He almost knocks a woman over, a hand over her mouth, staring at the flashing sky. She swears at him but he doesn’t care. He’s just a road away now.
He runs faster.
And as he runs he sees Rosie bending down on one knee to help Greer take her boots off. The older two with coats still on, slumping down in the armchairs in front of the wood burner, their teeth gummy with cheap sweets, wiping sticky fingers on the furniture, their Halloween make-up smudged.
I’m coming, Ro, please wait, I’m coming.
But as he runs he watches Rosie look up, surprised, as behind Greer Eva’s letterbox creaks open and the first fizzing firework is shoved inside, just behind their little girl.
He skids on some leaves, almost falls as he turns into St John’s Terrace. But he doesn’t stop or even slow.
He runs. His body strains against its own limitations. Air is forced into his lungs. He makes himself go faster as more and more fireworks are shoved inside, screaming, louder even than his children’s screams.
And then it’s in front of him. The neat, familiar little row of houses.
His mum’s is popping, alive with colour. The windows are bright, shattering as gaudy pink and blue fountains spill and shriek and turn crazy corkscrews up, up into the night sky while the body of the house, already in flames, spits and crackles like it’s in agony.
Inside. He’s got to get inside.
There are more people here. Some of them are crying but most are silent, awed by the horror in front of them.
He won’t stop until he’s inside with them, until he can trade places or lie down with them. There is no other choice, no other way. He is desperate for the heat on his own skin, for the smell of himself burning, the smoke polluting his lungs.
He tries to pull his arm away, but it’s weighted, someone hanging off it, slowing him, and as tries to shrug them off again it takes longer than normal to recognize the voice.
‘Dad!’
There he is.
‘Daddy!’
There they are.
His boy, his daughters crying and clutching Eva. He reaches for each one of them, pressing his hands against Greer’s cheeks, kissing Sylvie’s face and pulling his son tightly against his own heaving body before drawing his mum close too. He needs to feel the solidity, the realness of them, because what if this is his brain’s way of tricking him, telling him they’re safe just to stop him from going inside?
It’s Sylvie who pulls away first, the fire flickering against her skin, her face frozen. ‘Mum went ahead of us, Dad. She went ahead.’
Seb looks at Eva but her face is a mask of anguish and he realizes that if she weren’t inside, Rosie would of course be here, with them. He pulls away from them almost as quickly as he drew them towards him.
He’s running before they can say anything.
I’m coming, Ro.
He won’t let her leave them, he won’t let his children grow up without her, because this fire is for him, not her, and as he runs closer, he glances up briefly to the sky, to the unfathomable mystery, and makes a kind of cosmic promise. Me for her, OK?
Me for her.
The house has stopped thrashing now, giving in to the roar of the flames, resigned to its end. All that’s left are great rolling waves of fire cresting and breaking from the blue, quiet heart of the fire. He pictures himself pushing Rosie out to safety, her ribcage filling with clean, nourishing oxygen.
There are noises behind him now, shouts and screams for him to stop but he doesn’t, he won’t. Smoke rasps through him; he feels his skin prickle as though blistering already. He runs through the gate; the fire is dancing around the front door, so he follows the path to the back but again someone grabs his arm. Harder, rougher this time, pulling him to a stop. It’s a firefighter, bulky in all their gear, but Seb can just make out their eyes, they’re trying to tell him something and then he hears her, he hears her, Rosie shouting his name, but he can’t trust it. He needs to see her before he can stop. Again, the firefighter pulls his arm, rougher this time, forcing Seb to turn. Rosie is behind him, pressing against another firefighter, still calling his name like it’s the only word she knows.
His heart is a wild thing as he moves towards her, slowly, like he’s worried she’ll vanish. He takes in her face first, streaked with black, eyes lively with shock. Terrified, but unharmed. He looks over the rest of her and she’s saying, ‘I’m OK, Seb, I just burnt my hand, I’m OK.’
He glances up, again, to the sky.
Thank you. Thank you.
‘I thought, Rosie, Jesus Christ, I thought you were inside, I …’
And through it all – the shouts from the people watching, the roar of the fire and the wail of alarms – there’s perfect silence as Rosie looks up at him, her face filled with something transcending fear or relief or even love. It’s only later that Seb will find the right word. Acceptance. They reach for each other at the same time and in the flickering light as so much is destroyed Seb knows that something more precious has also been saved.
Chapter 22
The kids wrap themselves around Rosie and Seb, the five of them in a shaking huddle, before they’re moved away by firefighters in bulky coats and gloves, the visors down on their yellow helmets. It’s their show now.
Rosie is so grateful for Greer’s weight in her arms, her daughter’s legs squeezing her waist. Heath and Sylvie either side of Seb, his arms over their shoulders. They form a protective semicircle around Eva who stands, solemn but strong on her own, turned to face everything she’s losing. The police move them back, further away. There’s nothing for them to do now but watch this strangely intimate moment. They stand, watching tiny deaths play out in front of them as the physical pieces of Eva’s life, Seb’s childhood, Rosie’s kids’ childhoods lift and disappear into the night sky. Goodbye, family photo albums. Goodbye, Eva’s childhood diaries. Goodbye, map with Benjamin’s phone number.
Even though there are so many people, firefighters with their hoses and police with their radios, it feels like it’s just the six of them standing there, watching. The children are quiet, reverent. Greer strokes Rosie’s cheek. The children seem to understand that what is happening here is terrible but also sacred and Rosie knows in the pit of her that it’s right for the children to be here. To witness what mustn’t be avoided, to see what can never be properly described.
Next to her, Rosie feels Seb and she presses herself against the side of him. There is no one else, no one else she could stand next to and witness all this destruction with. She feels like she too is on fire as so much between them floats up, up, away into the night sky. He came for her. That’s all that matters. It’s no longer about who is right and who is wrong, it’s no longer about all the things they should have done earlier and the things they should not have done at all.
A police officer approaches Eva. ‘Mrs Kent? Are you Mrs Eva Kent?’
Suddenly the protective casing around their little group is broken and now there’s someone else, an ambulance worker in dark-green scrubs next to Rosie asking, ‘Hi, Mrs Kent, I’m Katerina. Can I take a look at that hand for you?’
Rosie feels Greer’s legs around her soften like she’s about to release, but Rosie holds her little one tighter, wrapping Greer’s legs around her waist again, and says to the woman, ‘No, no, thank you, I’m fine.’
Katerina asks again to look at Rosie’s hand and she reluctantly passes Greer to Seb.
Seb puts his hand behind Rosie’s head and for just a moment they stand, foreheads touching, his tears so close to her own. Rosie pulls away first as Seb whispers, ‘I’m going to take the kids home and then I’m going to come back for you, Ro.’