‘All right, all right. I’ll need you back later, to go over this. But I think for now you can go.’
Mia was hurtling through the lobby of the police station when the detective was stopped by the desk sergeant.
‘Another fire,’ he said, sounding somewhat incredulous. ‘At Harville Hall this time.’
‘You’re kidding,’ exclaimed the detective.
‘Not kidding. The Super wants you there.’
‘Harville Hall,’ echoed Mia, stopping for a moment at the swing doors to stare back at the desk. ‘What the fuck’s going on? It’s like the whatjamacallit. Pocalypse.’
‘It’ll mean a fuck-ton of paperwork,’ growled the detective, pushing past her and breaking into a sprint in the car park.
For a second, Mia toyed with the idea of going to the Hall herself, curious to know what the hell was going on, but the idea of Jason lying in his hospital bed – or, God forbid, on a mortuary slab – soon dispelled the idea.
She turned left at the police station steps and marched grimly up the hill to the hospital.
Jenna tried pushing at the stone roof but it was clear she stood no chance of shifting it. Cobwebs clung to her fingers and clods of dirt fell on her face as she strained.
Giving up, she sat down on the top step and hugged her knees, her face buried in the denim of her jeans.
This was where a woman had died. This was where she would die.
And in the meantime, Jason could be burnt alive on the other side of town.
She began to sob, her shoulders shaking, her hands and feet already growing numb with the dank cold.
This was how it would all end. The golden future full of love and joy, and lots of sex, she’d forecast for herself and Jason would never happen. There would be no more gallery shows, no more TV talent spotting, no more beautiful homes and glamorous events. Worst of all, no more lying in bed in Jason’s arms, glowing with the aftermath of a heavy session, lightheaded and lazy.
She’d never see his eyes again, restless or satisfied, or looking right into her, seeing past her LA sheen to the honest woman behind it.
‘At least I loved him,’ she wept. ‘And he loved me. At least we had that. And perhaps we’ll meet again. Perhaps … away from here.’
Through the fog of despair, she heard a rumble from above. Starting, she looked up – seeing nothing but pitch blackness, of course, but what was that noise?
Was Harville back to finish off the job himself? Was slow starvation and hypothermia not a horrible enough death to which to condemn her?
A slow grinding told her that the slab was being raised – by somebody without an enormous quota of bodily strength, but they were doing their best. Not the gym-honed Harville then? Certainly not his goons, who had lifted the slab as if it were a beer mat.
She crouched on the step, shielding her eyes from the steadily dropping dirt until a chink of natural light appeared. Well, not light exactly – but there was a kind of goldenness about it that raised it above the darkness of night.
Of course – the fire.
She smelled the smoke soon afterwards, then, as the slab rose still higher, saw specks of ash flying through the ill-lit air.
‘Who is it?’ she called. ‘Help me.’
She didn’t recognise the face peering down at her – it was the face of a young, bearded man with an expensive looking camera slung around his neck.
Then she worked out who it was. Her most persistent paparazzo!
‘It’s you,’ she said.
‘Jenna,’ he said, extending a hand. ‘Come on out of there. We ought to get away from this fire.’
She ran unquestioningly behind him until they reached the front of the house.
Flashing blue lights were everywhere, and there, right at the gate, cuffed and snarling, was Lawrence Harville.