Darkside

She heard the front door open.

Jonas.

Her panic was only outweighed by her indecision. She had to hide from him! And yet that seemed ridiculous. Hide from Jonas? She would just feel like a fool.

He didn’t call from the door. He always called from the door, to let her know it was him.

Maybe it wasn’t him.

The thought spurred her to action.

She slid to the floor with the trousers still in her hands, and rolled under the bed.

She heard the middle stair creak and felt fear trickle down her spine. Jonas always took care to miss that tread.

Who was it that was coming up the stairs towards her?

Suddenly, rolling under the bed seemed the smartest thing she’d ever done, even though she felt horribly vulnerable. If he saw her, she had no defence. He would lean down and grip her ankles and drag her out like a pig in a slaughterhouse.

The man walked down the landing and into the bedroom.

Lucy held her breath.

She saw only his black trousers and boots, still with snow clinging to them. Jonas never wore his boots upstairs. Taking them off at the foot of the stairs was second nature to him.

The man crossed the room as if he owned it. There was no hesitation, no caution, no fear that he might be detected.

Lucy heard a drawer open and shut, and watched the boots leave.

After a few moments, she heard the shower go on.

She frowned.

It must be Jonas!

Relief made her shake.

And yet something stopped her from coming out from underneath the bed. It wasn’t the fact that he had hit her. Somehow that seemed almost incidental now. It was something else. The missing button, the silent entrance, the boots upstairs, those things meant more to her now. Something – maybe something learned from years of horror films – made her lie there on the dusty carpet, hiding from the husband she loved until, at last, the exhaustion of fear – coupled with the familiar and homely sound of the shower – lulled her to an unlikely sleep.

* * *

Marvel awoke to the sound of flames.

It was not the sound of a fire in the hearth, but the crackling roar of a furnace, accompanied by what sounded like small-arms fire.

He checked his watch: 2am. He rolled out of bed and staggered straight into the wall-mounted TV, knocking himself over and almost out. His stomach protested the sudden activity and he burped the sophisticated aroma of Cinzano into his nose.

He regained his feet and yanked the curtain aside to see two or three silhouetted figures backlit by the burning farmhouse. A section of tiles exploded off the roof in a volley of shots and arced into the white-spotted snow-sky like fireworks.

He fumbled his damp shoes off the radiator, threw his coat over his vest and shorts, and ran outside – another stagger giving away just how recently he had left the house that was now an inferno.

Reynolds, Rice and Grey were throwing water at the front-door handle – apparently in an attempt to cool it down enough to open it. They were using what looked like flower pots, and scooping water from an old trough in the yard. Singh staggered about in the snow with a ladder that was too short to do anything more than be a hazard to all, while Pollard shouted, ‘Mrs Springer!’ repeatedly and randomly at the house between staring at the flames, mouth agape like a tourist.

What a bunch of fucking babies!

‘Where is she?’ yelled Marvel above the roar, but Pollard just shook his head.

‘Fire brigade?’ yelled Marvel again, with the obligatory mime of a phone at his ear, and Reynolds shouted, ‘On their way!’

They’ll never make it, thought Marvel. Not in this snow.

The snow had continued to fall and was knee deep in places. Great plumes of steam joined the smoke pumping from the roof of the house, as flakes sizzled and spat off the tiles like fat in a pan.

‘Help them!’ he yelled at Pollard, pointing at the others, then ran to the trough, stripping off his coat. He plunged it into the water, which was sharp with broken ice, then pulled it on once more, barely noticing the freezing cold against his bare skin. He pulled the coat up over his head, then rushed at the front door just as Singh and Grey broke it open with the ladder.

Reynolds tried to stop him, standing in his way, grabbing at his coat like a fan.

‘You’re drunk,’ he shouted in Marvel’s face, without even the nicety of a ‘sir’.

Marvel elbowed him in the nose – it wasn’t a punch, but it was something – then barged past him shouting, ‘Out of the way!’ and ran inside.

Inside was an oasis of calm compared to the courtyard and for a moment Marvel stopped and swayed and took it all in.

The flames were up the curtains and walls, but the flagstone floor was a daunting foe to fire. The bottles and the glasses he’d left just a few hours before were still on the table. Smoke obscured much of his view, and – not content with blinding him – now reached down Marvel’s throat with long, sharp nails and started to claw at his lungs.

From outside he could hear Reynolds hoarsely shouting ‘Sir!’ with an irritable air – as if Marvel were a dog that wouldn’t come back – and Grey yelling something about hosepipes. They sounded shockingly close for people in another universe.

He coughed and spat and shielded his face from the heat coming at him from the far end of the room as he edged closer to where he knew the sofa was.

He staggered once and caught his thigh a painful blow on the kitchen table.

Halfway there, Marvel thought maybe he shouldn’t be doing this. The smoke was making it hard to breathe and steam was rising off his coat, while his exposed hands, arms and legs were uncomfortably hot.

He dithered.

He almost turned back.

But the thought of staggering back into the snow with nothing to show for his derring-do but a bit of a cough was anathema.

Buoyed by bloody-mindedness and sweet vermouth, he carried on inching his way across the room until he could make out Joy Springer lying face-down on the hairy sofa with her four cats running frantically up and down her body as though she were the last piece of flotsam in the wake of a shipwreck.

He reached out to take her arm and the big grey fluffy cat shot out a razor-sharp claw to keep him at bay.

Fuck.

Marvel dropped to his knees and huddled under his coat for a moment and he coughed until he retched – his eyes and nose and mouth streaming with fluids as his body tried to reject the killing smoke.

Down here the air was clearer, and Marvel bent and touched his head to the flagstones as if praying, so he could breathe better. When he had refreshed himself he looked up blearily and saw the writing on the wall behind the sofa.

He recognized it immediately, even though it was a foot high and on a wall. How he could ever have thought it might be a match for Danny Marsh’s hand was ridiculous. He saw that, now that it was writ so large. And in what appeared to be blood.

Marvel grabbed Joy Springer’s arm and yanked her unceremoniously on to the floor. Three of the cats leaped clear and disappeared; the grey one came with her – its claws firmly lodged in the wool of her old cardigan. It