TWENTY-FIVE
The heat woke me, my dream of Christmas in Lapland turning into the Sahara. I tussled about, tangled in my duvet. Hair plastered to my head.
Silence amplified my heartbeat, my rasping breath. I couldn’t take in enough air, started to cough. My head was cotton wool. Behind my eyes, a dull stabbing pain. It was still dark; the clock face hidden in the gloom. Furniture reduced to hazy outlines. The room roasting despite the cool night.
Was I brewing a fever? Getting sick?
I touched a hand to my forehead the way my mother might. Cool as a cuke, Soph.
So, why so hot? So parched?
Sleep muddled, I stumbled out of bed to the door. My kingdom for a glass of water.
I’m not sure what hit me first. The heat. The smoke. The licking flames.
I couldn’t move, my feet welded to the floor. Imprisoned in my bones. Muscles turned to ice.
I screamed, I think. Called out. For Matty. Always him.
My voice was stifled, as though I were being smothered. As though it didn’t belong to me. My mother heard though, came running, bedroom door swinging.
‘Sophie, what’s— Oh, God!’
We were both coughing then, claws in our throats. Eyes streaming as we blinked to clear our vision, to take in what was happening. Around my ribs, a pressure band, tighter by the second.
‘Too much smoke,’ my mother spluttered. ‘Need to open a window.’
My eyes liquefied, tears turning to acid. In my nostrils, an acrid stench. And from the kitchen, bright flickering tongues.
‘It’s locked,’ I heard my mother say, sounding very far away.
She was by the window tugging at the frame, head turning wildly from one side to the other. A tree tossing in a storm. Then, dropping to her knees, crawling towards me. Without thinking, I did the same. Reached out to her through the impenetrable shroud of thickening smoke.
‘We need to get out. Stay low.’
‘Where’s Mat—’
‘Hold onto me.’
I could just about grab a hand. Sweat ran down my back, dripped into my eyes.
‘Where’s—’
She took off her robe, balled it up.
‘Hold this against your mouth. It’ll keep the worst out.’
I wanted to tell her I was scared, that I was sorry about the birthday cake. Instead, I started to cry.
‘We’re going to be okay. You hear?’
I nodded, sniffed up my snot and tears. Wanting to believe her. Wanting to look brave.
‘Ready?’ Cough. ‘Okay. Keep to the wall.’ Cough. ‘Don’t let go. . .’
We couldn’t have been more than thirty feet from the front door, but it took us a lifetime to reach it. The smoke and heat making us slow, our heads hot and heavy. Slithering on our bellies like snakes.
Three feet, two, one. . .