Becoming desperate, he lunged at the wheel one more time. It was immovable. Something—the heat itself perhaps, or year after year of poor maintenance—had locked it into position.
He swore under his breath and with one last, somewhat fearful look at the furnace, started to walk to the door.
He was halfway there when he felt something move on his apron, an odd, hot finger tickling at his chest. Uriel Arcangelo looked down and refused to believe his eyes. A fire was sprouting out of the fabric over his midriff. A healthy, palpable tongue of flame, like that of an oversize candle, was emerging from beneath the vest as if his own body possessed some kind of internal burner beneath the skin. And it was growing.
The flame flickered upwards, outwards. He stamped at it with his sleeve, only to see the fire catch the fabric there, dance along his arm, mocking him, like the furnace itself, which was now wheezing at his back, louder and louder . . . .
Uriel. Uriel.
The air shook. Instinctively, he knew what had happened. One of the burners had crumbled into dust. The searing heat had worked its way back through the pipe, towards the dead stopcock, feeding on the flammable carbon gas, devouring it every inch of the way.
The explosion hit him full in the back, so hard he fell screeching to the timber floor. He felt his teeth bite on the fossilised wood, felt something shatter in his mouth, sending a pain running into his head where it met so many other messages: of fear and agony and a dimming determination that he could survive all this, if only he could reach the door and the key, the magic key he’d had the foresight to leave there only a few long minutes before.
PIERO SCACCHI CLAMBERED UP THE RUSTY LADDER, STAGGERED onto land, then found his own momentum sent him tumbling onto the hard, dusty stone of the island’s tiny quay. He crawled on all fours, holding his breath against the force of the hot wind. His mobile phone was still in the boat. He’d no idea how to alert anyone nearby quickly, though someone, somewhere, would surely notice, even in this backwater of Murano, on an island that kept its little footbridge to the outside world permanently locked now there was no public showroom for visitors to see. And if the fire were to spread to the palazzo, it would threaten to move on to the house itself, where the rest of the Arcangeli tribe were sleeping, in their separate bedrooms spread throughout the capacious mansion.
The burst of flame that had raged over the Sophia had died quickly. That, at least, seemed a mercy. But the cobbled stones of the broad jetty outside the foundry were now strewn with shattered glass and glowing embers of smouldering timber. Already he’d cut his hands stumbling into the shards and felt the burning stab of scorching splinters bite into his skin.
Cursing, he climbed to his feet and lumbered towards the half-shattered foundry windows, trying to locate the human sound he’d heard earlier. The frames ran to the ground to allow spectators outside to watch the process within. Now a miasmic storm of dust and smoke poured out of the chasm the blast had made in the centre. He shielded his eyes against the black, churning cloud and tried to imagine what force could have wrought such terrible damage.
Scacchi had no experience of fire. It rarely happened on Sant’ Erasmo, was scarcely worth considering on the boat. With its scorching breath in his face, he felt ignorant and powerless against the inferno’s might.
The old hosepipe was where he remembered, against the brick wall next to the double doors, curled like a dead serpent slumped against a hydrant that looked as if it hadn’t been used in decades.
Then he heard the hiss of escaping gas, and behind it the sound he’d heard before, magnified, a pitch higher: a human being, screeching in agony.
Piero Scacchi swore angrily, ripped the hose from its fastenings, lugged it under one arm and tore at the huge industrial tap with his powerful right hand. It gave, after much effort. A stream of water, not a powerful one, began to make an unenthusiastic exit from the nozzle.
He edged towards the shattered windows, directing the flow at the nearest flames as they ate into the tinder-like woodwork, watching them diminish reluctantly into a hissing, steamy mass, allowing just enough scope to let him get closer. Scacchi edged in front of the glass and the bright, sunlike light streaming from the interior. The colossal heat made each brief, laboured breath agony, made his skin shrink tight and painful on his face. And then all thoughts of his personal predicament disappeared as Piero Scacchi found himself full of grief and sorrow for the human being he knew, all along, would be inside.
SCACCHI RACED to the old wooden doors, tugged up the handle and heaved backwards with all his weight. Nothing moved. They were locked, from the inside in all probability. He could feel the force of the mechanism holding firm against his strength. Uriel must have had the key, he thought. But he was too scared, too gripped by the flames, perhaps, to use it.
“Uriel!” he shouted, not knowing how his voice would carry in this strange, fiery world beyond his vision. “The door, man! The key!”
There was no human sound inside now, nothing but the triumphant roar of the inferno.
Scacchi threw aside the hose and looked around for something, some iron bar or timber, that he could use to pry open the entrance. The quayside was empty save for a few boxes of broken glass, ready to feed the new firings. Then he looked again at the windows and knew there really was no other way.
He’d saved a couple of lives on the lagoon before. Idiots from terra firma playing stupid games with boats, unaware of the dangers. If he’d been willing to risk his neck for them, there really was no excuse to stand back and allow a good man like Uriel Arcangelo to die in these flames.
“No choice,” he muttered, and grasped the pipe beneath his arm. “None . . .”
Scacchi’s attention fell to the cobbled terrace by the boat. The dog had left the boat to find him. The animal now stared back from the edge of the quay, its terrified eyes burning with the reflection of the fire inside, black fur shiny and slicked back against its skinny body. Xerxes must have swum the short distance to the steps by the bridge, away from the ladder where the subterranean entrance lay with the Sophia moored next to it. Swum there in spite of his fear.
The spaniel threw back its head and let loose a long, pained howl.
Scacchi looked at the dog. He’d brought it up since the day it was born. It did everything he asked. Usually.
“Bark,” he ordered. “Bark, Xerxes. Wake the dead, for God’s sake!”
Then, as the fevered yelping began to rise in volume, as the animal started racing back and forth along the waterfront, he tucked the hose beneath his arm and took a deep breath of the outside air, wondering how long it would last him in the ordeal ahead.
Cuts and bruises. Smoke and flame. In the end they didn’t matter much at all when a human life was at stake.
Piero Scacchi hammered out an entry route with the iron nozzle of the decrepit hose, widened it with his elbow. Then he launched himself through the remaining spikes and shards, feeling nothing because that would require a loss of concentration and, at that point, there was too much for one man to focus on. Everything—machines, walls, worktables, timber beams and pillars—seemed to be ablaze. He was entering a world that was not quite real, a universe of flame and agony where he felt like a dismal foot soldier fighting a lone battle against an army of bright fiery creatures.
One brighter, more animated, than the rest.
“Uriel,” he said again, this time quietly, unsure whether the words were of any use to the half man, half fiery spirit rolling and screeching on the ground in front of him.