Michael Robotham - Say You're sorry

By touch, I find the sink and turn on a tap, washing out my eyes. I manage to open the window a few inches and press my face to the gap, sucking in fresh air. Turning back, I notice a dark shape to my right. Augie is sitting in the bath, his arms wrapped around his knees.

I grab his arm. Shouting. “We have to get out.”

He looks at me. Tears stain his cheeks.

“Come with me.”

He pushes my hand away.

“You can’t stay here. We have to go.”

“I can’t,” he says, pointing to his ankle bracelet. “The judge said I couldn’t leave the house.”

“This is different. You’re allowed.”

“But they’ll kill me outside.”

There is a whooshing sound from below. Flames sweep across the ceiling of the entry hall. Wood crackles and burns. The window won’t open far enough for us to get out. I can’t carry Augie and he won’t come with me. He’s too frightened.

I can’t leave him here and I can’t stay.

Turning on a tap, I wet a towel and drape it over his head.

“Stay here, I’ll get help.”

He doesn’t answer.

I wet a second towel and cover my head. On my hands and knees, I reach the top of the stairs. Face first, I slide down the steps, losing control, landing on my shoulder and rolling. The burning ceiling twirls and dips.

I’m breathing more smoke than oxygen. Blindly, I try to reach the kitchen, but everything has slowed down. I keep hitting my head on the wall. I can’t find the door. It’s dark. Poisonous. Hot.

Curling up on the floor, I place my lips against the carpet, trying to find clean air. If I could just get one lungful, I could keep going. I can feel the heat on the back of my legs.

Wood splinters and the air pressure changes. The fire feeds on the oxygen and bursts through the door of the front room. Strong hands grab me, lifting me, carrying me along the hallway. I try to help, but can’t support my own weight.

My legs are bumping down the steps. I feel soft earth beneath me. Fresh air. I’m dragged across the garden and rolled onto my back. Coughing. Sucking in air. I can’t open my eyes, but I recognize Ruiz’s voice.

“Is there anyone else inside?”

I nod, but can’t speak. Another question, a different voice. Grievous is with him. I point upstairs. Every window at the rear of the house is lit up by fire. Firemen appear from the laneway, dragging hoses through the gate. The detective constable yells at them. “There’s someone still inside. Upstairs.”

The fireman nods and uses his radio, calling for breathing apparatus. Flames are spilling from windows, licking at the eaves. Ruiz helps me to stand. I don’t want to leave. I reach out towards Grievous, wanting to thank him, but he’s already gone, issuing commands, growing in stature.

Ruiz walks me along the lane past the fire engines and police cars. In the darkness I can’t see the smoke, but an orange glow is silhouetting the rooftops and the sparks look like bloated fireflies rising on the heated air.

The crowd has gone silent. No longer hurling missiles, they watch the blaze like children around a bonfire, cheeks glowing, light dancing in their eyes, energy draining away.

One group of young men is loitering on the far side of the street, swigging from cans of lager. Two of them I recognize: Toby Kroger and Craig Gould. Kroger sees me and raises his drink in a grinning toast. Nelson Stokes is another spectator, gazing at the fire as though he expected something more impressive and shouldn’t have bothered coming out.

Ruiz is still with me.

“How did you know?” I ask.

“I got your message. I came as soon as I could. Your girlfriend told me you were still inside the house.”

“Thank you.”

“I guess we’re even.”

“How does it make us even?”

“You’ll save my life one day.”

Victoria Naparstek is sitting in a police car with the door open and a gray blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

She looks relieved and then searches the road behind me. “Where’s Augie?”

“He wouldn’t come out. I tried. I’m sorry.”

Her first reaction is anger, then hurt, then sadness. She walks into my arms, resting her head against my chest, wiping her nose with the corner of the blanket.

“They killed him,” she whispers, barely making a sound.

This is how I wake, sliding warily out of sleep, listening for every sound, watching the shadows. He crept up on me last time, caught me by surprise. I won’t let it happen again.

Squatting, pants around my knees, I listen to the tinkling in the bedpan beneath me, gazing at the dull white square of the window. Quiet. No birdsong.

Afterwards, I climb on the bench and look at the pale nude sky.

I wonder if George will come today. Until Tash left, I didn’t consider the idea that I was lonely. Now it’s driving me crazy. I can handle the hunger and the cold, but not this. I need George. Next time I’ll be nicer to him and he’ll bring me food and more gas and warmer blankets. If I’m nice to him, he’ll let me wash and give me clean clothes.

I know what he wants and I don’t care anymore. He can stab me with his filthy penis. He can kiss me with his slimy tongue. I just want to know he’s coming back. I want to talk to someone. I don’t want to die down here alone.

I’ve tried to use the walkie-talkie but I think it’s broken or the batteries are dead. I took them out and put them back in again, but it didn’t make any difference. The eye is still peering from the ceiling but I don’t know if it’s turned on or if George is watching. I’ve begged him to come back, but nothing happened.

It’s cold. I pull on three layers of clothes and go to the gas burner. It’s empty. The tap is frozen. I’ll have to wait. The pipes will thaw when it warms up outside.

When I’m hungry like this I think about home. I think about cottage pie and baked pears. Phoebe. Ben. I used to be able to describe The Old Vicarage down to the last detail, every crack and creak and wobbly window, but over time I’ve started to forget things.

If I concentrate really hard, I can imagine throwing rocks into the pond and hear them land with a satisfying plonk before muddy bubbles break the surface. Then I can hear my mother calling me inside for breakfast but I keep standing in the garden, not wanting to leave, watching the first rays of sunshine reach across the lawn towards the greenhouse.

Phoebe will be up early. She’s a morning person, always buzzing and chatting, treating each day like the start of a new adventure. If it’s Saturday morning she’ll watch TV, curled up on the sofa, creating a fort of pillows around her. She’ll get Ben breakfast because he gets hungry before Mum and Dad get up.

I have a new baby sister. I don’t know her name. George didn’t tell me what they called her. I can’t remember much about Phoebe being a baby, but Ben came along when I was twelve. I saw him at the hospital, lying in a cot in the maternity ward. I thought he looked like Gollum from Lord of the Rings.

There’s a sound above me. Boxes are being moved. For a fleeting second, I’m hoping that Tash has come back, but then I hear his voice.

“Honey, I’m home,” he sings from the far side of the trapdoor.

My bowels seem to liquefy. Stupid, stupid, stupid me! I wanted him to come. I prayed for it. Now I would take it back. I would take it back a million times.

The trapdoor opens. His face appears.

“Are you ready?”

I draw back, shaking my head, waiting.

“I heard you asking for me.”

“Where’s Tash?”

“I have food.”

“I want to see her.”

“Forget about her. She’s being punished. If you’re good to me, I’ll let you talk to her. Come on. Climb up. That’s it. Raise your arms. One, two, three, upsy daisy.”