Decider - By Dick Francis Page 0,104

for speeding.

In through the racecourse gates. Round onto the tarmac outside Roger’s office. Keith’s silver Jaguar was there. Nobody in sight… Yes… Christopher… and Edward… and Alan. All of them frightened to eye-staring terror. I scrambled out of the car, driven by demons.

‘Dad!’ Christopher’s bottomless relief was not reassuring. ‘Dad, hurry.’

‘What’s happening?’

‘That man… in the big top.’

‘I turned that way.

‘He’s lit fires in there… and Neil… and Toby… and Neil’s screaming.’

‘Find Colonel Gardner,’ I shouted to him, running. ‘Tell him to turn on the sprinkler.’

‘But…’ Despair in Christopher’s voice, ‘we don’t know where he is.’

‘Find him.’

I could hear Neil screaming. Not words, nothing intelligible. High-pitched shrieks. Screaming.

How does one face such a thing?

I ran into the big top, into the centre aisle, looking for the fire extinguisher that ought to have been there at the entrance, and not seeing it, running on and finding Alan running beside me.

‘Go back,’ I yelled at him. ‘Alan, go back.’

There was smoke in the tent and small bright fires here and there on the floor; scarlet, orange and gold flames leaping in rivers and pools. And beyond, standing like a colossus with his legs apart, his weight braced and his mouth stretched wide in gleeful enjoyment… Keith.

He held Neil by the wrist, easily clamping the small bones in a vice grip, and lifting him halfway into the air, holding my son at almost arm’s length, the small body writhing and fighting to get free, but with only his toes touching the ground, giving no purchase.

‘Let him go,’ I yelled, beyond pride, into begging, into any craven grovelling needed.

‘Come and get him, or I’ll burn him.’

Beside Keith, in a tall decorative wrought-iron container, stood a long-handled torch flaring with a live naked flame, the sort designed for garden barbecues, for torchlight processions, for the evil firing of houses in raids; Neil on one side, torch on the other. In the centre, Keith held a plastic jerry can missing its cap.

‘It’s petrol, Dad,’ Alan yelled beside me. ‘He was pouring it on the floor and lighting it. We thought he might burn us… and we ran, but he caught Neil… don’t let him burn Neil, Dad.’

‘Go back,’ I screamed at him, frantic, and he wavered and stopped in his tracks, tears on his cheeks.

I ran towards Keith, towards his terrible grin, towards my terrified son. I ran towards certain fire, ran as fast as I could, ran from instinct.

If Keith wants to get rid of something, he burns it…

I would overrun him, I thought. I would crash down with him. He would go with me… wherever I went.

He hadn’t expected an onrush. He stepped back, looking less certain, and Neil went on screaming. One will do, I realised later, almost insane things in defence of one’s children.

I was conscious then only of flames, of anger, of the raw smell of petrol, of a clear view of the outcome.

He would fling the petrol can at me and swing the torch, and to do that he would have to… have to let go of Neil. I would push him away beyond Neil, who would live and be safe.

Six paces away, running towards him, I gave up all hope of not burning. But Keith would burn too… and die… I would make sure of it.

A small dark figure launched itself in the shortening distance between us like a goblin from nowhere, all arms and legs, ungainly but fast. He banged into Keith and knocked him off balance, setting him reeling and windmilling backwards.

Toby… Toby.

Keith let go of Neil. I shoved my small son away from him in a frenzy. The petrol spilled out of the can and over Keith’s legs in a glittering stream. Staggering, trying to evade the fuel, Keith knocked into the stand containing the torch. It rocked; rocked back and forwards and then overbalanced; started the flame falling in a deadly arc downwards.

I lunged forward, snatched up Toby with my right arm, scooped Neil into my left, lifted them both off their feet and turned in the same movement to escape.

There was a great whoosh at our backs and a blast of heat and sizzling fire as if the whole air were burning. I caught a split-second glimpse, looking over my shoulder, of Keith with his mouth open as if he, this time, would scream. He seemed to take a deep breath to yell and fire rushed into his open mouth as if drawn by bellows into his lungs, and he made no sound at all,