by Ian Richards
‘You did well, Ebenezer. You did.’ The smoke hadn’t reached the upper floors yet but it was coming. She struggled with the window overlooking the alleyway. ‘And Trina will be okay, I promise.’
A click. The window cracked open an inch. A wedge of icy-cold air slipped into the room. Vanessa tried again, pushing as hard as she could with her one working arm. Ebenezer added his weight, too. This time the window gave completely. It opened out to a drizzling world of rain and darkness. Night poured into the room, enveloping them in its freezing embrace. The air tasted as fresh as icicles—as sweet as a midnight snowstorm over the Alps.
‘Quickly,’ Ebenezer said, ushering her up onto the ledge. ‘You go first. Try and rescue her. Please.’
She looked down at the rain-slicked alleyway. Puddles seethed in the downpour. Drainpipes spat torrents of gushing rainwater into the street.
Directly beneath her a pile of rubbish bags had been left out for collection in the alley. If their contents were soft, they might just break her fall. If they contained anything hard or anything sharp, she was in trouble.
‘Hurry,’ Ebenezer said. ‘They’re coming.’
There was no time to think. She jumped, and then she was falling, at one with the rain, twisting and tumbling through the night like a rag doll. She hit the rubbish bags hard—thunk—but instead of solid concrete found herself coming to rest deep amidst the pile, buried amongst a mound of rubbish, but safe, alive, still breathing, still hurting, but oh, so gloriously alive.
Ebenezer’s voice called to her from the upstairs window. ‘Run!’
Run. Yes. She had to run. She had to pick herself out of the filth and the slime and the discarded food and the split bin-bags and she had to run. Now, before the Rag-and-Bone men realized she was gone.
Get moving, she told herself. Put aside the pain, get your breath back and run. Now. Go.
‘Too late.’ Mr. Krook grabbed her by the neck and yanked her out onto the alleyway floor. Tin cans and wine bottles scattered in all directions. Mr. Kepler stood alongside him, dark eyes gleaming.
‘Look, Mr. Krook. The blushing bride.’
Vanessa tried to run but the dwarf held her close. His knife pressed against her cheek. Was it wet already? The rain, she thought. It must be the rain.
‘What are you two blathering on about?’ she spat. ‘Where’s Tony?’
At this Krook and Kepler exchanged cruel smiles. Ebenezer peered out of the upstairs window in distress. ‘Please,’ he shouted. ‘My wife. She’s still inside. Help her.’
‘The bookseller.’ Mr. Krook scowled. ‘What shall we do with him, Mr. Kepler?’
‘Leave him. The man is a bag of bones as it is. If he makes the same jump as the girl he won’t survive it.’
The dwarf didn’t seem so sure. He glanced up and then down a few times before shaking his head in disagreement. ‘Best be on the safe side, I say.’ Pushing Vanessa into Kepler’s arms he began tossing the rubbish bags across the alleyway, reducing the pile Vanessa had crashed into to the thinnest of layers. ‘That’s better,’ he nodded. Then, after a moment’s thought, he split the remaining bags with his knife and scattered their insides to the wind. What remained beneath the window now was nothing but the rain-slicked hardness of solid concrete.
‘No,’ Vanessa cried. ‘He’ll be killed.’
‘Of course he will,’ Kepler smiled. ‘But don’t worry, he can stay up there and burn to death if he finds it more agreeable. It’ll save on the cremation.’
She felt the dwarf’s knife jab the small of her back. ‘Move, girlie. Get walking.’ Reluctantly, she did so. They moved down the alleyway and away from Dover Street. The Rag-and-Bone men were there now, too. They followed behind, a procession of burnt bodies and charred skin. The smell of burnt hair and singed flesh lent the chill wetness of the night an unnatural flavor—like a barbecue in midwinter.
‘Please,’ she heard Ebenezer crying from the window. ‘Save her. Somebody save her!’
They walked further and further away until the only thing that could be heard was the sound of the rain.
Vanessa wiped the tears from her eyes and kept on walking.
*
Tony came round slowly, conscious of a soft, warm presence on the side of his face. Pushkin. The cat licked him gently, seeming to sense his distress.
It took a few moments to find his bearings. The rain. The smell of smoke. The pain still pulsing in his chest.
‘Please. Save her. Somebody save her!’
The words seemed to come from the sky itself, from the rain falling around him in thin needles.
Ebenezer. Trina.
Somehow he forced himself to his feet. There wasn’t much strength left in his legs but he pushed on regardless, driven by desperation, by fear, by the belief that if he stopped again it would mean the end of him. As he staggered towards the entrance to The Wand he touched his hand to his wound. Blood leaked out—leaking now, not spurting; was that a good sign or a bad one? He wasn’t sure, but there was no time to think of himself. In the darkness of the shop windows the flames flickered in such a way that they seemed to be daring him to enter. Taunting him. Come in, come in. We’re only babies at the moment, we’re still playing in the hallway. We won’t reach the bookshelves for a little while yet, we promise. You can make it if you hurry. He thought of the Snouts, and of Vanessa, and he carried on. This was his mess, he would have to fix it. So what if he only had a few more minutes of life left in him, so what if his chest hurt and his head ached and he had never been more frightened in his life? People he cared about were still in there—good people—people who didn’t deserve any of this.
Gritting his teeth, he staggered on. As soon as he crossed the threshold of the shop it became hard to breathe. Smoke invaded his mouth and nostrils. It stung his eyes. Pressing a handkerchief against his face he stumbled on through the main body of the shop. The rows of bookcases stood firm and defiant as the smoke ghosted amongst them. The fire cast flickering shadows across their shoulders.
At the entrance to the landing the smoke was at its very thickest. He felt the heat of the flames beating against him. To his surprise a faint voice called out from the next room.
‘Help me … please …’
He followed the sound until he found Trina crouched up against a wall. Her face had been transformed into a minstrel mask of soot and ash. Tears ran down her cheeks. Tony staggered over, dropping to his knees when he reached her, unable to speak. It felt as if a fire were burning inside him, too—the dark twin of the one beginning to dance its way up the staircase. For a moment he thought he was going to vomit—the world swam in and out of focus. Then he did. To his surprise, to his horror, all he brought up was blood.
‘Ebenezer is still upstairs,’ she sobbed.
‘Trina, we’ve got to get you out of here.’ He didn’t know where the words came from but each one hurt like a fiend. The taste of blood swam in his mouth. ‘Come on, we have to go.’
Trina shook her head, coughing. ‘I’m not leaving him. He’s all I’ve got.’
And the sight of her sitting there, wanting to die with her husband, filled Tony with such a sense of furious injustice. Trina and Ebenezer were good people. They were kind and considerate and friendly. He thought of the good times he had enjoyed here in The Wand. Late-night chats, stories, card tricks. That wonderful evening when he had first met Sir Roderick and the world had twinkled with excitement and adventure. It felt like a lifetime ago. He supposed that it was, really.
From deep inside him, a place far deeper than any knife could ever reach, he found the determination to continue. Forcing Trina to her feet he helped her out through the shop and back onto the street. With every step an agonizing pain tore through him—it felt as if he were ripping himself in two—but he kept at it, dragging and pulling and trying to ignore the smoke as it chased down their throats, burning their lungs black. By the time they made it out onto Dover Street a small crowd of concerned onlookers had gathered. Upon seeing th
em emerge from the fire they rushed forward and began trying to help. Tony was aware of somebody wiping the sweat from his forehead, the rain, the heartbeats inside his chest counting down what remained of his life at a frightening speed. An enormous hacking cough ripped apart his throat. Blood splattered against the pavement.
Not long to go now. A few minutes at most.
He could already feel his senses beginning to dull. The world had begun to lose its magic, becoming quieter—darker. The rain no longer tasted of anything, not even smoke.
‘Please let him live.’ Trina’s voice seemed to be the only thing left. Crying out into the night. ‘Please, somebody help him. I don’t want him to die.’
His body begged him for rest. A few more minutes in the rain and then he could sleep forever. The thought was strangely seductive. Yes, to take away the pain, to enjoy the peace of oblivion—
‘Tony, are you all right?’ Somebody touched a hand to his shoulder. Ahmed, the owner of the Turkish restaurant across the street. When he saw the blood plastered across Tony’s chin he realized the answer to his question and cried out in alarm. ‘Oh no. Tony, no.’ At the top of his voice, he shouted: ‘Over here, come quickly, the boy is hurt.’
He tried to get a better look at the wound, but Tony refused to unwrap his arms from around himself. It felt like this was all that was keeping him alive now. Peel away his arms and the last bit of life left inside him would dribble out, too.
‘Ebenezer—still—inside.’ The words came out in throaty gasps. ‘Have to—help him.’
Ahmed wiped his brow. ‘My boy, you must wait for the fire brigade. You need medical assistance. You can’t do anything for him now.’
‘I can,’ Tony croaked. ‘If—I get to—the lamp.’
Without another word he shrugged the terrified waiter off, forced himself to his feet, and stumbled back into the flames.
*
Ebenezer Snout had never been a brave man. For most of his life he had avoided conflict whenever possible. He didn’t like arguments. He didn’t like people who raised their voices or threatened others with violence. At school he had developed a reputation for being a weakling. It had stuck with him for most of his life. Snout the Twig, that was one of the nicknames the bigger children had given him. The Stickman. He had ignored these insults as best he could, but they still hurt, every one. He didn’t have muscles. He didn’t have friends. No girl would look at him without laughing. (‘Imagine growing up to marry Ebenezer, he’s so funny-looking’). But then he had met Trina, sweet, beautiful Trina, and somehow it had happened, the unthinkable. He had fallen in love. And what was even more astonishing, she had fallen in love with him, too.
As he stood by the window in the upper bedroom of The Gnarled Wand, the shop they had bought together on their second anniversary, he looked up at the dark night sky and thought of how cruel life could sometimes be.
Had they deserved this, he and Trina? Had they ever hurt anyone, ever turned their backs on anyone, ever tried to be anything other than decent, kindly people? Had they ever wanted anything more than their happiness and each other?
The fire grew closer now. Even though he had closed the bedroom door, smoke had begun to seep in through the crack beneath it. He kept his head sticking as far out into the cold night air as he possibly could but he knew he didn’t have long left. Beneath him the wet spread of concrete cleared by the dwarf shone with a sickly layer of rainwater. Even with the rubbish bags there he would have questioned his chances of making it, but now … no, if he leapt from the window he would fall hard, he would fall fast, and he would not survive the impact.
He tried to hold back the tears, but he couldn’t help himself. The thought of never seeing Trina again was too much for him. Had she made it out? Had the fire already taken her? Oh God, the thought of her burning to death beneath him shook him with the most terrible fear. Why had he thrown that gas-lamp? It was his fault this was happening. The creatures hadn’t wanted him or Trina, they had wanted the girl, he should have just let them take her. It was a terrible thing to think, but he didn’t care, he didn’t. He just wanted to be with his wife again. He wanted them to be together in the shop, joking about something trivial, adding up the takings at the end of the day.
Trina. He thought of their lives together and how happy he had been. He had never expected to find happiness when he was younger. He had thought he would always be an outcast, a loner, an unloved wretch who would forever be tormented by those who had found all the things he desired without ever having to struggle for them.
He looked down again at the pavement. The smoke hurt his eyes now, mingling with his tears to produce a hot, stinging sensation. A drop of forty feet onto unforgiving concrete. Would that be a better way to go than suffocation? If he tried to angle himself correctly—dive down headfirst—he might get lucky and snap his neck. Crick. Snout the Twig, dead in an instant. But he knew he didn’t have the courage to jump. He didn’t have the courage to do anything.
He tried to console himself with the thought that his last action in this world had been to stand up for his wife. He thought again of the lamp exploding in the Rag-and-Bone man’s face, the anger with which he had hurled it. How dare you touch her, he had thought. How dare you hurt the woman I love. That was good, he reasoned. Finally standing up for himself after a lifetime of cowardice. He felt strangely proud, knowing that he had left Trina with such a strong final memory. Ebenezer the tough guy. Ebenezer the hero, for once, for a single fleeting second—
She would have been proud of him. He knew that, and it made him proud, too.
Suddenly there was a noise from outside in the corridor. Footsteps, running at speed. Clumpy and graceless, as if they belonged to a club-footed lunatic. Seconds later the door flew open and a burnt, black-faced figure staggered into the room. Tony collapsed into his arms almost at once, his eyes half-shut and unable to focus on anything in front of him.
‘Tony, you—?’ At once convulsive sobs shook Ebenezer’s body. He brushed back the boy’s sweat-damp hair with his fingertips. His forehead was burning up—it was as hot as an oven door. ‘What are you doing here? What were you thinking?’ He saw the smoke rising from Tony’s back. The singed hair. The boy had run through the flames to get to him. Third-degree burns plastered his body. His hands had become black, shriveled things— tiny claws, like those of a bird.
‘Trina …’ The voice was a croak. Eyes rolled in their sockets, searching desperately for something to latch onto. ‘She’s okay … got her out …’
‘Don’t say anything. Save your breath.’
Got her out. He had to stop himself from crying aloud. She had made it. This brilliant, broken little boy had saved her. He swept back a handful of his hair and realized that nothing he could ever do could repay the gratitude he felt towards him. He realized then that he loved him. They both did, him and Trina.
‘Where’s—Vanessa?’
‘She got out too, Tony. She made it.’ He broke into a coughing fit. The flames were right outside the door now. The walls felt as if they were melting.
‘I’m … frightened, Ebenezer.’
‘Frightened?’ He tried to smile, but his sadness was too great. It came out as a sob. ‘There’s nothing to be frightened of. We’re here together, Tony. I’ll look after you.’ He brushed back another handful of damp hair and kissed the boy’s burning forehead. He felt a paternal affection for him, as if it were his own son he was nursing. He would have been proud to have had a child like this. ‘You’re a good boy, Tony Lott. A good, brave, wonderful boy. Thank you for saving her.’
‘Sorry …’
‘There’s nothing to be—’
‘Tricked me … thought it was … Martell …’
‘I know. I know. Come now, stop talking, don’t say anything else.’
But he did. He managed one final word before he closed his eyes.
‘Lamp.’
Ebenezer’s eyes shot open. Of course. The lamp. He had completely forgotten abo
ut it. ‘Tony, where—?’ But it was too late, the boy had slipped into unconsciousness. Desperately Ebenezer began searching the room, all the while conscious of how close the fire was. It seemed to have them surrounded. The walls bubbled like blistered skin, the floorboards radiated heat. Smoke seared his lungs as he fumbled through cupboards and wardrobes and groped blindly under the bed. He eventually found the lamp in the top drawer of the bedside cabinet. Its metal shell was hot to the touch—just holding it burned his hands—but he held onto it as tightly as he could.
‘Please work,’ he said, rubbing it with his sleeve. ‘Please.’
Nothing happened. The lamp remained plain and inert. No colored smoke, no booming voice. He rubbed it again, harder this time, but without success.
Tony. Only he could summon it.
He tried hurrying back over to the boy but at that moment an enormous cracking sound rang out and a large part of the floor fell away in a shower of sparks. A chasm opened up between them. Flames leapt upwards, delighted to be allowed into the room at last.
‘Tony!’ There was no way to reach him. In desperation Ebenezer threw the lamp through the fire. It clattered to a stop close to Tony’s body. Close, but not close enough. It was still a good few inches away from his hand. ‘Tony, wake up. The lamp is there! It’s right next to you!’
‘Martell—?’ Tony rolled his head to the side. Through a wall of flames he could see Ebenezer standing in front of him, coughing and spluttering, a mysterious dark shape that seemed strangely surreal in its movements. It was almost as if the figure were dancing; as if he were witnessing some primal rite of passage that belonged to a far-off culture—a fire dance—a celebration of hot coals and moonlight. ‘Ebenezer, I can’t move.’ It was true, he had nothing left. Between the blood he had lost and the burns the fire had inflicted upon his body he could do nothing but lie there and watch Ebenezer continue his strange devil-dance.
‘Tony, you can. I believe in you.’
‘I’m sorry, Ebenezer.’
‘Tony, please.’