But it wasn’t the posters that Ellis was pointing to now. Standing near them was a red plastic petrol can.
She looked at Ellis, understanding now what Jack had been trying to tell her. “Oh, no.” She shook her head. “No, you can’t …”
“P-pick it up.”
“Please — ” She tripped over what to call him. “Please, just think what you’re doing.”
“Pick it up.”
“At least let them go! You’ve got me here now, you don’t need them!”
He advanced towards her. She backed away, but he stopped when he reached Jack. He put the knife against his neck.
“Pick it up.”
Kate slowly walked across the room towards where the petrol can waited. The sheaf of posters drew her eye. They were new ones. This time her smiling face had been planted on a journalistic photograph of a woman holding a dead child. It was black and white, obviously taken from some war zone, and flames had been clumsily superimposed to make it look as if mother and baby were on fire. KATE POWELL BURN IN HELL BITCH was printed across the bottom.
She looked away. The petrol can was at her feet. Next to it was a shallow cardboard box filled with the small yellow tins of lighter fluid that Jack used as a cleaning agent. Beside that was a cluster of aerosol cans of spray adhesive. The “flammable” sign was printed on all of them.
Kate reached down and took hold of the red container. It was heavy. A faint sloshing came from inside when she lifted it.
“T-take the lid off.”
Kate did as she was told. It felt greasy. It dangled from a plastic strip when it was unscrewed. The smell of the petrol was a sickly, sweet taste at the back of her nose and throat.
“P-pour it out.”
“Please, don’t do this.”
Ellis took hold of Jack’s hair, pulling his head back to expose his throat to the blade.
Slowly, Kate tilted the can. Petrol glugged out of the wide spout. It splashed over the boxes and containers of ink, ran down into the carpet. It ran across the image of her face that smiled up from the posters, pooling over the cold likeness of the flames.
“P-put some on the curtains.”
The heavy drapes were drawn across the french windows. Kate made throwing motions at them with the petrol can. The fabric stained dark where the fluid soaked into it.
“Now the carpet,” Ellis told her. His voice sounded thick and drugged. The stammer had almost gone. “Work your way over here.”
He stood back as she walked towards the settee and chairs, sloshing liquid from the can as she went. It was more than half empty now. The room reeked with petrol.
“Now pour it over them.”
Kate shook her head, mutely. Ellis put the blade back to Jack’s neck. His eyes were bright. Kate could see that his pupils were black and dilated.
“Do it.”
Emily began to cry in lost little sobs, a counterpoint to Angus’s huskier wails. The can felt slick in Kate’s hands.
“I can’t!”
Ellis’s breathing was heavy. He held out his hand. “Give it to me.”
Kate didn’t move.
“I said f-fucking give it to me!”
There was urgency in his voice now. “P-please!”
She backed away from him.
He blinked, rapidly. “Remember what you said?”
He was reaching into his pocket, moving away from Jack now. “They threw it in the incinerator, you t-told me. Remember?”
He pulled out a box of matches. “I’ll show you what suffering is,” he said, and as he opened the matches Kate flung the petrol can at his face.
It struck his upraised arms, a swirl of liquid hanging in the air behind it like a tail, and then Kate was running past him.
She felt a tug on her arm, but didn’t stop. She ran down the darkened hallway, careering into Jack’s boxes and pushing them over behind her. She slammed into the front door. It was locked. Kate wrenched at it until she heard a noise from the lounge doorway, and turned to see Ellis emerging.
She ran upstairs. The landing at the top was in darkness. There was a banister railing edging the open side where it overlooked the downstairs hall, and from it Kate could hear him blundering over the boxes. She pushed herself away, into the deeper darkness of the upstairs corridor. A pale square at the far end showed where the window was, and by its faint light Kate began to make out textures in the shadow that were the doors. They were all closed. Lungs burning, she ran past them, one by one. She reached the end of the corridor. Footsteps pounded up the stairs. Kate opened the nearest door and went in. The room was even darker. She stood with her back against the door and faced the blackness. It was unrelieved by even a glimmer of light, but a sweetness of talcum powder and crayons told her she was in Emily and Angus’s bedroom. A door was opened further along the corridor. Kate felt for a lock or bolt. There was nothing. She moved blindly into the room, hands outstretched in front of her. She tried to remember if there was anything she could use. Anywhere to hide. She jumped as she walked into a bed. Feeling her way along it, she came to the bookshelf. And the wall. She groped across its unyielding hardness. Her heart thudded when she barked her shins on the small table. She reached out to steady it and her hand hit a lamp, almost knocking it over. She grabbed at it, heart thudding. A second door was opened. She gently set the lamp upright and shrank back against the wall. She pressed herself into the cranny between the bookshelf and table, knowing the shelter was illusory. Her breath came in rasps. She tried to quiet it, listening for the sounds from the corridor. Another door opened, nearer. There was a dull ache in her arm. She reached up to touch it, and almost cried out at the sudden slash of pain. Biting her lip, she touched her arm again. This time she was more prepared when the petrol on her fingers stung the long cut above her elbow. She remembered the tug on her arm as she ran past Ellis, thought about the sharp length of the knife. She felt sick. The door of the next room along was opened. Kate squeezed her eyes shut. Bright flashes of light danced in front of her. The cloying stink of petrol was nauseating. She heard the scuff of a footstep from outside and folded her arms over her stomach. She could feel her heart beating, banging against her ribs, and thought of the smaller one keeping time with it, a tiny pulse of innocence. The door opened. It made a whispering sound of wood on carpet. Kate opened her eyes. She saw nothing, only blackness and fading sparkles of phosphene after images. “Kate.” The word was like a shout in the silence. Kate pressed back against the wall. A dull glow came from beside her. She turned towards it and found herself looking at the lamp on the table. The room came into being around her as it grew brighter, small beds and cuddly toys. Mickey Mouse capered on the lampshade. Ellis stood in the doorway with his hand on the dimmer switch. His eyes were red from the petrol. She could see the dark splashes of it on his clothes. He stepped into the room, bringing a stronger reek of it with him. Kate stepped to one side, hoping to dart around him to the door, but he moved to block her. The knife was still gripped in his hand. Kate saw the dark smear on its blade. She backed between the bookshelves and the table again. Ellis stopped in the middle of the room. “You shouldn’t have d-done it.” He sounded calmer. Kate wasn’t sure whether he meant run, or have an abortion. She couldn’t speak. “You’d n-no right,” he said. “It was my b-baby. You’d no right.” She shook her head, but he wasn’t looking. He was staring at her arm. “You’re bleeding.” He sounded surprised. Kate looked down. There was a gaping slice in the left sleeve of her coat. Her arm was soaked in blood. She had forgotten about it, but now it began to throb again. The pain goaded her.
“What are you looking so upset about?” she demanded. She wiped her hand on her bloody sleeve and held it up to show him. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”