Before, wielding the starter, he had held all the power. Now it has been taken from him, has grown far larger than him.
He could not stop it even if he wanted to. Does he want to? No. No, he doesn’t.
Not even now, confronted by the reality of it – far more magnificent and terrible than he ever imagined when it lit up his dreams?
He could still help them. He could warn them. It would still be a fantastic act of rebellion, a symbol. But life would not be sacrificed.
No, too late, impossible. But he could try.
George
It is a scent from earliest memory. It carries upon it a season. George is ready for it, tired of the heat, ready for the softness of it, the richer colours. Wood, dried by summer sun, wood and resin, burning up. A scent of sweetness and warmth. How strange, though, he cannot remember how he came to be here, in the English countryside, in autumn.
How did he return? No … he cannot remember.
Constantinople, the Bosphorus, a swim in turquoise waters, a sick little boy, a woman named Nur – these are the things he remembers.
He opens his eyes. A dream. No, not entirely a dream: the woodsmoke remains. The dark is thick as soup. But at the furthest reaches of his vision there is a strange illumination, an inconsistent flickering. He cannot think what it could be, beyond the idea that too much of his dream has bled into life – that he has been left with some retinal imprint of it. The scent of it, too, in his nostrils. The taste of it, filling his mouth with bitterness.
His thoughts are full of sleep, he has to struggle toward clarity like a man wading through a bog. It has to be the dream, because there is no other explanation. It is far too dark, far too late, for someone to be having a bonfire.
It is another minute before he heeds the animal part of his mind, that centre of pure instinct, that is sounding the alarm.
By now he can feel the heat of it, pressing in, forcing the cold air of the room into retreat. Still, he clutches at the hope that he is mistaken. The alternative is too terrible.
He stumbles outside. The building is on fire. He stands for a moment blinking before the billowing sail of heat, his vision blurring, disbelieving.
As he looks, he sees one of the shadows detach itself from the mass of dark, running. At first he thinks it is someone come to help, is about to beckon them, and ask them to join the line. Then he realises that the figure is not running toward him; is making instead for the cover of the trees behind the house.
‘Hey,’ he shouts. ‘You! Stop there!’
The man falters, and turns. George is certain that he did not mean to do this, that the reaction was an involuntary one. He will castigate himself for it later, no doubt. In turning he has allowed George a full look at him. Lit by flames, the pale oval of his face – young, dark-featured – is as clearly visible as it would be in daylight. George is certain that he has not seen him before. At the same time, though, there is a certain familiarity. In this moment he does not have the space within his thoughts to begin to explain it. Perhaps it will come. He is certain now that the fire was no accident; that here is its cause. Too late, he remembers to make chase. His legs are clumsy; the other moved with an animal agility. The ground seems purposefully to obstruct him, twice his ankle turns over almost upon itself, sending a raw pain up his leg. Still, he keeps going, plunges into the dark thicket. Only now does he see that it is utterly useless. The arsonist could be crouched behind some tree, above him in the branches, or far gone from here. He could even be lying quietly a few feet away on the earth, shrouded in dark – and George would never know. There is no purpose in running, now.
It is still some way from the ward. But it seems to be blossoming at an incredible speed. He stumbles back inside. Three figures, white-clad, seem to shimmer out of the darkness of the rest of the house: Bill and two of the Sisters, in their nightclothes. They gape at him, still half-asleep, mirroring his own disbelief.
‘The patients,’ he says to them. ‘We have to move them out onto the grass.’ His voice is calmer than it should be. ‘We need to make them safe. Then stop the fire.’
They nod at him. He would like to shake them – they seem stupefied by the horror of it – forgetting that he had been exactly the same; has had those crucial few moments more with the reality of it. Finally they seem to light into action.
The patients are awake – those who are sensible to the catastrophe, at least – and alarmed. Some of those who are able have already fled outside and are now returning, rather shame-faced, to help with the transport of the bedridden.
It is the boy that George sees, goes to, first. He has shrunk himself into a foetal curl, his hands covering his head, his legs drawn up. When George goes to him, calls his name, he is insensible with fear.
He does the only thing he can: lifts him and the bedclothes in an awkward bundle into his arms – the small cargo within the sheets unyielding, rigid – and carries him
