food and slams it into the microwave.
“You’ll wake your mother!”
He scowls at her then turns back to the microwave. “Hungry?” Nareen ventures, wondering when he’ll realise the oven won’t work.
“Yes,” he says as he pings the oven door back open and thumps it closed again.
“Careful, or you’ll break that!”
He grunts in return and presses the timer.
“You stink,” she throws at him as the stench of petrol fills the room.
He stares at the glass door of the oven, grunts again, jabs at the start button, mutters ‘stupid’, then clicks the door open and pulls out the food.
“You stink of petrol,” she repeats walking up to him. “What did you do last night?”
“Nothing for you to know about,” he replies and takes the carton of cold food to the table.
“Hamed! I know about it all.”
“You know nothing. What could you know—you’re just a woman.”
“What!” she hisses in anger. The man she married would never have said that—never even thought it. “Just a woman! I’m your wife. I’m the mother of your child. I’m not just any woman.”
“Leave me alone.”
“No!” she says, the sense of despair she’s pushed down these last months rises. “You’ve changed. Since you met Bilal you’re different.”
“I’ve had my eyes ope
ned, Alhamdulillah.”
She groans at his words. “Become blinkered more like! He’s dangerous, Hamed.”
“I said leave me alone. Go back to your bed.”
“Hamed, listen to me. What you’re doing now is criminal. Those men you think so much of, they’re nothing more than murderers.”
“The cause is just,” he replies spooning in the cold meat and rice.
“Just! Have you lost your mind, Hamed? Since when was burning down innocent people in their homes just?”
“They’re kafirs, Nareen. None of them deserve to live.”
Nareen stands back horrified at the evil spewing from her husband’s mouth. This wasn’t the man she had married. Since he’d met Bilal he’d become festering and angry. She’d tried to ignore his rants about the wars and had resisted his pressure to conform to his new rules for living, but she couldn’t ignore it any more.
“How can you say that? You’ve been brainwashed by Bilal and his cronies. They’re full of lies—perhaps they believe them, but they’re lies nonetheless.”
He ignores her and continues to shovel food into his mouth.
She has to take a stand. “I … I told you last night that if you went out not to come back.”
He shovels in another spoonful of food then looks at her with a flickering anger. “It’s my duty, Nareen.”
She almost laughs at the ridiculousness of his statement but holds it back and pushes down the hysteria rising within her breast. “Think of our daughter, Hamed. Allysiah needs you. When this is over the police will find you and you’ll be taken to prison. What will we do then?”
“It’s a small price to pay.”
“What? Your new friends are more important than your own child?”
“We’re all slaves of Islam. I must do what is right-”
“Burning people in their beds is right?”
Nights of Fire: An EMP Survival Thriller (Blackout & Burn Book 2) Page 3