Thirteen (11 page)

There was a bump as Adam hit the floor. Cobra readied his cuffs and glanced down to Adam's hands. He stared: Adam was holding a gun—the gun from the metal case.

It was harder for Adam to pull the trigger than he had anticipated, but almost immediately there was a loud cracking sound and Cobra breathed in and went rigid.

Adam squeezed again and Cobra slumped on top of him.

A lit match spiralled from Coron's hand, over and over, perhaps eight times, the flame alternately growing and shrinking, until it hit the floor and a pool of fire illuminated him.

Just like the devil
, Adam thought as he raised the gun.
Fiery and hellish
. Lying on the floor, even with Cobra on his left side, he was able to look down the line of fire. He vaguely aimed for Coron's torso and forced his finger to squeeze again. This time the gun was hard to keep still; it leaped back and up.

The bullet cut through the air—
whoosh
—and impacted into Coron's right arm, halfway between elbow and shoulder.

Coron dropped his gun into the gathering flames.

All the time dancing yellow was spreading along the lines of gas.

Adam saw his mum in the smoke-filled hallway behind Coron, who turned. For an instant there was hesitation, then Coron rushed forward, hoisted his uninjured arm and punched her with a single blow, knocking her to the ground.

Viper appeared at the top of the stairs. “There's someone forcing the front door. Should we kill them?”

Coron turned back toward Adam's room, where smoke was now turning from mist to fog. Behind him flames hopped down the stairs step by step. He thought of the gun in Adam's hand. Even in Coron's mind, a thin line of logic tugged him toward self-preservation. “No. We must go.”

When the flames reached the bottom of the stairs they spread out in six different directions, and the room was quickly ablaze.

Adam went to his father and beat at the sparks on his pajama trousers. His mother was smothered by smoke; flames crept closer to her. He tugged—“Dad, please move!”—eliciting a small groan.

Three figures left by the back door, one clutching his arm, and dashed through the garden; they coughed as they sprinted along the small path, each step taking them farther from the glimmering yellow of Adam's house.

Inside, smoke was filling Adam's lungs. He pushed open the bathroom door: no fire—the tentacles of gas not having reached there—but smoke flooded in as Adam dragged his father next to the bath.

The house began to crackle.

Adam closed the bathroom door and ran to his mother. She coughed quietly. “Adam?”

Adam began to drag her down the stairs through flame and smoke. It was useless. The carpet was on fire. She was too heavy and he felt faint. He leaned against the wall on the stairs, nudging a photo. He wanted to close his eyes and go to sleep.

Then he heard someone shouting, “Come on!”

It was the teenager who had saved him before. Was Adam dreaming? Why was he here again?

Again the same voice, shrieking with urgency: “Come on!”

Flames lapped like waves as together they dragged Adam's mother out. Heat embraced them. Piercing heat. Burning heat.

They fell out of the back door, heaving for breath. Three or four neighbors had appeared, and there were shouts and calls for help. “Fire—we need help!” a man yelled into his cell phone.

Awoken by the noise, Megan looked out the window. Seeing an orange glow and smoke painting itself against the darker night sky, she ran.

Adam looked at the neighbors. “My dad! He's still in there.” He started to go back.

Someone held him. “You can't go in there. You'll kill yourself.”

Staring at the house, Adam fought to get closer. “My dad!” He broke free and ran toward the door.

The boy who had helped him pull out his mother blocked his way. “You'll die, Adam!”

“I'm getting my dad!” Adam kicked and screamed, but the older boy was strong. Precious seconds passed. Smoke billowed from windows and heat-reddened faces.

“Let me go!” Adam shouted. “Let me in!”

“You stay,” the boy said as he shoved Adam back, then ran into the black cloud that poured through the door.

Confusion, noise, smoke, fire.

Megan tore across the garden. “Adam! Adam!”

Adam looked at the burning house, desperation smothering him, and roared and roared, an echo of the fire.

Suddenly, the bathroom window was open, and through the smoke Adam saw one person holding another—dragging, desperately heaving toward the window.

People looked around for something to break their fall. Nothing. There was nothing.

Can't someone do something?
Smoke and flames were hungry for victims. Large snaps, like branches being torn in two. Thousands of hisses turned to small explosions.

Adam's father fell like a stone and, despite the efforts of a neighbor to catch him, crashed through a plastic garden table
below. The boy let himself down as far as he could, then leaped, his fall becoming a roll as he hit the ground.

Sparks fizzed and spun through the air.

Adam's dad was dragged across the grass like a heavy sack. Adam fought through the throng of neighbors and leaned close. His dad was making a noise at the back of his throat—a long thin wailing sound.

Two medics ran from an ambulance and appeared around the side of the house.

Much farther away, three shadowy figures ran toward a Range Rover.

As paramedics rushed to Adam's parents, neighbors tried to assist and reassure him—“Stand back. . . . Give them some air. . . . Don't worry. . . .”—but the only comfort to Adam was Megan's silent presence.

The fire was a frenzied parasite, embracing and consuming all before it. Smoke poured from windows and seeped through tiles. Near the gutters, flames reached out like fingers trying to prise open the roof. Then there was a larger crash above the background of sizzling crackles as the fire leaped onto the top of the house, dancing in victory.

Firemen arrived, calling into radios: “The building is well alight. Make pumps five.”

Adam knelt next to his mother. Her blonde hair was singed black, her burned skin drawn tight beneath an oxygen mask. She looked at Adam, her eyes widening slightly, the closest she could come to a reassuring smile. Adam simply put his hand on hers. She would understand.

Adam went to his father. The paramedic beside him was confused by the range of injuries, one of which was clearly a gunshot. The boy who'd rescued Adam was saying something that sounded very grown-up: “. . . isn't life-threatening if pressure is applied . . . bullet passed through . . .”

Adam knelt again. “Come on, Dad. You'll be fine,” he said, but he wanted to hug his father instead of speaking to him. Megan put her arm around Adam's shoulder as he stood up.

Adam looked at the boy who had entered the building, the boy who had helped his parents, the boy who had saved him
twice
. “Thank you. I don't know who you are, but thank you so much.”

More paramedics arrived. Two of them ran straight to Adam's father. “We need to get him to the hospital immediately. Get a stretcher.
Now
.”

At the same time, three police officers jogged in: two women from the front of the house and a man who came up the garden from the bushes and the path. “You must clear this garden now,” ordered one of the women. “Move out and stand back. This building is not safe.”

The house blazed, casting a hot yellow glow over everyone.

Adam vaguely recognized the policeman. He had seen him at the station.

“Your parents will be fine,” the officer said in the way that adults do to children. “It's Adam, isn't it? My name is Chief Inspector Hatfield.” He turned to the young man. There was surprise, perhaps even shock, and immediate recognition.

Adam knew that he was no longer the sole focus of attention.

“Let's move him out,” a paramedic was saying in the background.

“And what is your name?” said the chief inspector, his voice even, but with a hint of mockery.

The boy gave a low, monotone reply—something indistinct.

“I'm very keen to know where you live now.”

“These days I have no fixed address.”

“Well, I think you should come with me.” The chief inspector reached for a pair of handcuffs that were dangling from his belt.

Adam interrupted, putting his arm out to stop the policeman. “No. There's some mistake. This guy saved us all. He went into the building. He's a hero.”

Sparks blew across the garden.

“You know I'll not come willingly,” warned the boy.

“It's me that you want,” Adam said insistently, no longer caring, wanting it all to end.
I am the one who has killed again
.

The older boy turned toward him; “No, Adam, that's not right. You're still in—”

Chief Inspector Hatfield pounced on Adam's rescuer, calling for help. “This young man is under arrest.” The pair twisted and shoved as he struggled to get the handcuffs in place. “Help! He is resisting arrest!”

Adam was confused. Normally, respect for the police would have beaten all other logic, but this person had saved his parents. “Let him go!” he shouted and grabbed the handcuffs, yanking them away.

Megan pleaded, “Adam! Stay out of it,
please
.”

The sight of a fight against the backdrop of the burning house transfixed onlookers. The two were silhouetted like shadow puppets, trading punches.

Adam shoved the policeman, enabling the older boy to deliver a flurry of kicks and punches. Then, darting between firemen and over hoses, pushing past paramedics and barging one of the other police officers, the boy disappeared, sprinting down the side of the house toward the road.

Adam stood outside the door of his father's hospital room. He gazed at the words
Intensive Care. Intensive
. Words echoed in his ears: “He will live, but there's a long journey ahead.” Then a woman's voice: “Your mother is fine, but she will be here for some time.” The sentences overlapped and became jumbled up in Adam's head. He didn't know what the doctors really thought; he reckoned they always managed to generate positive news when talking to kids. They skimmed off and delivered the encouraging bits and left the rest to brood menacingly.

Adam was standing with Megan and her parents. Megan's dad, Mr. James, was pulling his hand down his cheek, making
a rasping sound over thin stubble. “I've spoken to the police, who've spoken to social services, and they say that you should come back with us, Adam. They'll want to talk to you tomorrow. There was an intruder who set fire to your house, and it seems that they shot your father.”

I don't care that you're stating the obvious
, thought Adam.
I'm going to need help
.

Mrs. James looked at her watch. “Let's try to get a couple of hours of sleep.”

“I think there's something you should know,” said Adam, looking at the floor, then glancing up.

“Yes?”

Adam stopped. There was something about the way Megan was looking at him. “Oh, nothing. I'm just tired. It's been horrible.” His voice trailed off. It was better to explain everything to the police tomorrow.

Sitting in the back of the car with Megan as they drove back, Adam had a chance to worry about what was going to happen next. He had seen a program about forensic science and knew that the police would soon discover bones and guns. They would be poking around and taking away samples in small plastic bags. The guns would not have been burned away, that was certain. They also had ways to work out how fires started. Perhaps they would think that
he
was responsible. Adam seemed to remember a story about a girl who had killed her parents by burning their house down.

Why has everything gone wrong?

He gazed out of the window: shuttered shops and empty pavements drifted past. Then he felt a hand next to his. The little finger touched his thumb, just for a second.

It slipped away as Mrs. James turned around. “Adam, dear,” she said. Megan's mum was not usually the sort of person to say
dear
. “You go in the spare room, the one opposite Meggie's. I'll find some clothes for you.”

Clothes. Things. Adam had only thought about his parents.
Of course, he had lost everything in the fire.
Everything
. Or almost everything—an image of a Quality Street tin containing £1,000 quickly formed in his mind, then dissolved.

For a fearful thought took its place: he was still in danger, and those he was with were in danger. Below that there was an ocean of worry. Adam had killed twice now.

They entered Megan's house in silence. The smell of burning wafted across the gardens, reminding and threatening, though no one mentioned it.

Adam saw Megan once, when she left the bathroom and opened his door, saying his name. He was getting ready for bed. He liked it that Megan never knocked and waited.

“The bathroom's free. See you tomorrow.”

“Thanks. I'm really grateful, Meg, but this is going to be complicated.”

“Well, I'm here to help.”

Then she spoke much louder as she went to her room: “'Night Mum, 'night Dad.”

Adam closed his eyes. He wanted to think of something positive and calming. He tried to think of his parents, safe in the hospital. Then he tried to think of Megan: the way that she giggled and leaned toward him; the way that she had touched his hand.

But his mind was always dragged back to one image: a gun resting on a pile of bones, the charred remains of a teenager. Another gun nearby. Both in his bedroom. Would they think that he had shot his own father? The James's spare room faced away from his house, but he could still hear the rumbling of machinery and the shouting of firemen dousing the smouldering timbers. He imagined a jet of water spraying on cinders and revealing a gun underneath.
A gun resting on bones
.