Frances Fyfield - Trial by Fire

Her shivering was becoming uncontrollable. She remembered the bicycle rides, huge physical efforts, the sensation of palpitating heat as she had watched the first of the flames outside the shop, then more pumping of pedals and heartbeat and emotion as she had entered the summerhouse, flexed first her hearing, and then her muscles to drag the paraffin across the floor, having closed that door.

She had not intended to use the paraffin at first. A spur-of-the-moment stroke of brilliance, the same ultimate solution she had played with yesterday, not really intending to use it until she had seen his cringing and knew despite his denials that he was slipping. She'd heard the lie in the shrillness of his voice and had realized in the same moment that the general discrediting of William by having him labelled a loopy arsonist as well as a thief was not going to save either of them; all it meant was that no one would believe a fire raiser.

He had to be put away where no one could talk to him at all. Now, in the absence of any flames hitting the sky, the sight for which she had grown hungry, she doubted her own wisdom, wondered if she had underestimated him. Surely not, she decided. She contemplated going back, but no, let him face his family stinking of paraffin if he got out – family and policemen, if they had found her clues. What difference would it make? They would never listen to him now.

The field below her inclined gently toward The Crown, the stubble of it shining like dull gold. Slinking down one side, barely visible, was the fox, a mere suspicion of movement, a flash on the eye like a ghost in motion. Its presence was a blow of surprise, a dark premonition of disaster, filling her mouth with vomit as she watched to see how close the thing would pass before detecting her presence. She loathed the sinuous progress of it, Mama's fox coming back, the one that had bitten off her hand, or so she had heard in some eavesdropped aside.

No animal, no living thing, should have the teeth or temerity for that. Mother had been hers, the revenge all her own. Evelyn jumped to her feet, shouted wildly, `Go away, go away,' waved her arms, watched the fox freeze, flatten, turn, and double back into the undergrowth at the foot of The Crown's jungle of a garden. She was shaking with relief; she kicked her feet and wagged her hands, jogged on the spot, circled the tree against which she had sat, settled down again to rest, flexed her fingers, looked at her watch.

Midnight.

When she got home, she would write it all down, the way she wrote so many things, as Antony had taught her. It's all in your head, Evelyn: writing is only learning how to get it out, make sense of it. She remembered the alien familiarity of her room, the papers in it. They were safe, of course, the mildest of risks, because Papa could be bribed with the gold in the end, and no one had ever wanted entry to her sanctuary. No one ever had. Her only risk was what she had written; her only legacy from the teacher. Her eyes began to close.

She would wait one more hour. Then she would go and see.

Still no sign of fire.

William was sinking into sullen inactivity, shuffling and speechless. `Cheer up.

Nothing's ever as bad as it looks.' Helen's voice rang false in her own ears, repeating a cliche she hated.

He grunted with short laughter. 'Nothing looks like anything in the dark. We can't see anything in the dark.'

OK. Sorry I spoke.'

`Not your fault.'

`Couldn't we try again, pet? You lift me up, I push the door?' `No, I can't. I don't even want to.

I'm tired.'

So was she. Their several attempts to shift the trapdoor with a certain clumsy co-ordination but without the benefit of the shattered ladder, had resulted in nothing. The first shove had shifted the paraffin container, dousing them further, while the second had damaged their ankles and knees. They were filthy and stinking. Helen's hope for eventual rescue via Bernadette, whose punishment for her interference would surely not be as extreme as abandonment, had sunk to a dull glow of optimism.

Her greatest fear was the return of Evelyn, but her fear was William's greatest wish and she tried to distract him from it. Even in the course of their efforts, in the flow of her own chatter, the odd joke which had succeeded in making him laugh, William's stone mill of a mind had been grinding out conclusions. She had begged him to think; now she wished he could stop.

`She isn't coming back,' he said.

`Well, she's obviously cross about something.'

I don't mean now. Ever.'

Oh, I expect she will. People don't stay cross for long.' `She tried to kill us. No, me.'

Oh, no, William. This is just her idea of a joke.'

`She knows I don't understand about fires. She tried to teach me, but I couldn't learn.'

Helen paused, unwilling to stretch him further but desperately seeking clues as to how to deal with the dreadful possibility of Evelyn's return.

`Why is she so cross, William? Is it about you and her being special friends, you know what I mean, going to bed together? Is she afraid her father might find out, or what? There's more than that isn't there?'

`We weren't always special friends. She wouldn't let me…' He wavered away into uncertainty. Helen imagined Bailey as interrogator. How quickly he would persuade this boy to tell, shuddered at the thought, listened. 'I suppose she didn't like it very much. She only let me after… Oh, never mind.'

After what?'

After her mummy was dead. I cried. We buried her, Evie's mummy. She hated her mummy, but not as much as she hated the man she says killed her mummy.'

Oh.' Helen cleared her throat. 'What about her mummy's coat and things? You know, the things women always seem to have, rings and bracelets and handbags. And clothes of course.'

She could sense the puzzlement she could not see. William had lost his power to contrive, forgotten his small ability to keep secrets.

`She didn't have any clothes and things,' he said finally. 'She was all bare. Like a big chicken.'

He gave a giggle of embarrassment. `Goodness,' said Helen. 'And how did you dig the hole for her?'

`With our hands, mostly, and Evelyn's knife. The ground was very soft.'

Is that her knife you showed me?'

`Yes. She told me to throw it away. I didn't, though. She never looks in the cupboard. I thought' – he struggled with the idea – 'I thought afterwards, long time afterwards, she might have wanted me to say I killed her mummy. I always said I would say that if she liked, I'd say that again and again if anyone ever said she'd done it -Evie, I mean.'

`You go to prison for things like that, William. For a long time.'

`So what? Doesn't matter for me,' said William stoutly. 'Why should it matter for me? But Evie's clever, going to be a doctor. Only Evie matters, not me. I love Evie better than anything. Only Evie ever cared about me.'

`She didn't – ' Helen tried to make her questions as diffident as possible. 'She didn't see someone kill her mummy, did she?'

I don't know,' said William hopelessly. 'I don't know, and I wouldn't care if she did. I don't know anything any more.' Sobs were rising again like a storm. 'I don't know. Her mummy was horrible. I only wanted to help. And now she wants to kill me.'

Of course she doesn't. She'll come back.'

`She wants to kill me,' he repeated. 'And I don't know why.'

Helen put her arms around him, prayed for rescue, hugged him, and rocked him to and fro, a part of her wishing in fury a fate worse than death for Evelyn, the other part wondering how long it took for paraffin fumes to evaporate. The skin of her face felt flammable, her arms were weak, and the boy was growing ever more helpless. Wait for daylight. Another thought occurred to her with appalling clarity. 'William, will you give me the matches? I'd feel safer.' He handed them over. Her recognition, in this simple demand, of his despair and his longing to be dead made him cry more.