The 1,000-year-old Boy. Ross Welford
Читать онлайн книгу.
was happening, about the possibility that the witch’s house was on fire, that people might be hurt or worse …
She shook her head and pointed upstairs, mouthing the word ‘Mum’.
Then my mum came up behind me.
‘Come on, Aidan. We mustn’t get in the way. If you want to see what’s going on, look from upstairs.’
There were loads of neighbours in slippers out in the street, watching the commotion, and I didn’t see what difference I was making, but I couldn’t be bothered to argue.
Back at the bedroom window, I saw another fire truck arrive, one with a huge ladder, which they extended higher than the houses. The fireman who climbed up it then directed those on the ground where to point the hose, and a huge arc of water sprayed out over the trees till they were soaked and dripping.
The orange glow of fire, meanwhile, grew bigger and spread, getting closer. Showers of sparks would fly up into the purple sky when a tree came crashing down, then a few minutes later that part of the wood went up in flames as the sparks caught hold of the dry leaves on the ground.
Dad came into my room. ‘Pack some clothes, son. Use your sports bag. The firefighters say we may have to evacuate.’
I stared, not understanding what he’d said.
‘Evacuate. Leave the house. For safety. Chop-chop.’
‘But … we’re safe here, aren’t we?’ I protested.
‘Not if the fire gets much closer. Look.’ He pointed out of my window where another tree, much closer than the others, had small tongues of flame licking up its trunk. I could make out the branches catching fire, before the hose was directed on it and the flames went out.
I pulled on some jeans over my pyjamas and found a thick sweater and put that on too.
Grace Darling Close is a circular dead end, and the road had filled with vehicles and people. Sue and Pru, the ladies from next door, both wore identical blue dressing gowns. Sue was holding a huge and cross-looking ginger tom that was hissing at every passing fireman. ‘Ach – don’t vorry: he iss just being friendly,’ I heard her say in her German accent, which I thought was stretching the truth.
As well as the three fire engines, I counted two police cars, a fire support car and a yellow ambulance car. As I watched, another car pulled up, and two women got out, one of them holding a movie camera and a portable light. She immediately started filming pretty much everything: the trucks, the huddles of neighbours. I wandered about in my slippers, just looking at this strange gathering.
Sue and Pru were talking to the reporter. ‘Our cats are very atch-itated, aren’t zey, Prudence?’ said Sue, and Pru nodded in agreement. ‘Thomas here has already emptied his bowels vere he shouldn’t, haven’t you, Thomas, you vick-ed old sing?’ Thomas yawned.
And then I heard a voice, rising above the general hubbub.
‘Put me down! Put me DOWN, darn you. I’m fine – will you let me GO!’ Along with everyone else, I turned in the direction of the voice. It was coming from Roxy’s house, where two firemen were carrying what looked like a large chair down the front steps, draped in blankets with a head in a hairnet poking through the top of them.
‘Here! Put me here! No HERE, you imbecile! Are you DEAF?’ A hand appeared from under the blankets and actually hit one of the firemen on his yellow helmet, in time with her words: ‘Stop!’ Hit. ‘Stop!’ Hit. ‘Stop!’ Hit.
They got to the end of the path and put the chair down, and only then did I realise that it was a wheelchair.
‘Wha’ on earth is wrong with you all?’ she said, gathering her blankets about her.
Out of slapping range, the fireman she had been hitting managed a wry smile. ‘You’re welcome, madam. Only too happy to be of service and save you from a fiery grave.’
‘Fiery grave, my foot! I was perfec’ly fine! What on earth … GET THAT DAMN THING OUT OF ME FACE! HOW DARE YOU!’ Her attention had switched to the camerawoman who, spotting the commotion, had scuttled over and started filming the lady screaming at the firemen.
‘I’m sorry,’ said the camerawoman. ‘I was just wondering if you could say a few words for television news.’
‘Yes, I can,’ said the lady. ‘Is that thing on? Right: here are a few words for television news,’ and she let off a volley of swear words like F … and B … and another B … plus some that I didn’t even know, and it was such a vicious string of swearing, and so loud, that even the fireman she had hit started to laugh.
The camerawoman said, ‘Er … thanks,’ and slunk off.
Then Roxy was next to me.
‘Met my mum, have you?’ she said, indicating the lady in the wheelchair.
‘He-hello?’ I stammered. ‘How do you do?’
She didn’t even look at me.
‘Go ’way!’
We didn’t evacuate in the end. Slowly the chaos in the street died down. One by one, the cars left. The ladder on the fire engine was retracted.
The smell of woodsmoke hung about and the air smelt like the leftovers of a huge Guy Fawkes bonfire.
As the sky in the east started to lighten, the Chief Fire Officer (who had two stripes on his helmet – the only thing I remember from a trip to the fire station in Reception Class) was making his way around the groups of neighbours who had not yet gone inside.
Roxy had wheeled her mum back inside. I hadn’t spoken with her any more (and hadn’t really wanted to).
Dad was drinking from a mug of tea and had made one for the fireman who had been up the ladder. I don’t think they noticed me sitting on the step behind them.
‘… Can happen so easily, mate,’ the fireman was saying and he slurped his tea thirstily. ‘One spark, dry conditions, bit of a breeze, y’know?’
‘Was anyone hurt?’ said Dad, as if he could read my mind. The fireman took another sip and looked thoughtful.
‘I’m not really supposed to say until it’s official, but, well …’ He paused, and Dad didn’t prompt him. ‘It’s not gonna help him now, is it?’
Him? Did he just say ‘him’? My heart plummeted.
‘Or her, I suppose,’ he continued. ‘Anyways … one body that we know of. We don’t even know who lived there yet. We couldn’t get the trucks down the lane, and the hoses weren’t long enough. They never stood a chance.’
They? Was that ‘they’ as in ‘he or she’ or ‘they’ as in … I was confused and tired, and didn’t know what to think.
Dad tutted and shook his head. ‘Dreadful way to go.’
‘They’re all bad if you’re not ready. But this? Probably quicker than most. You suffocate long before you burn.’ He smiled as if this was encouraging, but I was still unbelievably sad. I rested my forehead on my knees and felt myself wanting to cry. I think I made a slight sobbing noise in my throat because it made Dad and the fireman look down. The fireman spoke and his gentle Geordie accent was reassuring.
‘Ha’way, son. Time you got some sleep, eh? It’s bin a hell of a night!’
I stood up and gave a stiff nod and I felt a tear run down each cheek. I wiped them on my sleeve.
‘It’s … it’s the smoke. It’s got in my eyes,’ I said, though I don’t know