Hate Bale

by Stephanie Dagg

  Martha shrieked and jumped back at an almighty crash against the old oak door. It rattled but held firm. She scooted into the furthest corner of the building and leant against the wall, her heart hammering and her head pounding.

  “You were meant to try and escape!” shrieked a manic voice.

  The man was losing the plot, which wasn’t a good development.

  Another crash. He must be ramming the door with a beam or log or something.

  “You were meant to think I’d gone. You were meant to come out!”

  Another thud.

  “Now I’ve got to come in and get you. Stupid cow!”

  Martha crouched down and held her head in her hands. This couldn’t be real. This couldn’t be happening. She didn’t deserve this. She was a good person.

  “Oh, stop it,” she told herself crossly, getting up. This was no time for self-pity. This was time for arming herself in case this nutjob actually did manage to break the door down.

  She stared around in the gloom. There were plenty of dangling cobwebs, a carpet of empty, plastic fertiliser sacks and some smallish stones scattered across the mud floor where it was exposed. Not a great deal to work with. She began to pull some of the sacks into a heap to see if they were covering up lengths of wood or ancient farm tools, even old bottles, but other than a few mice, one toad and a handful of lizards there was nothing other than more mud floor with a few patches of gravel.

  The small stones were better than nothing. She scraped as many as she could into a heap while the battering continued. If he got in she could throw some into his eyes to temporarily blind him so she could run off. It wasn’t much of one, but at least it was a plan.

  There was a last almighty thunk followed by a yell of pain. Another thud suggested the man had dropped whatever object he’d been holding. Maybe he’d sprained a wrist or even broken a bone with all that unforgiving, jarring action. Martha hoped so.

  “You’ve asked for it, bitch. And you’re gonna get it.”

  Then it went quiet.

  Martha didn’t waste time wondering about what he might be planning next. She didn’t even waste time rolling her eyes at yet another insult. She just carried on accumulating gravel, and then she had a brainwave. She rolled up a sack as tightly as she could and held it firmly with one hand as she prised the hair tie off her short ponytail and slipped it over the rolled plastic. A short length of dusty bailer twine she’d spotted in the dirt secured the other end. She brandished her DIY weapon. The stiff plastic didn’t bend and made a satisfying whistle as she whipped it through the air in a couple of practice whacks. It wouldn’t knock the guy out, but if she got him in the face or groin, it should inflict enough pain to slow him down. Her brainwave expanded. If she stuffed some of her gravel into another sack she could make a weighty cosh. Now that really would slow him down.

  She gave a half smile at her own evil genius and set to work, but had only got a couple of handfuls of small stones into her selected sack when she heard footsteps and panting approaching. There was a thunk followed by a glooping noise. She frowned, wondering what that could signify. Next came some scraping, a grunt, and then a swooshing sound, and liquid, accompanied by the sharp smell of diesel, splashed against the other side of the door. Some swirled under it into the building. Another swoosh, and another, and there was a significant puddle of it spreading towards her. By now she was already on her feet, her arms full of plastic sacks. She rushed to the back wall and dumped the sacks there, then raced back to repeat the process. She had to get anything combustible away from that pool of fuel.

  She was shaking like a leaf and could hardly breathe. She willed herself to calm down, telling herself that the oak door would never catch light. Oak was slow-burning wood. She knew only too well that if she shoved a log of it into her wood-burning stove at home before the fire had really got going then that was its death knell. Even with all the diesel the man was chucking around, once that had burnt off the wood would smoulder at best. She had faith that the door would survive this latest attempt at its destruction.

  But she’d failed to factor in the hot, dry spell they’d been having. The wooden door, untreated for many years, had dried out and was soaking up the fuel like a sponge. Martha only realised that when suddenly flames whoompfed under and up the door. The heat hit her microseconds later, and drove her into the back corner once more.

  “This isn’t good, this isn’t good!” she half-sobbed, her eyes filling with tears from both the acrid air and distress.

  Dark, choking smoke was billowing towards her. She grabbed a sack and flapped it, desperately trying to drive the smoke away from her. However, all that happened was that furious spurts of fire began to dart out from the door towards her.

  She stopped at once. Fanning the flames wasn’t the intention at all.

  “Think! Think!” she screeched at herself.

  She wasn’t the only one screeching. Shrieks of cackling laughter sounded from outside above the crackling of the flames.

  The beams above the door were starting to smoke now. The fire would start spreading along those soon, and the whole roof would come down on her. She supposed that was what he intended. But if so, why was he hanging round? She could hear him shouting something in a mocking tone but couldn’t make out the words, thank goodness. More likely he was planning on burning the door away and then charging in to despatch her. Well, if that was his game he’d be disappointed. She’d be ready to rush out when he rushed in. Her plastic-sack baton could become a torch which she could stick in his face on her way out.

  That was the best she could come up with. The thick smoke was making it hard to breathe, never mind think. She crouched down so that she was below the smoke, at least for the time being. Dear Lord, she never wanted another week like this one as long as she lived.

  She snorted humourlessly. She should be careful what she wished for.

  Chocolate. She needed chocolate. Actually, she needed the fire brigade or her guardian angel to make a smartish appearance, but in their absence chocolate would do. The calories might give her brain a boost and she’d need energy to make her dash to freedom when the chance arose. And if it proved to be her last meal, then it would be a nice one.

  She pulled the bar from her pocket, ripped open the wrapper and was about to sink her teeth in when she heard a vehicle above the sputtering of the fire. It was close, very close, passing just behind the building she was in which backed onto the road.

  “I’m in here!” she screamed, despite knowing she wouldn’t be heard through the thick walls and above the engine noise. But surely whoever it was would at least come and investigate the flames.

  Sure enough she heard the car slow, but not excessively, and crunch over the rough, stony drive into the yard.

  Someone was here! Help had arrived!

  She let out a whoop of joy at the same time as the pyromaniac – maniac being the key element of that word – outside gave a howl of fury. Fury morphed into alarm as the car screeched to a halt, doors opened and shouting began. The shouting of voices she recognised.

  “Mum? Mum! Are you here? Are you OK?” Jared.

  “Roger, Philippe, get that bastard.” Lottie.

  “We get Martha first.” Philippe. “Martha sweetheart, can you hear us?”

  Sweetheart. That was nice.

  “We’re coming.” Roger.

  “I’m in here,” Martha managed to yell before starting to cough. The smoke was getting thicker and invading what had been the safe zone. She dropped down lower and crawled as close to the blazing door as the searing heat would allow her to get.

  “Mum?” Jared sounded louder, but clearly she hadn’t sounded loud enough.

  “In here!” she roared before coughing again. The smoke was irritating her throat and she could barely keep her eyes open. “Where the fire is.”

  “We have to get her out!” she heard Jared bellow in alarm.

  “Is much burning inside?” came Philippe’s question.

 
; “Some of the roof beams,” Martha spluttered back, as loudly as she could. She peered up through the rolling smoke to check and saw the fire had indeed spread frighteningly fast. So how come her logs burned so badly at home? “No. Make that most of them.”

  “OK, we’ve got to get this door down,” Philippe roared. “Get as far away from it as you can.”

  Martha didn’t need telling twice. She scuttled away to the corner where she’d piled up most of the plastic sacks. Not such a good idea now. If a lump of burning wood broke off a beam and landed on the sacks then they, and she, would be engulfed in flames in seconds. She beetled off to the other corner at the back.

  She wasn’t sure what her rescuers could physically do. If loyalty and determination could save her, then she’d be fine. But that might not be enough. They needed equipment like hoses and battering rams, which they didn’t have. If this old farm had a water supply at all then it was likely to be a well. The conflagration consuming the door and now the beams would laugh at a bucketful of water being dumped on it at a time. And as for bashing the door down, it was impossible to get close enough to assault it.

  But Martha had reckoned without ingenuity on behalf of her rescuers, and the fine-quality craftsmanship and solidity of Jaguar Land Rover’s creations. Seconds later she heard the roar of an engine and a crash of splintering wood as the now crumpled bonnet of Lottie’s pride and joy burst through the door. She could hardly believe her streaming eyes. The car braked sharply so as not to plough into the solid stone back wall, which would have been a match even for that make of vehicle. Two doors flew open and figures shot out, one on each side of the car.

  “Martha?”

  “Mum?”

  “Here, I’m here!” she shrieked, waving and coming forwards.

  The figure on the far side raced round the front of the Range Rover, which was now reversing at top speed out of the burning barn. Only Lottie could drive that fast backwards, thought Martha wryly, staggering forwards. Arms came round her from both sides and she was lift-dragged at a run out of the smoke-and-flame-filled building. The sudden draught of air that accompanied the car through the shattered door had given a new lease of life to the fire. Martha heard something thud down just behind them and realised the roof beams were starting to burn through and fall. That had been a close call.

  She felt herself deposited into Roger’s protective arms as to either side of her Jared and Philippe doubled over, coughing and gasping for breath. She was coughing too, but had been for so long she hardly registered it any more. She tried to open her eyes but the brightness of the daylight seemed to make them sting worse than ever.

  Lottie came clattering over just as Philippe took over custody of Martha. He held her firmly but gently, his cheek against the top of her still-helmeted head. Martha had taken it off when first trapped in the outbuilding, but put it back on when the fire started. She’d reckoned that the advantages of this protective but flammable defence against falling debris outweighed the disadvantages of its catching fire.

  Martha felt Jared’s arms come round her from behind, and then Lottie’s hand slipped into one of hers and she squeezed it.

  “Thank—” she began, but that was as far as she got before she burst into tears and sobbed wheezily and snottily into Philippe’s chest.

  “How is she?” asked Roger anxiously, joining them.

  “She’ll be fine,” Philippe assured him.

  Roger sighed with relief. “Thank heavens. And nice driving, my dear.”

  He dropped a kiss on Lottie’s cheek. Only he and his wife knew from that gesture just how worried he’d been about her driving a vehicle with its fuel tank full of highly combustible petrol into an inferno. Lottie reached out her other hand and he grabbed it, raised it to his lips and kissed it.

  “Wretched ambulance and fire brigade are taking their time,” he grumbled, the moment of tenderness over. “And the fuzz. That fella will be miles away by the time they roll up.”

  “We’ll get him,” promised Philippe. “Trust me. Now, you four into that car and go to Martha’s. I’ll send the ambulance on there.”

  “I took the precaution of leaving the engine running, just in case it wouldn’t start again,” said Lottie. “Mind you—”

  She was interrupted by a loud, revving sound. Five heads whipped round, puzzled. It couldn’t be a freshly-arrived emergency vehicle since the sound wasn’t coming from the road. The stunned group quickly saw that it was Lottie’s car making the sound. The man in red was at the wheel, a crazed look of glee on his face. Next came a squeal from the tyres as the car lunged forward, straight at them.

  There wasn’t time to speak or even exchange a horrified look. Roger seized Lottie and broke left, while Philippe and Martha plunged to the right. Philippe’s momentum sent him sprawling, but Martha stayed on her feet. She looked back and was beyond horrified to see that Jared was still standing directly in the car’s path, frozen to the spot in fear.

  Martha was not about to lose one of the two most precious things in her life. There’d been three when Mark was still alive, and perhaps there’d be three again one day with Philippe. But for now her children were the only things that truly mattered to her, and Martha was going to do whatever it took to protect the one of them currently in danger. And so, without a second thought or a millisecond of hesitation, she leapt in front of the oncoming vehicle. She grabbed hold of Jared and hurled him with all her might away from her and then made her own dive to safety. But she’d lost her momentum in passing it on to her son, and there was an explosion of pain in her left leg as the car clipped it. Then came another wave of pain as she crashed forcefully to the hard ground. Her head smacked down smartly but once again the helmet absorbed most of the shock. Martha vowed to write a long and effusive thank-you letter to the manufacturers.

  She swivelled her throbbing head quickly but carefully and saw Jared sitting up. He was clutching his right shoulder and looking dazed, but otherwise unharmed. Mission accomplished. She checked on the other three and they were all in the process of getting up. She supposed she should too. In case that maniac came back for a second try. And talking of the maniac, where was he? The car had disappeared from sight down the short drive. She could make out the sound of the engine now. Either he was about to make a break for it, or turn around and come back for round two.

  As she was rolling gingerly onto her right side to push herself up, she heard a screech of brakes from the road followed by the unmistakeable sound of a car hitting something surprisingly solid and unmoving. Then nothing. Then footsteps. Footsteps approaching, fast.

  Would this imbecile never stop trying to kill her? She was starting to feel like she was in a Terminator movie.

  How long had passed since they’d all leapt from the car’s path to save their skins anyway? It seemed like ages to Martha, but could only have been seconds. Jared was only just starting to rise, Lottie was still helping Roger to his feet, and Philippe was striding across the yard towards Martha. All four were staring at her. Martha couldn’t think why until she moved her left leg in order to put her weight on it and rise. That initial pain she’d felt returned, but this time twenty-fold. Head spinning and bright flashes in front of her eyes, she glanced down and wished she hadn’t, although she couldn’t help wondering if that bone she could see was her tibia or fibula. She idly supposed it was kind of fascinating to see bits of your own skeleton. Or maybe not, especially when the price to pay for such a quirky privilege was such excruciating agony.

  Then everything, mercifully, went white.

  Chapter 21

  “Has it stopped raining in Australia yet?” asked Lottie, but didn’t wait for an answer. “You do know I think you’re completely insane going there in the middle of their winter.”

  “You may have mentioned that once or twice – every five minutes since I booked my trip!” smiled Martha. “Lily tells me that after today the forecast is for dry, settled weather for my fortnight with her. Daytime temperatures in the high te
ens. Perfect.”

  Australia had been suffering a particularly wet August so far.

  Lottie did a characteristic snort. “What’s the point of going somewhere if you’re not going to sunbathe there?”

  “I’m not a sunseeker like you,” Martha gently pointed out. “The reason I’m going is to see Lily. We really need to see each other after everything that’s happened.”

  Lily had taken her mother’s ordeal very badly. Martha had dealt with many long and tearful phone calls from her. Being so far away magnified the awfulness of it all. Jared had been struggling too. He blamed himself entirely for her injuries. No matter how many times Martha told him that she’d just done what any mother would do to protect her child, and would do the same thing a thousand times over if necessary, Jared was inconsolable. It had shocked him to the core that in an emergency he’d just frozen. He’d always imagined he’d leap into heroic action if the occasion ever arose. It was unnerving and unflattering to discover he was, at heart, a wimp. He glossed over the fact that he’d helped drag Martha out of a burning building and been first on the gory scene when, swerving to avoid the Vampire Judge in her sports car, the man in red had collided with a tree and gone through the windscreen of Lottie’s Range Rover. All he could think about was being responsible for getting his mother hit by a car. However, Blandine had finally persuaded him to seek counselling and he was slowly starting to cope.

  “You think the farm’s in safe hands?” asked Lottie, negotiating a roundabout with her usual lack of tact.