2
Within hours, the place would be a crime scene crawling with emergency personnel: medical, fire, forensic teams and cops. Locals rounded up. Statements taken. Those too pissed to cooperate locked up for drunk and disorderly, assaulting the police, breathing the same air – mutual disrespect the order of the day.
Then it really would be game on.
A snotty-nosed kid in Ben Ten pyjamas – no more than four years old – wandered out into the middle of the road. Kai, his mother called him. Poor little bastard hadn’t long been home from the care of the local authority after a non-accidental injury resulted in a place of safety being sought by social workers concerned for his welfare. Where the hell were they when he needed them, eh? Or the divvies he called parents, come to think of it?
The boy blinked – dead on his feet – the epitome of neglect.
Winking back at him, she stepped into the shadow of the doorway, stubbing her fag in the wall as his mother arrived, totally gone, vodka bottle in hand, no shoes. Just an England shirt and red leggings on pins that looked like they were on upside down. Her face was grotesque, smeared with the remains of a flag of St George. Unaware she was under scrutiny, she took hold of the young ’un by the scruff of the neck and dragged him kicking and screaming up a side alley and back to the party.
The front of the terrace fell silent again and her attention shifted to the house across the road, lights inside dimmed, a wall-mounted TV reflected in the mirror in the living room. In her mind’s eye she saw the fire before it was even lit. A smile formed on her lips as it ignited for real, small at first – barely a flicker – then building in strength as it licked its way silently up the stairs, raging out of control, fast and more furious now.
Dense, acrid smoke drifted beneath the door. Windows exploded. A scream from inside. Him not her? It was a sound so chilling it made her shiver. The male voice surprised her. He was persona non grata in that house, supposed to be at his pad looking after their kid. Had she misheard? Maybe she’d got it wrong. It looked like Maggie had gone away and he was house-sitting, not babysitting.
Oh God! Now she had a decision to make.
A fire alarm went off but no one came running. In the lane behind her, The Killers’ ‘Mr Brightside’ blasted out as someone turned up the volume. Even without the music, elderly neighbours not at the party would write it off as just another bloody false alarm, cover their heads with pillows to drown out the din. Many of them too scared to venture out at night in an area where it paid to mind your own business.
And still the elements of fire, oxygen and heat combined to create a mini inferno, so intense she could feel it burning her suntan from where she was standing. Deep down, she felt guilty. But not for long. No sweat. He’d have scarpered out the back door for sure. Anyhow, this was an opportunity she couldn’t afford to miss. Pulling out her mobile phone, she switched to camera mode and took her shot, wondering if the image she’d captured could do her any good. They say knowledge is power. Well, knowledge was money in her world.