Page 86 of Savage Protector

It takes me a few minutes to get the hang of the car. It’s an automatic, and I learned to drive in a manual, but it all seems simple enough. I lurch out of the garage and navigate the driveway in a series of jerky hops, but by the time I reach the main road I’m more or less under control.

So far, so good. I turn left and head for Stirling.

I pull up outside the house where I live, behind a huge skip half full of rubble and blackened furniture. I gape at it in horror.

What the…? Is that my wardrobe? Or what’s left of it?

I get out and peer over the edge of the skip. Yes, definitely my wardrobe, a grey veneer with black trim. Or it used to be. And I’m pretty sure I see my fridge as well. It was new, I only bought it a few months ago, now it seems like it’s been cremated.

I take the steps up to the front door two at a time and let myself in. Everything appears normal in the hallway. I start on the stairs. All looks well on the first landing, and on the second. As I make my way up onto my floor, I’m hit by the unfamiliar smell. Wet paint, and something else. Chemicals? Burning? Smoke?

Oh God!I break into a run.

Mine is the only flat on the top floor, and the door is missing. There’s just a gaping space where it should be, and on closer inspection, I spot my door propped on its side. Except, it’s not mine, it’s a new one.

Why do I need a new door?

I hear voices inside, male voices, voices I don’t recognise. I charge through the doorway to be met by a scene of utter chaos.

My home is…not here. Ripped apart. The furniture is gone, most of it, I assume, down on the pavement in a skip. The floorboards are bare where once there was a bright-blue carpet, and the walls are blackened with what seems to be soot. I stand, aghast, gaping at the four men in overalls who appear to be merrily chipping off my plaster.

“Who are you? What are you doing?” I stammer, grabbing the man closest by the elbow.

He seems almost as surprised to see me as I am to see him. “Miss? Can I help?”

“This is my house. My. House.”

“Oh, well…”

“What happened? What happened here?” I’m almost screaming at him, stunned with shock, unable to comprehend what I’m seeing. “Why are you doing this?”

“Miss, I think?—”

“Leila? I thought it was you.”

I whirl at the voice behind me, on the landing. It’s Gregory, my neighbour from one floor down. A nice enough guy, I suppose, though I don’t really know him.

He steps into the flat and glances to his right and his left. “Crikey, what a mess. Still, it’s coming on.”

“A mess?A mess?” My fingers are tearing at my hair. “What’s this about? Do you know what happened here?”

He takes my elbow. “Shall we go downstairs to my place? I can put the kettle on.”

“I don’t want a kettle. I want my home back. I don’t understand…”

He tightens his grasp on my elbow and steers me out of there when my resistance melts away to be replaced by a sort of stunned numbness. “Let’s let these guys get on. We can have a chat downstairs, I’ll explain everything.”

In a daze, I let him manoeuvre me down one flight of stairs and into his flat. His flatmate, Orlando, has already made some tea. Between them they plonk me in a chair and wrap my nerveless fingers around the mug.

“I wasn’t sure about sugar…” Orlando murmurs.

I’m beyond thinking straight, and sugar is the last thing on my mind. “Just…what…? How…?”

“There was a fire,” Gregory begins. “Three nights ago.”

“I… I didn’t know. I wasn’t here…”

“I know that. Just as well, really.” Gregory pulls up a kitchen chair to sit in front of me. “Drink your tea, and I’ll tell you what I know.”

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