Seven Days(92)

Or it hadn’t, at least to date. He got out of bed and opened the curtains, looking for a red haze or a plume of smoke.

Nothing. He opened the window and leaned out.

The night air was fresh and clean. There was no smell of fire at all. He pulled his head back inside the room. The smell was back, which meant the fire was not outside.

It was in his house. The house he and Kathryn shared with Jake, their five-year-old son.

He sprinted to the bedroom door and yanked it open.

And he saw the source of the smell. His house was ablaze.





2


The landing stretched in front of him. On the left were doors to two more bedrooms and a bathroom; to the right were the stairs.

And at the far end was Jake’s bedroom.

Which was also where the fire was.

Jake’s door – half-open – was at the heart of the fire. It glowed red, the frame a gaping mouth of flame. The heat – even at the far end of the landing – was intense. Graham waved his hand in front of his mouth and coughed, the air thick with smoke.

‘Jake!’ he shouted. ‘Jake! Are you there?’

There was no answer, but even if there had been it was unlikely he would have heard it over the noise of the fire.

‘Graham.’ He heard his wife’s voice from inside the bedroom. ‘Why are you shouting?’

‘There’s a problem,’ he said. ‘Get out of bed.’

He stared at the heart of the fire, the skin on his face feeling tight with the heat.

And then he heard his wife scream.

‘Jake!’ she said. ‘Where’s Jake?’

Graham pointed at the fire. ‘He’s in there.’

‘Get him!’ she shouted. ‘Go and get him!’ She started to move towards their son’s bedroom but he put his hand on her shoulder.

‘I’ll go,’ he said. ‘Get your phone and call 999. Then go outside. It’s not safe.’

Kathryn nodded and ran into their bedroom. He stared at the fire, mesmerized. It was a wall of flame, and Jake was on the other side. He took a step towards it, then another, and raised his hands. It was already incredibly hot.

Wet towels, he thought. Wrap yourself in wet towels.

He pushed the bathroom door open and turned on the bath. He grabbed three towels and shoved them under the water, then, when they were wet, wrapped one around his head and one around his shoulders. The third was for Jake.

He ran onto the landing and turned towards Jake’s room. The smoke was thicker now, and the popping and snapping noise of the fire was louder. The heat was fierce, but the cold water on the towels gave him some protection. Dimly he remembered hearing something about getting down and crawling if you were in a fire. Maybe there was more oxygen down there, the smoke rising.

He dropped to his knees and began to crawl towards his son’s room.

He realized almost immediately that it was hopeless. The heat was like a physical barrier. He could feel it pushing back at him, the heat scorching his face as he inched closer.

He felt a sharp pain on his head. The water in the towel was boiling and turning to steam. He snatched the towel away and cast it aside.

He crawled forward again, deeper into the heat.

And then he realized he couldn’t breathe. There was no oxygen. It was all being consumed by the fire. Even if he could have withstood the heat somehow, there was no way he could last more than a minute or so without breathing.

It was a place unfit for humans.

‘Jake,’ he gasped. ‘Jake. Please.’

His lungs were starting to hurt; he tried to breathe, but all he felt was hot air filling his chest. He had no choice. He had to back away, find some air.

Leave his son.

There was no son, not anymore. There was no way he could have survived this. No way at all.

As soon as there was air he let out a cry. He heard it as though he was in some way disembodied; it was a mixture of pain and anguish and despair. His son – his firstborn – was only feet away from him but it might as well have been miles. There was nothing he could do.

He backed up further, his right hand on the base of the bannister, feeling his way to the top of the stairs.

When he reached them, he looked up at his son’s bedroom.

At the space where his son’s bedroom had been.

It was a scene from hell. The end of the house was gone, replaced by a gaping red maw.

On his hands and knees, he crawled down the stairs.





Acknowledgements


The more books I write the more I feel that the space dedicated to thanking those who have provided guidance, counsel, support and encouragement is too brief to truly acknowledge how important they are.

So, that said:

Thank you, Sarah Hodgson, for your wisdom and guidance on Seven Days and the other books we have worked on together. Your editorial insights have made them better than I could ever have done alone.

Thank you, Becky Ritchie. I always feel like you have my and the books’ best interests at heart which – along with your advice and unfailing support – is all one can wish for in an agent.

Thank you to the team at HarperCollins, in particular Kathryn Cheshire. I appreciate all the effort and dedication you put in.

Thank you to Tahnthawan and Barbara, once more vital early readers.

And thank you to my three sons. You are an inspiration.