Three MIle Drove, Chapter Twenty

She was glad she was telling him, glad to be free of the burden that held her down like an ankle stone to the water’s bottom. That threatened to overwhelm her consciousness, merging it with the abnormality which torments the sleeping mind.
Even though she shouldn’t have done what she did, she was glad. But confession to her crime was merely one stepping stone out of the murky waters that surrounded her. She’d been holding on to secrets for too long, but now, was the plain fact they threatened to engulf her very soul the reason for her divulgence? Was the fear of losing her sanity the one reason she was revealing what lay out on the fens, was it all just selfish concern for her own health, and had panic been the driving force behind what she was doing?
Or was it selfishness in another form, that of being unable to live with her own conscience, just like the villain in an old time movie, the kind who turned the blade upon himself because he could no longer live with his actions? Would she be driven into this very act herself if she didn’t tell all?
Would she do it anyway if insanity took over?
But then, had there been another factor existing beside the evil, just like the good knight alongside the bad? The one who might yet fling off his chain mail and dive into the waters to save her, to rescue her from the heavy waters that threatened right now to crush her mind.
She’d agonised all afternoon, the much needed rest hadn’t come, so heavy was the burden upon her, but her mind was made up. She would tell all.
Was she doing it for him, because of him, out of fear for him, or fear for herself?
Right now she didn’t know, her thoughts just whirled around inside her head faster and faster, just like the whirlpool that circled above her. She needed to see McPherson, to tell him all, that was the only thing she could do right now, she couldn’t see beyond the next five minutes.

* *

His car wasn’t in his parking space. It should have served as an omen, but she didn’t even look for it. Her eyes were hazy as she made her way to the enquiry office, ringing robotically on the bell.
She was dimly aware of the enquiry officer placing a phone call, then more dimly aware of the woman returning, her face solemn, a mask of death.
‘I’m sorry madam, Sergeant McPherson left the office a short time ago, can I take a message?’
Claire Summerby didn’t know whether she’d made a reply.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Even as Darren entered Three Mile Drove he sensed there was something wrong, the smell of smoke wafted by the strong wind invaded his nostrils, clogging his throat and making it feel covered in tiny cinders. The grey sky was lightened by an orange glow to the west, and a plume of smoke billowed towards the heavens as though an unearthly tornado was about to unwind.
He closed his window to escape the ashes that showered around him like shrivelled leaves, and then passing old man Tomblin’s place he saw the pensioner standing alongside his fence, he might have been a granite statue had his hands not been pressed to the railings as if he were absorbed by the spectacle. He seemed impervious to the hot ashes which swirled through the skies, and as Darren passed he turned in his direction, his wizened features creasing either into an ugly smile or grimace, he couldn’t decide which.
The air grew misty, its atmosphere contaminated by the thickening smoke, and then through it he saw its source. Claire’s former childhood home was now just a mixture of smoke and flame, amidst which debris was being flung high into the air, roasted by the heat and circulated by the wind, fragmenting, making it seem like a Catherine Wheel out of control.
White heat emblazoned the grey skies, illuminating the lone willow which had seemed to stand before the house like a deformed guardian, now seeming to turn it into a weird caricature of the old man he’d just seen, with its two remaining branches stretching out like thin ageing arms, each with points seeming like fingers, fingers that warned him away. The sensation set his heart pounding, but he fought for control of his senses, summoned logic against the nonsense that had entered his mind. Claire’s old house was on fire, derelict or not McPherson had believed it held the key to the missing child, now it was burning before his eyes.
He thought then of the child he’d reckoned seeing at the window before he’d dismissed it as a figment of his imagination, and with a growing unease pressed heavily on the accelerator. He cursed himself for driving so far while his mind led him on a turbulent trail of thoughts circling around Claire.
And then amidst the fury of the blaze he heard awful screams, wailing which sounded like high-pitched sirens carried on the wind. The same, inhuman calls that had caused him such concern, only now whoever was responsible for the howling was surely entrapped within the inferno raging around the house.
Pulling the Jeep to a halt a safe distance away Darren glanced back at the fire that the gusty wind was spiralling high into the grey skies, creating an eerie merger. He stepped out and walked about twenty yards, passing the tall bank of trees, which shielded Shaun Tomblin’s house from the road, pausing alongside the makeshift bridge, which crossed the dyke. A timber rafter disintegrating in the heat broke away, crashing to earth, sending sparks and cinders crackling around him like demented jumping jacks.
There was nothing he could do and yet there had to be. The howling told him that much, but even as he flung himself from the Jeep and fought his way through the mixture of thick bog and grass that had once served as a garden, he felt his legs buckle on the uneven ground, pitching him headlong into the foul smelling soil. He gazed up at the house, its upper floors billowing smoke and flame, he saw the window he’d thought he’d seen the child and saw the fiery glow lashing at it like huge fingers. The sight served to pull him up, stirring the leaden weights that were his legs towards the door. It was a flimsy construction and gave easily as the foggy swirl of smoke seared his breath. The screams rang out again from above, mixing eerily with the sound of cracking timbers. They were upstairs somewhere, whoever they were. He was going to find out, the blaze hadn’t yet engulfed the whole house but it was within minutes, perhaps seconds of doing so.
He fumbled in his pocket for something to mask his lungs from the acrid smoke which darkened the room like a smog, finding a handkerchief as wet as the soaked clothing he wore. But his soggy condition afforded him some protection from the fire that ravaged upstairs. He could hear it rippling through the rafters; he could see the flashes of light that lit the stairs like a fairground from hell.
He forced himself up the stairway against the pall of smoke, finding the landing and grasping the banister for support; it shook
with his weight but it didn’t give. But neither did the bedroom door that he swung his foot at, the door behind which came the
frenzied screams. He cursed briefly at the irony of it, that an internal door should be tougher than an external one, then launched
his foot again with all the force he could muster. He felt a surge of adrenaline as it gave with a splintering sound and a wall of flame
dashed out to greet him. He covered his eyes from the searing heat, staggering into the room, feeling himself immediately jostled by
featureless silhouettes in the smoke as they rushed towards the landing. A rafter missed his head by a whisker and a ball of fire hurtled
down from above as if tossed by a giant hand, but the fire’s captives whoever they were had been freed, he could hear the quick
tread of footsteps down the stairs; hear their urgent, high-pitched yells.
He turned back to the landing, rushing headlong down the stairs after them. Somebody had fired the attic, tried to kill them and
more than anything right now he needed to know why. He needed to know who these people were; he was within a few yards of
the owners of the terrible sounding screams that had plagued him since his arrival here, but he had to fight his way through a dense wall
of smoke that seemed to defy his every downward step.
And then he saw a face, the face of the girl he’d imagined he’d seen from the window, it looked back at him, panic stricken,
through the gathering darkness as he stumbled to the edge of the doorway taking deep breaths of smoky air. In an instant she’d turned
and fled, joining the others, the owners of the screams that continued to shriek in the distance. He plunged his feet into the soggy
soil, cursing the fact that his weight was much heavier than the child’s, that it inhibited his progress far more than it had done to her, or
any of the rest for that matter. But he’d seen the route that she’d taken and forcing much needed air into his withering lungs he gave chase.
He reached the gap in the overgrown hedge he’d seen the child disappear through, though now the cries had ceased and the track cut three ways; one lead into the fens, another towards the drove while the third lead into Tomblin’s home.Instinct would have led him in that direction but for a sudden explosion of fire that illuminated the area in white flame. He caught sight of movement, a sudden hustling along the track that led deep into the fens.