Death Watch

Andy Judd was throwing bricks through the shattered window, sobbing, his arms flailing at the flames; Ally was trying to catch at his hand and pull him back from the fire. Shaw ran to help her but the air pressure shifted, his ears popped, and he was knocked to the ground again as the front door imploded, releasing a tongue of fire like a Bunsen burner. By the time he was back on his feet he could see a light fitting melting in the front room, the hanging flex like a fuse, and beyond it the wallpaper peeling back in the heat. A shadow moved, an arm flapping at the corner of a burning curtain, the scream still sustained, cutting through the roar of the fire. The paint on the door was peeling because of the heat inside, the metal number 6 changing colour with the temperature.

Shaw got hold of Andy Judd’s left arm and twisted it expertly behind his back, turning him on his heels, frog-marching him back off the pavement and out into the street, pushing him down onto the tarmac where the metal rails ran, set into the street. Overpowered, he went limp, like a marionette with its strings cut.

Then two things happened at once: they heard a police squad-car siren as it turned into Erebus Street, emergency lights flashing. Then, through the curtain of fire which filled the shattered doorway, a man stepped out, the coat he wore alight on his back and flames catching on one of

Shaw threw his jacket across him, then rolled him over, twice, three times, smothering the flames. The soprano scream died. Valentine knelt beside him too. ‘Brigade’s on the way – but there’s upstairs,’ said the DS.

They both looked back at the house to the first-floor window, but there was nobody there.

‘I saw someone – a face,’ said Valentine, his own bathed in sweat. ‘Definite.’

Shaw turned the man at his feet over onto his back. He was young – maybe twenty-five – and although his eyes were open they were out of focus. ‘Pete’s trapped,’ said the man, a line of blood trickling out from his hairline. ‘My skin’s cold.’

‘It’s burnt,’ said Shaw. ‘It’ll hurt – soon. But help’s on the way. Just be still. Pete – he’s upstairs?’

But the man wasn’t listening. ‘I can’t see clearly,’ he said.

‘It’s OK,’ said a voice, and Shaw turned to see that a young man was kneeling on the road beside him: late teens, early twenties, savagely thin, elbows jutting, with a head of black hair badly cut. He had clear skin, and a pair of thin, horizontal glasses, which made him look serious, professional. He was wearing a T-shirt with a motto: Barnardo’s – Believe in Children.

‘Please,’ he said, edging forward, taking the man’s hand.

Shaw stood, letting him get closer. Kennedy put an arm round Holme’s shoulders and got his face closer.

‘I’m going to die,’ said Holme, the limbs beginning to shake to a slow beat. ‘I told you…’

‘No,’ said Kennedy, trying to keep his voice light. ‘No you’re not. God’s not ready yet, Aidan. Believe me. Trust in him.’

Shaw turned to Valentine. ‘Watch the front,’ he said. ‘Get him into an ambulance. Both of them. Keep in touch…’ He waved his mobile, then turned to look at the burning house. There was no way through the front door, still a rectangle of flame, the jamb and lintel burning like firelighters, but Shaw found an alley at the side of the house leading to the back yard, down a tunnel with an arched brick roof.

When he got through he could see the fire had a firm hold of the whole ground floor. The kitchen door was a single pane of glass, and beyond it the flames had already blackened a fridge and a microwave, and the thin chipboard worktops were curling in the heat. Cupboard doors were burning, revealing empty shelves. Smoke hung, trapped, a foot below the ceiling, as thick and grey as phlegm. A pair of French doors from the yard into the

Shaw listened again, the sound of the fire like a giant gas ring burning, and then – at the edge of hearing – a fire engine’s siren.

There wasn’t time to wait. He put his foot through the French doors and ducked as the flames roared out, then stepped back, waiting for the blaze to take a second breath. The room was empty, with just the carpet to burn. A mural depicting a nude woman in savage orange and blue paint strokes covered the biggest wall.

Shaw ran through into the hallway, crouching, holding his breath behind his hand. In the front room there was a three-piece suite, a rug, and a TV set. Bubbles formed, then burst, in the plastic top of a coffee table. Disparate objects: a fitness cycle, a discarded game console on the bare boards of the floor, the metal foil packets from a takeaway curry in the fireplace. Shaw knelt, took in a breath from down near the floorboards, and felt the air burn his lungs.

The stairs, bare wood, ran up between two plaster-board walls. Smoke rose up, the stairwell acting as a chimney. He closed his eyes and took the steps three at a time. At the top he stopped, holding his breath, and for the first time he thought he’d made a mistake. It was supposed to be a calculated risk. But it felt like a posthumous medal. The fumes were blurring his vision and a sharp pain was pulsing in his head. He saw a vivid snapshot: Lena, standing in blue water, a still sea lapping at her thighs. Ten seconds; he’d give himself ten seconds.

He checked the back bedroom – empty – then the

Shaw grabbed him by the shoulders but he tried to pull away, hands still over his face, his body twisting. ‘I can’t go out there,’ he said, his voice oddly clear. Shaw knew then it wasn’t the fire that terrified him. ‘He’s there.’

‘You’ll die if you stay here,’ said Shaw. He could hear the staircase burning, blocking their escape, and the smoke coming through the floorboards was black now, toxic. ‘Who are you afraid of?’ he asked, while he tried to think what to do, tried to calculate how long was left before he had to leave him to die.

The man tried to say something but retched instead, choking with his head turned down to the floor. Shaw thought he’d heard three words:

‘The Organ Grinder.’

The man’s heavy boots pedalled on the bare floor as he tried to scoot back from the window.

‘I heard the footsteps,’ he said. ‘They all hear the footsteps.’

‘We’re going out the back way,’ said Shaw, deciding that this was some kind of twisted anxiety that he would have to address. ‘He won’t see you there.’ He grabbed

It was too late. The staircase was all flame. He thought then that Lena would never forgive him. He tried to blot out an image of his daughter, asleep, the duvet held to her chin by a fist.

He didn’t understand what happened next. He heard a noise, a sizzling, like a giant frying pan. The air filled with smoke and steam. Then a jet of water hit him and threw him into the back bedroom. When he got to his knees there was an inch of water on the carpet, and he could hear it boiling, tumbling down the blackened, smoking stairs. He picked the man’s body up a second time and stumbled to the staircase. Each wooden tread cracked as he moved their double weight quickly onwards, downwards, to safety.

A fireman stood in the still-burning room below; full breathing gear, an oxygen tank on his back. The floor was a mirror of water, the sound of steam a hissing roar. Between them they carried the choking man out into the yard and laid him face down on the parched grass. He struggled when one of the paramedics tried to turn him over, covering the sides of his head with his hands.

Shaw got down so that he could speak into his ear.

‘We’re in the yard. Pete. Can you hear me? It’s just us – the fire brigade, ambulance. You’re OK.’

Pete’s breath rattled, and when he coughed he arched his back, drawing up his knees under his chest. They