Stone Cold Red Hot (21 page)

“We couldn’t see anything, it was so confusing, the smoke and the noise. I didn’t know where any of them were. If I’d known which room...”

“You did everything you could,” said Mr Poole. “Just like Carl. He didn’t have to go in there, none of you did. People will remember him for that.”

“A hero?” My voice wobbled dangerously. “I’d rather he was alive.”

“Of course, so would I. ‘Happy the land that has no heroes’,” he quoted. “But if Carl had made it maybe they wouldn’t have,” he gestured towards the woman and her children. “He did his job, more than his job. When I talk to his mother that’s what I’ll tell her, that he was the best, his humanity took him in there, into that fire. He cared. It’s right to be proud of that.”

I was glad that Mr Poole knew Carl’s mother and would be able to describe to her all the events of that night, tell the story over and over, answer her questions. And Mrs Ahmed, who would talk with her? With a jolt I remembered her husband.

“Mr Ibrahim! They must get him, tell him. He’s at work.”

Someone called a policeman over and I told him about Mr Ibrahim, my words punctuated by coughing. “It’s in Chorlton somewhere.”

“Heaven’s Bridge,” supplied Mr Poole, “High Lane.”

“Thanks, we’ll get someone round there.”

Gradually we were seated in the ambulance, Mr Poole retrieved my bag for me and several different people made notes of our names and addresses.

Then they closed up the doors and as we drove away I could see the house through the small window, door charred, the blackened window frames gaping in the dark. The fresh graffiti on the wall still visible: ‘Nigger bastards go home’.

We made the journey in silence. I began to feel unbearably cold and started to shiver, my wet feet had gone numb and my leg ached fiercely.

At the hospital we were all seen by the triage nurse and split off into different cubicles. I was shaky and nauseous but I managed to use the payphone to ring home, thankful when Sheila answered. In a breathy croak I told her I was at the hospital, that something had come up with work and I wasn’t sure when I’d get home. Her interest and warmth brought me close to crying again so I kept the call brief.

I returned to my cubicle and reclined on the trolley. I was freezing and asked for another blanket but nothing ever materialised, Time seemed frozen, too. I read all the dilapidated notices about correct use of the equipment in the room and studied the sellotape marks on the walls.

I became familiar with the moans from the woman across the way who had stomach pain and kept vomiting and with the persistent outbursts from an exasperated old woman who wanted only to go home. Beside her sat an incredibly young care-worker who spoke occasionally to tell her she could go home once she’d seen the doctor. I’d passed the pair of them on the way to the phone, sitting side by side and looking like they’d just landed in purgatory.

At lengthy intervals nurses and doctors came in and made notes, asked questions, took blood samples, asked me to breathe into tubes, dressed my leg, gave me a leaflet and a note for my GP’s practice nurse and at long, long, last told me I could go home.

I sought out Johnny and found him in one of the bays. They’d covered his burns but he was to get the dressings changed daily as they were worried about the risk of infection.

“They cut my Levi jacket up, you know,” he feigned outrage, “and my Joe Bloggs shirt.”

I tried to smile but I felt lousy and I’m sure it looked pathetic. “I can probably get you some money for it, claim it from the council when I bill them. Oh, and I owe you the cab fare.”

“Forget it.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Kills but they’ve given us some really strong tablets. Need ‘em, I can tell you.”

“Look, that policeman, the one who arrested you, Doyle, If he tries to follow it up...”

“I’ll sue him for wrongful arrest. My cousin’s a lawyer, he’s good he is. And my uncle.”

“I think he’ll forget about it, after what happened. You saving the little girl.”

He looked sheepish.

“But if he does try anything, I’ll be a witness. It was racial harassment, he was totally out of order. The police will want to see us anyway, about the fire. It’s murder now. I know who was behind it and so do they. There’ll be a trial.”

“And seeing as one of their own’s dead, they’ll have to take it seriously for a change.”

His scepticism was well-placed. It wasn’t all that long since the Chief Constable had admitted to institutional racism in his own force in the wake of the Stephen Lawrence inquiry.

“Shame it was one of the good ones,” I added.

“Yeah. Should have been that other joker.” He shifted on his seat, settled his bandaged arm again. “One of my cousins went in the police, he was determined he was going to make a go of it. Fast track promotion, all that, he was a graduate and you know how they’re always going on about needing more black and Asian officers...We all thought he was tapped. Anyway, he lasted eight months. Nearly destroyed him. They were all like that Doyle, or worse. Stories he told me. Sick. Like that lot. Setting an house on fire, burning children.”

“And...” sudden tears caught me unawares. I fought to swallow them, wiped at my eyes with my hand. “I keep remembering him,” I said, “the little boy. I only saw him once, he translated for his mum.” I had to break off again. I took a deep breath or two.

“How old was he?”

“Six, seven? I feel so angry, at what they’ve done. And I feel so bloody useless too. It’s like ‘what can I do?’ What can anybody do? What will actually change anything?”

I wasn’t expecting answers from Johnny and he didn’t offer any. We sat quietly for a little while lost in thought.

“How are you getting home?” I broke the silence. “And your car!”

“My Dad’s coming for me. He’s gonna drop my brother off to get the car. We share it.”

“Who chose the seat covers?”

“Eh?”

“The leopard print?”

“Why?”

I shook my head. “Doesn’t matter.”

“No, go on. What’s wrong with them?”

“Nothing. Look, thank you, what you did, going in there. It was brilliant.”

“Yeah,” he looked embarrassed, “you didn’t do so bad yourself, wet curtains and all.”

I smiled. “Improvise. I want to see the Ibrahims before I go.”

“They were down at the end before.”

I got to my feet. “I’ll see you, then. Take care.”

“Yeah. See you.”

I went looking but the end bays were deserted. I asked the triage nurse.

“You’ve just missed them, I think.”

“Have they been admitted?”

“No, no. They’re OK. They’ve sorted out some emergency accommodation for them. You might just catch them, they’ve only just gone.”

I pushed through the swing doors and down the ramp of the ambulance bay where a clutch of smokers hovered.

I saw the family a few yards down the path walking away, a policeman and a woman with them.

I caught them up.

“Mr Ibrahim?” He turned quickly, the toddler in his arms, a frown on his face. The others stopped.

“I’m sorry, about your little boy, please tell your wife. I’m so sorry.”

I glanced at her, she looked at me blankly, then shifted the baby closer to her shoulder.

“You were one of the people who went into the house?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Thank you.”

I didn’t want his thanks. “I’ve been working for the council,” I explained, “filming for evidence.”

He studied me for a moment. “Now they have their evidence.”

I swallowed. I didn’t say anything.

“They should never have left us there, you tell your council people that.”

I nodded.

He turned and they walked on.

Back in the Casualty department I rang for a black cab and was thankful, when it arrived, to get a taciturn driver. He never even commented on how I smelt.

I needed a bath. I knew it wasn’t a sociable thing to do at that hour in the morning but I was desperate to wash away the soot and the acrid stench of smoke and it would be easier to keep my bandages dry in a bath rather than a shower. First I made a cup of tea and took it up. I had a sudden rush of anxiety about Maddie and Tom and went in to look at them. They were both sleeping peacefully and I left before I could become too maudlin. I put a towel in the bath to try and muffle the noise but it didn’t help much and did nothing to quieten the gurgling of the pipes.

I heard Ray calling my name. I stopped the taps and opened the bathroom door.

He began to complain, blinking in the light, running his hand through his unruly hair. Then he got a look at me.

“Oh, God. What’s happened?”

I opened my mouth then snapped it shut, pressed my fingers to my lips. That set off the shakes, everything began to tremble. I shook my head at him then my control caved in and I began to bawl like a baby.

He led me downstairs and into the kitchen. Made me tea without asking, handed me the kitchen roll. He quizzed me about my injuries, wanted to know what the hospital had done, whether I’d be OK, how I was feeling and of course how I’d got hurt.

In little bursts and puffs I told him about the tragedies of the night. When I reached the part about the firemen not being able to save the little Ibrahim boy and Carl Benson, I began to cry noisily again and with all the artlessness of fresh grief. “It’s awful, it’s so awful, why should they be dead?” I ranted. “It’s not fair. That little boy...And it’s not just that either, there’s you and Laura as well. I don’t know how we’ll manage if you move out. I’ll miss Tom so much and if you take Digger too Maddie will be heartbroken.”

“Hang on, hang on. Who said I was moving out?”

I blew my nose but it was impossible to breathe through it anymore. “No-one, but it’s obviously a very serious relationship and it’s going to affect us all. If you get married or...”

Children even. There was another whole area to fret about. If Laura wanted children, oh God.

“...well, even if you just live together.”

“Sal!”

I jumped. “Yes?”

“Is this what you wanted to talk about on Tuesday?”

“Sort of, yes.”

“Laura and I haven’t even talked about any of this sort of stuff. We’ve only been going out a few months.”

“But it’s so intense.” I protested.

“Don’t you think I’d have talked to you if I was considering anything like that? Taking Tom and leaving? You’re talking about massive changes.”

“I know.”

I must have looked pathetic because Ray didn’t pursue this ‘what sort of a bastard do you think I am’ line. He just did some sort of Italian shimmy with his hands and muttered some curse I couldn’t translate.

“Watch my lips. Laura and I have no plans to live together, get married, elope or do a runner. Who knows where the relationship will go. But
if
we even begin to think about anything like that you will know, I promise.”

I swallowed.

“Now you better go get that bath. I’m off to bed. I can take and collect the kids tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” I left the room before I could lose it again.

The water turned dirty grey as I washed, an oily film floated on the surface. It was laborious getting in and out without wetting my dressing, lying with my bad leg up on the side of the bath. The pain returned in my leg and I took two more tablets before I went to bed.

I slept badly. There were bones in my pillow and ashes in my mouth and a small boy in Batman pyjamas flew wheeling and swooping through my dreams...

The pain was the first thing I was aware of when I woke up. It was chewing up the bone in my leg. I took two tablets and lay back, trying to place the snapshots in my mind in some sort of sequence. I went over the events of the previous night twice, from getting in Johnny’s taxi to crying in the kitchen. Then I did my best to blank it out.

I must have been in shock or after-shock. Certainly some altered state which re-ordered all my priorities and which explains, if anything can, what I did that day. Everything was dream-like. Everything was in the distance. I couldn’t concentrate on the unessentials but I was completely focussed on the task I set myself.

After breakfast I tried to get my bike out but the burn soon protested. I wouldn’t be able to pedal the thing even if I could get up onto the saddle. I rang a cab and asked them to pick me up from the Dobson’s address in half-an-hour.

I walked round there’ slowly. I was cold even though the weather was mild. I collected my small tape-recorder from the filing cabinet and checked the tape and batteries. Fine. I was glad I didn’t have to struggle changing batteries one-handed. I put the recorder in my jacket pocket.

The little mosaic vase stood on the cabinet. I picked it up and ran my thumb over the smooth, glass tiles. I thought of Jennifer in her dry, dusty grave, of Carl’s mother, answering her door to a policeman, knowing the news before he spoke, of Mrs Ahmed aching for the feel of her son’s hand in hers, for the light in his eyes. I placed the ornament down carefully and locked up.

I sat back in the cab and let my mind roam. When the taxi drew up to the kerb I felt my stomach tense. I paid the fare and watched him drive away.

I rang the bell, a long push, heard it shrilling inside the house and then the sound of movements, the voice at the door.

“Who is it?” Cautious. Most people open the door without asking.

“Children of Christ.”

“Just a minute,” the chain rattled than she let me in.

“Come in, in here,” she led me into her room.

I switched the tape-recorder on.

She settled in her chair. I sat on the edge of the bed. She looked at me expectantly. I stared back. Her smile faltered and behind the glasses her eyes hardened as she became alert to the possibility of subterfuge.

“You’re not from the church.”

“No. I came the other day, about Jennifer.”

“Get out of my house,” she began to stand up.

“No.” I didn’t raise my voice but I made it clear I wasn’t budging. “I want to know the truth. It’s important to me.”

“You’ve no right.”

“Oh, I think I have. I know what happened to Jennifer, you see. Most of it.”