Others (45 page)

I figured we had maybe a couple of minutes left to get out, probably less. It was pointless even attempting to speak now, so I rose to my feet, my legs unsteady, the right one almost buckling beneath me, and reached down for Constance. She extended a shaking arm and I took hold of her wrist, pulling her upwards, but needing her to help if she were to stand. Unfortunately, she was unable to summon up the strength, so I dragged her by the wrist towards the moonlit window, too desperate to worry about hurting her, and too much in love with her to admit defeat.

I managed to pull her the short distance and she slumped against the wall, a frightened, depleted little thing, her flesh and robe blackened, her hair falling to her shoulders in matted, singed tresses. The warmth I felt nad nothing to do with the fire at our backs, for it was within. I think at that stage it was the only thing that kept me going. I placed Michael by her side.

Straightening, and leaning one hand against the heated brick wall, I examined the window. And I almost broke when I saw it was solid, the kind that was never meant to open.

It was made up of many frames, the glass inside them thick with dirt, the moon outside a blurred, dim ball. But although it was wide and fairly deep, there were no sections that could be opened, no catches to unlock. I might have howled, but I didn’t have the strength, nor did I have the spit.

It couldn’t be. We couldn’t have got this far to be trapped inside the roof itself.

A sudden crash - the floor caving in, something stored here toppling - made me flinch. Sparks and burning pieces flew towards me. Another crash followed the first and flames fanned out spreading around the triangled ceiling, washing towards our end of the room. The sudden shock jolted my senses.

What the fuck was I thinking? This was just glass and wood in front of me, the frames strong maybe, but not so strong that they couldn’t be broken. I looked back into the room, shielding my eye from the blinding glare with a grubby, bloodied hand, and spotted the heavy metal drum almost immediately.

It was only yards away, but almost obscured by swirling smoke, and as I limped towards it, dodging around the separate fires springing up from the floor, I prayed it would be heavy, but not too heavy for me to lift. It was and it wasn’t - it was heavy, but not too heavy for me to lift. I had no idea of what it had once contained - probably chemicals of some kind - nor did I care: I tipped it over and began rolling it back towards the window.

I could feel the heat from the floorboards through the soles of my shoes and I knew it wouldn’t be long before the fire burst through to this end of the room, or the floor itself fell inwards. There were more flare-ups behind me, chemicals inside containers or flammable material caught by the heat, and glass bottles or jars shattered with sharp, explosive sounds, fragments hurtling through the air as deadly missiles. I felt one skim past my shoulder, tearing my shirt and grazing the skin; there was no pain though. Another smashed into the wall ahead of me, while yet another burst through one of the small panes in the window without breaking the glass completely, leaving a hole the size of a walnut, a corona of moon-silvered cracks around it. The top of my head was stinging and for a moment I thought my hair was on fire again, but when I clamped a hand to it, still rolling the drum towards the window with my other hand, I felt only singed, prickly tufts. Either the pain was just coming through, aggravated by the boiling heat, or I’d been too preoccupied, mind too busy on our survival, for me to notice until now. I ignored it - I was
still
too busy.

I saw that Constance had picked up Michael and was cradling him in her arms, holding the sheet around his face in a vain attempt to protect him from the worst of the heat. Her gaze was on me, watching my efforts with the drum, which kept rolling into obstacles on the floor, diverting it from a straight course, so that I had to keep correcting its direction; I could tell from her eyes that Constance expected to die.

If anything, the hopelessness in her expression made me even more determined - she had put her trust in me and I wasn’t going to let her down. With a roar that was dry and painful, I lifted the metal drum, holding it by both ends, fingers wrapped round the rims, and raised it high over my head. Without pause I rushed at the window and hurled the drum at it with every last reserve of strength I had left.

The window broke spectacularly and glass fragments and wood splinters flew with the metal drum out into the moonlit night. Beautiful, fresh, reviving air swept in and I choked a cry of triumph as I rushed to the sill. I drew in great gasps of it, filling my scorched throat and lungs, drawing life back into myself, not even noticing the remaining glass fragments cutting into my hands. Unfortunately, the fresh air sweeping into the room also had a downside - it was fanning the flames behind me, giving them more power, helping them surge forward to claim us.

In desperation -
further
desperation - I poked my head through and twisted so that I could look upwards, towards the roof itself. I moaned - no, I think I wailed - when I saw there was no way we could reach it. I changed direction, looked down, hoping that the fire service might have arrived by now and that they had a ladder long enough to reach the top floor. But all I could see below was a broad expanse of black water, moonlight dappling on its surface, a kinetic through, aggravated by the boiling heat, or I’d been too preoccupied, mind too busy on our survival, for me to notice until now. I ignored it - I was
still
too busy.

I saw that Constance had picked up Michael and was cradling him in her arms, holding the sheet around his face in a vain attempt to protect him from the worst of the heat. Her gaze was on me, watching my efforts with the drum, which kept rolling into obstacles on the floor, diverting it from a straight course, so that I had to keep correcting its direction; I could tell from her eyes that Constance expected to die.

If anything, the hopelessness in her expression made me even more determined - she had put her trust in me and I wasn’t going to let her down. With a roar that was dry and painful, I lifted the metal drum, holding it by both ends, fingers wrapped round the rims, and raised it high over my head. Without pause I rushed at the window and hurled the drum at it with every last reserve of strength I had left.

The window broke spectacularly and glass fragments and wood splinters flew with the metal drum out into the moonlit night. Beautiful, fresh, reviving air swept in and I choked a cry of triumph as I rushed to the sill. I drew in great gasps of it, filling my scorched throat and lungs, drawing life back into myself, not even noticing the remaining glass fragments cutting into my hands. Unfortunately, the fresh air sweeping into the room also had a downside - it was fanning the flames behind me, giving them more power, helping them surge forward to claim us.

In desperation -
further
desperation - I poked my head through and twisted so that I could look upwards, towards the roof itself. I moaned - no, I think I wailed - when I saw there was no way we could reach it. I changed direction, looked down, hoping that the fire service might have arrived by now and that they had a ladder long enough to reach the top floor. But all I could see below was a broad expanse of black water, moonlight dappling on its surface, a kinetic pattern whose movement was caused by the flow of currents. Traffic moved swiftly along the road on the opposite bank, too far away to be alerted, headlights searching only into the darkness ahead. There were other lights in the distance, some alone, solitary houses in the blackness, others in clusters, villages whose gathered lights threw their glow into the sky. The lights of an aircraft drifted by high over my head and far in the distance was the great hazy glow over the city. All so normal, all so oblivious.

Only the river directly below seemed aware of the drama being played out, for it curved around Perfect Rest, almost touching the end of the queerly angled annexe, so close and so deep, its smooth, gently rippling surface so soft, that it was almost calling me to jump.

It was a call I had to heed, an invitation I could not refuse. To stay would mean being burned alive. I ducked back inside the attic-room and once again the searing heat took my breath and she drifted away, stolen by a current, becoming smaller and smaller until swallowed up by the murk. I panicked, thrashing around, using up strength I didn’t think I had. I sank even further into the depths and wondered why I had so foolishly worried whether the river was deep enough to take our fall. I could have laughed, because drowning didn’t necessarily mean you lost your sense of humour.

I sank deeper and deeper and began to fancy that we had leapt into an ocean (I didn’t realize that I was being pushed by the currents and my descent was not straight down; nor did I realize that all sense of time was gone anyway). Michael had become more than an encumbrance: he was now a deadweight in my arms. If I let go I might just be able to make it, might just be able to thrash my way to the riverbank. He was probably dead by now anyway - how would his little body take such punishment? A short while ago, he appeared to have stopped breathing altogether and there had been no movement from him for some time. God, it was tempting. I wanted to live, my life had not all been misery; I had good friends, a good business - and despite adversity, I had
learned
to enjoy most of my time in this world. I didn’t want to give it all up, it was too precious; despite the hard parts, life was good. How many times had I had to make this kind of decision that day? I’d lost count. But how many times could a person be tested in this way? Hadn’t I earned the right by now to consider myself, my own self-preservation? My head was becoming light. The need for air was becoming less.

I clung to Michael.

It seemed to be just the muted sound of rushing water at first, but as it drew closer, became more distinct, I knew it was the familiar flapping of hundreds of wings, but
angels’
wings, not that of birds, and I was very, very pleased to hear them. So this is what it’s like when your time comes. Not bad, not bad at all. Kind of peaceful, in fact. No pain. It was like that delicious moment just between consciousness and sleep, the bad things of the day dissolving, the mind entering its rest period, where dreams were merely the recreation and gone within seconds, or minutes, brain cells shutting down for a while. I waited to see the bright lights they talk about, the long dark tunnel, that radiance waiting for you at its end. But I didn’t get that - not yet, at any rate. No, I got the review, the flashbacks, the retrospection - perhaps re-evaluation - people who have nearly died talk about. Only it wasn’t my life that played out before me, it belonged to the movie star, the Hollywood screen idol of the Thirties and Forties, the golden age of film, whose charm and magnificent looks had earned him fame and fortune, the bastard who was making his comeback as a reflection in a mirror with me as the one-man audience. He grinned at me and it was a wonderful grin on a wonderful face: deep, lustrous eyes, classically straight nose, cleft chin. He was all the things I was not, his figure tall, body powerful, his movement graceful, and his charm seductive; but he was a man with terrible, dark secrets and, as his life played out before me - oddly in monochrome, black and white, the celluloid medium of his era - these secrets were revealed. I sank and settled in for the performance.

In the early days of his career, friends and even associates had lent him money, helped him survive those first gruelling years most actors have to go through before success (though not necessarily acclaim) comes their way, and those same friends and associates were soon forgotten after he had begun to make headway in Tinseltown. Yet he put his name to numerous good causes and charities, anything in fact that wouldn’t take money from his own pocket. He despised any actor who had achieved more than he - Grant, Bogart, Flynn, Gable, Cooper, the two Jimmys, Cagney and Stewart - although, naturally, he fawned on them in their presence, and he hated anybody that had achieved as much as he. Hated them, loathed them, and was always ready with a juicy snippet of gossip whenever the showbiz columnists and broadcasters, Hopper and Parsons, gave him a call, provided his own name wasn’t mentioned as the source.

Yet he wasn’t all bad. His work for charities was impressive, even if he did not donate financially (but then, his time could be considered donation enough) and he often steered young actors and actresses (particularly the latter) in the right direction as far as their careers were concerned (although often in the
wrong
direction as far as their private lives were concerned), more than once having a word in a studio boss’s ear regarding casting for his own movies, commending the talents of a new young starlet. When he was in his movie-making prime, a major star for a major studio, and the Japanese had invaded Pearl Harbor, he was one of the first Hollywood legends to volunteer for military service. Unfortunately, turned down for active duty because of a mysterious ear ailment (all right, it was discovered by the studio doctor the day before their star was due his army medical), he nevertheless had worked ceaselessly making personal appearances to promote the sale of War Bonds and had even flown into dangerous territories to entertain the troops and boost their morale. While on location in Brazil he had met an eleven-year-old native boy who was in danger of losing his eyesight permanently because of a dangerous but not incurable condition; at his own expense the star had the boy flown to New York where one of the city’s finest surgeons had performed a successful operation to correct the problem (again, wonderful publicity for the benefactor, but no less of a good deed for that). So he was complex, this legendary actor, but not entirely bad.

However, there were few greys or whites when it came to his sexual activities: they were mostly all black.

When it seemed likely that he would be indicted for having unlawful sex with two minors, a couple of under-aged teenage girls who had followed him from the studio one afternoon, money had changed hands so that the girls’ parents, the investigating detective, and a certain elderly District Attorney, who was busy building his own nest for imminent retirement, were satisfied that nothing truly grievous had taken place - a silly piece of childish horseplay was all that was involved - and the charge of statutory rape was dropped. When only a few months later he
was
charged with proper rape, the character of the other party, a young would-be actress who managed to survive the aspiring actors’ system by waitressing in a cheap but ‘fashionable’ diner six days a week, was so besmirched by the star’s legal team, that the case was thrown out of court. (And the would-be actress never did get a job in the movies after that. Eventually, disillusioned, she moved back to the little town of Hope - there’s irony for you - in Arkansas, married her high-school sweetheart, and together they raised the money to open up their own less-‘fashionable’ diner in the larger, nearby town of little Rock. At the age of forty-two - I saw all this, and other such episodes, as a kind of subtextual subplot to the actor’s story, by the way - she blew her brains out with her husband’s.357 Magnum - a sledge hammer to crack a nut, you might say - while he was out carousing with yet another later-edition sweetheart.) There were countless similar incidents in the screen idol’s life that never reached court and, amazingly, I had a view of them all. They were sickening, amoral at best, immoral at worst, vile and vicious at their basest, but far too many to recount here.