The Night Ferry

It connects. The ring tone is long and dull.

Someone picks up. Silence.

“Hello?”

Nothing.

“Hello, can you hear me?”

Someone is breathing.

“I’m trying to reach Samira. Is she there?”

A guttural voice, bubbling with phlegm, answers me. “Who is calling?”

The accent might be Dutch. It sounds more East European.

“A friend.”

“Your name?”

“Actually, I’m a friend of a friend.”

“Your name and your friend’s name?”

Distrust sweeps over me like a cold shadow. I don’t like this voice. I can feel it searching for me, reaching inside my chest, feeling blindly for my soft center, my soul.

“Is Samira there?”

“There is nobody here.”

I try to sound calm. “I am calling on behalf of Cate Beaumont. I have the rest of the money.”

I am extrapolating on the known facts, which is just a fancy way of saying that I’m winging it. How much further can I go?

The phone goes dead.

Not far enough.

Putting the receiver back on its cradle, I smooth the bed and pick up my things. As I turn toward the door I hear a tinkling sound. I know what it is. I made just such a sound when I smashed a pane of glass in the French doors.

Someone is in the house. What are the chances of two intruders on the same night? Slim. None. Tucking the package into the waistband of my jeans, I peer over the banister. There are muffled voices in the hall. At least two. A torch beam passes the bottom of the stairs. I pull back.

What to do? I shouldn’t be here. Neither should they. Ahead of me are the stairs to the loft. Climbing them quickly, I reach a door that opens on stiff hinges.

From downstairs: “Did you hear something?”

“What?”

“I thought I heard something.”

“Nah.”

“I’ll check upstairs.”

One of them sounds Irish. It could be Brendan Pearl.

“Hey!”

“What?”

“You notice that?”

“What?”

“The windows are covered in plastic. Why would they do that?”

“Fucked if I know. Just get on with it.”

The loft seems to be full of odd angles and narrow corners. My eyes are getting used to the dark. I can make out a single bed, a cabinet, a fan on a stand and cardboard boxes of clutter and bric-a-brac.

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.

12

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.