Pandora's Helix

Seventeen

Neef found a small package sitting on his desk. It had been delivered by the hospital van service and was addressed to him personally in black marker pen. He opened it and found a plastic specimen vial labelled, D. Cooper, bronchoscopy tissue. The slip wrapped round it read, From a well-wisher to an amnesiac. Neef mentally thanked Mark Clelland and wrapped up the vial again for storage in the fridge until Pereira came for it. He phoned Pereira to tell him and he was there within twenty minutes. He seemed both surprised and pleased that Neef had got him the sample.

“It wasn’t easy,” said Neef. “Public Health have put a ban on the movement of any pathological material from the victims.”

Pereira smiled wryly and said, “But you still got it,” he said quietly.

Neef looked puzzled. “Yes,” he replied.

“You’re saying it wasn’t easy, but it was. It always is for you guys. When the rules don’t suit you, a phone call here, a phone call there and you get round them. Anyone so much as removing a paper-clip from Menogen without permission would be in deep shit but it’s us they end up closing down.”

Neef reflected ruefully on what Pereira had said and understood his bitterness. “Does that mean you don’t want the sample?” he asked with an embarrassed smile.

“I want it,” replied Pereira. “I’ll be gone for a few days. I’ve called in a favour. One of these other awful commercial establishments has given me some lab space.”

Neef watched the door close and reflected that Pereira had every right to feel aggrieved... but people with a chip on their shoulder could be a real pain.

Eve came in to sit with Neil and Neef joined them after a short while. Eve was telling Neil of the latest exploits of Maxwell Gunn. His station had been given a brand new fire engine and Maxwell had been given the honour of driving it for the very first time to a fire. It had no less than three different sirens and Maxwell operated them from three buttons above the windscreen. On the way back from the fire and very late at night Maxwell had hit all three buttons by accident and woken up everybody in the city. Next day everyone was yawning because of this.

Neef saw a slight suggestion of a smile at the corner of Neil’s mouth but it was very weak. Eve yawned to punctuate her story and Neef followed suit. Neil looked as if he might do so as well but in the end he just closed his eyes.

Eve looked at Neef and Neef saw the pain in her eyes. “He’s still fighting,” he said. “You’re working wonders.”

“It’s not enough, is it?”

“No one could do any more. Every day he survives gives Pereira’s virus a little more time to do its job but he’s getting very tired. He has the heart of a tiger but he’s really just a little boy who’s been through more than any little boy should have to.”

Eve rested her head on Neef’s chest and couldn’t hold back her sobs any more. She apologised and sobbed alternately.

“Ssh,” soothed Neef. “There’s nothing to be sorry about.”

Neef arranged to see Eve later at her apartment. As soon as she was gone he took out the paper he had written the two addresses down on and called the first, Charles Little. A woman answered.

“Mrs Little, it’s about your daughter, Susan.”

“You must have a wrong number.”

“I’m sorry.”

Neef dialled the other number. Again a woman’s voice answered.

“Mrs Little?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry to trouble you; it’s about your daughter, Susan.”

“I don’t have a daughter named Susan or anything else for that matter.”

“I do apologise. Wrong number.”

Neef cursed. Where did he go from here? Either he was wrong about the family being local or they didn’t have a telephone. That was a possibility he hadn’t considered.

Before leaving the unit, Neef gave instructions that he was to be informed if there was any deterioration in Neil’s condition. He left Eve’s number for them to try if he wasn’t at home. His own number was on a list above the telephone in the duty room along with everyone else’s in the unit.

“I tried persuading my editor to take Menogen’s side in this affair,” said Eve.

“That was brave of you,” said Neef.

“Tell me about it,” said Eve. “He thinks we’ve been far too constrained as it is. Everyone else has been going for Menogen’s throat. He gave me a lecture about telling the public what they want to hear.”

“Where have I heard that before,” said Neef. “And right now they want to hear about a big bad research company that’s been manufacturing killer viruses.”

“More or less.”

“Thomas Downy no longer has a tumour in his brain,” said Neef.

“That’s wonderful,” said Eve.

“I agree,” said Neef. “It is but I don’t think the papers will be too interested to hear that it was a Menogen virus that cured him. That would be a bit embarrassing, would it not?”

“I’ll have another go at the editor if you like,” said Eve.

Neef smiled and suggested she leave it for a bit. “There is something you could help me with though,” said Neef. “How do I go about finding Susan Little’s family?”

“Susan? Then you managed to find out something today?”

Neef told her how he’d come by the information.

“Why didn’t I think of that?” exclaimed Eve.

Neef smiled.

“You say she was a cystic fibrosis patient?”

Neef nodded and said, “I’m sure that must be some kind of link to David Farro-Jones. That’s his special interest.”

“Any ideas?” asked Eve.

Neef shook his head but said, “I think Max may be on to something. He asked for pathology specimens from the cancer patients. I managed to get him a lung biopsy from Douglas Cooper, the electrician who got infected at the same time as Charlie Morse. He’s taken it away somewhere to work on. In the meantime it might be helpful if I could speak to Susan Little’s family.”

“Cystic fibrosis is a high profile disease,” said Eve. “It’s popular in terms of fund raising.”

“What are you getting at?” asked Neef.

“It’s possible that the Citizen or one of the local freebies covered Susan’s death at the time. I’ll check in the morning if you like?”

“Good idea.”

At two in the morning Eve and Neef were woken by the phone ringing. It was John Duncan at the unit.

“Dr Neef? I understand you asked to be informed if Neil Benson’s condition worsened”

“Yes.”

“It has, sir. I don’t think he’ll see morning.”

Eve was already out of bed getting dressed. Neef followed and they were at the hospital within fifteen minutes of Duncan’s call.

Neef let Eve be alone with Neil while he spoke to Duncan. There was nothing medical to be done and Eve had the best chance of reaching him.

“I’m very sorry, sir,” said Duncan. “I understand the boy’s a particular favourite of yours?”

“I don’t have favourites,” replied Neef without looking at Duncan. He was watching Eve whisper to Neil.

“No sir, of course not,” replied Duncan.

Neef stood in the doorway of Neil’s room and listened. “Maxwell is depending on you, Neil,” he heard Eve say. “He keeps asking me when you’ll be well enough to help him out. There’s just so much work for him to do at the fire station. He needs all the help he can get. He told me he’ll try to come round tomorrow to show you the new fire engine. Won’t that be good? Promise me you’ll try to be well enough to see him?”

Neef watched as Neil’s head made a tiny nodding gesture on the pillow. Eve was trying desperately to keep the sob out of her voice.

“I think you’ve reached him again,” said Neef.

“I’m going to stay here,” said Eve. “If that’s all right?”

“Of course,” said Neef. “I’ll stay too.”

Eve put a hand on his chest and said, “Go home. You can’t stay for them all.”

Neef knew that she was right. “I’ll see you in the morning,” he said. He kissed Eve lightly on the cheek and held her close for a long moment before walking away.

Neef didn’t sleep; he was back in the unit shortly before seven. He found Eve still beside Neil. She was kneeling on the floor beside his bed and her head was resting on the pillow although her eyes were open and she was whispering to Neil. Neef smiled at her before checking with John Duncan about the other patients. He told Duncan he could go off early.

“He’s still hanging on,” said Duncan. “It’s amazing. Miss Sayers talked him through the night.”

“It is,” agreed Neef.

Neef made some coffee using the equipment in Ann Miles’ office and then said to Eve. “Breakfast. Neil’s sleeping.”

Eve got up stiffly and watched as Neef knelt to examine Neil. “How is he?” she asked.

“Holding his own,” replied Neef, “Well done.”

Eve took coffee with Neef in his office and then said she was going to go back to her flat to shower and change. “I’ll have to go in to the office,” she said, “but I’ll keep checking with you.”

“Of course,” said Neef. “If anything should change, I’ll get word to you.”

Neef gave instructions that Neil was not to be left alone. It was worth trying to capitalise on the time Eve had gained for them by continuing to stimulate his interest in what was going on around him as she had done. The nurses took turns, reading to him, telling his stories, showing him pictures and talking about his fire engines. Every hour that passed was more time for the Menogen virus to work on his tumour. Just before noon, Neef looked in on Neil. Despite the best efforts of the nurses, he still felt they were fighting a losing battle. Eve phoned to ask how things were going.

“Touch and go,” admitted Neef.

“I’ll be in soon,” said Eve. “But first I’m going along to the local fire station. I’ve half persuaded them to do some kind of visit for Neil this afternoon. At least, the Station Officer has agreed to talk to me.”

“That’s a good thought,” said Neef. “That might be just what we need.”

“I also checked up on Susan Little for you. One of the freebies did cover her death. She lived with her parents in the Combe Tower flats, not the most salubrious part of town. Do you have a pen?”

“Ready.”

She gave him the address. “When she died, the neighbours started up a fund to commemorate Susan. They raised two hundred and fifty pounds which they donated to research into cystic fibrosis at University College Hospital.”

“I see,” said Neef.

“See you soon.”

Hunger pangs reminded Neef that he hadn’t had anything to eat since early the previous evening. Breakfast that morning had been a cup of black coffee. He went along to the staff restaurant and, after a quick look at the board, opted for smoked haddock. There was nothing wrong with it but his appetite seemed to disappear after a couple of mouthfuls. He was joined at the table by Tim Heaton.

“Heard anything from Public Health?” Heaton asked.

“Not officially. I think we’re included in their publicity ban.”

“Rumour has it they’re on to something.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Up until now, the public health people have been seeking voluntary cooperation from contacts of patients affected by the cancer. Now it’s mandatory. All contacts have been confined to their homes until further notice. Fumigation squads have been sent in, certain personal effects confiscated. Medical and nursing staff who are currently treating the surviving patients are subject to the same restrictions. What do you think?

“They think it’s a virus,” replied Neef.

“Only think?”

“Maybe they know,” conceded Neef. “Do any of the new sanctions affect us?”

“Any member of staff reporting sick with a cold or flu-like illness has to be notified to Public Health. They’ll take appropriate action to isolate and investigate.”

Neef nodded thoughtfully.

“I’m surprised they aren’t doing more,” said Heaton. “If they think it’s a virus why isn’t the entire staff being vetted?”

“I think it’s a question of time,” said Neef. “If any of us were going to get it it would have showed up by now.”

“Lucky,” said Heaton.

“And strange,” said Neef.

“Why strange?”

“You’d think if it was a new virus no one would have immunity to it but it seems that some of us if not most of us have.”

“Thank God for that,” said Heaton. “That’s all I can say.”

“Amen to that.”

“How’s your little patient, the one you were going to treat with the new vector?”

“He’s hanging on by his fingertips,” said Neef.

“I’m sorry.”

Neef saw that he was drifting into a conversation he’d rather not be in. He looked at his watch and said that he’d have to go.

“Me too,” said Heaton. “Monthly budget meeting time and that damned Martin woman is still on my back for more nurses.”

“She probably needs them,” said Neef.”

“You medics and nurses are all in cahoots; I know you are,” joked Heaton.

“Get rid of us and the place would run smooth as clockwork,” said Neef.

Heaton gave him a furrow-browed look and left.

Neef returned to the unit and a bad moment he had not anticipated. Ann wasn’t in her office to warn him. He opened the door to his office and found David Farro-Jones sitting there. Neef swallowed and hoped his face wasn’t showing the discomfort he felt.

“There you are,” smiled Farro-Jones. “Your secretary said you’d be back soon, so I thought I’d wait. Hope you don’t mind?”

“Of course not,” said Neef, trying appear normal as his pulse rate climbed.

“I was passing. I thought I’d look in and see how your brain tumour patient was doing. Still a success story?”

“Absolutely,” said Neef. “He’s just been given the all clear. Let me show you his latest scan.”

“Absolutely marvellous,” said Farro-Jones. “I’m so pleased for you chaps. Max must be over the moon?”

“He’s pleased,” agreed Neef, “but this other business has taken the shine off it for him and Menogen.”

“I suppose so,” said Farro-Jones, his voice filled with concern. “These bloody newspapers have a lot to answer for. I hope the company’s going to sue?”

“I don’t know,” confessed Neef. “I haven’t seen Max to ask him. They closed down the Menogen labs.”

“I heard,” said Farro-Jones solicitously. “Talk about jumping the gun. You know, in a way I feel responsible.”

“How so?” asked Neef, almost choking.

“I was the one who spotted the coincidence in the addresses of Menogen and young Melanie.”

“But you didn’t tell anyone,” said Neef.

“No, of course not,” said Farro-Jones with a smile that made Neef feel uncomfortable. “It’s just that I keep worrying I may have left something lying around on my desk. Maybe someone saw it and decided to make themselves some pocket money by leaking it to the press.”

“It’s water under the bridge now,” said Neef. “The damage has been done, however it happened.”

“I suppose so,” Farro-Jones conceded. “Are you going to show me that scan?”

“Of course.” Neef brought out Thomas Downy’s last CT scan and let Farro-Jones examine it.

“Absolutely amazing,” said Farro-Jones. “It’s really hard to believe that this patient was actually dying of a brain tumour only a few weeks ago.”

“It certainly is.”

“You have to admit it, Michael; this is the therapy of the future. It’s going to change the whole face of medical science.”

“I’d find it hard to argue,” agreed Neef.

Farro-Jones returned the scan. “I’d best be getting back, now that I’ve see what the competition can do!”

Neef tried to laugh along but it was difficult. He felt a flood of relief when the door closed behind Farro-Jones. It was short-lived. His eyes fell on the address of the Little family he’d left lying on his desk. It was half tucked under his desk diary but the name Little was clearly visible. Could Farro-Jones have seen it? Neef couldn’t decide. There was no way of knowing where Farro-Jones’ eyes might have strayed during the time he’d been alone in the room.

Neef decided to act quickly. There was a chance that Farro-Jones had not seen the memo but there was equally a chance that he had. If he wanted to know the truth about the man’s involvement in the cancer deaths the sooner he spoke to Mrs Little the better. He threw on his jacket and told Ann Miles he was going out for a while.

The Combe Tower estate was one of the worst areas in the city. It suffered all the social ills of the day, from high unemployment to heroin addiction and gang warfare. The authorities were content to contain the area rather than police it, however much they denied this publicly. Neef took a look behind him at the Discovery, wondering how much of it would be left when he returned. The burnt out wreck of a Ford Cortina at the far end of the car park did not fill him with confidence.

Both lifts were out of action and a group of women, weighed down with plastic shopping bags were complaining about it in the hallway as he sought the door leading to the stairs.

“Two bloody days!” were the last words he picked up as he started to climb. At each landing, he had to pick his way through accumulated garbage. Beer cans and crisp packets predominated although in the gloom of the third landing corner he saw a syringe lying there among the debris. The dried blood of its user colouring the plastic barrel brown.

As he approached the fourth floor he heard voices at the top of the stairs. It wasn’t reassuring; it was the sound of a group of young men. As Neef reached the landing the sound suddenly stopped and the eyes of four youths who were playing cards stared up at him.

“You got a problem?” asked one.

“No problem,” said Neef passing by, hoping that would be an end to it. He was relieved to hear the conversation start again behind him as he sought out flat number 3 and knocked on its chipped and battered door.

A middle aged woman with sunken cheeks and straight grey hair answered. She wore a woollen V-necked jumper with a gold crucifix hanging round her bare neck, a shapeless skirt that seemed to have pleats where no pleats were intended and slippers with a large furry ball on each toe.

“Mrs Little?”

“Who’re you?”

“I’m Dr Neef from St George’s hospital.”

The woman’s face took on a puzzled look. “What d’you want?”

“I’d like to talk to you about your daughter.”

“Susan? She’s dead. What’s there to talk about?”

“I’m sorry, believe me, but I’d like to ask you about her treatment. There are some things I have to know.”

“Susan wasn’t treated at your hospital. It was University College.”

“Could I come in for a few minutes, Mrs Little?” Neef asked. He was aware of neighbours beginning to take an interest in what was going on.

“Suppose so,” agreed the woman reluctantly. “I was doing my ironing.”

Neef was led into the living room where an ironing board stood with a blouse straddled across it. A wooden clothes horse stood beside it with various items, already ironed, hanging on it. There were no children’s clothes.

“Was Susan an only child, Mrs Little?” asked Neef.

Ann Little nodded. “She was all I had left. Her dad died three years ago.”

“I’m sorry,” said Neef. “And she had cystic fibrosis?”

“From the time she was born.”

“Was she looked after by University College Hospital from the beginning?”

“A wonderful place,” said Mrs Little. “They were all so good to her, especially the physios who cleared her lungs.”

“Was there ever any mention of a cure for Susan?” asked Neef.

“Last year,” replied Mrs Little, sitting down on the edge of a chair facing Neef. She shook a cigarette free from a packet that had been sitting on the mantelpiece and lit it. “They tried out a new treatment for people like Susan but it didn’t come to anything.”

“Was that the Gene Therapy trial?” asked Neef, excited at the prospect of making the connection with Farro-Jones.

“That was it,” agreed the woman, blowing out a cloud of smoke. “They were going to put some new gene into Susan’s lungs so she wouldn’t need the physio any more but something went wrong. It didn’t work out.”

“A pity,” said Neef.

“Everyone was so disappointed,” said Mrs Little, looking wistful. “Especially Dr Farro-Jones. I think he designed the new treatment.”

“Yes, he did,” said Neef, his pulse rate rising. “Did you see Dr Farro-Jones after that?” he asked.

“He came to visit. Ever such a nice man, a real gentleman. He really cared about the patients. He came to see how Susan was getting on.”

“He came here?” asked Neef.

“Yes.”

“When?”

“The first time was just after the new treatment failed, about a year ago, I suppose. He said it wouldn’t be long before they had sorted out the problems and they’d have another go at curing Susan.”

“Did you see him again?”

“Two or three months ago.”

Neef felt his mouth go dry. “He came here again?”

“Yes, he had been working on a new treatment and was offering Susan first chance of it before they’d even started using it in the hospital. Susan was really pleased. She liked Dr Farro-Jones. He’s very good looking you see and her being of an age...”

Neef smiled. “What happened?”

Dr Farro Jones came here to treat her. It was our secret, he said.

“What sort of treatment?” asked Neef.

“It was very simple,” said Mrs Little. “Dr Farro-Jones just put a couple of small tubes up her nose and made her breathe deeply for a few minutes. There was no pain or anything.”

Neef swallowed. Here was the gas that Public Health had started out looking for only it wasn’t a gas, it was a virus suspension being administered by nebuliser, one prepared by an over-ambitious son of a bitch who had by-passed all the rules.

“Then what happened?” he asked.

“Susan didn’t get any better, in fact her illness took a turn for the worse and she had to be admitted to the hospital. Her lungs had filled up, you see. Dr Farro-Jones explained that the new treatment had come too late to save her. He was very upset. He even attended the funeral. Such a nice man, dedicated if you know what I mean?”

Neef nodded. He knew what she meant. He also understood what Pereira meant when he had called Farro-Jones a few other things.

“Did Susan know a girl named Melanie Simpson?” asked Neef.

“There was a girl called, Melanie; they were in the girl guides together. I don’t know if her last name was Simpson. Why?”

“Did Melanie ever come here?”

“She came to visit Susan just before she went into hospital for the last time. She had been sent by the Guides to wish her well. You should have seen the flowers they sent.”

“How about Jane Lees?”

“Jane came too,” said Mrs Little.

“How did Susan know Jane?”

“Jane lives next door to my mother. Susan used to play with her when we went over there on a Wednesday and Sunday. They were good friends, the two of them.”

“Did you know that Jane had died?” Neef asked.

Mrs Little nodded. “Cancer,” she said.

“Melanie too,” said Neef.

Mrs Little looked shocked. “I didn’t know about Melanie,” she said. “What an awful...” Her face suddenly showed confusion and uncertainty. “Why are you here?” she asked. “Why are you asking all these questions? What’s going on?”

The door bell rang. Neef stiffened. He listened as the door was opened.

“Dr Farro-Jones! What a surprise. We were just talking about you.”

“Really?” said Farro-Jones’ voice. “Can I come in?”

“Of course, Doctor. Maybe someone round here will tell me what this is all about.”

Farro-Jones entered the room ahead of Mrs Little. He smiled uneasily at Neef. “Hello, Michael, I didn’t expect to find you here.”

“Really?” replied Neef with cold accusation in his eyes.

“What has Mrs Little been telling you?”

“Everything,” replied Neef flatly.

Mrs Little looked confused. “Will someone please tell me what’s going on,” she pleaded.

Neef and Farro-Jones ignored her.

“So what now?” asked Farro-Jones, still managing a smile, but Neef thought his eyes told a different story. He saw trepidation there. The smile was just bravado. “How deep shit am I in?”

“Terminally deep,” said Neef. “I know what you did.”

“I see.” Farro-Jones began to ring his hands nervously and run his fingers through his hair. “I don’t suppose it will do any good to point out that I did it for the best?”

Neef shook his head. “You did it for yourself, nobody else. And you’ve ended up killing several people.”

“I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. It was just fate, just bloody bad luck. I didn’t know the vector virus was going to turn out to be carcinogenic for Christ’s sake and there was certainly no way I could have foreseen it becoming infectious through DNA repair. How could I? I thought when Susan got cancer, it was just a bit of bad luck and that was an end to it.”

“Cancer?” exclaimed Mrs Little. “My Susan had cancer?”

“Dr Farro-Jones’ new treatment gave her cancer, Mrs Little,” said Neef without taking his eyes off Farro-Jones. “She didn’t die of cystic fibrosis. Dr Farro-Jones just pretended she had.”

“I explained there was a risk,” said Farro-Jones.

“Was Eddie Miller just bad luck too?”

“Drunken sot,” said Farro-Jones under his breath.

“I think it’s time we spoke to the police,” said Neef.

“Face the music eh?” said Farro-Jones attempting to affect a smile again. “I think not.”

Neef felt the hair on the back of his neck rise as he saw the look in Farro-Jones’ eyes. “You can’t seriously believe that you can get away with it?” he asked, sounding braver than he felt.

“Everything that could convict me is sitting in this room right now,” said Farro-Jones.

Mrs Little was totally bemused. “What’s going on?” she almost screamed. “Will someone please tell me what is going on?”

Both Neef and Farro-Jones ignored her.

“You’re wrong,” said Neef. “I wrote a letter to Frank MacSween before I came over here. Frank won’t rest until you’re brought to justice. You’re responsible for killing his grandson.”

“MacSween’s still away on leave,” said Farro-Jones. “Let’s stop playing silly buggers shall we?...”

Farro Jones suddenly picked up the iron that was sitting on the ironing board beside him and hurled it at Neef.

It was only a distance of ten feet; Neef had no time to avoid it. It hit him high up on the left temple and a sudden sharp pain was replaced by blackness.

Neef came round to a world of pain, suffocating heat and the sounds of a woman screaming. He tried to move from where he lay on the floor but pain ignited inside his head and made him retch. He tried again and found he couldn’t breathe when he tried to sit up. The flat was on fire and the air was full of smoke. Suddenly very much awake, he sank back down to floor level again where he could find some air and started to crawl towards where he thought the screams were coming from. He found Mrs Little in the hallway; she had been trying to reach the door but her slippers had caught fire and she was hopping around in agony as she tried to pull them off.

Neef could see that the blaze had been started in the hall. There had been deliberate intent to block access to the outside door. There was no way out. He pulled Mrs Little, who was hysterical, down to floor level and tore her slippers off. Next he pulled her along the floor back into the living room as far away from the main blaze as possible. She kept trying to resist, seeing the door as her avenue of escape.

“Stay down,” he yelled against the noise of the fire, pushing Mrs Little’s face down to floor level. “There’s air down here!”

Neef grabbed one of the articles from the clothes horse and wet it with water from the jug Mrs Little had been using to fill her steam iron from. He pressed the wet cloth to his face and crawled across to the living room door. It was ablaze but he pushed what was left of it shut in an attempt to keep the flames at bay a little longer. He could see that Mrs Little was now deeply in shock. Her eyes were wide open but she wasn’t seeing anything. She lay on the floor, shaking from head to foot, biting a corner of her sweater which she had pulled up to put in her mouth.

“It’s going to be all right,” said Neef. “The fire brigade will be on their way. We just have to hang on a little while longer.”

He looked up at the window, unsure whether or not to break it. He had visions of suddenly creating a flu for the fire to race out through, engulfing them in flames. He’d wait another few moments, if they had that long.

The heat was becoming unbearable and the air they found at floor level was scorching their lungs. Somewhere above the noise of the conflagration he thought he could hear the sound of sirens. “Please God!” he prayed.

Despite the fact that the flat was full of fumes, Neef could smell burning hair and skin. He looked at Mrs Little and saw that her hair was smoking. He would have to break the window. They only had seconds before they would become part of the holocaust. As he prepared to stand up and break the glass he noticed the flower vases sitting at either end of the fireplace. Their contents had succumbed to the heat but it was what they were sitting in that interested him. Neef crawled across the floor on his stomach and put his hand into the first vase. His fingers touched water! He dragged both vases over to the window and emptied most of the contents of the first one over Mrs Little’s head. He then dowsed himself and took a swig of the water. In the circumstances, it was cool and delicious.

The sirens were now very loud and he could hear something scrape against the wall of the building outside. Help was coming. Neef knew that the next few seconds were going to be crucial if they were to survive. The firemen, coming up the ladder outside, would break the window. He and Mrs Little would be at risk from both flying glass and the possible creation of a fire storm rushing through the room to meet the up-draught. He considered trying to stand up and show himself to the fire-fighters but he might not be immediately visible and consequently get the full force of the breaking glass in his face followed by possible immolation as the flames engulfed him. He opted instead to remain close to the floor with Mrs Little. As a last resort, he crawled over to the clothes horse and pulled it over on its side. He gathered as much clothing as he could and used it to cover all the exposed areas of Mrs Little’s and his own body as they huddled on the floor. A brief impression of a dark shadow through the smoke and fumes told Neef that someone was outside the window. He closed his eyes and shielded as much of Mrs Little as he could.

The window shattered and a sudden draught of searing heat almost dragged the last breath from his body as it swept out through the window. He struggled to his feet as water came cascading into the room. He had to press himself against the wall at the side of the window frame to avoid being hit by the force of the jet. If it struck him the chances were he would be thrown clear across the room and probably through the blazing door out into the hall. As the jet from the hose moved slowly towards the other side of the room, Neef moved across the window frame and caught the attention of the fireman outside on the ladder. There was a gap of some two metres between the ladder platform and the wall of the building. This had been forced by the metal window frame of the flat buckling outwards when the glass had been smashed. Neef could see that this was going to be a problem; there was no way the ladder could move in closer.