Where the Silence Calls
Page 1
Where the Silence Calls
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Day One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Day Two
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Day Three
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Day Four
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Day Five
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Day Six
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Day Seven
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Day Eight
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Day Nine
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four
Chapter Seventy-Five
Chapter Seventy-Six
Chapter Seventy-Seven
One Week Later
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Chapter Eighty
Chapter Eighty-One
Chapter Eighty-Two
Thursday, May 9, 2019
Chapter Eighty-Three
Chapter Eighty-Four
Chapter Eighty-Five
Chapter Eighty-Six
Chapter Eighty-Seven
Chapter Eighty-Eight
Friday, May 31, 2019
Chapter Eighty-Nine
Copyright
Day One
Tuesday, April 23, 2019
Chapter One
The body sat in the chair facing the television.
He had been prepared according to the plan. All the clues were there for them to find. Eventually, they would work it all out but they would miss the most important one.
They always did.
He wanted them to know it was him; the catalyst, the instigator, the fire-starter, but not just yet. He had so much work to complete first.
Important work.
He checked the body one last time. How many hours had he spent watching that idiot box? Just staring at the screen, seeing the pictures flicker through glazed eyes.
But that was what they wanted, of course: to feed the brains of the people with enough cotton wool to deaden the pain and smother any spark that may have existed.
Morphia for the masses. Botox for the brain dead. Plastic people living plastic lives.
He adjusted the man’s left arm, placing the remote control into the icy fingers. He propped up the head so it stared directly at the television. Finally he placed the slippers on the cold, bunioned feet.
Must get all the details correct, just in case somebody checked. And he liked details, his whole life had been about details.
He stood up and stepped back, staring at the tableau in front of him. Something was missing, what was it?
And then he realised the mistake he had nearly made.
The man’s eyes were closed. How could he watch TV when his eyes were closed?
He searched in his briefcase. He knew he had packed it in here. Always be prepared, that was his motto, like the boy scouts.
He dabbed three dots of superglue on the man’s right eyelid and then forced it open, pressing the skin back against itself. He repeated the process with the left eyelid.
Better. It looked perfect now.
They wouldn’t understand, none of them would. How had he lived with this lie inside him for so long? The lie that repressed those memories, kept them hidden for all these years, beneath layers of denial as if they were swaddled in winter clothing.
The plan he had developed was good. It had a certain poetic sensibility Shakespeare would have appreciated. It was in his heart, in his hands and hammered at his head. He had a thirst, a hunger for it.
The man sitting here was part of the plan. A small step for him, but a giant leap backwards for this man.
So it goes.
He took the spray can from his briefcase, shaking it vigorously to ensure the orange paint flowed freely.
Why orange? Well, it was the colour of fire, but it was also the colour of the anorak he had stared at that day. It was a small reminder of the pain.
He tested the flow on a newspaper and then began to work on the wall. Must get the letter spacing right. It had to make a statement.
His statement, but not his words. They came from that day too, the colours, sounds and smells as sharp as if they had been branded on his brain.
He checked the clock on the mantlepiece. 22:00.
Perfect. The evening news would just be starting and the neighbours would be having one more drink before shouting at the kids to go to bed. They shouldn’t have to suffer too, not tonight.
He smoothed down the blue gloves on his hands and took the mobile phone off the mantlepiece. Quickly making the call to the emergency services, he ended it as soon as he had delivered the information he wanted them to hear.
Now was the time to get moving. He knelt down and picked up the bottle of methylated spirits. It should be more than enough, especially if he splashed it on the armchair as well.
He unscrewed the cap, swirled the light purple contents around to mix them well, and poured the liquid over the man’s head, drenching the clothes and then the chair, taking care nothing splashed back on him.
Finally, he took the green plastic lighter he had bought from the petrol station a week ago, and depressed the black lever, watching the small flame pop up from its burner. The ubiquitous cigarette lighter, so dangerous in the right hands.
So dangerous in his hands.
Taking the wooden spill from his bag, he lit it and watched it glow, with the flame wavering slightly in the draught from the door. He threw the spill onto the man’s lap, follo
wed by the lighter.
For a second there was nothing. Then a blue glow flowed over the body like the sea breeching a sandy shore, before erupting into a Roman candle of flame.
He felt the heat from the man’s body immediately. A burning heat, like that of a just-lit barbecue.
The clock said 22:04, it was time to go.
Shame. He would have liked to watch this man burn more, hear the crackle of the flames on skin, smell the delicious aroma of roasting flesh.
He picked up his bag and checked the scene one more time. It was clean. He did like a nice clean place.
The body was burning fiercely now, the flames dancing up the wall and the armchair beginning to emit a pungent black smoke.
It was so beautiful.
Chapter Two
The phone call was logged at exactly 22:01.
‘Emergency, which service do you require?’
‘Fire, definitely fire.’
‘Can you give me the address, sir?’
‘Third floor, Roedean House, Wythenshawe.’
‘And your name, sir?’
But the phone was already dead.
The call was immediately passed to the fire service and the emergency protocols went into effect. Since the Grenfell disaster, all housing blocks throughout Greater Manchester, especially high-rises, had been assessed in terms of their fire safety precautions, cladding, ability to withstand fires, and number of residents.
Dave Greene, the incident commander, assessed the data for Roedean House on the way to the fire. Above his head, the siren was bellowing its call to get out of the way.
He heaved a sigh of relief when he saw the block was one of the old ones; no cladding and no refurbishments since it was built in the 1950s, and only three storeys high. One of the old post-war council blocks, built to wonderful standards, not like the rabbit hutches of today with their plastic composites and plasterboard walls. This building was solid, built to last.
The engine raced down Stockfield Road, the siren whining over his head. They rounded the corner into the housing estate, taking another left into an internal courtyard.
An engine was already parked well back from the block.
The driver screeched to a halt, parking up behind the other engine.
Dave Greene checked his watch to make sure he knew the exact time of arrival at the incident: 22:12. The engine from Brownley Road had beaten them there. His driver would not be a happy bunny for the rest of the night.
Jumping out of the cab, followed by his team, he stared up at the third floor. Black smoke was pouring out of the flat on the right. No visible flames yet, though.
Norman Harrison, crew commander of the other engine, ran over to join him.
‘You were quick, Norm.’
‘Roads were clear, Dave,’ he said, nonchalantly playing down the competition between the crews to see who would arrive first on the scene. ‘We’ve started clearing residents and checked water pressure. All A-OK. No injuries reported.’
‘Thanks, Norm.’ Greene reached into the cab and took out the white surcoat with Incident Commander printed on the front. ‘I’ll take over now.’ He turned back to his driver. ‘Tim, check out Sector Three, rear. Any smoke or flames?’
‘Sure, boss. I’m on channel one.’ Tim made sure his comms were working and ran off with a crew mate to the rear of the building.
In the courtyard, residents in their nightclothes stood out on the grass in front of the block, staring up at the flat and chatting to each other. Kids wearing overcoats over their pyjamas ran around playing tag. Meanwhile, one old lady sat in her wheelchair grumbling, ‘I’m missing Naked Attraction.’
In the distance, Greene could hear the sirens of arriving police cars, the sound bouncing off the walls of the building and seeming to come from everywhere at the same time.
After a minute, a single squad car arrived, its lights flashing, and parked on the grass. Two coppers and a middle-aged Community Support Officer stepped out of the car, pulling their stab vests down over their bellies.
Greene immediately took charge, assessing the situation from long experience.
He marched over to the local plod. ‘Can you get these people to move back and ask the owners of those things to move them.’ He pointed to three cars sitting in a parking bay. ‘And find a resident of the block if you can. I want to know who lives in the flat.’
‘No problem.’ It was the PCSO who answered, but at least he knew what to do. Within a minute, all three cars began to edge out of the parking spaces and reverse slowly backwards out of harm’s way.
The residents were moving backwards too, clear of the engine and pushed to the edge of the courtyard. One woman, however, was standing next to the PCSO.
‘Make sure you keep the entrance and inner cordon clear in case we have to bring up more engines,’ he shouted at the man, who responded with a thumbs-up and then spoke into his Airwave probably requesting backup.
He walked over to the woman. ‘Do you live here, love?’ he shouted over the noise of his pumps and the reversing cars.
‘Aye, me and my husband and son.’ The accent was typically Manchester, with a parade of flat vowels. He had to listen hard to understand her over the noise of the engines.
‘All the flats occupied?’
‘All six. Even Mrs Turner.’ She pointed to the elderly resident in the wheelchair who was now being pushed away from the building.
‘Who lived on the top floor?’
‘It were Mr Brennan. Lived on his own, he did. No wife, nothing. Don’t know how he got the flat, must’ve known somebody at the council.’
‘Is he still in there?’
She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Could be, but we don’t see him much. Bit of a strange one is Joe Brennan.’
‘Did you ring the fire in?’
‘Yeah, but you lot were already on your way.’
He nodded once and moved away from her, staring up at the top floor again. The smoke was thicker now, billowing out into the night sky. A dark trail against the ambient light of the city. An orange glow from inside the flat betrayed the presence of fire.
On the ground, the team had rolled out the hoses and readied the pumps. They were a well-trained team, each man knowing exactly what he had to do.
‘Get suited up, guys. You’re Team Two.’ He gave the order to two of his men, who immediately began to don their waterproofs and breathing equipment. ‘And when you’re ready, I want you to check the flats are empty, but don’t enter the target flat.’
‘OK, Dave.’
‘Let me know when you’ve finished.’
The blast of a siren behind him betrayed the presence of another squad car edging its way through the crowd. More police cars had arrived now to help the two beleaguered coppers and the PCSO.
One more check of the top-floor flat. The orange glow was brighter now, the smoke thicker.
The others left him alone for a moment, knowing he was working on a risk assessment for this incident. Greene had done all the leadership training courses the fire service had to offer and had realised a long time ago he was the type known as a ‘principled decision maker’. He didn’t make choices, consider alternatives or assess probabilities, like all the courses said. Instead, he weighed up the risks, acting and reacting based on his experience and the needs of the situation. Like all incident commanders, he was willing to take some risk to save lives, but the safety of his men always came first.
His comms buzzed. ‘Sector Three here, boss. No observable flames or smoke seen at the rear of the building. Over.’
‘Thanks, Tim. Stay there until I need you. Report immediately on any change. Over.’
He stared up at the flat on the top floor one more time before making his decision.
A siren echoing off the other buildings in the area announced the arrival of another engine. The smoke was thickening now, an acrid smell of burning plastic heavy in the air. They had to move quickly. Perhaps the resident was still inside the top-floor flat?
The new engine with its turntable ladder parked up behind his vehicle. A three-engine call-out tonight. Would he need more resources? He hoped not. John Stewart, the leader of this crew, leapt out and strode over to join him.
‘Evening, Dave. What’s the plan?’
Greene thought for a moment. These old blocks were brick-built and none of them had any cladding. If they could get to the fire quickly enough, they could prevent it from spreading to the roof and the other flats.
At that moment, the fire made his mind up for him. One of the windows cracked from the internal heat, sending shards of glass crashing down into the courtyard, exactly where the cars had been parked earlier. A lick of orange flame reached out through the window to kiss the night sky.
He called Harrison over to join them. ‘Right, I want to go on the offensive with this incident. The fire hasn’t taken hold yet and the resident may be in the building. John, get your turntable close to the top floor and pump water in through the windows. Norman, get your men into BA gear and enter the flat through the front door. At the moment, the only hazard is falling tiles from the roof and glass from the windows, so make sure all PPE is deployed. Incident Command Unit will stay here.’
‘Yes, boss,’ they both shouted and strode off to brief their teams.
Greene’s comms crackled. ‘Building clear, Incident Commander. We’re exiting now. Over.’
‘OK, Team Two. Come back to me. Over.’
Time to let Fire Control back at base know his decision. He walked back to the Incident Command Unit.
‘Informative message from David Greene,’ he said into the comms, ‘Incident Commander at Roedean House, Wythenshawe. Residential flats, three floors. Top-floor flat alight in the living room, rest of the flats not yet alight. Possible resident still inside, all other residents evacuated. One pump committed to front of flat and two BA teams committed to enter flat by way of stairs. We are in OFFENSIVE OSCAR MODE.’ He emphasised the last three words for the control operator.
‘Message received, Incident Commander, at 22:20.’
Like the well-oiled machine it was, the turntable raised itself up to the level of the flat and began sending a stream of water through the broken window.
At the same time, Greene heard a clear message on his comms. ‘Team One going in.’
Chapter Three
It took less than fifteen minutes to bring the fire under control. Luckily, they managed to confine it to the living room of the flat and it had not spread to the roof or through the front door or into the corridor.