Part 32 (1/2)

Then, she saw a flicker of light in the gap between the boards covering the windows. Not yellow. Orange. The light danced, grew brighter.

Galvanized into movement, she slid her way across the street, b.u.mping into the rubbish skip and grabbing on to it for purchase. Panting, she tried to make out the sounds coming from inside the house. Was that voices, or did she hear the crackle of flames?

The steps might have been Everest, but clinging to the side rail, she made it to the top and pushed open the door.

Joe recovered first. He was up and had managed to get between Andy and the door while Andy was still trying to get to his feet, woozy from the blow to the head.

Once upright, Andy stomped at the nearest flames and tried to shout, ”We have to get out!” but the words were a croak.

”What? Afraid of a little fire?” Joe was balanced on the b.a.l.l.s of his feet, and an extension cord from the builders' debris suddenly appeared, stretched between his hands.

”You're mad,” said Andy. ”You're absolutely freaking mad.” Futilely, he tried swiping at the fire with Joe's scarf, which had fallen to the floor, but the fuzzy threads at the end sizzled and popped when the fire caught them. Andy dropped the scarf, his head swimming from even that effort. ”Let me out. This whole place will go.”

But when he stepped towards the door, Joe raised the cord. ”I don't think so. Or you can try your luck getting past me-”

The door swung open.

She stood, a dark silhouette lit by the white aureole of snow, but now he would have recognized her anywhere.

”Andy? Oh, my G.o.d, the fire-Andy, are you all right?”

Nadine started across the room towards him, but Joe, who had been hidden from her by the open door, sprang forwards and looped the power cord over her head, tightening it behind her neck.

She gasped and twisted, but when Joe hissed, ”Don't move,” she went still.

”Let her go!” Andy glanced at the flames, spreading in little rivulets across a trail of spilled sawdust on the floor. Hadn't he read somewhere that sawdust would ignite? ”Do whatever you want with me, but let her go.” He was pleading now.

”Oh, I don't think so.” Above Nadine's head, Joe smiled. ”I wanted her, too-did you think I didn't? But I didn't know where to find her again. And now she's come right to me, thanks to you.”

”Joe, please,” said Andy, and saw Nadine's eyes go wide in her frightened face. The fire was spreading, popping, and he coughed as the smoke reached his lungs.

”The police will think you killed her. Maybe they'll even think you killed the others. Then you were overcome by the fire before you could get out.” Joe gave a vicious yank on the power cord.

Nadine reached for it, trying to pull it away from her throat, but Joe twisted harder. He kept the pressure up until her hands fell away and she slumped against him.

”b.a.s.t.a.r.d!” shouted Andy. The word seemed to echo down the years, entwined with memory and dreams. He'd backed up against the worktable, and now he fumbled behind him, his hand closing on something cold and thin.

A screwdriver blade. He pulled it towards him until his fingers closed tightly over the molded plastic of the handle. Then he launched himself across the room.

Releasing his hold on Nadine, Joe raised his hands to defend himself. His mistake.

Nadine crumpled at his feet. Then Andy was on him. His weight and momentum took them both down, and the blade of the screwdriver found its target.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR.

Walking through the ruins gives a taste of what an extraordinary sight the palace must have made. It indicates how powerful the trace of something that has essentially vanished can be. In the case of the Crystal Palace, I think that's because its real power lay not in Joseph Paxton's innovative design for the iron-and-gla.s.s structure alone-it was always its appeal to the imagination that mattered most.

- They were halfway along Westow Hill when Melody saw that the traffic ahead had come to a dead standstill. ”Pull up on the pavement and put on the flashers,” she told Gemma, who had stayed behind the wheel of the Clio. ”We'll have to go the rest of the way on foot. And I checked the sat nav. We can't get down Woodland Road in any case-it's one way coming up.”

She pulled a Metropolitan Police sign from the glove box and put it against the front windscreen as Gemma nosed the car up onto the curb.

The pavement was less icy as they hurried towards Woodland Road, but when they reached the junction, the north wind hit their faces with a frigid blast.

”Oh, b.u.g.g.e.r,” said Melody, looking down. The road surface was already an inch deep in white powder. They could hear tires spinning as a car halfway up the incline tried to get traction.

”Do you remember the flat number?” asked Gemma.

”I think so. It's not far down.”

”Ready?” Gemma gave her a quick look. ”Let's go.”

They had made it only a few yards when Melody saw it. Smoke, mixed in the dizzying eddies of snow, coming from a house a little lower down on the opposite side of the street. ”There,” she shouted back to Gemma, pointing. ”There's a fire. I think it's the house.”

They skidded the rest of the way, regardless of safety, crossing the street when they were opposite the house and could see the smoke pouring from the cracks in the boarded windows.

Melody slipped at the bottom of the steps and pain seared her knee as she went down on the ice-encrusted concrete. Her knee throbbing, she gritted her teeth and pulled herself up by the railing. Behind her, she heard Gemma calling 999 for the fire brigade.

When she heard the high-pitched, keening scream from inside the house, she stopped for an instant, terror gripping her. Andy. Dear G.o.d, Andy.

Closer to, Melody could see that the front door stood partially open. She pulled herself up the remaining steps, then stopped before she careened through the door, realizing she was weaponless. Even a standard-issue baton would have given her some defense. Then the scream came again. Feeling Gemma at her shoulder, she pushed open the door and shouted, ”Police!”

The smoke blinded her. Blinking, she coughed and ducked lower. The scream came again. Turning towards it, she made out not Andy, but Joe Peterson, curled into a fetal ball on the floor, his hands clutching his stomach.

A hoa.r.s.e voice said, ”Melody.” A few feet from Peterson, Andy sat against a wall, his face so covered in blood that he was almost unrecognizable. In his lap he cradled a woman.

A power cord dangled loosely from her neck. Nadine. It must be Nadine.

”He tried to- He tried to strangle her,” croaked Andy. ”But she's not-”

There was a crack and a burst of flame from the back of the room.

”We've got to get out.” Head down, Gemma came to them.

”Are you all right?” Melody asked Andy urgently, frightened by the blood.

”Head cut. Just . . . woozy. Couldn't lift her.”

”Right. Come on.” She and Gemma eased Nadine from his lap and lifted her up, supporting her under her shoulders. Andy clambered unsteadily to his feet, and the three of them dragged Nadine towards the door. She stirred and began to protest, coughing. ”Easy, easy,” said Melody. ”We've got you. We're almost out.”

Joe Peterson's screams had dropped to animal-like cries. ”Don't leave me,” he moaned. ”You can't leave me, you b.a.s.t.a.r.ds.”

”We'll come back. And the fire brigade's on its way,” shouted Gemma as they pulled Nadine out the door. They all took gulps of fresh air, then, eyes streaming, Melody gasped, ”How the h.e.l.l are we going to get her down the steps?”

Then figures appeared in the blowing snow, neighbors come to help. There were voices, then helping hands to steady them as Melody, Gemma, and Andy managed to ease Nadine down the steps without any of them falling. Nadine began to cough again.