Mike Shevdon - The Eighth Court

“We’re getting them out,” said the woman in the orange dress. “It’s clear at the moment but we have to be quick. Is there anyone with you?”

“There was someone,” said Andy, “but I’m not sure where they’ve gone.”

“That’s OK,” said the woman in the orange dress. “We’ll try and find them on the way down.”

“You lead the way,” said Andy.

“It’s dark,” she said. “Take my hand.”

“How do I know you are who you say you are?” he asked.

“Don’t be silly. Who else would I be? Now take my hand and we’ll go down together.”

“I’m OK, I don’t need help,” he said.

“Not for you, silly,” she said. “For me. You think it’s easy in these heels?”

“They’re not that high” said another voice. The woman in the orange dress spun around to find herself faced with another woman, also in an orange dress and similar heels. “You know, that colour really doesn’t suit you as much as it suits me.”

There was a crash. A chair splintered as Andy swung it across the back of the impostor, where it exploding into dusty fragments. “Shit! It’s full of woodworm,” shouted Andy. “Save yourself, Julie. Get out while you still can.”

The orange dress of the impostor lost its colour and faded into grey. “Too bad for you,” it said, transforming into a tall grey woman and reaching towards Andy. Her voice took on a breathy whisper as her body drifted into insubstantial spectral form. “Much too bad.”

The loft area was already cold, but now it took on a bone-chilling intensity. The ghostly form turned on Andy who was retreating back from her, throwing oddments of chamber pots, broken picture frames and long discarded toys in her direction. None of them had any effect. “Time up,” she said.

“Too true,” said Julie. Heat was radiating from her. The dress started smoking and turning brown where it touched her skin.

“No!” said the impostor. “You don’t understand.” She started condensing inwards, visibly pulling herself together, but she was already extended towards Andy.

Long licks of flame started travelling up Julie’s arms. As soon as they did, the flame flashed across the gap and the impostor exploded. Julie and Andy were flung backwards in the blast. The whole roof buckled and shook, fragments of tiles raining on them like shrapnel. The fire caught across the loft area, the flames flickering on all manner of things. In moments, old curtains, abandoned teddy bears, cardboard suitcases — everything caught. It was like a giant tinder box.

“We have to get you out!” shouted Julie to Andy who was sprawled across the floor. She was no longer wreathed in flame, but seemed unaffected by the heat that was rapidly building.

“The smoke,” coughed Andy. “I can’t deal with the smoke.”

“Come on,” she said. “I’ll help you downstairs.”

“The window,” choked Andy. “You have to open it.”

“If I let the air in here it’ll go up like a furnace. You’ll die in the heat or be killed by the fall.”

“Do it!” Andy insisted.

She picked up a wooden baby cot and hurled it at the gable window. It crashed through, toppling on the rim and then fell two stories to the ground below where it smashed on the paving. The air rushed in and the heat intensified. Fire started jumping from one thing to the next like it was a living entity.

“Help me out,” said Andy.

“You have to be kidding,” said the woman.

“Do it,” wheezed Andy.

She leaned down and grasped under his arm, heedless of the heat and the roiling smoke.

“Air,” Andy gasped.

She helped him to the broken window, smoke rolling upwards into the night air. He thrust his head and shoulders out and took a huge breath. “Now,” he coughed. He toppled forward and fell out, twisting in the air as he fell. She screamed, but as he fell he dissolved and became a thousand tiny particles which swirled and swarmed, turning in the night air, buzzing with the thrum of thousands of tiny wings, streaming out over the drive to form a twisting column of turning, angry bees. Andy’s coat fell, a flapping discarded remnant, onto the broken shards of the baby cot.

“OK,” she said. “Now I just have to get myself out before the roof collapses.”

“Not that way, that’s the cloakrooms,” said Alex. She went to the next door and listened, trying to blot out the sounds of screaming behind her.

“Maybe we should hide in there,” said Debbie, wishing she’s worn something more practical than a pale trouser suit and ballet shoes. “If we turn the lights out, they won’t know we’re in there.”

“Yeah, cause no one ever hides in the toilets,” said Alex. “It’s the first place they’ll look. Haven’t you seen any movies?”

“There’s no need to be mean,” said Charles. His father was something in the city, apparently, though that meant little enough to Alex. “She’s only trying to help,” he told Alex.

“And they can see in the dark,” said Alex, ignoring him. “Through here,”

“Where does this go?” asked Megan, following Alex through a maze of passages at the back of the house.

“Those are sculleries, and that’s the gun room. There are stables at the back, converted into offices. There must be another exit here somewhere.” She led the way through.

“Why don’t we go to the gun room?” asked Charles. “We can at least arm ourselves. I can use a shotgun.”

“Do you know how to work a matchlock?” asked Alex. “No, I thought not. Besides they don’t leave working guns lying around in National Trust properties. It’s not the done thing. Shut the doors behind you,” said Alex.

“Why?” asked Debbie. “What if there is something down here and we need to get out this way?”

“You hear that sound?” said Alex. The screaming from behind them was suddenly choked off. “That’s you, if you go back that way. Close the door, it might slow them down.”

“Can we lock it?” asked Megan.

“There’s no locks on the internal doors. My dad said you can seal a door if you know how. Anyone know how?” One after another they shook their heads. “Keep moving,” said Alex, “and hope they’re not coming around the outside and waiting at the back to intercept us.”

“You think that’s likely?” asked Megan.

“You have a better idea?” asked Alex.

When she reached the office, she pulled them through and shut the door behind them. The door had a Yale lock, which she clicked shut and latched closed. “It won’t hold them,” she said. “Help me move this.” She stood one side of a low bookcase and she and Charles manoeuvred it across the door. “This isn’t heavy enough,” she said, pulling out an A4 file with loose paper in it. “Find something bigger.”

“Like what?” said Charles, exasperated.

“Did you find the exit door?” Alex said to Megan as she emerged from the other room.

“It’s locked,” said Megan.

“So unlock it,” said Alex. “It’s not hard.” She pushed past Megan into the adjoining office. At the end of the office was a single door labelled Fire Exit . It had one of those quick release bars. She pressed it and the lock flipped open but the door didn’t move. “It’s a fire exit,” said Alex. “It’s not supposed to be locked.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” said Megan in an irritated voice from behind her.

Alex pressed her hand on the door and concentrated. The lock flipped open on its own, but the door stayed resolutely shut.

“Break it down,” said Alex to Charles, pointing at the door.

“What?” said Charles.

“You’re a man!” said Alex. “Do manly things. Break it down.”

Charles exchanged glances with Debbie and Megan, and then took a few paces back and shoulder-charged the door. He met it with a solid thump and the door shuddered but remained closed.