by Will Wiles
Having spent so long in dread, and with so little achieved, I was oddly calm. No more could be done. There were no escape routes, it was all out of my hands. I wondered how many of the aberrations of the past week – the lingering smoke, the gathering cockatoos – might be manifestations of stress, rather than drink, brought on by my desperate efforts to stave off the inevitable, and my growing knowledge of the futility of those efforts. This morning, the fever had broken. All I had to do was turn up, and let events play out.
I unlocked the front door and pulled on it, expecting it to open, but it did not. It stayed firmly in its frame. I pulled again, with more force, and it did not move – not even the slightest flexing of the wood or shift on the hinges. It was like pulling on a doorknob bolted to a brick wall.
The door was secured by a deadlock and a Yale latch. I checked the deadlock – there have been times I have been so wasted that I forgot to lock it, and then the next morning absent-mindedly locked it while meaning to open it. But it was unlocked, I was sure, and as a test I locked it, watching the bar slide across through the tiny gap between door and jamb, then unlocked it again. And the same with the Yale lock – when I turned the knob, the latch retracted, I could see it.
I braced my right foot against the doorframe, took the little metal handle of the Yale lock in both hands, and pulled as hard as I could. At the very least I should have been able to feel the door bend or strain, but it might as well have been stone.
Fingers aching, I let go, and stood staring at the door, as if it might at any moment reveal its secret, or simply spring open under my gaze.
Time ticked by.
‘This is stupid,’ I said aloud, and resumed trying to yank the door open, again pulling with my foot braced against the frame, then trying a quick succession of short, sharp pulls, as if that might dislodge whatever force was holding the door in place. All I gained was angry red welts on my fingers. Once again I found myself standing and staring at the white-painted wood, breathless with frustration, aware of a rising billow of impotent rage. I had a vital meeting to get to, and I was being thwarted by my own front door. There was an odour, too, a harsh, burning odour, like hot dust in the air …
No. Think. Think about it. People aren’t trapped by their own front doors, not usually. Think. Could it simply be my imagination? A manifestation of a subliminal reluctance to leave the house? But the pain in my fingers was real. Think clearly and a solution will arise. You’ll see what you’re missing.
The door had been sticking. It had been stiff to open, and sometimes I had to slam it to shut it. And now it was stuck. Either door or frame must have warped – and it had been raining non-stop since yesterday morning, maybe that contributed. For the second time I thought about firing off an email to Dave. But there was no Dave. The fury bubbled again. No one would come over, no one would sort it out, I was on my own. But if I broke the door down, if I took an axe to it, they’d take an interest then, wouldn’t they? I couldn’t, of course. This was still my home, even if it was theirs more than mine. What was the cure for a warped door? Sanding back the edge that was sticking – but the door would have to be open for that. Would WD40 loosen it? Where would I spray it, the hinges, the locks? Did I even have any? Maybe in the cupboard under the sink in the kitchen.
The kitchen. I knew what would help me assess the situation. I needed to get out of the gloomy hallway and into the only room in the flat that got any light. Happily it was also the only room with a fridge.
But it was not light in the kitchen. A fractured darkness had claimed the whole rear of the flat, and everything was terribly wrong. Where there should have been a winter morning, there was eclipse. Not night – I was not so intoxicated that I had woken in darkness and imagined it to be the day. The light was blocked out, present somewhere, but occluded.
I imagined rolling banks of fog, or smoke: the plume had reached me, I was in its eye at last, it had enveloped the house, here to choke me. That was not it, of course that was not it; but what confronted me was almost as impossible and threatening. The lime tree had come for me. Its outspread limbs had always interfered with what light made it down to the kitchen, but now the glass roof of the extension was entirely covered in a thick tangle of branches and leaves. They reached down into the garden as well, filling the small space; two days before, I had been obliged to mount the wall to touch the lowest branch, and today I could simply open the back door and lean out. It was as if the tree had vastly grown in the night, like Jack’s beanstalk; that or it had broken its moorings and crept up on the house, leaning down to peer in.
To enter the kitchen would be to move into the tree’s clutches, but I somehow found the strength. Wood scraped against glass.
‘It’s a panic attack,’ I said to myself, and I liked how confident I sounded. ‘You’re having a panic attack. You’ve been having them every day. There’s no smoke in the room, there are no evil birds, the tree isn’t coming to get you. You’re not well, that’s what’s happening.’ I needed to see how the tree could have come so close, to dismiss the mystery as I had the others, to blink and end the hallucination. If necessary I could climb the garden wall again, anything to make the real snap back into place.
Even if I really had wanted to climb the garden wall again, I could not. It was gone. Not quite all of it – but a car-long bite had been taken out of it, visible through the cold jungle that now infested the back garden. I opened the back door to confirm what I could see, and, letting go of the door, it continued to move, falling further open before banging on its hinges. It had never done that before. Once I stepped out, I felt the slope in the poured concrete surface of the garden. A black fissure arced across the ground in front of me, under the dirty white plastic table, to disappear under the kitchen. Everything on one side of this fault line, my side of the fault line, had developed a distinct and novel camber.
No climbing was needed to look into the neighbour’s garden today, but I had to push through the rain-soaked boughs that had descended into my path. Cappuccino-brown water had filled two-thirds of their expensive pit, almost submerging the machinery that had been left at its bottom. It was into this mire that the half-moon section of garden wall had fallen, and so had a portion of the concrete slab I was standing on. Creeping towards the precipice, the swamp-shore, painfully aware of the tilt that was consuming the garden, I could see that the sides of the pit were dissolving away in the rain. The pyramid of retained dirt that had supported the tree had collapsed, exposing a ghastly white fist of roots, and the tree had toppled over, coming to rest against my house and the roof of my kitchen. It was incredible to me that the kitchen roof had not simply caved in under the weight of the tree, and I could only conclude that it must have fallen gradually, silently, and that the house itself must be taking its weight. I started to look for signs of damage on our side of the wall, and at once I saw a thick black crack running vertically from where the kitchen roof met the rear wall, up to the lower sill of the ground-floor window. But it didn’t stop there, it reappeared above that window and ran up to the sill of Bella’s, above; and it continued again through the uppermost level as well, where it was joined by an ugly twin.
And above it, stretching into the heavy grey sky, was the plume. It had not been above the house the other day. Nor had it twisted and tautened in that same urgent way. Was the house itself on fire? No, but it was being consumed all the same. The tree didn’t make that crack, it couldn’t have. I thought of what had brought it down, the pool sucking away at the ground underneath me, underneath everything.
I rushed back into the kitchen, pulling the door closed behind me. But rather than shutting, the door banged hard against its frame and rebounded into the garden. This jarring impact reverberated in the structure of the kitchen, settling back to nothing as the door shuddered on its hinges. One that won’t open, another that won’t close, I thought. After a beat of silence, there was a sharp plink noise, like an old lightbulb blowing out, and a crack appeared across one of
the glass panels in the roof.
Staring up at the broken glass, I backed out of the kitchen, into the living room. A high, squeaking groan issued from somewhere above me – wood and plaster under terminal strain. There was another angry crack across the living room ceiling, forked like lightning. Traces of pinkish plaster moult furred the cans arrayed on the table and floor. From behind me, out in the bathroom area, came a sharp pop and a patter of falling dust.
‘OK,’ I said. ‘Time to go.’
I ran down the hall and resumed my desperate tug-of-war with the handle of the front door, but it was still lodged fast. A long, stuttering creak, the building clearing its throat, rang down the corridor around me. I was dimly aware of sounds from outside.
The door was a waste of time. I had to call for help. I took my phone from my pocket and dialled 999. ‘Fire,’ I said. The highness and the hoarseness of my voice startled me. As the call went through I hammered against the door with the flat of my hand.
The door hammered back.
‘Fire service,’ said a voice over the phone.
‘Fire service!’ said a voice through the door.
‘You’re … already here?’ I said into the phone, thumbing an end to the call.
‘Are you in there?’ the voice shouted through the door. It was an authoritative voice, male, accustomed to shouting, in control. There was a frightening urgency to it, like a shot of strong spirit.
‘I’m here,’ I shouted, again struck by the comparative weediness of my own voice. ‘I can’t open the door. It’s jammed shut.’
‘Don’t open the door!’ the voice said, shouted, the insistence sending a chilled spike through me. I thought of Pierce and the knife, and the silly fear of it.
‘I can’t,’ I said, at a loss.
‘Don’t! The whole place is about to come down, your front door might be the only thing keeping it up!’
‘What whole place?’ I said, but not loud enough to be heard through the door. From behind me, in the vicinity of the bathroom, came a sickening grinding noise, rough surface hard against rough surface.
‘We’ve got to get you out of there!’ said the voice.
‘I’ve got to get out of here!’ I cried in return. ‘I’ve got a meeting!’
‘Can you come to the window?’
Yes, I could. I went through to the bedroom and opened the curtains. A firefighter was standing at my front door, in full fluoro-flashed armour and yellow helmet, and another was standing behind him on the stairs. I was stopped by the stance of this second firefighter – her feet were on different steps, not even adjacent steps. She was poised, ready to spring up and away from the house. I was in danger.
With a ping, one end of the curtain rail fell down, spitting plaster and knocking over some of the cans I had left on the window ledge and the desk. A crack had run through the wall where the rail had been attached, and opening the curtains had dislodged the rail from whatever tenuous grip it retained.
The firefighters saw me, but did not acknowledge me, instead conducting a rapid conversation.
‘Prop?’
‘No time.’
‘Quick then.’
‘It’s reinforced.’ The window panes had a grid of wire fired into them, to try to frustrate the burglars who love basement flats. The second firefighter produced a tool, a crowbar interbred with a hatchet.
‘Sir! Sir! Turn away from the window and cover your eyes!’
I didn’t have to be warned, I knew what was about to happen, and they didn’t wait. I shrank back and pressed my arm across my face. The hatchet crunched through the glass. They didn’t pause – more impacts followed, accompanied by the tinkling of shards, an almost restful sound in comparison. There was a particularly loud, splitting crack, and more blows.
‘Out! Out now!’
A hole had replaced the lower two panes of my bedroom window, the splintered remains of the glass peeled back like a sweet wrapper. The firefighters thrust heavy-gloved hands through, beckoning harshly. I scrambled onto the sill, trying to sweep away crumbs of glass as I did, and take their hands, thinking they meant to steady and assist me. But as soon as they had contact with me, they pushed aside my hands and hooked theirs under my armpits, not helping me but hauling me out all at once. I felt jagged edges catch my trousers and dull razors drag against the skin of my legs.
‘Is it just you?’ the male firefighter asked. He didn’t ask it, he shouted it in my face. ‘Is there anyone else in there?’
‘Just me,’ I gasped. Shining flowers of pain were blossoming where the broken glass had caught me. ‘Upstairs maybe—’ Whatever I might have said was lost, as I was gripped again and push-pulled up the steps and onto the pavement. Part of me dimly registered surprise that the pavement was empty – was it just these two firefighters? Where was their vehicle? Was no one else about? But there was no time to reflect, we were between the parked cars and out into the road, and they were shouting ‘Head down! Head down!’ at me – then more hands had me, and my head was pushed under a flapping blue tape, and there were people and lights all around.
Since no one was holding me down any more, I stood up. I was at the end of the street, in a crowd of uniforms and flashing blue lights. A helicopter staggered in overhead. From further away came shouting and siren whoops, and an amplified voice saying, ‘Move back, move back! We need this whole area clear right away.’
‘Is it going to go?’ someone asked. I thought for a second that they were asking me, but the question was directed at the firefighter behind me.
‘It’s going,’ she said, pushing her helmet back to rub her temple with the ball of her thumb. ‘It’s definitely going.’
What was going? I turned back to look at my house. The street appeared as it always did, with the addition of the helicopter, which had passed over and then wheeled back to hover nearby. But then, clear even against the noise of the helicopter, came a series of reports, a heavy board being dragged down stone steps, and then an ascending noise, the tearing of a sheet of heavy cloth. The facade of the house next to mine folded inwards as if it were no more than a tea-soaked biscuit; then my house moved, downwards, seemingly in a single piece, exactly how I couldn’t say, and the facade buckled and everything was on the move at once, crumpling and twisting and turning from solid to liquid, and an uproar of thick grey dust swallowed that part of the street, obliterating our view like a killer whale snatching a mackerel, and everything was noise, not crashing or banging but a continuous rushing jet-engine roar.
The dust arched and twirled and piled outwards, racing itself, and just before it reached the tape cordon and engulfed us, I had the impression of it rising over the broken heart of the street in a thick, malevolent column.
‘It’s gone,’ I said.
Once again, hands seized me, and I wanted to protest, don’t touch me, give me a damned moment. But I wasn’t being dragged – the arms that had been thrown around me were not manhandling but hugging, and a faint note of Jo Malone found its way past the stench of plaster-powder and ruin.
‘You’re OK,’ Bella said, pressing her head into my shoulder. ‘You’re OK!’
‘I’m fine,’ I said.
‘Your legs, oh …’
My trousers had been badly torn, and were now stained by the blood that dripped persistently from a series of scratches and gouges.
‘The glass,’ I said. ‘It’s fine, it’s nothing.’
‘I told them,’ she said, breathless. ‘They didn’t know if anyone was down there, they thought most people had gone to work, and I said, he’s definitely down there, he won’t have gone out, you’ve got to get him out.’
I winced – not at the pain from my legs, which was no more than a distant throb. ‘I do go out,’ I said. I immediately regretted the annoyance in my voice, but Bella did not appear to have noticed it, the proximity of disaster giving her a glittering, jumpy energy.
‘It was so close,’ she said. ‘We saw the tree had moved, of course, and I saw the crack wh
en I got back from my run, and we could hear noises – I called the fire brigade.’
She embraced me again – not swooning onto me, seeking my support, but holding me as if I were the one who needed propping up. Again, I felt the resentment build. But she had possibly saved my life, and she had been made homeless too.
That last thought swung around and struck me like a long plank in a slapstick routine. I was homeless too. I was homeless.
A siren whooped, and then struck up a full wail. A car alarm had started when the houses had collapsed, and continued, only now audible to me. The dust clouds, which had briefly been thick enough to obscure everything but Bella and the luminous moving swatches of the hazard gear worn by the various emergency services, were thinning, beaten and torn by the blades of the helicopter. The line of the street was made visible again, redacted in the middle. All that stood of my former home was the black iron fence and gate.
A firefighter walked towards us, arms outstretched, as if wanting to join in a group hug, but his intention was to herd. ‘OK, folks, we need you to move back in the direction of Belgrave Road, the area’s still not safe.’ He caught sight of my legs and signalled to the green-clad paramedics nearby. ‘This one needs attention.’
My bleeding legs meant that we weren’t rushed to the outer cordon, but directed to the tailgate of an ambulance. However tender the shepherding, though, there was steel in the hand that guided my elbow. A line of spectators was gathered behind the police tape on Belgrave Road, and they gawped at us as we approached – Bella in her running gear, me in tattered work clothes, both of us coated in dust. The crowd’s not-so-secret enjoyment of the sight of us was entirely legible to me: the second-hand thrill of our victimhood, our status as a promontory of the bizarre into the placid sea of the normal, walking exemplars of the not-everyday. They got to enjoy being present at a proper event, while not being as unfortunately over-present as me and Bella. I recognised a couple of the guys who served in the corner shop where I bought my cans. Did they recognise me?