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  Martin frowned.

  He didn’t understand.

  And then he smelled it.

  Something burning.

  He looked up.

  Saw a light at the back of the cabin.

  Felt a warmth growing.

  Went to climb back to his feet. “No—”

  He didn’t see the person behind him.

  He just felt a crack over the head.

  And as much as he tried to cling to consciousness, everything went dark.

  That smell of burning accompanying him into the darkness...

  Chapter Twelve

  Harriet watched Peter’s belt drop to the floor and felt her whole world falling apart.

  It was warm in here. Stifling. The warmest she’d felt since the power went out. Maybe even further back than that.

  Or maybe that was just her.

  It would be understandable.

  Especially with the way Peter was looking at her.

  And what he was suggesting.

  He stood there, that detestable smirk on his face. In the lounge, Harriet heard Oscar laughing and celebrating his Mars Bar discovery. No clue as to what was going on in here. No clue of the horrors Harriet was facing. The price she was facing.

  Peter walked over towards her. Slowly. His footsteps squeaking against the cold, hard floor of the kitchen. “Come on, Harriet. I look after you. I look after Oscar. People say things, you know? About us. Karen. Owen. They don’t like it. They think I show you preferential treatment. But besides. I see the way you look at me. I know there’s something there. That there’s always been something there. Why be shy about it? Why resist it?”

  She shook her head. She’d never been in this position before. She genuinely felt trapped. Sure, she’d had to deal with creeps in her life. Which woman hadn’t had to deal with a creep?

  But this.

  It was the lawlessness of it that really got to her more than anything.

  The fear that, no matter how much she shouted out, nobody was coming to help her.

  Nobody was saving her.

  No police.

  Nothing.

  This was her battle.

  “Please,” Harriet said, trying her best to stay polite, even though politeness was the last thing on her mind. “My son. He’s—”

  “Occupied,” Peter said, walking closer towards her. “And he’s looked after. Hell. What do you think of this place? What do you say to moving in here? Surely an improvement on that crowded dump down the road, right? It stinks there. Disgusts me, to be honest. Nobody should have to live in those conditions. Especially not a mother and her son. You could have it all, Harriet. Everything. All you need to do for me is...”

  “I’m not interested in that way,” Harriet said. An assertiveness to her voice now. That’s what she had to do. She just had to be straight with Peter.

  And maybe that would be enough. Maybe, he’d get the message, and let her and Oscar go back to their dump of a home.

  And sure, they’d miss out on a few meals. They might even be treated pretty shit for a few days.

  But it was better than the alternative.

  Peter stopped. Frowned. “What?”

  Harriet stood her ground. “I’m not interested. Sorry. It’s just... My son. He’s my priority. And I don’t think this is going to work out.”

  Peter sighed. She saw the bushy nostril hairs twitch with his exhale. He took a few steps towards her. He was so close now. “Harriet,” he said. “You talk about putting your son first. Your little lad. And that’s honourable. Really, it is. But don’t you see? The best way you could put your son first is by just... just doing what’s right by both of us. By moving in here with me. By accepting what’s inevitable. Because that’s what we are, right? We’re inevitable. Don’t you see?”

  Harriet looked into this guy’s beaming, hazy eyes, and she wondered how she’d let herself get caught up in this situation. She heard the shouting outside. Heard the mutiny. Heard the sounds of a former temporary safe haven losing control.

  And she wanted to be anywhere but here.

  Anywhere but here.

  She looked around the kitchen for some kind of escape. The back door. She could try going through there. She could—

  “There’s no point fighting it,” Peter said, just inches from her now, his meaty, ghastly breath covering her face. “Accept it, Harriet. We could have something beautiful here. You. Me. Oscar. And who knows? Maybe we could even have a little one or two of our own.”

  Harriet couldn’t resist anymore. She couldn’t hold back her disgust. She couldn’t fight the acidic vomit creeping up her throat.

  All she had was her words.

  “I’d rather die than satisfy a creep like you,” she said.

  A shift. A change to Peter’s face. A change to his expression.

  His eyes lost their haziness.

  They looked like they were focused, for the first time.

  “What?”

  She had a choice. Double down. Or try to worm her way out of this.

  But she couldn’t read him. She didn’t know what was for the best. Not right now—

  “What did you just say?” Peter said.

  Harriet swallowed a lump in her tight, dry throat, and she said the only words she could.

  “I said I’d rather die than satisfy a creep like you. So let me go. Let my son go. Kick us out of this place if you have to. But don’t you dare even think about laying a finger on either of us. Okay? Don’t you dare.”

  Peter was silent. He kept on staring at Harriet, still just inches away from her. Like he was processing her words. Taking it all in.

  And then she saw something.

  A shift.

  A half-smile to his face.

  Tears to his eyes.

  He looked away. Lowered his head. Nodded.

  And for a moment, Harriet felt free. She felt like she had a chance. A chance she had to take.

  “I’m sorry, Peter,” she said. “I’m just not—”

  Out of nowhere, he grabbed her by the hair and threw her across the kitchen.

  She slammed into the table. Sent it crashing to the floor. Knocked the plant pot from the top of it, sent it smashing into sharp pieces.

  She looked up at Peter, head spinning, the taste of blood on her lips.

  And she saw a different look to his eyes, now.

  Anger.

  “You bitch,” he said. “You ungrateful bitch. I offer you everything. I offer you the world. And this is how you repay me? This is how you thank me?”

  Harriet shuffled back, tried to get to her feet.

  But she was running out of space.

  And Peter was closing in.

  “I’ll tell you something, missy,” he said. “I’m not asking you to move in here. I mean, it would’ve been nice, if you’d agreed. But I don’t have to ask. I’m telling you how it’s going to be. But for this, for the way you’ve insulted me after everything I’ve done for you, things won’t be easy for you. For this, things will be difficult, for a while. Very difficult. Because you’re a user. A dirty user. And you’ll wish you’d shown just a little more gratitude. You’ll wish you’d shown a little more appreciation.”

  He moved closer towards her. Hands outstretched. Ready to grab her. True colours on show.

  She felt the sharpness of that broken plant pot right between her fingers. A good six-inch piece of it. Picked it up with her shaking hands, tears flowing down her cheeks.

  “Come here,” he said. “Get to your feet. And believe me when I tell you this. That retard son of yours? You’ve just condemned him to a life of misery too. You selfish, little bi—”

  It happened so fast.

  Peter’s hands clamping around her shoulders.

  Harriet lifting that broken plant pot piece.

  Swinging it right into Peter’s neck.

  Sticking it in there.

  Surprise on Peter’s face.

  Clarity to his eyes.

  Blood spu
rting out all over her as she dug that piece of pot further and further into his neck.

  She dragged herself away from him. That piece of pot still sticking in his neck.

  She stood there, shaking, crying, watching as more of it pooled to the floor.

  She saw the way he touched his neck.

  The way he looked up at her.

  Tears in his eyes.

  Confusion across his face.

  And then she saw the way he fell to the floor, choking, knocking that broken shard even deeper into his throat.

  She watched him struggle. Listened to him gargle. Watched him twitch.

  And all this time, it was like nothing else existed. Nothing else was happening. The outside world didn’t exist at all.

  Until she heard the kitchen door creak.

  “Mummy?”

  She looked around.

  Oscar stood there.

  Half-eaten Mars bar in hand.

  Chocolate drooling down his chin.

  He looked at his blood-soaked mother, and the blood-spurting Peter, and he did the worst thing he possibly could.

  He let out a cry.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The smell of burning woke Martin.

  He wanted to keep his eyes shut. His head banged. Felt hungover. Really damned hungover.

  And the worst thing about all this?

  He didn’t even remember the night before. Didn’t remember a thing about how he’d got in this state. Didn’t—

  “Dad!”

  That voice. Ella’s voice. Cutting through his sleepiness. Making him realise, right away.

  This wasn’t any ordinary hungover morning.

  This was something else entirely.

  He lifted his head and tried to get a sense of his surroundings in the darkness.

  The log cabin. The one him and Sarah used to rent from Cynthia.

  Only…

  He heard the crackling over his shoulder. Smelled that burning. And he felt the heat gradually rising, too.

  When he looked around, his worst fears were realised.

  The cabin was burning. The front door was engulfed in flames.

  And Ella’s voice.

  She was upstairs.

  Up the burning stairs.

  She was trapped.

  He pushed himself to his feet immediately. He coughed right away, a little wobbly on his feet. Clearly already been exposed to more smoke than was healthy.

  He staggered across the cabin floor, no other thought in mind but to get to Ella. To get to Bruce, who was barking away from the upstairs bedroom that Martin had locked him inside before running down here.

  He glanced at the man lying dead on the floor. A wry smile to his face. One of the people who’d rooted around his home.

  He’d told him he’d made a mistake.

  A big mistake.

  He understood him now.

  “It’s okay, Ella,” Martin shouted, staggering further towards the stairs. “I’m coming.”

  His voice echoed around the cabin. The roar of the flames was all Martin could focus on. He didn’t want to face going upstairs. He knew it was dangerous. The speed fire spread, by the time he got up there and got to Ella and Bruce, the whole of the downstairs would be engulfed.

  But he wasn’t leaving those he cared about behind. That was out of the question.

  So he dragged himself up the stairs, over the growing flames, covering his mouth, coughing and spluttering, his eyes itching with the shards of ash sticking into them.

  He reached the top step. Heard something crash downstairs.

  The wall. The wall behind the television. The old static television that him and Sarah used to battle with every single night. Cracked. Burning. The plastic melting away. All the memories going up in flames.

  He turned around. The foundations of this place were falling apart, so he had to act—and fast.

  He rushed down the creaky floorboards of the upstairs. Reached Ella’s bedroom.

  When he grabbed the handle, he realised something.

  The back of the door. It was hot.

  Martin stood there. Frowned. Saw the black smoke rising under the room. From the room beside, Bruce continued to bark like mad.

  “Ella?” Martin shouted.

  He turned the handle, terrified of what he might find.

  And then he saw it.

  Ella’s room.

  Flames creeping across it.

  The window totally out of reach.

  Fire on the ceiling. On the walls. Everywhere.

  And on the bed, too.

  On the bed.

  He felt his world fall apart. Stumbled inside, towards that mound lying on the bed.

  “Ella!”

  “Dad?”

  He stopped. Spun around.

  And when he saw her, he felt relief like no other.

  Ella stood there. Hiding in the corner of her room. Fear in her eyes.

  Bruce by her side. Cowering. Barking.

  “Ella,” Martin said, rushing towards her. He wrapped his arms around her. Hugged her tight. And then he hugged Bruce too, so damned pleased to see them both.

  “I was asleep,” Ella said. “I—I thought I heard stuff. But then everything went quiet. And then the burning. The fire. What’re we going to do, Dad?”

  It was the way she said “Dad” that really got to Martin. That childish desperation in her voice. That naive sense that the parent should always be able to help their kid; always be able to protect them, even if that wasn’t always true. None of that confidence beyond her years. Not anymore.

  And Martin had to fulfil the role of a dad who knew what he was doing. He had to reassure her as well as he could.

  He had to be her dad.

  If he didn’t…

  No. That wasn’t even an option.

  He put a hand on Ella’s shoulder.

  “We’re gonna get out of here. I pr—”

  A crash downstairs.

  Martin rushed to the end of the upstairs corridor, Ella’s hand in his.

  The front doorway was totally engulfed in flames. The front of the cabin looked like it was crumbling away.

  It wouldn’t be long until the back did, and they were sent flying down into the flames.

  Ella coughed up her guts. Blackened tears streamed down her cheeks, illuminated by the flames. “I’m scared, Dad.”

  Martin tried to clear his throat. He took shallow breaths of the ghastly air, tried not to inhale any smoke. Last thing he wanted was to pass out on his daughter and his dog and leave them alone here.

  “I know,” Martin said. “I know.”

  He looked back at Ella’s room. The flames creeping closer towards the door.

  Then he looked over at his bedroom.

  He knew it was his only choice.

  “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  And then the pair of them rushed into Martin’s room and over towards the window.

  Martin yanked at the window. Tried to lift it. It was a big bay window, so there was plenty of room to get out of it.

  But it always jammed. Him and Sarah always complained about it to Cynthia, and she promised she’d fix it, every damned time.

  But it was still stuck solid.

  “Dad?”

  Martin looked around as Ella coughed and spluttered between words.

  When he saw it, his heart sank.

  Flames.

  Flames creeping across the upstairs corridor.

  Towards his bedroom door.

  They were trapped.

  Only one way out now.

  He pulled at that bay window again. Dragged it with all his strength. It was no point shooting it even if he did have his rifle because it was the handle that was jammed.

  “It’s getting closer,” Ella cried.

  Bruce barked at the oncoming fire.

  And all Martin could do was stand there. Drag the handles of that bay window, harder and harder. Come on. Come on…

  He felt hi
s arms getting weaker as he pulled at those windows. Felt his mind drifting to Sarah’s laughter. To the crackling of fire in the old fireplace. To the warmth of this bedroom in the summer, and the smell of burning wood…

  No! Don’t go drifting off, you bastard. Don’t you go drifting off now…

  He felt the heat of the flames burning his back. Felt the shirt melting against his skin. Heard Ella coughing and crying, and Bruce yelping and submitting.

  He felt his whole world falling apart around him.

  And then he pulled against that window with the last bit of strength he had.

  A sudden burst of cold air filled his lungs.

  He almost fell back into the flames.

  But he gathered his balance.

  Regained his composure.

  The bay window was open.

  The balcony was intact.

  Bruce ran out straight away.

  Martin held Ella’s shaking hand. “Come on. We have to go.”

  He rushed to the edge of the balcony and looked down into the darkness.

  He remembered jumping off here onto a mini-trampoline years ago. Sarah behind so afraid he was gonna break his leg. Truth be told, he’d been bricking it too.

  But he’d gone for it.

  And he’d made it.

  But with no trampoline to soften his fall?

  He wasn’t sure.

  But hell. What else did he have?

  “You’re going to have to trust me, okay?”

  Ella looked at Martin like she wasn’t sure. Behind them, more wood crashed down. Soon, this whole place was going to fall.

  “I—I—”

  “Ella. Trust me. Okay?”

  She opened her mouth like she was going to contest.

  And then she closed it and nodded. “I trust you.”

  Martin nodded. He looked over the balcony. Down into the darkness.

  “We’re going to jump.”

  “What? But—”

  “There’s no time for anything else. We’re going to jump. And when we fall, we’re going to keep our bodies as flexible as possible, right? If you stiffen up, you increase the risk of breaks and injury.”

  “Dad, I don’t think I can—”

  “You can because you have to. You can because it’s gonna keep you alive. Okay?”

  Another pause. Those flames so close behind them now. So close to swallowing them up.

  Ella looked down at the darkness. Dark tears etched across her pale cheeks.