Michael Robotham - The Night Ferry

Squeezing into a space formed by the cabinet and the sloping roof, I pull boxes in front of me. I need a weapon. The iron bed has heavy brass balls on the bedposts. I unscrew one of them quietly and peel off a sock, slipping the ball inside. It slips down to the toe and I weigh it in my hands. It could break bones.

Returning to my hiding place, I listen for footsteps on the stairs and watch the door. I have to call the police. If I flip open my phone the screen will light up like a neon sign saying, “Here I am! Come and get me!”

Shielding it in both hands, I dial 999. An operator answers.

“Officer in trouble. Intruders on premises.”

I whisper the address and my badge number. I can’t stay on the line. The phone closes and the screen goes dark. Only my breathing now and the footsteps…

The door opens. A torch beam flashes and swings across the room. I can’t see the figure behind it. He can’t see me. He stumbles over a box and sends Christmas baubles spilling across the floor. The light finds one of them close to my feet.

He puts the torch on the bed, facing toward him. It reflects off his forehead. Brendan Pearl. All my weight is on the balls of my feet, ready to fight. What’s he doing?

There is something in his fist. A box-like can. He presses it and a stream of liquid arcs from the nozzle, shining silver in the torch beam. He presses again, soaking the boxes and drawing patterns on the walls. Fluid splashes across my forehead, leaking into my eyes.

Red hot wires stab into my brain and the smell catches in the back of my throat. Lighter fluid. Fire!

The pain is unimaginable, but I mustn’t move. He’s going to set fire to the house. I have to get out. I can’t see. Vibrations on the stairs. He’s gone. Crawling from my hiding place, I reach the door and press my ear against it.

My eyes are useless. I need water to flush them out. There’s a bathroom on the first floor as well as an en suite in the main bedroom. I can find them but only if Pearl has gone. I can’t afford to wait.

Something breaks with a crack and topples over downstairs. My vision is blurred but I see a light. Not light. Fire!

The ground floor is ablaze and the smoke is rising. Clinging to the handrail, I make it down to the landing. Feeling my way along the wall, I reach the en suite and splash water into my eyes. I can see only blurred outlines, shadows instead of sharp detail.

The smoke is getting thicker. On my hands and knees, I feel my way across the bedroom, smelling the lighter fluid on the carpet. When the fire reaches this floor it will accelerate. The study window is still open. I crawl across the landing, bumping my head against a wall. My fingers find the skirting board. I can feel the heat.

Finding the window, I lean outside and take deep breaths between spluttering coughs. There is a whooshing sound behind me. Flames sweep past the open door. Hungry. Feeding on the accelerant.

Climbing onto the window ledge I look down. I can just make out the garden, sixteen feet below. A jump like that will break both my legs. I turn my head toward the downpipe bolted to the wall. My eyes are useless. How far was it? Four feet. Maybe a little more.

I can feel the heat of the fire on the backs of my legs. A window blows out beneath me. I hear glass scattering through the shrubbery.

I have to back myself to do this. I have to trust my memory and my instincts. Toppling sideways, I reach out, falling.

My left hand brushes past the pipe. My right hand hooks around it. Momentum will either pull me loose or rip my shoulder out. Two hands have it now. My hip crashes against the bricks and I hang on.

Hand below hand, I shimmy toward the ground. Sirens are coming. My feet touch soft earth and I wheel about, stumbling a dozen paces before tripping over a flower bed and sprawling on my face.

Every window at the rear of the house is lit up. Through my watery eyes it sounds and looks like a university party. The ultimate housewarming.

Two detectives have turned up. One of them I remember from training college, Eric Softell. The name sounds like a brand of toilet paper, which is why they nicknamed him “Arsewipe” at training college. Not me, of course. Sikh girls don’t risk calling people names.

“I heard you were off the force,” he says.

“No.”

“Still running?”

“Yes.”

“Not fast enough from what I hear.” He grins at his partner, Billy Marsh, a detective constable.

Stories about the camaraderie of police officers are often sadly overstated. I don’t find many of my colleagues particularly lovable or supportive, but at least most of them are honest and some of them are keepers like DI Ruiz.

A paramedic has flushed out my eyes with distilled water. I’m sitting on the back ramp of the ambulance, head tilted, while he tapes cotton wool over my left eye.

“You should see an eye specialist,” he says. “It can sometimes take a week before the full damage is clear.”

“Permanent damage?”

“See the specialist.”

Behind him fire hoses snake across the gleaming road and firemen in reflective vests are mopping up. Structurally, there is still a house on the block, but the insides are gutted and smoking. The loft collapsed under the weight of water.

I called Hari to come and get me. Now he’s watching the firemen with a mixture of awe and envy. What boy doesn’t want to play with a hose?

Sensing the animosity between Softell and me, he tries to step in and play the protective brother, which doesn’t really suit him.

“Listen, punka-wallah, why don’t you run along and fetch us a cup of tea?” says Softell.

Hari doesn’t understand the insult but he recognizes the tone.

I should be angry but I’m used to remarks like this from people like Softell. During probationer training a group of us were given riot shields and sent to the parade ground. Another band of recruits were told to attack us verbally and physically. There were no rules, but we weren’t able to retaliate. Softell spat in my face and called me a “Paki whore.” I practically thanked him.

My left thigh is slightly corked; my knuckles are scraped and raw. There are questions. Answers. The name Brendan Pearl means nothing to them.

“Explain to me again what you were doing in the house.”

“I was driving by. I saw a burglary in process. I called it in.”

“From inside the house?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So you followed them inside?”

“Yes.”

Softell shakes his head. “You just happened to be driving past a friend’s house and you saw the same man who was driving the car that ran her down. What do you think, Billy?”

“Sounds like bullshit to me.” Marsh is the one taking notes.

“How did you get lighter fluid in your eyes?”

“He was spraying it around.”

“Yeah, yeah, while you were hiding in the corner.”

Arsehole!

Casually, he props his foot on the tray of the ambulance. “If you were just gonna hide in there, why bother going in at all?”

“I thought there was only one of them.”

I’m digging myself into a hole.

“Why didn’t you phone for backup before you went in?”

Deeper and deeper.

“I don’t know, sir.”

Drops of water have beaded on the polished toe of his shoe.

“You see how it looks, don’t you?” Softell says.

“How does it look?”

“A house burns down. A witness comes forward who is covered in lighter fluid. Rule number one when dealing with arson—nine times out of ten, the person who yells ‘fire’ is the person who starts the fire.”

“You can’t be serious. Why would I do that?”