The 1,000-year-old Boy. Ross Welford

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 The ladder on the fire engine was retracted.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 why.

      ‘Aye. It does that. We all get it,’ he said and patted my shoulder. ‘Have a shower, son. You’ll feel better and you won’t smell it.’

      

      I woke up at ten o’clock and spent a few minutes staring out of Libby’s bedroom window. The sky was a clear light blue with no clouds, and there were a few lone wisps of smoke rising from beyond the trees. I opened the window and there was still a faint smell of burning wood.

      Downstairs the local TV channel was showing pictures of firemen and people in white overalls standing by the burnt-out shell of a building. And by ‘burnt-out’ I mean it was just a few blackened walls and a doorway, and half of an upper floor supporting a bit of roof. I could make out the remains of a table and some other furniture, and the camera showed close-ups of some burnt books, a stone sink, a bookshelf and a picture hanging wonkily on the wall.

      ‘… blaze was well established by the time firefighters arrived on the scene. The secluded house, parts of which are believed to date back to the eighteenth century, was completely destroyed in the inferno, which the fire service spokesperson described as one of the worst house fires she had ever seen.’

       Chief Fire Officer Harry Oxley: ‘We have recovered one body from the scene which has been removed for forensic examination. I cannot say more than that at the moment.’

       Reporter: ‘Can you say what started the fire?’

       CFO Oxley: ‘At this moment in time, we are pursuing all avenues of enquiry, but there is nothing at present that indicates foul play.’

      Reporter: ‘The fire spread to other parts of the woods, and locals from the nearby Delaval Estate were warned they might have to evacuate …’

      At this point, the picture cut to our street, and there I was, gazing up at the fireman on the ladder. Normally I’d have gone, ‘Dad! Dad! I’m on telly!’ but I didn’t. I just watched in glum fascination as the reporter finished her piece.

      ‘… finally brought under control shortly before dawn. The area has been cordoned off while fire and police investigators try to establish both the cause of the fire and the identity of the unfortunate victim. This is Janey Calvert in Whitley Bay for North Today.’

      When I heard BANG BANG BANG on the window, I jumped so hard I spilt milk on the sofa. It was Roxy.

      ‘Still in your pyjamas?’ she said, her high voice muffled by the glass. ‘See you in the garage in ten minutes. It’s important.’

      

      The trees were still dripping from their soaking the previous night and the ground underfoot was soft pale mud, with fresh footprints. Roxy, I figured, must already be inside, and I pushed the door, which swung open, but no one was there.

      Just then, Roxy squeezed herself through the gap in the fence, her tiny foot first, her tousled head last.

      ‘Hiya,’ she said, immediately СКАЧАТЬ