Winnie pulled her chair as close as she could and wrapped her arms around Fanny’s thin shoulders. “It’s all right,” she whispered. “You’ll be all right.”
“How could she do it?” choked out Fanny. “How could she let me think she loved me?”
To this Winnie had no immediate answer. She could only keep patting Fanny’s back, and when the sobs subsided to an occasional gulp, she provided a clean handkerchief from the pocket of her cardigan and sat back to let Fanny blow her nose.
“I think,” Winnie said slowly, when Fanny looked up at her with red and swollen eyes, “I think perhaps she was in terrible pain. I know there are people who are simply wicked, who hurt others for the pleasure of it… but because Elaine was good to you in so many ways, I can’t find it in my heart to believe that of her. She said, didn’t she, that her mother committed suicide and her father died from an illness when she was young? That might have-”
“She said a lot of things that turned out not to be true,” countered Fanny. “Why should we believe that?”
“Why would she have lied? Unless… unless there was something worse… something she couldn’t bear to talk about or perhaps even to remember.” Winnie shook her head. “We’re grasping at straws, love, and we may never know the truth.”
“I can understand, a little, about the doctor. I mean, people have affairs all the time… And it’s not as though there was anything physical, really, between us.” Fanny looked away, as if ashamed to have mentioned it. “There were only things that I might have… misinterpreted… But why… why would she take a child?”
“Did Elaine want children?” Winnie had seen it in her pastoral work, women – single or married – who reached a certain age and found themselves suddenly obsessed with the desire for a child so strong that it drove them beyond reason. It was a thought she’d kept in the back of her mind, a slender thread of hope on which to hang the safety of Harriet Novak.
“No,” whispered Fanny, the brief animation fading from her face. “No. She didn’t care for children at all.”
Rose sat in the rear cab of the pump, with Bryan and Steve Winston. Seamus MacCauley was driving and Station Officer Wilcox rode beside him. Beneath her heavy tunic, she could feel her T-shirt plastered wetly to her back. The day had gone from bad to worse – two more nuisance fires, one in a rubbish tip and the other in an abandoned car, two medical calls, then a road traffic accident that had injured an unrestrained child. She’d never had a chance to dry out properly from the morning’s fires, much less the afternoon’s, nor had she had any opportunity to return Station Officer Farrell’s call. And now they were on their way to another fire.
“Better gear up,” said Bryan. “We’re almost there.” In this warm and humid weather, they resisted pulling up their Nomex hoods as long as they could. The fire-resistant fabric stopped any air circulation inside their tunics, turning their already sweltering coats into sweatboxes.
They were headed west, along Webber Street, the pump ladder careening along right behind them. A fire had been reported in a warehouse tucked back between Webber Street and Waterloo Road. As they slipped on their hoods and resettled their helmets, the pump swung round a curve and Rose saw the smoke.
“Christ,” said Steven, his voice filled with awe. The building was old – Victorian, Rose thought, although with none of the architectural grace of the Southwark Street warehouse – and in poor repair. Its concrete surround was cracked and patched with weeds, a wire fence sagged listlessly to the ground in places, and broken windows gaped like sightless eyes. From the third-and fourth-floor windows, smoke dark as coal pumped furiously out. It looked as though a bomb had gone off in the place.
Pedestrians milled about in the street, shouting and pointing. MacCauley had to sound the air horn to scatter them so that he could maneuver the pump into a position near the hydrant. As soon as they rolled to a stop, Rose could hear the fire, crackling and hissing and groaning like a live thing. As they spilled out of the appliance she felt her chest tighten.
“Seamus,” Wilcox shouted, “get on to Control. Tell them to make pumps four. Then get us police backup, and get these people out of the way until the police get here to take over crowd control.” He turned to the others. “You three, rig in BA. We’ll need to get a hose in through the main doors and make an assessment.”
Wilcox turned to the ladder crew. “Get us entry, then get a ladder up to the roof. And someone have a look round the back side, see what the status is there.”
Both crews sprang into action. It was chaos, but it was the controlled chaos of those who knew their jobs and were prepared to give whatever was required of them. As Rose settled the BA pack on her back and handed in her tally, marked with her set number and the amount of air in her cylinder, she felt the tightness in her chest ease. A rush of adrenaline surged through her, making her feel light-headed and razor-sharp. She was going to be okay.
She had comms, the breathing apparatus radio, and would be responsible for letting Wilcox know what they found inside. As they unreeled the hose, the ladder crew broke down the remainder of the fence and charged at the main doors, axes swinging. The doors splintered under the blows and Rose had a brief glimpse of the padlock flying, then she and Bryan and Steve were pushing through, Bryan at the tip.
A blast of heat jetted out, knocking them back. They crouched, moving forward again, Bryan sending controlled pulses from the hose into the dense black smoke. The jets turned instantly to roiling steam, and Rose felt her face sear through the faceplate of her mask.
Bryan pulsed the hose another half a dozen times, but there was no change in the temperature. They could see nothing but black clouds of smoke mixed with steam, and then, out of the corner of her eye, Rose caught a flicker of flame within the fumes: flashover.
“Guv!” she shouted over the radio. “It’s all going to shit in here. We can’t control it!”
“Back out!” Wilcox yelled in her ear. “Get out now.”
She grabbed Bryan and Steve and pulled at them, feeling the heat of their tunics even through her gloves. “Out,” she repeated. “We’re moving out.”
They backed out the way they’d come, Bryan continuing the short bursts from the hose, Rose keeping a grip on them both. She only knew they’d reached the door when Bryan’s helmet materialized in front of her.
As they staggered away from the building they heard a rumble and a pop, and a jet of flame shot out, licking at them. “Jesus,” she heard Steve say again as they scrambled away.
When they reached Wilcox and MacCauley, they pulled their masks off, and Rose took a deep, gulping breath. In the distance, she heard the faint double tone of sirens.
“We’re going to have to tackle this bastard from the outside,” said Wilcox. “And we’re going to need help. I’ve made it pumps six. Get the hose back on the door-”
“Hey!” The shout had come from the crowd. A man’s finger pointed upwards, and Rose caught a glimpse of a pale face, and the blue arm of a uniform sleeve. “There’s somebody in there! I saw somebody in there!”
“Where?” said Wilcox, scanning the building.
“Third floor,” the man called out. “In the window. Third from the left. A face.”
Rose looked, saw nothing but billowing smoke.
“Persons reported,” Wilcox called over the radio. “I’m sending crew up.” He turned to Rose and Bryan. “The ladder crew’s venting the roof. You two will have to take a look.”
Bryan gave her a quick bright grin, then they moved in unison, raising the ladder and hauling up the hose, Rose leading the way. She felt a moment’s relief that the constraint between them had vanished; then she thought of nothing but the job at hand.