The Book of Souls (Inspector McLean #2)(26)
He took the rest of the stairs in leaps, covering his mouth and nose with the sleeve of his coat as the smoke began to thicken. Ignoring his own front door, he went straight to the flat opposite and hammered on the wood.
‘Mr Sheen? Can you hear me? Mr Sheen? It’s Tony McLean. You have to wake up. There’s a fire.’ Even as he said the words, choking as oddly sweet smoke bit at the back of his throat, he could hear how stupid he sounded. He stepped back, looking up at the fanlight, waiting for the bulb in the inner hall to come on. Nothing. Or was there? Light flickering?
Not waiting to be certain, McLean kicked at the door with all his might. It cracked, but held. He kicked it again, sending one panel flying back into the flat beyond. Looking through he could see only smoke swirling around; in moments it had begun to billow out through this new gap. He reached inside, feeling for the latch, hoping that his neighbour didn’t have a deadbolt. Luck was on his side.
The heat pressed around him as he opened the door, smoke flooding out onto the landing. He took a breath of the relatively fresh air and stepped carefully in. The floor creaked under his weight, seeming to sag inwards, and he was suddenly all too aware of the raging inferno beneath. He should really leave this to the firemen, but what if they got here too late?
He opened the door to what he hoped was the bedroom. Smoke billowed about the room and across the narrow hall; Mr Sheen was not one to sleep with his window open. McLean wanted to shout, but he was afraid of breathing in deep enough to do so. He hurried as fast as he dared to the bed, reaching for the sleeping figure, shaking him hard by the shoulder. Nothing.
Bending down close, he tried to see if the man was breathing, but it was too dark, too full of smoke. Tears blurred his vision. Smoke burned at his throat. He was dimly aware of more noise, the roaring of flames finally breaking free. There was no time. He dragged back the covers, pulled Mr Sheen out of bed and threw him over his shoulder. As he gasped for breath, staggering back out into the hall, McLean was glad that his neighbour was a thin old man. Even so, the weight made him stagger, and the heat was more unbearable still. The living-room door burst into flame in front of his eyes, like something from a cheap horror movie. The light it cast over the inner hallway showed polished floorboards blackened and twisting. Flames underneath were eating away at the ceiling and joists in the flat below. Soon the whole lot would come crashing down. If he didn’t make it out in time, he’d be going with them.
Hefting Mr Sheen’s pyjama’d form onto his back more squarely, McLean staggered forwards. He could hear the floorboards groaning under his weight, feel the whole floor shifting and buckling like a sinister bouncy castle as he took the mad option and ran for it. He sprang forward at the last, crashing through the open doorway and onto the relative safety of the stone landing as the floor finally collapsed.
A great gout of flame billowed out over his head, singeing his hair and catching Mr Sheen’s pyjamas alight. He fell to his knees. For a moment he was too exhausted to move, his mind too confused by the lack of oxygen. All he could do was stare at the tiny flames eating away at the cotton. And beyond them, just out of focus, the door to his own apartment. His whole life. He needed to get in there, to save those few things he might be able to carry out. Those last reminders of the life that had been stolen from him.
Something exploded down below. The noise cut through the fog in his mind, and McLean woke enough to realise what had been happening. He slapped at the flames on Mr Sheen’s pyjamas, then staggered to his feet, dragging the old man up with him. Leaning heavily against the stone wall, he inched his way carefully down the stairs to the next landing. The door to the student flat was ablaze, flames licking at the underside of the stone landing he’d been lying on just moments earlier. Through the fanlight over the other door, he could see that the merchant banker’s flat was going strong now. His own place upstairs would catch soon.
The heat boiling out of the student flat was almost unbearable, but he had to pass close to the blazing door to get to the stairs. Gritting his teeth against it, he hurried past, shielding the unconscious form from the worst of it and praying his coat wouldn’t catch. Once past, he could feel the wind on his face as the blaze sucked air in through the open front door and up the stone stairwell. It was a welcome relief and gave him the strength to stagger down the last flights, dragging Mr Sheen along with him.
The wail of sirens echoed off the other tenements as McLean collapsed onto the pavement across the road. He gulped down sweet, cold Edinburgh air, too shell-shocked to pay attention to the still form beside him. All about the street, lights were flicking on like will-o’-the-wisps from a nursery rhyme. Tiny faerie faces stared from windows. A fire engine screeched round the corner before coming to a halt. It had scarcely disgorged its crew of yellow men before another joined it. McLean struggled to his feet and headed back across the road as a familiar figure came running up. Jim Burrows, the fire investigator, obviously didn’t recognise him.
‘Is anyone else in there?’
‘Ground floor.’ McLean pointed at the nearest bay window. ‘Old Mrs McCutcheon. Lives alone. Watch out for the cats.’
‘Bloody hell! Are you all right, sir?’
McLean looked around to see two uniformed officers approaching at speed. He was pleased to see that one of them was Sergeant Houseman, but before he could say anything more, a deafening explosion slammed through the night. Glass and bits of window frame rained down on them, tinkling on the roofs of the parked cars. Then something heavier landed at McLean’s feet, charred and blackened but giving off that oddly sweet smell as it smoked.