Hostage by Clare Mackintosh

FORTY-FOUR

6 A.M. | ADAM

The fire crackles above our heads, like footsteps on a carpet of dry leaves. Sweat slicks my palms, my back, my brow.

“Daddy?” Sophia looks at me with that mix of curiosity and wariness, and I shape my lips into something meant to reassure. There’s a crash from somewhere inside the house. The hall stand? A picture? The hall is carpeted, thick drapes at the door to keep out the draft. Too many coats, heaped on too few hooks. Plenty to catch alight.

“Daddy, what’s wrong?”

I’ve seen fires like this before. Fires fed by lighter fuel, with petrol cans, by grease-soaked rags. I’ve watched cars burn out till only the carcass is left, stark against the ground like the bones of a vast animal, the meat picked off by carrion. I’ve watched tower blocks burn stubbornly despite the hoses turned on them, and I’ve stood in the mortuary after an arson attack, my eyes fixed on the body of a child trapped on the top floor a minute too long. I don’t need to see it to know what’s happening.

I choose my words carefully. “I think there’s a fire upstairs.” I think. As though there’s some doubt. A fire. Like the one in the sitting room, with its glowing metal coals, or our campfire pit, built for marshmallows. A little fire, that’s all. Nothing to worry about. Upstairs. A whole staircase away.

I hear the insistent beep beep beep of the smoke alarm and think of Mina standing on a chair, wooden spoon in hand to reset the switch. Burned the bloody toast again. At least we know they work.

“We have to go!” Sophia tugs at my sleeve.

“Yes.” The disconnect between my words and my thoughts is so great, it could be someone else speaking. I have to stay calm. I have to. For Sophia’s sake, and because if I don’t stay calm, how will we ever get out?

The fire will travel upstairs. Flames licking at the carpet, first one step, then the next, and the next. Chasing along the banister and around the doorframes. Splicing itself into pieces, each snaking into an empty room, only to swell and fill the space with searing heat that blackens the paintwork and sets the curtains ablaze. Dividing and conquering.

“Daddy!”

The crackle is a roar. The secondhand sofa, the cushions Mina piles on the floor to lean against when she’s watching TV. Boxes of Lego, melting into one brightly colored mass. The kitchen table, the chairs, the family calendar with a column for each of us.

“Daddy!” Sophia grabs my face with both hands, and I jerk as though I’ve been slapped. We have to get out of here.

It won’t be the fire that kills us but the smoke. Already I can see a wisp of it drifting beneath the door. Right now, it’ll be rising to the ceiling; for a time, it will still be possible to crawl through the kitchen with your face low to the ground, but soon there will be more smoke than air, and that’s when it will find its way into the cellar.

“I’m going to get you out,” I tell her.

“What about you?”

“Then you’ll get help, and they can come and get me out,” I say it with more confidence than I feel.

Sophia takes a deep breath. “I’ll knock on Aunty Mo’s door. She’ll call nine nine nine, and the fire engines will come and—”

“No,” I cut in, trying to think of another option. I picture Sophia, banging on the door while Mo sleeps and our houses burn.

“Do you think it’s too isolated?” Mina had said when the estate agent sent us the details of this place.

“It’s peaceful,” I’d replied. “No neighbors, but we can still walk to the pub.”

Now, I look at my terrified daughter. “You know where the police station is, right?”

“No, I don’t—”

There’s a crash from upstairs. “You do!” Sophia flinches, and I say it again, softer this time. “You do, sweetheart. You know where it is. The bookshop, then the empty shop, then the estate agent where they sell the houses. The butcher’s, then Sainsbury’s…” I let the last syllable rise, passing the chorus to Sophia.

“Then the shoe shop, then the fruit and veg shop.” She sounds uncertain, and I rush to reassure her.

“Good girl! And after that, the police station. There won’t be anyone working there at this time of night, but outside the door is a yellow phone. All you need to do is pick it up—you don’t even need to dial a number. Tell them there’s a fire in your house. What’s our address?”

“I—I don’t know.”

“You do.” I make myself stay calm. I can taste the smoke now, bitter on my tongue. “Number two…”

“Farm Cottages.”

“Good girl. What’s the town?”

“Hardlington.”

“Say the whole thing.”

“Number two, Farm Cottages, Hardlington.”

“And again.”

She repeats it, more confidently now. If she panics, if she forgets, they’ll send a police car to the station to make sure she’s okay. And maybe they’ll help her remember where she lives, and if they can’t… My chest tightens. Well, at least one of us will be safe.

I want to go over the route with her again, but there’s no time. I have to trust her. “Tell them your dad’s trapped inside so they know to send someone quickly.”

“I’ll say you’re a policeman,” she says earnestly, and I smile, despite everything. “I’ll say you’re a real policeman and you have a number but it isn’t on your uniform and it’s eight three nine.”

I look at my daughter, and I think of all the times I’ve listened to her reciting plane numbers, all the times she’s talked me through Mina’s routes and routines. I think of the petty jealousy I’ve felt each time. “You know my shoulder number.”

“You’re Detective Sergeant 839 and you work on CID and you used to drive a Vauxhall Astra with flashing lights but now you’ve got a blue car with no flashing lights, and it corners like a bloody tank.”

“Sophia Holbrook, you never cease to amaze me.” I take a deep breath. “Time to go, pumpkin. You know how you and Mummy play airplanes?”

She nods.

“And you can balance so brilliantly on Mummy’s feet—like you’re flying?”

Another nod.

“We’re going to do some balancing now, and you’re going to be really brave, okay?”

Her eyes are pools in the darkness, the light from the coal chute serving only to shadow her further. “I’m scared.” She breathes in, bottom lip wobbling.

“Me too.”

The coal chute is high—too high for Sophia to reach by standing on my shoulders while I’m seated, and with my hands fixed to the metal pipe, I can’t stand up. I twist around instead, my back on the floor and my legs against the wall. I have a sudden, painful memory of Mina doing the same one evening after work. My back’s killing me.

I shuffle back toward the wall till my shoulders are as close to the brick as I can get them, my feet as high as they can possibly reach while I’m still cuffed to the ground. “Ready to play airplanes?”

“Y-yes.”

I bend my legs close to my chest, keeping the soles of my feet horizontal. “Can you kneel on my feet? That’s it. Don’t worry about hurting me.”

She scrambles over me, squashing my face as she clambers onto my feet, Elephant clutched in one hand. Smoke catches at the back of my throat, and it’s all I can do to stop myself from catapulting Sophia upward. “Ready? We’re going to fly!”

Slowly, so she doesn’t fall, I push my legs straight, my thigh muscles straining with the unaccustomed action. Sophia clutches at my feet, and as she leans to the side, I fight to keep her balanced. I lock my knees into place. “Can you stand up?” I can’t see the entrance to the coal chute, but I know we’re not high enough.

Not yet.

“It’s all wobbly!”

“I need you to stand up, sweetheart. Please try.”

For a second, I think she won’t do it. Can’t do it. I think it’s all over, and I’ll have to lower her down and we’ll stay here—we’ll die here—in this concrete tomb.

But I feel her move. Slowly. Carefully. One tiny foot pressed against mine. She gets her balance, then I feel the other foot on mine. My toes curl around her slippers as though that alone will stop her from falling.

“Can you see the tunnel?”

“It’s right by my head.”

Another big breath. “This is it, then, sweetheart. Time to crawl out and get help.” It isn’t a long chute. With her feet in the entrance, she can stretch up through the shaft and—

She’s five years old.

What am I doing?

I have no choice. If she stays here, she’ll die. Outside, it’s freezing, snow on the ground, and Sophia is in pajamas and slippers. She’s walked to school every day for a whole term, she knows every turn, every shop off by heart, but can she do it on her own? In the dark?

Even if she doesn’t, she’ll be away from the fire. Away from the smoke. She’ll be safe.

I feel the sudden lightness on my feet as Sophia lifts first one, then the other leg into the chute, blocking off the light as she crawls out onto the grass. “Don’t run!” I call after her. “You’ll fall!”

Maybe she’ll get help to me in time. Maybe she won’t.

It’s the biggest gamble of my life.