The Girl who Caught Fire: The McBride Vendetta Psychological Thrillers, #5

1

Tumbledown Cottage, North-West Highlands

It’s curious how the ground trembles beneath me, gently at first and then with more persistence. Violent, like the waves of the Atlantic. One minute I’m drifting, floating towards the warmth of the light; the next, the waves are crashing down, tossing me about like a ship lost at sea, dashing me against the rocks.

A buzzing sensation in my head. A tapping at my fingers and a wriggling in the very tips of my toes. Something pulses in my ears and swells in my heart. My blood flows again, circulating through my veins. My throat opens up and I feel the breath gush through me.

A deafening roar and I’m flung through the air with an animalistic howl of pain. I raise myself on all fours, my limbs as shaky as Dad after a bottle of bourbon. I peel my eyes open and see that all the windows have blown out of the flaming house. I’m still here, but I shouldn’t be. The fire has revived me, just as Dad always said it would. It’s brought be back to life.

As the strength returns to my body, so does the pain. My scalp tingles with heat, and my lungs burn so badly I’m convinced the fire’s seeped inside me. It feels like it’s cooking me from the inside. The pain is so intense, I fall back down again and lie there, rocking back and forth until the nothingness returns.

A car door slams. My heart pounds in response.

She’s back! Jody’s come back!

A frenzied glare burns in my sister’s eyes. She looks unsteady. She stumbles about, almost trips over me, and still she doesn’t realise I’m alive. I force down the lump in my throat and try to clear a path through the mucus. I let out a volley of coughs, but Jody doesn’t notice. She’s moaning and clutching her head, shaking off the soft drizzle that’s settled in her hair like snowflakes. I don’t know if her pain’s real or in her head, but she’s too caught up in herself to pay me any heed.

Slowly, painfully, I lift my head. What the hell’s she doing, messing about inside the burnt-out cottage? The smoke smoulders and the acrid taste lingers in my mouth. I watch as she picks up a rock and lobs it against the wall. She’s doing something with frenetic energy, dancing, jiggling about.

Jody!

Tears prick my eyes. I reach out with weak, trembling arms. I get a good look at her as she spins around, and I see that her pupils have turned to pinpricks. Bloody druggie. She’s lurching about like she’s lost the remote for her legs.

I try to get up, but my body feels too heavy, so I just lie there, bubbling with fury. Jody hurls one last rock and then rubs her hands on her jeans. She’s on the move again, walking in unnatural, jerky movements, stumbling back towards her car, to abandon me all over again.

Rain falls in a fine mist, dousing what’s left of the flames. The sky has that golden glow that tells me it will be dark soon. Gradually, I fold myself into a sitting position, and I wait for my head to stop spinning. I stick out my tongue and taste the rain, but it does nothing to satisfy my thirst. I scramble to my knees and then up onto my scorched feet, but it feels like I’m standing on a flaming hob. I crawl along the ground, more animal than human. A fierce breeze ripples down my neck. I cock one ear and pick up the roar of engines. There’s a commotion building on the road that leads up the mountain. People are coming.

I need to hide.

I lunge to my feet, stagger towards the trees and shelter there beneath their twisted, blue-green needles. I rest just long enough to catch my breath, and then I scramble out the other side, feeling my way along a narrow gorge and skidding down into a ditch. As I lie there, convulsing with pain, I spot something red and plastic, lying on its side. It looks like a children’s sledge. I find it with throbbing fingers and heave it upright. The mountain echoes with the sounds of activity. I scramble out of the ditch, clutching my prize. I have maybe seconds to spare.

I look down. A valley lies to one side and a sharp drop to the other, but there’s a clear path through the trees. I position the sledge on the crest of the hill, and it quivers like a wobble board. Painfully, I flop down on top of it, thankful for the coolness of the plastic against my scorched skin. I give an experimental push that sends me rocketing down the frosty verge. I cling tight, breathing through daggers of pain. I’m too close to the edge. Much too close. I chance a fleeting glance over the rocky precipice and glimpse the valley far below. I push hard against the rock and my speed picks up as I veer off in the opposite direction. This is wild: zooming down the mountain with no steering and no brakes. I push hard to avoid a tree; that sends me haring back towards the edge, then I clench my teeth as more trees fly into view.

It’s one hell of a ride. I nudge the tree and it spins me around, sending me perilously close to the drop. I grab wildly and find a coarse bush with my left hand, and then I’m off again, down a long, steep slope. The sledge loses some of its momentum, and I take in the view as I follow the path. It curves this way and that, sending me around bushes and rocks until the land becomes flat and wide. Finally, the sledge comes to a stop.

Looking back, I can’t believe how far I’ve come. I can no longer hear the cars and voices, but I’m sure they must be there now, parked outside the burnt-out house. No doubt they’ll be searching for me, wondering where I’ve gone. Isabel and Deacon will have reported my death, and Deacon is a doctor, so people will listen.

I sit for a moment and catch my breath. So much has happened today that I can barely get my head around it. I clearly remember the big confrontation with Isabel. I’d been looking forward to having it out with her and finally getting her apology. Okay, so I’d gone a bit far, making Deacon douse the place in petrol, but that was just a scare tactic. I’m sure deep down they knew that. What I never bargained on was that the flames would ignite like that. It’s painful to remember that moment. The terror of looking down and seeing my feet on fire, the flames dancing up my legs.

I shiver at the memory. I don’t know what happened to my boots. I can only assume I lost them in the fire. My favourite skirt is a mere rag now, hanging on by a thread, and my shirt is torn and scorched. I catch my breath as I peer down at my injured feet. They are swollen with blisters and covered in dirt and ash. I bend down to touch the sole of my left foot, but I don’t have the bottle. If it hurts just to touch, then how the hell am I going to walk? Slowly, I rise to my feet and retch a few times at the pain. But it’s the only way out of here.

I can do this. I’m a survivor.

I pick my way through the trees, cursing with each sharp twinge. My heart beats faster as I set eyes on a rustic cottage. There’s no one around, but I sense there are people inside. I take in the neat little garden. There’s a children’s swing set and a bicycle propped against the shed. I consider the bicycle, but pain pulses through me like a string of electric lights, and a part of me just wants to pull the plug. I don’t know how much longer I can keep going like this. I don’t even know if I want to. Not until I see the hot tub.

I hobble over to the tub, stepping over a sodden towel that’s been left on the ground. With one eye on the house, I dip a hand in the water. It feels like heaven. Not ice-cold, but pleasantly cool. Slowly, painfully, I swing my legs over and settle my scorched bum on the seat, wincing as the water stings my burned feet. I take a deep breath and the pain settles, easing into a dull hum. I watch with fascination as the water changes from frothy white to a dark devil red. Charred bits float to the top, and I’m not sure how much is dirt and how much is skin. It peels right off me, like the outside of a pepper.

I cup my hands and bring the water to my mouth. It tastes a little metallic, but I’m too thirsty to care. The wetness stimulates my lips, but I can’t swallow more than a few bitter mouthfuls. I glance down and see I’m still wearing my watch. I laugh at the ludicrousness of it. Of all the things to worry about. Still, I pull it off and reach for the towel to wipe it clean.

I consider the house again. If I knock at that door, five quid says they’ll call the police. Ordinarily, I can handle the police—the average plod is about as bright as a pickled beetroot—but ordinarily, I’m as fit as a fairy. If they pick me up in this state, I’m screwed.

I ease myself out of the tub and wince at the sight of my battered body. Bits of my clothes have disintegrated, and what remains are in tatters, soggy bits of cloth that cling obstinately to my scorched skin. I look down at my charred arms and legs. I’m like some little orphan kid from one of those Victorian musicals. All at once, a warm glow lights up the biggest window and I make out shadows behind the net curtains. They are home and someone has lit a fire.

Wrapping the towel around my middle, I limp towards the garden shed. The air is warm just in front of the building, and machines rumble nosily within. A padlock dangles from the lock, but it’s hanging open, and the door slides open at the slightest touch.

Inside are a washing machine and dryer, both radiating heat. I wince as the warm air touches my burns. I sit as far from the machines as I can and wait to dry off. The dryer comes to the end of its cycle, and I tug impatiently at the door, but it forces me to wait. I peer in through the porthole window at what looks like a bundle of sheets. At last, the door opens. I cry out at the unpleasant waft of warm air, and then I fumble inside. I smile as I pull out a clean sheet, which I fasten over myself, toga-style, dropping the damp towel to the floor. That done, I leave the warmth of the shed and venture out onto the road beyond. The light is fading fast, and I need to keep moving if I’m going to reach safety before night falls.

At the end of the path is a brilliant red phone box. I shuffle towards it. My feet feel as though they’re too big for me. I hold up my sheet as I hobble along. I’m like a bag of loose parts, held together with string.

I step gingerly into the phone box, minding the shattered beer bottle on the floor. I lift the receiver and hold it to my ear. Good, there’s a dial tone. I dial 100.

Inland operator? I’d like to reverse the charges.

I rattle off the number, hoping and praying I remember it right. No one knows anybody’s number anymore.

Go ahead.

His voice is warm as he answers. Is that you, Chelsea?

I feel a surge of affection.

Christopher? I need you. I bloody need you. I draw a breath. The pain is so bad I think I’m going to hurl. No time for questions. Just come and get me. Soon as you can.

I glance down at the watch he gave me. The best watch I’ve ever had. I flick it gently and the display fizzes a little then goes out again. Hopefully, the GPS tracker still works. I walk down the road, vigilant for the sounds of voices. I can’t get caught down here. I can’t run the risk. I stumble towards a small playing field and decide that it will do. The grass is overgrown, the blades fused together with cold. I perch on the cold metal railings and wait.

Rapid vibrations shake me awake. I clutch the rail as a pulsing, thrumming sound slices through the air. The helicopter hovers above me like an angry wasp. I wave madly, not caring about the din. It buzzes there a moment, then comes down, squatting on the hill like a toad. I cling to the railings, as the wind blows in my face, and wait for the blades to stop spinning.

Tears of relief trickle down my face as I ease myself down to the ground and limp towards the helicopter, shielding my eyes with my left hand. Christopher hops out, his blond hair catching the light. He races over to help me.

Woah there! How many times have I told you? You always approach a helicopter from the front left.

He stops as he gets a better look at me. His eyes wander up and down my battered body. He takes in the fact that I’m wrapped in a sheet.

What the hell happened to you? You look like you’ve been burned alive.

Can we talk about it later? I’m in so much pain …

Yes, yes, of course.

He gathers me up in his arms and carries me over to the helicopter. Don’t worry, baby. You’re safe now. I’ve got you.

Careful, I warn, wincing as he touches my wounded leg.

He pauses to look deep into my eyes.

I’m always careful when it comes to you.

He sets me down gently next to the helicopter and helps me find the footplates so I can heave myself up. I know I would never make it without him behind me, to guide me. Once I’m on board, I dart nervous glances out the window as Christopher climbs in beside me and prepares to take off. He fiddles with the controls, and the rotor blades spin so fast I feel like my head is going to pop. His face is fixed in a frown of concentration, and I’m edgy, certain some nosey parker will come to see what’s going on. I wish he would get on with it, but I can’t tell him why I’m in such a hurry. He doesn’t know the half of it.

I close my eyes and try to slow my pounding heart. Pain rampages through my veins, squeezing me with every throb of the propellers. I shift in my seat, wishing I’d asked him to bring painkillers. My heart stills as we finally rise up into the sky.

Thank God.

We zip through Scottish airspace, soaring over the mountains and fields until we reach the English border. I cast a grateful glance at my hero and let the pain take me. I’m going home.

2

One Month Later

Doctor Newton pauses in front of my bed and shuffles a thick wad of papers. My release papers, I presume. I reach out to take them, but he doesn’t hand them over.

You’ve been in a serious accident, he says, peering at me over the rims of his glasses.

Your body is healing well, but I counsel all my patients to consider their state of mind as they recover. Do you want to talk to someone about how you’re feeling?

Do you want your frigging face rearranged?

I clench and unclench my fists.

I’m feeling a hell of a lot better.

All the same, I’ll give you the number of a good therapist.

He scribbles it down and hands it to me. I glance down at the ineligible scrawl. I couldn’t call this number if I wanted to.

Remember, your mental health is just as important as your physical health. To neglect one is to neglect the other.

I deliver him a Bafta-worthy smile. I’d rather stick my head down the loo and flush the chain than talk to some loser about my feelings, but no need to tell him that.

Without meaning to, I glance down at the unfamiliar landscape of my body. My feet fared the worst—no more delicate sandals or flipflops for me—and my right leg is scarred from the calf all the way up to the thigh. My face has healed well, though.

People pay good money for a chemical peel, Nurse Casey told me, when she removed the last of my bandages. What you’ve had isn’t that different. Your skin is positively glowing.

I’m going to miss the bandages, Christopher mutters, as I sign the forms. I always wanted to make it with a mummy.

The nurse’s eyes go like laser pointers, and she zaps him with the deadliest look I’ve ever seen. I’m going to have to practise that.

I almost bust a bra strap when I see how much they’re charging for my treatment. What a bunch of cowboys.

You sure you can afford this? I murmur in his ear. I can nip to the loo and sneak out the window if you want?

He chuckles like I’m joking. You need to take it easy, baby. Don’t worry about the dough. I’m good for it, you know that.

I shake my head. I’ll never get used to the way he fritters money away, like it’s a load of old rocks in his pocket. He takes my arm, and we walk slowly towards the door. The pain is dulled, but it’s still there, biting into me with every step I take.

I’m thirsty, I tell him, as we pass the vending machine in the foyer.

He hands me a quid and I pop it in the machine.

You want something?

He shakes his head. The can falls with a loud clank, and I lean down to grab it. I pop the tab, and it makes a satisfying fizzing sound as I lift it to my lips. He claims my free hand, and we walk out into the cool, crisp sunshine. I look around for the Mustang.

Forgot to tell you. I got a new car.

My eyes widen as I catch sight of a bright orange McLaren Spider, twinkling in the sun.

You didn’t?

I’m afraid I did.

He rabbits on about the car, but I’m only half listening. I’m thinking that if my feet weren’t so tender, I would make him let me drive. Instead, I settle for the passenger seat. I enjoy his boyish grin as he settles behind the wheel. He runs a hand through his shock of blond hair and slips on a pair of sunglasses. I sometimes worry that he’s a little too good looking; I mean, the man looks like a Norse god. He’s insanely muscular; he even has muscles on the backs of his arms. What woman wouldn’t get a kick out of that?

Christopher whizzes around Doughnut City. This town has so many roundabouts, it makes my head spin. Whilst I do my best to avoid them, Christopher adores them. Normally, I find it funny, the way he takes pleasure in such silly things, but today it makes me nauseous.

We approach yet another roundabout, and he glances to the right. He looks the other driver square in the eye and hits the accelerator. He times it just right. There’s a loud honking from behind as he cuts in front, and he laughs his head off. He loves a bit of roundabout chicken.

So, when you gonna call your sister? he asks as we turn onto Roman Road and get stuck behind a pink bus.

I’m not. I take a long glug of my coke, filling my throat with ice-cold bubbles.

He shakes his head. That’s cold, baby. She’s your sister.

"She was my sister." I look out the window and lock eyes with the bull in the field. I can’t expect Christopher to understand.

Family is family.

He thinks he knows because he has a pain-in-the-arse brother of his own. But he doesn’t, not really. I’m betting Dessie’s never left him for dead.

I shift in my seat. My leg is cramping and my stomach’s full of bubbles.

Think it over, he says, with an indulgent smile. I nod, but I’m doing my best not to think about it. I still get flashes of it in my mind: the callous way Jody tossed that cigarette at me; the way they all got the hell out of there—Jody, Isabel and Deacon. They let the fire engulf me. I felt like a human torch by the time anyone did anything to help, and even then, I caught the look that flashed between them. They all thought I’d be better off dead.

The sky is an angry shade of flamingo by the time we arrive home, and by home, I mean Christopher’s house. It’s funny, I never used to like old houses, and this one is positively ancient, built during the reign of King William, whoever he was. The house is made entirely out of Bath Stone, this beautiful limestone that gives it a warm, honey glow. Inside, the staircase and fireplace are both made from the exact same material. My heart fills with unexpected fondness as we drive in through the gates. Grand as it is, in the brief time I’ve lived here, it’s felt far more like home than Cold Bath Lane ever did.

With a squeal of tyres, Christopher brings the McLaren to a halt. I swivel myself around so I can slide out gently. My feet ache, and I’m dying to get inside. I hobble around to the boot to get my stuff, but Christopher places a hand on the small of my back.

Don’t bother about that, baby. I’ll bring it in later.

Okay.

I take his arm and limp towards the door, shifting from one foot to the other while he keys in the code: 1061. The door opens and he ushers me inside. I take a long sniff. The hallway smells different. It has a distinctive smell, like expensive French perfume. I turn to face him, make him look right at me.

Christopher, have you—

Something flutters down from above, and all around me there is movement. I freeze, my body poised for combat. Then the voices hit me: the wonderful, joyous cries of Welcome Home!.

3

Ilook up at him and smile. Who wouldn’t want a party on the day they get out of hospital?

He studies me. You would … wouldn’t you?

I would.

I wave to the assembled friends, more Christopher’s than mine, but I don’t mind. I like that he’s made the effort.

Someone hands us each a beer, and I hold mine up to toast the crowd.

Alright! Let’s get this party started!

I take in the streamers hanging from the ceiling, the disco ball set up in the lounge.

This is great, I tell Christopher.

He looks at me pensively. You okay?

Of course.

I watch as girls in miniskirts clutch paper cups of sickly, sweet alcopops and people laugh inanely at the lamest jokes.

Does my hair look okay?

It’s beautiful.

All the same, I think I’ll pop upstairs and change. Be down in five, okay?

Okay, baby. He pretends to set the timer on his watch.

I leave him to play host and shuffle up the stairs to the master bedroom, smiling as I take in the familiar king-size bed with Battlestar Galactica bedding. I sit down at the vanity table Christopher bought me. Nurse Casey