by Roberta Kray
But the confrontation couldn’t be put off for ever. She should write the letter now, perhaps, and get it over and done with. She opened the pad of Basildon Bond and picked up a pen. Dear Dad. She paused, unsure as to how to continue. There was no good way to break the news that his son-in-law was currently languishing in prison… or that she’d failed to tell him when she had the opportunity.
Eden tried to think of the right words, but they just wouldn’t come. She chewed on the end of the pen. The seconds ticked by. Her mind remained blank. Maybe what she needed was a good night’s sleep before she even attempted to climb this particular mountain. She pushed aside the pad, intending to go to bed, but still didn’t move from the table.
Her gaze strayed towards the pile of photographs and she began to sift through them again: faces in crowds, outside bars, on streets and in markets, nameless men and women she would never know, never meet. And it suddenly occurred to her that, had things been different, she could have been one of these anonymous people herself. Just a girl with long red hair, walking through the piazza in Covent Garden. If she hadn’t heard the shutter on the camera, hadn’t reacted, hadn’t challenged him…
A chance encounter. That’s all it had been. Was that how life worked? Your destiny decided by a single stroke of fate. Five minutes earlier, five minutes later, and their paths might never have crossed. That was an odd thought. To have never met Tom, never fallen in love, never bound her life to his.
Despite the recent revelations, she still didn’t doubt his innocence. What she did doubt, however, was how well she actually knew him. While she had thrown open the doors to her past, her feelings, her emotions, her triumphs and failures, he had given away very little. If he had opened the door at all, it was only by a fraction. Aware that he was self-contained, cautious – certainly not the type to wear his heart on his sleeve – she had, nevertheless, believed they shared an instinctive understanding. Now she was even starting to question that.
This thought didn’t sit easily with her. She put down the photographs, pushed back her chair, rose to her feet and went over to the window. The street was empty. Couples didn’t tell each other everything, not every little detail, but they usually shared the important stuff. That Tom had deliberately hidden the existence of the flat from her – and she was sure this was the case – made her feel… What did she feel, exactly? Excluded, angry, offended, even betrayed to some extent. If the flat had been a safety net, then he couldn’t have felt that their relationship would last for ever.
She wondered if this was a naive way of looking at things. He was older than her, more experienced, less inclined perhaps towards romantic notions. Was she overreacting? No, she damn well wasn’t. What he’d done was completely out of order. Eden yawned and stretched out her arms. She was too tired for all this. What she needed was sleep.
She took a quick shower, wrapped herself in a towel and dried off in the bedroom. She put on one of Tom’s T-shirts, a navy blue crew neck with short sleeves, and got into bed.
There was a book on the bedside table, The Hotel New Hampshire by John Irving. She picked it up, meaning to read for a while, but the words danced in front of her eyes. She gave up, switched off the lamp, lay down and five minutes later was fast asleep.
Eden dreamed she was on her way to meet Tom. She was late and was attempting to run but her legs were like lead; it took every ounce of effort just to put one foot in front of the other. She realised that wherever she was going, she wasn’t going to get there in time. He would go away thinking she didn’t care, and she’d never see him again. Panic rose in her chest, a tight suffocating sensation as if all the hope was being squeezed out of her lungs.
Eden woke suddenly, but not to the darkness she expected. There was a grey misty wash to the room, a lightness similar to dawn but not quite the same. With her brain still dulled by sleep, she blinked hard, unable to process what she was seeing. It only came to her gradually: first the smell – burning, was it burning? – and then the odd crackling sound. Jesus Christ, it was smoke. The flat was on fire!
Eden leapt out of bed and rushed barefoot to the door. She yelped as her fingers made contact with the hot metal handle and instantly jumped back. Grabbing the damp towel from the chair, she wrapped it round her hand and tried again. As soon as she opened the door, terror swept through her. She could see it was hopeless – the flames had taken hold and the living room was ablaze. There was no path through to the hallway and the stairs. She was trapped.
Horrified, Eden slammed the door shut. Her heart was pounding. The heat was coming through the wall, the smoke still drifting into the room. She could feel her chest growing tight, the panic rising inside her. What now? She had to act fast. She had to do something. Quickly she dragged the quilt off the bed and crammed it along the foot of the door. It wouldn’t prevent all the smoke from getting in, but it might hold back the worst of it. For a while, at least.
She dashed over to the window, her only way out, and looked down on the dark patch of garden. It was a twenty-foot drop. Could she survive that? But it wasn’t as if she had a choice – it was either jump or burn to death. She’d have to take her chances. And where the hell was everyone? The goddamn house was on fire and no one was doing anything.
Eden flipped the lock across and pushed up on the central bar of the window with her palms. It didn’t budge. She tried harder, but still couldn’t shift it. The sash was stuck. It was always sticking. Tom usually had to open it, but… ‘For fuck’s sake!’ she cried out in frustration.
Frantically she looked around, searching for something, anything, to break the glass. She could feel the fire growing closer, hear the flames licking at the door. She plundered the dressing table, picking up and discarding perfume bottles, aerosols, hairbrushes, even her jewellery box. No, there was nothing heavy enough. She rushed back to the window and tried again, putting all her strength into it, pushing and pushing. By now the smoke was getting denser, filling the room, wrapping itself around her. She was coughing and spluttering, finding it hard to breathe.
Eden slammed on the glass with the palm of her hands. She had to get the damn thing open. Her whole body was shaking, her legs like jelly. She was running out of time. She grabbed the towel and wrapped it around her hand again, picked up a can of hairspray from the floor and hammered it over and over against the top right corner of the window. The corners – they were the weak spots, weren’t they? She was sure she’d read that somewhere.
‘Jesus! Come on, come on!’
Finally she heard a reassuring splintering sound and a long crack appeared in the window. By now her breath was coming in short fast pants and she could barely stand. Just a few more blows, one final effort, and she could… but the strength had suddenly drained out of her. Her arm dropped down by her side, the can slipping out of her grasp. Her head was swimming, her eyes seeing only murky grey. So was this it? Was this the end? She fought to stay conscious, to hold on to life, but the darkness was already descending. ‘No,’ she protested, the word barely audible. She swayed on her feet before her knees buckled and she crumpled to the floor.
32
Max Tamer often drove around at night, aimless journeys that could take him anywhere. Sometimes it was the West End, the Strand, Drury Lane, revisiting the places where Ann-Marie had worked. Other times he went further afield, deep into the heart of Essex or Kent. Tonight, however, he had only got as far as Islington.
It was true that the city never slept, but it dozed a little in the early hours. Once the pubs and clubs had emptied, only the strays remained on the streets: the dazed party-goers, the insomniacs, the lost and lonely, and those who had no home to go to.
Max was thinking about Tom Chase as he made his way along Essex Road and on to Upper Street. Was the man asleep in his cell, untroubled by conscience, dreaming of his days in Budapest? His fingers tightened around the wheel. He knew the bastard would never confess to Ann-Marie’s murder. And so what choice did he have? Sometimes, if you wanted just
ice, you had to take the law into your own hands.
It was after three o’clock when he turned into Pope Street and pulled up ten yards away from number twenty-four. When he glanced towards the house, he was aware that something was wrong, but it took a moment to convert what he was seeing – a dark orange glow – into the knowledge that the building was actually on fire.
For a few seconds, Max didn’t move. Was Eden Chase still inside? It was more than likely. There was no sign of her on the street, no sign of anyone, in fact. While the house burned, the neighbours were sleeping. The easiest thing in the world would be to drive away. It was what he wanted, wasn’t it? Eden Chase dead and her husband left to grieve. A wife for a wife. A fair exchange.
There was only one problem. This revenge wasn’t his; it was somebody else’s. He’d been beaten to it, had the opportunity snatched away. And there was no satisfaction in that. He felt a sudden stab of resentment – nobody had the right to take away his retribution – and it was this thought that propelled him into action.
Max jumped out of the car and ran over to the house. It was clear, even as he approached, that there wasn’t a hope of getting through the front door. He could see the flames through the glass panel at the top, a roaring inferno. He stared up at the first-floor window. More flames, more smoke. If Eden was in the flat, she wouldn’t have long to get out. She might already be unconscious, stifled by carbon monoxide, oblivious to what was happening.
He went to number twenty-six and rang the bell, three long rings, keeping his hand on the button. And then, in case there could be any doubt as to the urgency of the situation, he hammered hard on the door and rattled the letter box. ‘Fire!’ he shouted.
It was less than thirty seconds before he was face to face with a middle-aged man dressed in pyjamas and slippers. His hair was mussed, his eyes bleary with sleep.
‘What’s going on? What is it?’
‘There’s a fire next door,’ Max said. ‘You need to call the fire brigade.’
The man stepped outside, looked across, caught sight of the flames and retreated back inside again. ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘Sandra!’ he shouted. ‘Next door’s on fire! Twenty-four. Call 999.’
A woman appeared at the top of the stairs, her hair in rollers. ‘Is anyone in there?’
‘I think so,’ Max said.
She stood for a moment, her eyes growing wide, and then disappeared from view. A few seconds later, she called out, ‘And you be careful, Geoff. Wait for the fire brigade to get here.’
Now, suddenly, there was a lot of activity from the neighbours with doors and windows opening, and people gathering on the street. They bunched together in groups, staring at the burning building.
‘Can we get round the back?’ Max asked. ‘Is there another way in?’
‘Yes, yes. Come through.’ Geoff beckoned him into the house and grabbed a coat as they hurried along the hallway. ‘Christ, I can’t believe this is happening.’
‘Next door. Is there anyone on the ground floor?’
‘They’re away on holiday. And the top flat’s empty. But Tom and Eden… they’re on the first.’
Max noted that the news about Tom being in jail hadn’t got around yet. ‘I’m sure I saw a face at the window.’ He needed the lie to explain his certainty that someone was still in the flat. ‘I was just driving past and…’
‘It’s a good thing you were.’ Geoff took him through the kitchen, quickly unlocked the back door and stepped out into a long narrow garden covered in snow. ‘The fence isn’t too high. We’ll get over easily enough.’
‘Have you got a ladder?’
‘In the shed.’
Max helped him get it out, picking up a hammer at the same time, and then clambered over the fence. Between them they got the ladder into the garden and, when Geoff had joined him, put it up against the wall. ‘Hold it steady for me.’
Max stared up at the rear window of Eden’s flat. It had a grey smoky look but he couldn’t see any flames. There was a diagonal crack running from one corner to the other, evidence perhaps that she’d been trying to break the glass. He tucked the hammer into his belt and started climbing.
He could feel the heat radiating from the house and wondered what the hell he was doing. This was no act of heroism. You couldn’t call a man courageous if he didn’t care whether he lived or died. No, he’d been prompted by something far less noble than bravery, by a desire to reclaim his revenge, to not let someone else take away what was rightfully his. It was perverse, but then nothing in his life was normal any more.
He heard the sound of a siren in the distance – the fire brigade was on its way – but he couldn’t afford to hang about. Every second counted. By the time they got here it might be too late. Max reached the top of the ladder but the room was too smoky to see anything. In case Eden was still conscious and huddled by the window, he shouted out a warning, ‘Stay back!’ before waiting a few seconds and then smashing the glass with the hammer.
The smoke billowed out and Max put his arm over his face. Once the worst of it had cleared he peered into the room. He saw her almost immediately, collapsed on the floor. He slipped the hammer back inside his belt, crawled inside and knelt down beside her, putting his fingers to her neck. There was still a faint pulse. He had a moment when he knew he could finish her off, right then, right there. No one would be any the wiser. But it wasn’t the way he’d decided to do things.
By now the bedroom door was on fire, the flames devouring the wood. It wouldn’t be long before the whole room was consumed. Max dragged Eden up and flung her over his shoulder. She wasn’t heavy. She weighed about the same as Ann-Marie. Her long red hair fell in a stream down his back.
Getting a foothold on the ladder was going to be the trickiest bit and as he grabbed the edge of the window his hand pressed into the broken jagged glass. He cursed, instinctively lifting the bleeding palm to his mouth. At almost the very same moment flames shot across the bedroom. He could feel the extreme heat on his face, the burning, melting force of the fire.
Max quickly swung out on to the ladder. It shifted under the combined weight of the two of them and for a moment he thought he was going to lose his balance. He took hold of the sill until he’d steadied himself, glanced down at Geoff, gave a nod and began the descent. He could feel the smoke wafting into his lungs, the sweat pouring off him. Every step was an effort. As he neared the ground, he gritted his teeth and prayed. All he needed now was for one of the ground-floor windows to blow out and they’d both be dead meat.
Eventually, after what felt like a lifetime, he made it safely on to terra firma.
‘Is she all right?’ Geoff asked.
Max carried her down to the end of the garden, away from the house. ‘Still breathing… just about.’
‘What about Tom? Did you see him?’
‘He’s not there.’
‘How do you know?’
Max didn’t want the guy doing something stupid, like trying to save someone who wasn’t even in the flat. ‘She told me, yeah? She was still conscious when I got to her. She said there was no one else in there.’
Max lay Eden down on the ground and shifted her into the recovery position. The blood from his cut hand left a red smear on her arm. ‘Stay with her. I’ll go and get some help.’ He climbed over the fence, ran through the house and on to the street. A fire engine, its blue lights flashing, was already in Pope Street. An ambulance was just pulling up.
He went to the ambulance first and explained about Eden. Then he went to speak to the fire crew, repeating the lie he’d told Geoff. ‘She said her husband wasn’t there. And there’s no one in the other flats either.’
‘You’d better stick around; the police are going to want to talk to you.’
‘Of course.’ Max gave his good-citizen nod and walked away. He waited until he was sure no one was paying him any attention before he hurried down the street, got in his car and drove off.
33
It was thirty-six hours
before Eden was finally discharged from hospital on Sunday afternoon. She had a few minor burns but no permanent damage. The doctors told her she’d been lucky, but she didn’t feel that way as she sat in the passenger seat of Caitlin’s car and thought about everything that was lost: their home, their clothes, so many possessions and, last but not least, the chance of any peace of mind. She had a tight feeling in her chest that was not all down to the smoke she’d inhaled. Someone had tried to kill her. The thought was terrifying.
‘What did the police say?’ Caitlin asked.
‘That it was deliberate. They reckon there were rags shoved through the letter box before they were doused in petrol.’