The Family Game(93)

That’s my gift: a very dark joke. I look back at Robert in disbelief and he gives a barely perceptible raise of the brows.

I guess I know what the gift was meant to symbolize: a release from the past; evidence removed, lost, my slate wiped clean. But that is no help now. And then what Robert is trying to tell me clicks into place. I catch sight of the fire still raging in the hearth behind Edward and I understand Robert’s thinking. I need that can.

I gently let go of my shovel and raise my hands to Edward in surrender, my eyes trained on him as I rise to stand. As far as Edward is concerned, I am unarmed; I am doing as he asked.

‘Thank you, Harriet,’ Edward says, his tone gentle as he gestures for me to make my way to the chair.

In my peripheral vision Robert raises a finger a few inches above his armrest and my eyes flick to him, then back to Edward. Robert raises three fingers above the armrest of his chair. A countdown.

‘You’re going to burn it all down?’ I ask Edward. ‘You’ve already killed Fiona and Oliver. You’re going to kill everyone else and frame me?’ I ask Edward, keeping him distracted as I prepare to make my move.

‘The facts will tell a story of their own,’ Edward answers wearily.

The first of Robert’s three raised fingers taps down.

Three.

‘And you? You’ll be alone. No family, no wife, no daughter. Can you live with that? All the money in the world but no one to talk to.’

‘The human element in any enterprise will always be its sticking point. It’s always best to keep things simple,’ Edward says, his tone resigned.

The second of Robert’s fingers taps down.

Two.

‘I think we’ve all done enough talking, Harry,’ Edward continues.

The last of Robert’s raised fingers hits the fabric of the armrest and everything happens at once.

One.

Robert suddenly makes a grab for Edward’s shotgun barrel, yanking it down and away towards the ground, giving me an opening. I spin and dive for the bright yellow of the can beneath the tree. My hands grasp it just as a shot reverberates behind me and my gaze snaps back to the pair just in time to see Edward wrest back control of the weapon and whip the rifle butt into his father’s face. Robert crumples down to the floor, blood oozing from his thigh. Edward spins, pointing the gun back at me.

He holds me in his sights for a second and then we both seem to realize the same thing at once. Edward’s gun is a single-barrel shotgun; he needs to reload.

We both move at exactly the same time. He cracks open the gun, plunging a hand into his pocket for a cartridge, as I snap and twist the cap from the lighter fuel and run straight for him.

With terrifying efficiency, he slips a fresh cartridge into the weapon and snaps it shut before raising the weapon. But I am on him; I plough straight into him at full tilt, knocking him back as hard as I can. He bowls backwards, losing his footing, having to grab the mantelpiece to stop himself from falling into the fire, the gun flailing now in his one free hand. And that is when I do it.

I squeeze the lighter fuel cannister as hard as I can and a tight pressurized stream dances across Edward’s clothes and face as he struggles to regain his balance. The acrid smell of butane filles the air and without stopping to think, I let the cannister’s stream hit the roaring fire behind Edward’s back.

The flames flare white and engulf him, the gun clattering to the floor as his hands desperately fly to his face.

I do not stop to think. I advance on him even though I see his pain, his newfound terror. I see his open-mouthed screams but I can barely hear them over the throb of blood in my own ears, the pounding of my heart, because I know I cannot stop until this is over. He will not stop until this is over.

I empty more and more of the fuel cannister onto him as he lunges and swings madly towards me. The pain must become too much because suddenly he throws himself down to the rug to tamp out his flames. But he does not think it through; the gasoline-soaked rug beneath him leaps to life, flashing even brighter as fresh flames engulf him and creep out towards the rest of the room.

I look to Robert’s prone form. We don’t have much time before this fire is completely out of control. Robert and I need to leave.

I know what I need to do. I circle around Edward and pick up the discarded shotgun, its handle hot from the flame-engulfed floor, and raise it towards Edward’s shuddering figure.

I get him in my sights, flames from the rug now lapping at my own bare legs, sending white hot pain through me as I try to steady the weapon. I exhale calmly and pull the trigger. There is a rip of sound and Edward stops moving before the flames swallow him whole.

I drop the weapon and run to Robert’s side, tearing an antique wall hanging from the wall above him to muffle out the flames approaching him. I thrash them out and pull him, coughing, up to sitting.

‘We need to get out,’ I tell him. ‘Keep pressure on the leg wound.’ He nods, and with my help stumbles up to his feet.

‘The other children? Eleanor?’ he croaks.

‘They’re safe,’ I tell him. It’s a half-truth. Eleanor is safe. Matilda is safe. Stuart I’m not so sure about, though Oliver and Fiona are dead.

We stumble from the sitting room into the hall where I steer Robert clear of the sight of Oliver’s body and out of the open front door.

We burst out into the snow and take in lungfuls of clean winter air. Robert is safe, but Stuart is still inside the building, and I am not like Edward. I cannot be responsible for any more death.