M. Arlidge - Liar Liar

He suddenly realized Dave was at his side – he too had been drawn out by the sight of the fire. And he seemed to echo Callum’s growing fears, as he turned hesitantly to his friend and muttered:

‘Looks like it’s over your neck of the woods, mate.’

A large crowd had gathered already and Helen had to shout to be heard, as she barged her way to the front. The burning house was a detached two up, two down on a run-down housing estate. The front garden wasn’t well kept and the house was little better. But whatever unsightliness it offered was now obscured – the whole house was ablaze, huge flames punching out of the shattered windows.

Helen had made it across town in record time, kicking herself all the way for taking her eye off the ball at such a crucial time. Her blood had run cold when Sanderson called her with the news – three more fires had broken out. Helen had detailed other officers to investigate the first two, a furniture showroom in Bitterne Park and an outdoor car park in Nicholstown, while she’d biked straight to the residential blaze in Bevois Mount. This was the third fire that had been called in and instinct drew Helen to it.

Firefighters were battling to get into the property, but the fire was at its peak now. Stalking round the house to see if the crews on the other side were faring any better, Helen was alarmed to see how completely the fire had taken hold. Cheap plywood walls, synthetic flooring, worn-down carpeting – the whole place was a fire hazard. Helen prayed that there was no one left inside it when it went up.

The firefighters at the back were having no more joy than their colleagues. They battled manfully, but it seemed hopeless and Helen could see the weariness on the faces of many of them – they probably hadn’t had any rest since last night’s fires.

Making her way back towards the uniformed officers who were keeping the crowd at bay, Helen’s mind turned on these latest disturbing developments. This was an impoverished part of Southampton – which could provide some sort of link to Gary Spence and the loan sharks who preyed on desperate people. The furniture showroom currently burning in Bitterne Park might also be connected if they had borrowed unwisely, but an outdoor car park? That would be council-owned and the cars there would presumably have been parked at random – no, that smacked of being a diversionary fire. Already Helen had a nasty feeling that both the larger fires were simply there to draw resources away from this smaller, potentially more catastrophic blaze.

‘We’ve got a name, ma’am,’ one of the uniformed officers was now saying.

‘Go on,’ Helen replied, snapping out of her thoughts.

‘The house is owned by a Denise Roberts, forty-two years old, single mother to a teenage boy, Callum Roberts. We know him – he’s got form for possession, a bit of shoplifting – but we’ve nothing on her. Just your average single mum.’

Helen thanked the officer and turned back to the house. If there was anyone in there, they stood little chance of survival. The fire had been going for thirty minutes or more now and still the fire crews hadn’t been able to gain access. It was a bleak scene to behold.

A second spate of arson attacks in twenty-four hours. It was bold to be sure, but did something else lie behind it? Was their arsonist on a mission? Did they feel compelled to start these fires? If not, why the hurry? What alarmed Helen most was the realization that the perpetrator of these attacks was committed, precise and well organized. The three fires were all in different parts of town, yet tightly timed to make fighting them near impossible. Whoever did this was intent on creating death and destruction on a scale Helen had never seen before.

It was as if they wanted to raze Southampton to the ground.

The heat was so intense, the smoke so dense, that for a brief moment Denise thought she had died and gone to Hell. Having blacked out as the wall of fire swept over her, she now came to on the floor, stunned, confused and ripped through with pain. But she was alive. Against the odds, she was still alive.

She tried to raise her head from the floor, but immediately felt so faint that she let it drop once more. What was happening? Where was Callum? Why wasn’t anyone coming to help her? Closing her eyes, she gingerly raised her head once more, working herself up on to her elbows. A wave of nausea swept over her, her vision swam, but she could support herself now and, feeling a little more confident, slowly opened her eyes.

Darkness surrounded her. It was as if she was at the centre of some terrible storm cloud that had blocked out the sun. Pushing herself up further, she looked around her, but she couldn’t find her bearings. Was she still in her bedroom? She assumed she was, but how could she tell?

Looking down, she could just make out that she was naked. Lifting her arm, she ran her hand over her body. There was no sign of her night clothes – they must have burnt clean off. Her skin felt mottled and unfamiliar and as she ran her fingers over her torso, caressing the fresh burns, a huge spasm of pain ran through her. This time she was sick, bringing up the whole contents of her stomach on the floor next to her. It fizzed as it hit the surface.

Denise knew in that instant that she had to move. She was dying by degrees, her body slowly cooking, while her lungs filled with thick sooty smoke. Coughing violently, she brought up another heave of watery bile, then slowly, agonizingly, pushed herself up on to her knees. She had to get out. If not for herself, at least for Callum.

She reached out for something to support herself, but could find nothing. So closing her eyes, she willed herself upright and staggered forwards on to her feet. The searing heat immediately claimed her, crawling over her face, her neck, her hair. It was impossible to breathe up here – every second counted now – so she opened her eyes, searching for something familiar. The outline of the window, the door, anything to help her find a way out.

But she couldn’t see a single thing. The black smoke had consumed everything and she was lost in the centre of her own nightmare. She took three steps forward. The disintegrating boards groaned, her feet picked up fresh blisters with each painful step but on she went. One step, two, three. Her arms swung around wildly expecting – hoping – to connect with something solid, something familiar. But she found only smoke.

Crying now, she turned and went hard the other way. Surely this must be right. Her right foot caught on something and she fell to one knee, but on she went, dragging herself up, driving herself forward. She cannoned off something solid and suddenly filled with hope ran her hands over the surface. Was it a door? A window? She scraped at it, but it came away in her hand. Clawing harder, she now came up against solid brick. Jesus Christ, it was one of the walls. She was in the wrong place. The door must be…

She turned and moved randomly forward, no idea now which way was which. Her head swam wildly and she stumbled again. Which way was left? Which right? Which direction should she go in?

Denise stood still, paralysed by fear, as the fire raged around her and the smoke enveloped her. The decision she was about to make would either cost her her life or save it. So crying quietly and praying to God for help, she picked a direction, swallowed her fears and stumbled slowly forward.

Charlie clamped her hand over her mouth, as the bitter fumes filled her nose and throat. Instinctively she recoiled, struggling to breathe. She had never smelt anything like this before – and she hoped she never would have to again. Turning away quickly, she rejoined DI Sanderson, who was marshalling the uniformed officers, attempting to create a secure perimeter around the burning building. Above them a helicopter circled – it wasn’t one of theirs, so presumably was press, no doubt beaming live pictures into homes all round the country. Was this what their arsonist wanted? Charlie rather suspected it was.