police station, breathless from running, above her, the blue glass lamp that’s been there since Victorian times. The old cells are filled with lockers now, and the station’s only staffed three days a week, but the yellow phone outside goes straight to the control room, and all she has to do is lift the receiver…
Come on, come on!
There’s another crash from upstairs. The staircase? The first floor? I think of Mo next door, still fast asleep, unable to hear anything until it’s too late. The postman comes around eight, but there’s no light coming through the coal chute now the porch light has gone, so it must still be early.
It’s all on Sophia, and there’s so much that could go wrong. Even if she remembers the way, there are roads to cross and well-meaning strangers—let alone predators. What if she can’t reach the phone or it’s out of order? I picture my brave, beautiful daughter, in her Action Man pajamas and her unicorn dressing gown, her slippers wet with snow, and I let my tears fall.
At first, I think I’m imagining the sound of sirens.
They fade in and then out again just as quickly, and I close my eyes and listen so hard, I think I’m hearing it only because I want it so badly. But there it is again: the shrill pitch of a fire engine, and alongside it, the rhythmic peal of a police car. There’s another crash from above me, but the sirens are building and building, and now I can’t hear the roar of the fire anymore, only the sound of help.
Sophia must have told them exactly where I am, because there’s a burst of torchlight through the coal chute, falling like a spotlight just beyond my feet.
“In here!” I try to shout, but my throat won’t comply, acrid smoke making me choke. The coal chute’s too small for an adult to use, and I feel panic rising inside me. What if they can’t get me out? The creaking and cracking I’ve heard, the crashes from above…is the house collapsing? I imagine being buried beneath piles of rubble, no way out as long as I’m chained to the wall.
“Adam? Hang on in there, mate. We’re coming.”
There’s a flicker of light near the top of the cellar steps. I pull my knees up and bury my head as an almighty crash echoes through the house, sending dust and debris across the cellar. I feel a hand on my shoulder, another lifting my head up and slipping something over it. Suddenly the air is cleaner—the breath doesn’t catch in my throat—and my eyes stop stinging. There are two firefighters in the cellar. One of them gives me a thumbs-up, and I nod a response, then she gestures for me to bend forward. The other is already looking at the cuffs, and I bend as low as I can, shuffling away from the wall to give them some space. There’s a spray of sparks and a sudden grinding noise, and I brace myself for a slip, but instead there’s a jolt, and I fall suddenly forward, finally free.
They’ve cut the pipe, not the cuffs, and I stumble as I try to get up, unbalanced with my arms behind my back. My ankles buckle beneath me, stiff from inactivity. Just as I’m wondering how I’m going to walk, let alone run, I’m pulled unceremoniously from both ends and lifted onto a stretcher, straps pulled tight across my chest and legs.
They pull me up the stairs—the wheels at the base of the stretcher bumping up each step—and through the wreckage of the cellar door. I catch a glimpse of the kitchen before we’re into the hall, flames licking at the wallpaper that runs up the stairs, and water—water everywhere—then we’re out. Blue lights flash from every direction as I’m dragged through the snow, a paramedic running by my side. Even as he’s pulling off my smoke hood, I’m shouting, “Sophia—where’s Sophia?” but no one’s listening.
“One, two, three.” There’s a jolt and a sliding sensation as they put me in an ambulance.
“I need to see my daughter.”
“He’s got handcuffs on—look like police ones. Can you get someone over here with a key?”
They talk over me, and a wave of exhaustion engulfs me as I shut my eyes and let them do their job. I feel my head being lifted and an oxygen mask placed over my face, then I’m turned to the side as the paramedic examines my bleeding wrists.
“You wanted a