Firewatching

by Russ Thomas

  She fumbles the phone as she hurries to bring it up to her ear. “It’s Mina. I mean, Constable Rabbani. Sir,” she adds.

  “Rabbani?”

  “Why don’t you answer your bloody phone? I’ve been ringing you half the night!” She speaks without thinking, her frustration bubbling over onto the first person she’s spoken to in hours. She’s about to apologize, but using her voice so much sends her off into another coughing fit.

  When she has recovered, he says, “My phone died. I’ve had it charging. Just switched it on.”

  “You shouldn’t speak on them things when they’re plugged in, you know. My cousin knew this guy once whose phone blew up and—” Again she has to cough, but it gives her a chance to think. What is she talking about? Why does he make her so bloody nervous? She takes a sip of water. Sandra is watching her again. Rabbani stares at the woman until she turns back to the TV. “Still there?” she asks.

  “Sure,” he says.

  “Good. I need to tell you something.” And she lays it out for him, the overheard conversation between Wentworth and Thorogood. “He basically accused the vicar of being involved. Which pretty much implies he was involved as well, right? Or at the very least, that he knows something.”

  “Yes, but involved in what? Gerald’s death or the fires?”

  “Maybe both.” She clears her throat again before she can go on. “Anyway, one of them locked me in. Left me there to . . .” She can’t let herself think about that now. “They told me you were the one that got me out. Thanks, Sarge.” She probably should have started with that.

  “I’m just glad you’re okay,” he says, although he doesn’t particularly sound it. “Rabbani, why are you telling me all this? You need to speak to DI Doggett. I’m not on the case anymore.”

  “I know,” she says. “I heard about that, too. Sorry.” Maybe she should have started with that as well. “I spoke to him already, but he was right back on to Oscar Cartwright again.” Doggett had basically told her to mind her own bloody business and then made it perfectly clear that without Tyler as her sponsor, once she was well enough, she’d be right back in uniform. “I just don’t think he takes me seriously, Sarge.”

  “I’m not sure what you think I can do.”

  “Talk to him, make him listen. He’s got to find Wentworth before he sets fire to summat else.” Or someone.

  “You’re sure Wentworth was the one who torched the church?”

  She hesitates. “Well, I never saw him do it. But he was there. And the only other person who was there is dead!” She sighs heavily, trying to control her temper. “Look, I don’t know. I just think someone needs to talk to him. Please!” Why is she crying? She wipes her eyes with her free hand. Stupid girl, he’s going to think she’s a stupid twat! She can feel her hands shaking as she holds the phone. Sandra’s watching her again. “Look, just piss off, will yer!” Sandra turns back to her telly, her cheeks coloring.

  “Sorry?”

  “Not you.” Rabbani wipes her eyes and sniffs, but she can’t stop the tears falling now that they’ve started.

  “Get some rest,” he tells her. “I’ll look into it.”

  “Promise me!”

  “I promise.”

  “Thanks, Sarge.”

  But when she hangs up she feels worse than ever. She hasn’t let herself think about it, but she nearly died! She doesn’t try to stop the tears now, and she decides she doesn’t give a toss what Sandra thinks.

  Rabbani buries her head in the scratchy pillow and cries herself to sleep.

  * * *

  —

  It’s almost eleven by the time Tyler reaches the village. He considered calling Doggett to lend his own voice to Rabbani’s but decided against it. If she hadn’t managed to convince him, nothing Tyler might say would make a difference. So he decided to speak to Wentworth himself first, to see what he could find out.

  He passes the empty churchyard, the blackened husk of the church hulking over it. When he gets to Wentworth’s house, it, too, is in darkness. He rings the bell and waits. Wentworth could be asleep, of course, or down the local pub. But somehow neither of those things fit with what he knows about the man. He could be out setting fire to his next victim.

  He rings the bell again. Nothing. No, there is something—the dog barking. But muffled, as though it’s a long way off. Tyler presses the doorbell again and knocks hard.

  “Mr. Wentworth?”

  He should leave. He has no real reason for being here and certainly no authority to be. If Wentworth is the arsonist—the killer—Tyler’s interference is only going to jeopardize the case further. He cups his hands to the dirty glass of the bay window, but the nets and the darkness conspire against him. There’s something, though. A shape in the dark.

  “Mr. Wentworth? It’s DS Tyler. We spoke a few days ago. Can I come in?” The figure doesn’t move. “I know you’re there, Joe. Can you open the door, please?” The shadow disappears from view. Tyler reaches out slowly and tries the handle. The door opens. “Joe?”

  He reaches for his mobile before realizing it’s still plugged in back at the flat. After speaking to Rabbani he’d tried unplugging it, but for some reason the phone wouldn’t hold its charge when disconnected. The battery’s been dodgy for a while now, or maybe something came loose when he dropped it. The sound of the yapping dog comes to him louder now, but still muffled. He steps across the threshold. There’s something else, too. A faint smell that seems to get weaker the harder he sniffs at it. In the living room he can just make out the shape of Wentworth in his chair.

  “Can you put the light on?” he asks. “Joe?” His hand inches its way along the wall to the switch, but when he presses it nothing happens.

  “Mr. Wentworth, I need you to answer me, please.”

  Tyler trips on something, dislodging a pile of newspaper that slides to the floor with a thump. He coughs. The house is stuffy and it’s difficult to breathe. And that smell; he can almost taste it. Something that makes him think of car fumes.

  When he gets to the armchair Wentworth’s eyes are closed. He reaches out and the man groans, his eyelids fluttering slightly. Wentworth tries to speak, but Tyler can’t quite make it out. He leans forward.

  It’s not so much a sound as a sense of movement, and the door to the kitchen sweeps wide. The room is suddenly flooded with bright orange light. Tyler’s still turning when something hits him hard on the forehead, twisting him back around. He falls, spread-eagled across the gardener, his head reverberating, white light flashing across his eyes.

  Now he smells the smoke. His knee pushes into Wentworth’s saggy groin, but the man is silent and doesn’t move. Tyler lurches back to his feet and staggers away. He notes a dark smudge on Wentworth’s forehead and puts his hand to his own head. It comes away sticky and red. The pain in his head intensifies. He can’t see anything. Just dark shapes and that dull flickering light.

  “Tyler?” A voice behind him. He turns to see Paul Enfield, his black skin shining in the orange glow. He seems even bigger in the darkened room, a great hulking shadow of a man. “Get out!” he shouts, but Tyler can’t move.

  He watches Paul leap Wentworth’s junk like an Olympian hurdler. He sees the fireman lean in to the armchair, put his head under Wentworth’s arm. What’s he doing? He straightens again, heaves the old man onto his shoulder in one fluid movement. It’s called a fireman’s lift, Tyler thinks absently. He tries to speak but all he can do is cough. Why is it so hard to breathe?

  “Adam!” The shock of his name hits him like ice-cold water in the face. “The house is on fire. You need to move!” Paul is already hurtling away from him out of the room.

  And now he sees the room burning. The ceiling blisters and rains fire down across newspaper and upholstery alike. Now his feet come back to life, but even as they do he hears the dog bark again. He turns without thinking and steps throug
h the kitchen doorway into hell. The walls are alive with flames, as though the room has become one giant oven. He can hear the dog barking behind the door that leads down into the cellar. Clawing and scratching, fighting to get out. Just like Gerald Cartwright. He reaches for the handle without even thinking about it.

  “No!”

  Time slows, elongating Paul Enfield’s scream into one long syllable, and within that split second Tyler knows the mistake he’s made even as he makes it. He opens the door. Time stops. An unmistakable pause, like the change in air pressure the moment before a thunderstorm. And then the fire is coming for him, reaching out to take him in a crackling embrace. He drops low, sweeps the dog into his arms, turns to run, all in one fluid movement. Paul is there, grabbing his arm in a tight grip, propelling him forward. Then Paul is behind him, pushing him. The living room is an inferno, fire running in mercurial streams from one pile of kindling to another. Then they’re through, Paul hitting him on the back, thumping him again and again. It hurts. He wants to tell the man to stop but there isn’t time and he’s not sure he can speak anyway. Into the hallway now, the air from the door ahead deliciously cool. Through the door. His feet try to fall out from under him but still Paul pushes him on. Through the gate, past the car. Surely they’ll stop soon?

  When the explosion comes it picks him up and throws him down hard onto the road. He notes Paul at his side. He glances back at the house and coughs. He can’t stop coughing. The windows of the house are like eyes of flame looking down on them. A demon is taking the house and laughing at how powerless they are to stop it. He hears a wailing noise he assumes must be the dog, but then realizes he still has the dog pressed hard against his chest; he can feel its tiny body shaking. No, the noise is a siren, growing louder. Paul is crouched over Wentworth where he lies on the pavement. Tyler had forgotten Wentworth. Paul touches the man’s wrist and then bends forward and kisses him. Why is he doing that? Not a kiss, CPR. He’s forcing air between Wentworth’s tight lips. It looks strange, Paul Enfield’s thick lips pressed against Wentworth’s cigarette-puckered mouth. Each time Paul blows he has to pull away for a moment and cough. He hacks up a wad of phlegm and spits it onto the pavement. He has no spare breath to give but he gives it nonetheless.

  Tyler kneels in the road and watches the house burn.

  day seven

  563,912 pageviews—7 posts, last published

  Tuesday, 20 September—48,964 followers

  The Second Great Fire of London, 1940

  Back then they were like family to you. A pair of elderly spinsters, though perhaps the word doesn’t apply in their case. Today they would be labeled lesbians.

  Sometimes Edna, and especially Lily, would tell you stories about how they met during the war. How they watched for fires from the rooftop. They both liked stories, though Edna was more interested in “the Greats.” Edna, the born teacher; even the smallest exchange of pleasantries came with a built-in history lesson. Nero and Rome, Caesar and the Library. Those stories come from her originally, though you’ve done your own research since. And the greatest of them, the event she never tired of talking about—the Blitz.

  Blitzkrieg. From the German word for lightning, classic weapon of the gods. In this case in the form of the German Luftwaffe, raining down fire upon Britain’s cities for eight long months. London wasn’t the only city affected, of course; even sleepy Sheffield had its turn in the spotlight as the Nazis attempted to cripple British industry. But almost half those killed by German airstrikes were in the capital. And there was one night in particular. The 29th of December, 1940. The night Lily and Edna sat up watching for fires. The 114th night of the Blitz. The night that would come to be known as the Second Great Fire of London.

  One hundred and twenty-four thousand explosives and incendiary devices were thrown down on the city’s head, twenty-nine around St. Paul’s alone, one striking a direct hit and lodging in the cathedral’s dome. The area destroyed by these bombs was greater than that of the first Great Fire, and the casualty list was higher, too, 160 civilians and 14 firefighters. But Churchill ordered the cathedral saved, and a group of volunteers fought back the firestorm that swept across the capital and halted it at God’s door. Every other building in the vicinity of St. Paul’s was obliterated.

  One of the men who worked tirelessly to save the church was a man named Wentworth, a simple dockworker who happened to find himself in the thick of the action. Later, he would tell his son about the night of his heroic endeavors, just as Edna and Lily told their stories to you. But his son was far from a simple man, nor was he heroic. Not even much of a storyteller, though he did once mention this to you. He was working on the garden at the time, listening in as Edna told her tale.

  He was a coward, a bully, just another sad, pathetic creature. The world should not mourn him.

  You feel as though you’ve come full circle. But none of this has helped at all, has it? What have you achieved? Other than to add the screams of Wentworth and Felbridge to the other. To Gerald. Is this really what he wanted? No. You know what he wanted, what he still wants. He wants peace. An end to it. He whispers a name to you. Detective Sergeant Adam Tyler. You should have finished it last night at Wentworth’s house. Or before that even, at Tyler’s flat. That’s two opportunities he’s given you. Now it’s third time lucky.

  Now it’s up to you to finish it for him.

  POSTED BY thefirewatcher AT 6:24 AM

  119 COMMENTS

  DonkeyHoTay said:-

  Yeah, man! You fucking stick it to em #firewatching

  Nof***inway said . . .

  If I want a fuckin histry lesson I gone back to school.

  NiceCuppa said . . .

  You think this is history but it could happen again. Open your eyes and look what the Toruies are ddoing to the country!!

  NiceCuppa said . . .

  Tories* and doing* Lol!!!

  ActualJeffJones said . . .

  Anyone know where I can get an original Klingon bat’leth from Star Trek TNG?

  Kaygirlstarchild said:-

  Are you single?

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  The paramedics take away Joe Wentworth in a matter of minutes, but before they depart Paul snatches bandages and antiseptic from them, and cleans and dresses the burns on the back of Tyler’s neck. Only then does Tyler realize he was actually on fire. Paul wasn’t hitting him, he was beating the flames out with his sleeves. It feels like sunburn, only a lot worse. He can smell his own singed hair.

  There are three fire engines, their blue lights battling the orange firelight as the water from their hoses fights the fire. Only two of the trucks are in use; the third stands idly by and after a few minutes departs, ashamed by its redundancy. Finally the police cars begin to arrive. Paul jokes that his lot—meaning Tyler’s—are always the last to arrive. Soon the small close is full of people, a mixture of uniforms and neighbors in nightclothes.

  Tyler sits on the edge of the pavement. Paul towers over him, places a hand on his shoulder. “Hey,” he says, “you all right?”

  “You saved my life.”

  “Some people freeze; it happens. Let me look at that head.” Paul puts his hands on either side of Tyler’s face and focuses on a point somewhere above his left eye. “You’ll live,” he says. “The wound’s closed. You might have a mild concussion. We’ll get you checked out.” His hands fall away again. He stretches his fingers, cracks the joints. “Did you see him?”

  Tyler wonders how much Paul Enfield weighs. He lifted Joe Wentworth with the smallest grunt. Whoever dragged Thorogood round the church had to be strong.

  “No,” he says. “He hit me before I saw him.” He looks up at the fire officer. “That was just before you arrived.” The man has just saved his life, but he asks it anyway. He can’t help himself. “What were you doing here?”

 
Enfield smiles, a sort of disappointed understanding, perhaps. “I was reexamining the crime scenes. You remember the allotment owned by Cyril Armitage? Turns out he was Wentworth’s father-in-law. I was on my way here from the scout hut when I saw the flames. You might also be interested to learn that Thorogood was a scout leader.”

  “Yes, Rabbani found that out, just before . . .”

  Enfield raises his eyebrows. “That would have been nice to know earlier.”

  “There was a lot going on.” It’s hardly fair, but Tyler doesn’t feel like being fair right now. “Isn’t it a bit late for house calls?” he asks.

  “Yes,” Enfield says. “Funny. I was just thinking the same about you.”

  The fire is under control now, but the engines still pump gallons of water into the small cottage. Enfield goes to speak with the firefighters. Tyler watches the flames rage. He understands now what Enfield was trying to tell him. There is a beauty here. Something dangerously compelling. He turns and searches the faces lining the street. Is he out there somewhere? Watching.

  Another car pulls up and is waved through the police cordon. Doggett’s voice drifts across the street. “What the bloody hell are you doing at my crime scene, Tyler?”

  “The usual, Jim. Compromising cases, that sort of thing.”

  “Where’s Wentworth?”

  “Hospital.”

  Doggett looks at him closely, notes the cut on his head and the bandaged hand. “Time to piss off then. You can make a statement in the morning.”

  “It is morning,” he says, but Doggett is already walking away.

  The dog has given up its barking and is curled round the base of the lamppost, shivering, its head buried under gray paws. Paul Enfield returns and sees him staring at it. “I’ll get someone to take it to the rescue place,” he says.