Firewatching

by Russ Thomas

  He hears a sound, like the scraping of metal on stone, and only now realizes he’s not alone. There’s someone moving, purposefully, out of sight but somewhere to his left. He has to try to get his strength back. Quickly. He tries flexing his wrists, working at the string binding his arms. It gives a little but only after it slices further into his flesh.

  The scraping noise stops abruptly and he freezes. He doesn’t think he made a noise, but something has given him away. And then the sounds of movement draw closer.

  “You’re awake,” she says, her voice deep and rasping but still beautiful. A dark shadow falls across his face.

  Sally-Ann is wearing a child’s nightgown, pink cartoon rabbits dancing through the grass in a repeated pattern. The nightgown is old and faded and made for someone carrying a lot less flesh than Sally-Ann. The fabric pulls tightly across her stomach and waist, revealing her bare arms, legs, neck. It’s more skin than he’s ever seen her reveal before. Once upon a time, before Gerald Cartwright got his hooks into her, Sally-Ann must have had a similar build to Oscar. They’re about the same height, though Sally-Ann walks hunched over, turned in on herself as though trying not to be noticed. They certainly have the same pale skin, the same hair. Though Sally-Ann’s blond head is cropped savagely, designed to repel rather than attract. The one striking difference, of course, is the burn marks. Sally-Ann’s entire body is pockmarked with small red patches. Scars so deep that some are visible even through the thin stretched fabric of the nightgown. At some time in the not-so-distant past she was used as something like a human ashtray. The marks are the stubbings out of a thousand cigarette butts.

  She is the child in Doggett’s photo.

  Tyler flexes his jaw and tries to speak. His voice when it comes is cracked and husky. “Where’s Oscar?” he manages.

  She moves closer, crouches in front of him. He sees the soft pink flesh of her stomach rolling over her underpants beneath the thin material of the nightgown.

  “You’re back,” she says quietly. “I’m sorry about that, Adam. I didn’t want you to suffer.”

  “You drugged him?” he asks. Oscar had to have had more than just champagne to pass out that quickly. He realizes something else. “You were the one that spiked me in the club the other night, not Oscar.”

  “Oscar,” she says absently. She reaches out to touch his face with a hand rough with brick dust. He tries to pull away but only manages to swivel his head a fraction.

  “Why?”

  “Because I wanted to see you out of control for once. Adam fucking Tyler, always so confident, so sure of himself. I wanted to see the real you.”

  “I meant, why are you doing all this?”

  Sally-Ann wipes the sweat from her forehead. “You’re the detective, you tell me.”

  When Doggett showed him the photo he, too, assumed it was a boy. At first. There was nothing in it to say otherwise, but then Sally-Ann was still a young teenager at the time. She’d yet to develop those obvious characteristics that make a difference. But what he knew then, beyond doubt, was that it couldn’t be Oscar. For the first time, he was 100 percent confident Oscar wasn’t the arsonist. He’d seen Oscar naked, after all. He’d seen the man’s unblemished body. The scars on the body in the photo could never have healed so completely.

  “You’ve been living here, haven’t you?” he asks. “You were the one who brought the picture down to the living room, so you could see it every day.” The painting of the fire watcher that once hung in the attic. The one thing she had to stare at while Gerald and his cohorts raped and abused her.

  Sally-Ann studies him, a neutral expression on her face. “You knew it was me.”

  “Not soon enough.” He hadn’t been sure. He’d hoped he was wrong.

  “How?” she asks.

  He almost shakes his head but catches himself in time, before it sends the blood pounding again. “I didn’t start putting it together until we found the blog. The fire watcher.”

  “Yes, the blog. I have to admit you were a lot slower catching on to that than I would have expected. Still, you fair put me about when you rang me to ask me about it. Talk about having to think quickly on your feet.”

  “You offered to trace the IP address and then you stalled.”

  “I knew I was running out of time. But you can’t have suspected me at that point, surely? Or you wouldn’t have given me the blog to trace. Unless it was all some double bluff? Was it a bluff, Adam? Oh, please tell me you really are that clever!”

  He wishes he could. “It was Sophie Denham. She told me how everyone used to come here after school and how Gerald once tried it on with her. It wasn’t a big leap to assume she wasn’t the only one. You told me yourself you were at school with Oscar.”

  “Ah yes, I wondered if I’d gone too far there. I bet it sounded odd, a run-down, ugly, fat, common girl who went to such a prestigious school. But I wasn’t always like this, you know?”

  It hadn’t sounded odd to him at all. Is that really how she thinks of herself? He guesses this probably isn’t the best time to argue with her, though. Keep her talking.

  “And then there was the bourbon,” he says. “A bit unusual these days.” Bourbon on the rocks with a twist. My dad used to drink that. Oscar said it the night they met. She must have idolized the man to adopt his drinking patterns. “Why did you come back here, Sally-Ann?”

  “This is my home. This is where I grew up.” She looks in the direction of the wall where they found Gerald Cartwright. “It helps when I’m closer to him.”

  “I’m sorry,” he says. Sally-Ann picks at the scars on her arms. “I’m sorry for what they did to you.”

  He doesn’t see the blow coming. Her hand takes him hard across the cheek, blurring his vision. Blood rushes through his ears.

  “I don’t want your sympathy!” She spits in his face.

  “Were they all involved?” he asks. “Cartwright and Wentworth and Thorogood?” He wonders if naming them might make her lash out again, but she doesn’t.

  She straightens up and moves away, leans against a broken pallet and breathes heavily, trying to regain control of her emotions. And then he realizes she’s listening for something. She’s looking for permission to tell him from the voice in her head. She smiles. “It was just me and Gerry at first. I was thirteen. I looked a bit different then. Skinny and pretty. One of the gang. When I met Oscar a few weeks ago, he didn’t even recognize me. But I suppose I’ve changed a lot since then.

  “I was flattered, of course. Who wouldn’t be? Gerry was the man. And he loved me. I didn’t mind that he didn’t want anyone else to know; just having the secret was enough. It felt like everyone knew anyway, all the boys at school, the girls, everyone. I was pretty popular, and it was all thanks to Gerry. Like, while I was with him, he gave me confidence. And I knew we’d be together one day. Properly together.”

  “But Gerry had other ideas?”

  The smile fades. “The others,” she says. “He told me it was just a bit of fun, a bit of playing around, all boys together.”

  “Poker night.”

  “He brought people up for the weekend. Business acquaintances, a judge he owed a favor to. Before long he was bringing them up from London by the busload. Men and women he found on the street or in clubs and brothels. The money was good, but it had to be, because some of Gerry’s friends had unusual tastes.”

  “And Gerry’s thing was fire.”

  She nods. “Cigarettes, mostly. I didn’t mind. It wasn’t too bad at first and . . . well, I suppose I got used to it.”

  “You were a child, Sally-Ann. You weren’t old enough to make that kind of decision. Where were your parents? Didn’t anyone notice anything?”

  She laughs. “I used to skip PE, and then I just started skipping school. My mother found a scar on my arm once but figured I was doing it myself. She called me a stupid girl and then got
so drunk she forgot about it. It’s not hard to hide things from people who aren’t really looking. When I went missing she thought I’d run off. And when I came back, eventually, I found out she’d told the school I’d been sick. She covered for me, never even reported it. Made out she’d done me a massive favor.”

  “When you went missing?”

  She sniffs. “It was one of Gerry’s parties. Everyone was pretty coked up, including me. If not I might have realized and got out sooner, but by the time I came round enough to know what was going on I was already tied to the bed in the attic.” Sally-Ann’s hand reaches for her back. “The attic was always Gerry’s favorite place. He installed soundproofing, told everyone he was creating a music studio. But it was more like a movie studio. He liked to film me; it was all pretty exciting.

  “But that night he had something special in mind. A few days before that he’d got a bit carried away and hurt me. It was my fault really, but I was young and stupid, and I threatened him and told him we were over. He smoothed everything over but he didn’t forget.”

  She straightens up and turns round, lifts the nightdress and pulls it up and over her head, exposing her back to him. The entire surface is crisscrossed with scars and burns. At the base of her spine the word whore is etched in spidery white scar tissue. She lowers the top and turns back, and Tyler realizes in his shock he’s missed his chance. He might not get another. She must be strong; she dragged Thorogood round the church. Given his current state, if she sees him coming he might not have the strength to take her.

  “Sometimes Gerry liked to watch while the other two took turns. For Thorogood, it was always just about the sex, and Wentworth’s heart was never really in it; I think he preferred the boys, to be honest. Gerry said it was because Wentworth’s father used to fiddle with him when he was a boy. He was sad and lonely, and Gerry let him be one of the gang. He’d have done anything Gerry told him to. He used to cry sometimes when he was fucking me. Poor old Joe. Trust me, all I did was put him out of his misery.” She crouches again, pushing her face forward into his. “I was scared shitless when you turned up at his place. I’m sorry I hit you, by the way. I just panicked.”

  Abruptly she gets up and is walking away. She moves out of sight and goes back to her work on the far side of the cellar. There’s a scraping noise.

  Tyler takes the opportunity to stretch his legs. They respond but are tied more firmly than his arms. He twists and turns his arms, feels the string cutting into his wrists. She reappears and he stops struggling.

  “They know I’m here,” he tells her. “They know it’s you.”

  “You’re a bad liar, Adam, do you know that? No, the only person who knows I’m here is DC Daley, and he’s not going to be telling anyone.”

  “What have you done, Sally-Ann? What did you do to Guy?”

  “You don’t need to worry about him. I’m nearly finished now, anyway.”

  “Finished with what?”

  “You’ll see.” She disappears again and the scraping noise takes up once again.

  He has to get her attention back. “What about Edna Burnside?” he shouts.

  The scraping stops. Sally-Ann wanders back into view. This time she’s holding a small metal trowel, the type used for bricklaying. “Poor Edna.”

  “Why did you kill her?”

  She frowns. “I didn’t.”

  “But you were there when she died; it was in the blog. You could have helped her.”

  “I wasn’t the only one. I was only there at all because I was following him.”

  “Oscar?”

  “I watched them through the window. He’d been trying to find out what happened to his mother. He told me he’d overheard Lily and Edna talking, years ago, when he was still a teenager, and he knew they’d been involved in some way. He knew his mother hadn’t just run away like they’d always told him. The anonymous blackmail letters were my idea. I thought it might shake things up a bit. Funny, really, he was never even interested in what had happened to his father. Now, that I could have helped him with. If he’d asked.

  “I couldn’t really hear what they were saying, but Edna obviously called his bluff because I watched her rip the letters up and throw them into the fire. Then suddenly she was collapsing and tipping forward. And then she was facedown in the flames. He just stood there and watched her. Didn’t move, didn’t react. Jesus Christ, but he must have hated that woman! He was right there and he did nothing. Just turned around and walked away.”

  “Why didn’t you do something?”

  “I did exactly what she did. Sweet F.A. She knew what was going on in that house. They all did, though they were very good at closing their eyes to it.”

  “What about Lily, then? How come she wasn’t on your list?”

  She shakes her head. “There isn’t any list.” Then her face crumples in pain. She clutches at her head. “Shut up, shut up!”

  “Sally-Ann?”

  When she looks up, her face is composed again. “I couldn’t hurt Lily.” She pushes the trowel forward until it’s inches from his eyeball. He notes the keen edge of the blade, sees how the cigarette burns stop at her neck and wrists. Easily covered by a long-sleeved turtleneck, or a choker. He can smell Sally-Ann’s sweet, stale breath.

  “Lily,” she says, wistfully. “Lovely Lily is the one who saved me.”

  * * *

  —

  As Lily moves up the stairs . . . she’s waiting for Oscar to get home. He’s late. He’s supposed to be coming to stay over like he always does when Gerald has his friends round. Where is he? He should be here by now.

  She prepares the tea anyway and takes Edna up a bowl of soup, but she’s sleeping. Lily watches the television for company without taking it in.

  He must be out with his friends—that young Sophie and her lies. He’s growing up fast. Fifteen; more than capable of looking after himself. And it’s only eight o’clock. But that means Gerald’s friends will be arriving soon, and Oscar mustn’t be hanging around. It’s their job to keep him away. Why has that never seemed odd to her before? Why only now after what Michael has told them?

  It’s not like they didn’t know what Gerald was capable of. She’s always known. Since the day he arrived with his father’s features etched across his face, she knew he had it in him to be the same man. Before that, she knew. When she gave birth she knew what he was—a cancer born of the fire and pain of war. She had no qualms about giving him up. Not that she had any choice in the matter. And then he’d found her, tracked her down through the adoption agency. Why?

  Did they do the right thing, helping him that day when he came to them about Cynthia? But what was the alternative—to watch Gerald carted off to prison? See Oscar put into the care of strangers? They certainly wouldn’t have let him be raised by two elderly spinsters. Not at that age.

  Yes, they know full well what Gerald is capable of. But those things Michael said . . . She shudders.

  It’s almost nine o’clock, almost dark. He’s never been this late. Something must have happened. She needs to talk it through with Edna, but it’s so soon since she came out of the hospital and she needs her sleep.

  What would Edna do?

  She would tell her to calm down for a start. She would go up there. Never mind Gerald’s rules.

  She sets off along the path, intending just to take a look at the house. Perhaps Oscar is playing in the garden and has forgotten the time. She crosses the lawn, but there’s no sign of him. She tries the back door just to make sure. It opens. She hesitates on the doorstep, but in her gut she knows something is wrong and she knows she has to go on. The house is too quiet. She remembers the sound of men drinking together and this isn’t it.

  She moves almost on tiptoe, opens the door to every room, every cupboard. Like hide-and-seek. Coming, ready or not! Her search takes her onward and upward until she reaches the stairs to the
attic.

  There’s no noise but she’s suddenly sure they are in there. She moves slowly . . . the floorboards creaking under her shoes. Her slacks catch on a rusty nail on the banister. At the top she pauses before . . . she opens the door.

  She sees the camera first. It stands out, smack-bang in the middle of the room on its three metal legs. Then the men. There are three of them, their trousers round their ankles, their hands busy upon themselves, their eyes focused on the bed. She looks to the bed. She doesn’t want to, but she must. There she sees him. Even now she doesn’t want to believe. It can’t be him, not her little Oscar! His sweet little blond head being pushed into the pillow to muffle his cries. And now she sees Gerald, her son, the wicked, wicked child of fire and death, forcing himself on his own boy—her beloved grandson.

  She must cry out, for they all turn at once to look at her. She takes a step backward. That look on Gerald’s face. It is the face of the devil, gray and mottled with sweaty exertion. The face of a cornered creature, snarling its fury. The face of his father, the man who raped her.

  And because she’s a coward, because this is what she always does, she turns and runs. Back downstairs, back through the house, voices shouting after her. She hears the front door slam as she’s crossing the grass and realizes the other men are following her lead.

  She doesn’t stop until she’s home, up the stairs and into the bedroom. Edna doesn’t even ask. She gets up and looks into Lily’s eyes. She knows. This is what they’ve been avoiding since Michael came to them. One more secret. One too many. Edna dresses quickly while Lily sits and silently screams inside her own head. Though she’s exhausted, and the chemotherapy has rotted her hair and taken her strength, Edna knows what must be done. That’s what she does; she takes care of Lily’s messes. As Lily trembles while the bombs fall, Edna keeps silent vigil for the fires.