Then, in the house, three things happened almost simultaneously. With a flare of yellow and red light from the flames that were in the process of engulfing the kitchen, Bernard Reynolds charged through the inner kitchen door, shotgun brandished in front of him. Lucy, rushing out of the room opposite, medical kits clutched in her arms, crashed straight into him. Both ended up entangled on the floor as Sam barked and growled at the intruder. In the meantime, the two remaining sons had followed their father, and the two cousins were minutes away from hacking their way through the front door.
Tom reacted quickly, firing a single barrel at one of the sons, Barry, but missing him, peppering the ceiling instead. Ever thickening clouds of smoke and a torch that was becoming increasingly ineffective in the swirling smoke, it was hardly surprising Tom missed. Andrew joined him and also fired, his shot catching the other son, Frank, in his right shoulder and the lower side of his jaw. The man screamed as he dropped to his knees clutching his face.
Tom snapped into action and charged at the father, placing a boot in the man’s gut, giving Lucy a chance to extract herself as Sam joined in and wrenched the father’s arm to and fro, a timely distraction. The man squealed as the collie tore at his bloodied arm. Barry, in the meantime, had raced around the mêlée and, seeing Mary poking her head through the door of the snug desperately seeking her mother, headed straight for her. The roar of the flames intensified, and clouds of grey smoke billowed around the ground floor area of the farm. Tom choked, the tea towel, his makeshift face mask having dried out, allowing the toxic fumes to penetrate his throat and lungs. The only plus side was that the intruders, were equally debilitated, if not more so.
Bernard Reynolds, finding his arm free as Sam succumbed to the ever thickening smoke, lashed out and grabbed Lucy’s leg as she tried to run away. Tom stamped on Bernard’s hand and grabbed for Lucy’s arm as he did. The man howled and flung a meaty fist in Tom’s direction, missing, the effort causing him to suck in a deep lungful of smoke, forcing him up on his hands and knees, coughing and spluttering as he fought for breath. Lucy also choked on the fumes as Tom dragged her unceremoniously away from her assailant. In the thickening blanket of smoke, Tom had no idea where the rest of his group were. He hadn’t heard the front door splinter as a sledgehammer finally knocked it off its hinges, giving the cousins, a short, rotund teenager, eighteen last month, and his more athletic brother, an opportunity to blunder through, blinded as soon as they entered the hall, their watery eyes rubbed sore trying to clear their vision.
“Go,” yelled Andrew who reappeared at Tom’s side, helping to pull Lucy, who was now struggling for air, up off the floor.
Tom groped his way through the smoke, nearly tripping over the figure of Barry sprawled on the floor, a bloody gash across his head where Madeline, in a rare show of courage, protecting the two children, had struck him with a heavyweight, marble table lamp. He turned, keeping his back to the door, and saw Andy and Lucy stumbling towards him through the smog, coughing and retching. He pushed the door open with his backside, knocking Patrick, who was guarding the door with his mother, back.
“Sam! Sam!” he called. The dog responded to his voice and shot past him into the snug, pleased to escape the thick poisonous air. Lucy and Andrew stumbled through the open door, crashing to the floor in a flurry, quickly followed by Tom who banged the door shut behind him. Then he slammed the heavy bolts across, top and bottom, securing the room. He bent at the waist, hands on hips, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath and draw air into his lungs. The room was smoke-filled, but not as dense as the other side of the door.
He raised his head. The flickering light of the gas lamps lit by Madeline revealed the smoke-blackened faces of Lucy and Andrew scrabbling up from the floor. Maddie had one arm around Patrick and Mary, and a lamp blighted by blood in her other hand.
The outer door was open, unlocked earlier by Lucy, and it was time to move. They would have to leave what had been Tom and Lucy’s home for over twenty years. Andrew and Maddie were the only ones with a head torch, so Andrew led them out into the darkness of the lean-to that stood alongside the rear of the house. In daylight, anyone peering inside the lean-to from the outside, would see a small workshop. Shelves lined the outside wall of the house with a three-metre workbench in the middle. This is where they exited from the snug, through a small lower stable door just over a metre high. The upper part of the stable door had been sealed many years ago. The egress was by way of passing through the short doorway, then crawling beneath the workbench, dragging their additional emergency supplies with them, until they were able to stand. When Tom, the last person through, stood up, Andrew knelt down, reached under the bench and pulled the door shut, locked it, then slid two large bolts across to secure the heavy door. Once the Reynolds family finally battered their way into the snug, they would eventually come across what could possibly be a small door low down, but with no handle and just a small mortice lock to show it could be used as an exit point. By then, it would be too late. Tom, Andrew, and their respective families, would be long gone. Once satisfied their escape route was secure, Tom pulled on a coat, part of their emergency clothing, checked all were ready and equally dressed for warmth, then put on a head torch.
“We’ve rehearsed this. So, me first, Lucy, the children, Maddie, and then Andy. Ready?”
“Yes,” they responded collectively.
“Let’s go then.”
They picked up the supplies they would take with them and Tom eased the outside door of the lean-to open, and peered left and right. Flickers of light provided by the increasingly violent flames devouring the kitchen around the corner could be seen reflecting off the trees and the yard in front of him. He moved left, walking slowly, feeling Lucy’s hand under his coat and holding on to the belt loop of his jeans. Everyone else should be following suit, keeping physical contact with the person in front of them. He took them to the left, along the side of the house, away from the source of the fire and any members of the Reynolds clan that might be outside. After ten metres, he turned ninety degrees to the right and led the group across the open yard. Now, they were at their greatest risk, out in the open, completely exposed, even though it was a dark, moonless night. They passed through a gate, the hinges well oiled and silent, Tom taking them across a second yard, empty stables on the left. At the end, he turned left, keeping close to the wall, a set of pigpens at the back. Skirting round the side of them to access the rear of the pigpens, the two families arrived at the location of their escape vehicle. The Land Rover, a trailer hitched ready and partially loaded with jerrycans of diesel, was draped in a large tarpaulin.
“Get round the other side, Andy. Grab the end, and we’ll drag it out of the way.”
Lucy, Maddie and the children moved to the side while Tom and Andy, dropping the supplies they had carried with them, peeled back the tarpaulin, exposing the dark shape of their transport.