A Ghost at the Door

by Michael Dobbs

  Then he knew. Hit him so hard that he sat up in bed as though a grenade had been thrown through the window. In her house of many memories the old girl had many photos. Relatives, perhaps, or close friends, those who had clearly left a mark in her life. It was one of those photos that had been screaming at Harry, in a silver frame among the crowd that filled the top of the bookcase. Of a young Susannah Ranelagh, before her hair had lost its life and her features had been stretched by disappointment, at a time in her life when her smile suggested not simply the pleasures of the moment but also the expectation of more ahead. She was at a dinner table at which sat six others, four men and two other young women, in formal evening wear. A student ball, Harry guessed. Black-and-white, a little grainy. And perhaps it was the utter impossibility of what he now saw that had delayed his understanding and fought so hard with his wits, because one of the men at the table was Harry himself. No, not Harry, that was absurd: it was years before he’d been born. But, if not Harry, then someone who looked so like him that it left Harry gasping in amazement.

  His father. It was Johnnie.

  Harry didn’t wait for the smell of coffee or the clattering of breakfast bowls. He dragged himself down the hotel stairs three at a time, lashing out at doors and charging past the astonished receptionist. Soon he was gunning his bike past the upmarket haunts of Pitts Bay Road and way past the local speed limit. A few early-morning walkers shook their heads in disgust. Harry bent low over the handlebars to squeeze out the last breath of speed. It was only minutes before he was on the coast road, heading east, the sun playing games with him, bouncing off the water and into his eyes as he took the gentle curves and low rises of the North Shore Road. He held his head down, the sea wind whipping tears from his eyes. It was as he came to the junction that led to the Sound, barely a few hundred yards from Susannah Ranelagh’s house, that he was forced to pause as other traffic crossed his path. He raised his eyes, looked both ways, then ahead. That was when he caught a sight that made him scream loud with frustration and fear. Up ahead he could see a spiral of evil, insistent smoke punching through the clear morning air.

  By the time Harry’s moped had slithered to a halt, the tyres sliding out on the sand-strewn tarmac, dumping the bike to the ground, the front of the house was already disappearing behind a curtain of smoke and fire. The front door was a sheet of flame, the porch beginning to scatter droplets of burning confetti that were scorching the grass. The lower windows were gone and already smoke was gathering behind the windows on the first floor and seeping out through the eaves. A group of neighbours had gathered across the street, powerless, pathetic; Kenny was there, too, his football held protectively under his arm. Harry ran to the rear of the house, where he found a swimming pool and beyond that another garden. He was alarmed to see that the garage at the side of the house was already throwing out quantities of vile, acrid smoke; an explosion sent an arrow of brilliant orange flame bursting through the window – a can of petrol, he suspected, and nothing to what would happen very shortly if there were a car inside.

  He rattled at the back door and the French windows that led to the patio; both were locked. It took three of his best shoulder shots before one of the locks gave way and he was sent sprawling onto the floor of the kitchen amid splinters of glass and wood. He picked himself up and shouted for Miss Ranelagh; there was no reply, nothing but the flames that crackled like gunfire. The rear of the house was as yet relatively undisturbed, but as he found his way to the stairs he could see nothing but arms of fire and suffocating smoke waiting for him at the top. He screamed out her name once more. Nothing. In the kitchen he found a housecoat and thrust it beneath a tap to soak it, wrapped two wet kitchen towels around his hands, and, with the housecoat over his head and shoulders dripping water down him, he stood at the bottom of the stairs, afraid. Christ, he was well beyond forty; the years of youthful ignorance were way behind him; he knew exactly what he could expect.

  Even as he returned from the kitchen he could see that the flames had already taken hold more firmly of the top floor and were waiting for him. ‘Oh, shit!’ he cried. He’d always hoped he might find something more inspiring as his epitaph, final words to carve on his gravestone, but the last time he’d been caught in a fire he’d watched a friend burn to death. He still saw the man’s face in his dreams. He hated fires. But still he ran up the stairs.

  The heat soared with every step. He knew the fire was reaching the temperature at which it would take control and explode, grabbing everything in its path. From a front room he heard windows exploding, feeding more oxygen to the flames. He didn’t have much time. He fell to his knees and crawled.

  She wasn’t in the first two bedrooms he checked, nor the bathroom. The third bedroom had been converted to a study; the ceiling was already burning, setting the tops of the bookshelves alight, the floor rug already smouldering from cascading embers. Even as he watched, it burst into flame. Then there was only one bedroom left, at the front, where the fire was most fierce. Smoke was ripping at his throat, blinding him, screaming at him to go back, but he crawled forward, cowering beneath his damp rags until he had reached the door. Smoke was already squeezing beneath it, searching for him. He reached up for the handle. Even through soaking towels it was so hot it scorched through to his fingers. A volley of what sounded like rifle fire exploded on the other side of the door. He knew what was waiting for him; he very much wished he didn’t.

  Lying on his back, covering his face, he kicked at the door. Once, twice. It flew open. The noise and menace of the flame that rushed to fill the space above his head was like the passing of an express train. Then, for the moment, it was gone. He couldn’t call out for her: he no longer had breath and he daren’t fill his lungs. His brain was befuddled and his wits drowning in fear. With the last of his strength he forced his way inside.

  Every part of the room was breathing fire. The windows were gone, the curtains billowing in the onrush of wind sucked in by the fire and burning like Roman candles. The carpet beneath his hands was smouldering, melting. And there, at the far end of the room, was the bed with its brass ends, its covers like a funeral pyre. But she wasn’t there. The bed was made. The bloody house was empty.

  Miss Ranelagh’s home was built of wood and offered no resistance. The fire dragon that had taken hold of it groaned, twisted, belched; part of the roof collapsed, filling the room with a swarm of super-heated fireflies. Harry had to retreat, while he could. The stairs he’d climbed were now a river of flame. He crawled to the rear of the house, his mind filled with the darkness of smoke, the blanket of heat trying to force him down. Often it is easier to accept than to struggle, but Harry had the genes of a mule. It was little more than brutish anger that kept him going until he found himself beneath a window at the rear of the house. With what seemed like the last of his strength, he opened it, crawled onto its ledge and threw himself onto the lawn. He landed heavily, cried out in pain, then rejoiced: the pain meant he was still alive. He lay on his back, gasping for air, gagging, trying to clear his lungs of treacle. Through the fog of confusion and starved senses he could hear the siren of a fire engine. Someone was at his side, trying to help him. Harry struggled to his feet, looked around, took a breath of clean air. Then he dashed back into the house once again.

  Every corner of the ground floor was now dancing in the flames, but Harry knew his purpose. He staggered and skipped over burning timbers as he forced his way into the sitting room, where on the previous day he had talked with the old woman. He saw what he wanted. He stumbled over the chair in which Miss Ranelagh had sat, sent himself sprawling, but he refused to be deflected. He grabbed the photo. Then he was gone, back out through the kitchen door that was spitting smoke like a chimney.

  There were more people out on the lawn now, firemen taking control of the situation but not the fire. It was too late for that.

  ‘Are you hurt, sir?’ a fire officer asked, his voice muffled by his helmet. He was black, huge across the shoulders and belly, a
nd dragged Harry almost nonchalantly a safer distance from the fire.

  ‘I’ll survive,’ Harry replied in a voice that didn’t sound anything like his own.

  Harry began retching but it cleared his lungs. The fireman sat him in the shade of a jacaranda tree that marked the boundary of Miss Ranelagh’s property; another fireman offered an oxygen mask that Harry clamped to his face until the sweet gas began blowing away the clouds of confusion.

  ‘What’s your name?’ the fireman demanded.

  ‘Harry. It’s Harry,’ he said, still coughing.

  ‘OK, Harry, this is important. Is there anyone else inside?’

  Harry shook his head. ‘No. I had a good look round.’

  ‘Almost too damned good, I’d say.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You sure there’s no one? What about Miss Ranelagh? Is she there?’

  ‘No,’ Harry replied, now very clear in his mind. ‘The lady’s gone.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  They were almost indecently polite, the police and the fire officials, treated him like a hero once they were clear he’d arrived only after the fire had started, a man who’d dashed heedlessly into the flames in search of Miss Ranelagh. It was a good story that, if not entirely accurate, had the advantage of being pretty damned close to the truth. Yet still there were answers to be given. Harry was shaken, wanted time to think and point-blank refused hospital treatment, but agreed to come in for an interview later in the day at Hamilton police station. One over-eager policeman tried to pester him on the spot but came to a sudden halt as the car in the garage blew up, taking the roof of the garage with it and sending debris flying like fireworks. After that, every hand was bent to ensuring the fire didn’t spread to neighbouring properties. So they let him go, for the moment. They could afford to be relaxed. This was Bermuda – there was nowhere for Harry to go without their knowing.

  ‘OK, this afternoon. The police headquarters on Victoria Street. You know it?’ the policeman asked. ‘Three blocks back from the harbour front.’

  ‘I’ll find it.’

  The crowd was larger now, but silent, gathered in awe to watch the last rites being pronounced over the mass of charred timbers and still-erupting ash that until an hour before had been their neighbour’s house. Harry found his moped lying in the dust where he’d abandoned it. Kenny was standing guard.

  ‘I wouldn’t let no one touch it, mister,’ the kid said.

  ‘Thanks, Kenny.’

  ‘I knew you was coming back.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Sure, won a bet on it. They all thought you was a lunatic.’

  ‘They may be right. See you around, Kenny.’

  The bike had leaked a puddle of fuel that had stained the dust, but it coughed and kicked over after a couple of jabs at the starter button. Harry settled gingerly into the saddle, gripping the handlebars, trying to pretend his hands weren’t shaking. He turned his wrist and set off much more steadily than he’d arrived, wondering why the stench of the fire still filled his nostrils even as he left it well behind. It was only after he’d run his hand across his face that he realized he had scorched his eyebrows and hair; it was he who stank. His eyes were still protesting from the hot ash, tears trickled down his cheeks, his shoulder ached from its encounter with Miss Ranelagh’s rear door, his back was protesting at being thrown out of a first-floor window and his knee was bruised after coming off second best in its tussle with the overstuffed armchair. Still, he’d been worse, but the older he got the less comfort that overused excuse seemed to give him. He had little idea where he was going, had no desire to return straight to the hotel, so he lost himself on a road that meandered down towards the south of the narrow island, past beaches and clubs and isolated strips of clean, elegant sand. Soon the sea air was filling his lungs and brushing his soul clean once more. The road twisted and turned along the shore, like a ribbon that had been thrown down in a gentle Atlantic breeze. For much of its length it had neither footpath nor hard shoulder, was simply edged by grass or scrub or bare sand, or overlooked gentle cliffs that dropped to the sea below. He passed a fire engine, lights flashing, horn blaring, headed in the opposite direction; Miss Ranelagh’s house was evidently still putting up a fight. As he rode on, the houses became more isolated and the shoreline more insistent; he relaxed as he leaned the bike into the road’s gentle corners, disturbing the gulls that had taken up squatters’ rights along this increasingly empty stretch of roadway. They gave a raucous cry as he approached, lifting away on the currents of salt air that welled up from the breaking sea below.

  It was as their cries of protest were carried away and died on the breeze that Harry realized he was no longer alone. He sensed before he saw the approach of another vehicle behind him, a flatbed delivery truck with a white driver’s cabin, and as he stared in his mirrors he saw yet another, a red Toyota hatchback typical of the neat and modest cars on an island that had only 130 miles of public roads and a ferocious vehicle import tax. He hugged the side of the single-lane road to give them plenty of passing room and opened the throttle a little as the route began to lift above the sea. The other vehicles closed, then seemed to hesitate, reluctant. In his mirror Harry could see the driver of the truck, eyes staring from a dark and shaven head with an expression that suggested this wasn’t a casual morning delivery run, nor did it suggest he was the type who spent his life driving in the slow lane. Beneath him and to one side he could see the waves beating against rocks that formed the face of a modest cliff. Harry eased off, allowing the moped to slow as it tackled the increased elevation of the road. The truck and car slowed with him. Harry squeezed out a little extra speed; the others kept their place. And suddenly Harry’s ear was screaming at him.

  He searched ahead for some form of cover, some means of escape, a side road, a place to run where they couldn’t follow, but to his left the road fell away to the rocks below while on his right the front of the truck had pulled alongside him. He could see the driver directly now, through the truck’s open window, was looking straight into his eyes. They were cold eyes, yet filled with excitement. Intent on doing Harry great harm.

  Behind him the red Toyota had drawn up close, revving its engine like the pant of a pursuing animal, almost brushing into his rear wheel, falling back a few feet, then accelerating close again. They were running him down. And now, to his horror, Harry could see another man kneeling in the back of the flatbed, dreadlocks dangling from beneath a multicoloured Rasta hat, clinging to the truck with one hand while his other massive fist was closed around the handle of a baseball bat. The bastard was grinning with enthusiasm.

  The truck edged still closer. Harry couldn’t brake: he’d be mown down by the car behind. Neither could he outrun them. Below him the rocks snarled like angry teeth. He was trapped. They would beat him senseless with the bat or break his leg or ribs, or force him off the road and onto the rocks without leaving a mark on either truck or car to suggest they had any involvement in what would be classed as a tragic accident. They’d timed it well, for the road was reaching its highest point above the rocks. Harry was toast. Damp, dismembered toast.

  The truck drew ever nearer; the bastard with the bat gave a practise swipe, getting his eye in, grinning so hard his face threatened to crack in two. The solid ash club whistled inches past Harry’s head. A second swipe. Closer still. Ready for the final blow. The Toyota’s engine roared in triumph, the truck driver hit his horn in anticipation of victory. Then for an instant the truck veered away. Only a fraction and only for a second as it bounced into a pothole and the driver wrestled with the wheel, but it was all Harry needed. He had nowhere else to go. He drove straight off the cliff.

  Harry knew he was still alive, but only because he hurt too much to be dead. He remembered falling off the cliff, tumbling past screaming seagulls, twisting, trying to find a sliver of clear water between the gnashing teeth of rock, and failing. The last thing he remembered before slamming into the side of an outcrop of volcanic limesto
ne was the blue-ringed eye of a gannet staring at him in disbelief. Then nothing, until now. He took a breath. Almost choked. He’d done enough to survive but the pain told him it had been a close-run thing.

  Slowly he opened his eyes, struggled to gain some sort of focus, found a dark face staring at him. It wasn’t grinning, thank God. And the eyes were generous, if clouded with concern.

  ‘Where am I?’

  ‘Hospital,’ the nurse said, taking his wrist to check his pulse. ‘The King Edward Memorial Hospital to be precise.’ She let go his wrist; Harry became aware that his other arm was held captive by a swathe of plaster that stretched from biceps to hand.

  ‘What’s the damage?’

  ‘Oh, considering what you been up to, you got off light. You have a pretty bad concussion, then there’s a dislocated shoulder, and you made a bit of a mess of your right elbow.’ She shook her head in exasperation; Harry could see her more clearly now. ‘We had to operate and put a pin in it for you. You hurting?’

  Harry slowly tested the various parts of his body. He was. Everywhere.

  ‘You gotta hurt a bit to heal. And you seem to have got yourself a prize collection of scrapes and scratches and scorch marks and stuff, but, judging by the old scars we found, you be well used to that. So you ache, maybe have a bit of trouble with your right arm, but you’ll live. This time.’ Her tone smacked of matronly disapproval. Her face, with its frizzy greying hair, disappeared from his line of sight. He could hear her fussing over a few more observations, then he heard the door close. He stretched a little, tested the muscles in his neck, looked around and found another black female face staring at him. This too, had disapproval written firm across it. The shape of the face was oval with a prominent chin, the skin smooth and several shades lighter than that of the nurse. She was also wearing a different uniform, a starched white shirt, epaulettes and black shoulder lanyard that identified her as an inspector in the Bermuda Police Service. She was studying him with eyes that were sharp and expressive. The lips were equally animated.