china vase, the Landrover lifted itself over the sill like a great weary beast, and bumped across the floor inside.
Until the floor gave way with a great splintering of wood, and the vehicle crashed down into the cellars and out of sight.
And, as if to seal its fate, the wall of the house, weakened by the loss of the pillars, cracked and crashed down, filling the air with fine white powder.
Inside, the engine howled and died, and there was a great silence.
I heard, somewhere in the billowing dust, Mossy yelling, ‘Who was it? Who was it?’
Somehow I knew utterly, fatally, that it had been Hermione.
Until she called out weakly from further down the garden.
‘That bloke of yours,’ shouted Mossy. ‘I don’t know his name.’
James. James, entombed, alone with the beast.
In fear and trembling we climbed up the rubble and peered through the vast hole where the wall should be. Small stuff – single bricks, and slates – were raining down from the roof above.
‘James,’ we shouted. ‘James.’
It was when we had quite lost hope that we heard the voice; a strong voice, a singing voice, from out of the depths:
‘Oh, my God, make them like a wheel
As the stubble before the wind
As the fire burneth a wood
And as the flame setteth the mountains on fire . . .’
‘It’s him,’ whispered Hermione. ‘It’s James. He must be trapped in the driver’s seat. C’mon, we must get him out.’
She started down; but Mossy grabbed her. ‘Not time,’ he shouted. ‘Fifty seconds to go.’
So, like cowards, we left him, and ran, scrambled, to save ourselves.
And not a moment too soon. From the depths of the earth came a short sharp crump and a small red flash, and a tremble under our feet. A shower of white stuff sailed out of the hole the Landrover had made, and splattered down among the trees. The smell was chemical, and hurt our noses.
And then, it was as if it was instant autumn. A yellow flame blossomed among the heavy ornamental foliage overhead. And another, and another. Now there were dozens. And the flames began to drip downwards. Whole trees catching fire. A piece fell at my feet, and the long-dead damp leaves began to smoke.
‘Get the hell out,’ shouted Mossy. ‘There’s nothing we can do here.’
But we saw it all, from the front gate, through the front windows of Abbeywalk. The leaping red flames inside, that slowly turned into a molten heart of fire, and rolled and dripped among the fallen masonry within.
And then, incredibly, we heard the voice again, still singing:
‘A fire goeth before him
And burneth up his enemies roundabout
His lightnings enlightened the world
The hills melted like wax in the presence of the Lord.’
‘That’s from higher up,’ shouted Hermione. ‘He’s escaped. He’s on the first floor. I could swear it.’
‘You can’t tell that,’ shouted Mossy. You could hardly hear his voice, above the roar of the flames. ‘He could be anywhere.’
But, as if in answer, we saw a human figure, gesturing, at a first-floor window. James. Blackened. But James.
‘Jump!’ we shouted. ‘Break the glass. Jump!’
But he paid no heed to us.
‘It’s got hold of him,’ said Hermione bitterly. ‘It’s got hold of his mind, now, like it got hold of us.’
Now the window where James had stood was a mass of flame; the glass shattered and tinkled outwards.
And all around us, through the darkened London air, came the sound of sirens. Police, fire, ambulance. Too late.
A screech of brakes, a shower of gravel. Then Crittenden’s voice at my shoulder. Sarcastic as ever.
‘What’re you up to now, Mr Morgan? Arson? For the insurance?’
I opened my mouth, but I never had time to think what to say.
For I heard another sound now, another voice. A voice so huge it deafened. A voice of garbled syllables, in a dreadful language I had no wish to understand. A voice that must have been heard all over London. In St John’s Wood, and Chalk Farm, and even on the Heath. A voice of pure rage, that shouted and was silent.
‘My God,’ said Crittenden. ‘What’s that?’ Even in the ruddy light of the fire, his face was white and chalky.
‘That’s what killed Margie Duff,’ I said. ‘And Tony Tanner.’
The dreadful yell came again. And there was more than rage in it now. There was agony and despair.
‘It knows it’s going to die,’ whispered Hermione.
And so we listened in silence – police, firemen, even ambulance men – to those gigantic death-yells. Almost, it invited pity. It is a fearful thing for any