Chapter 4

Despite the changes in his life — or perhaps because of them — Corey still found himself walking the streets at night. It wasn’t restlessness, exactly. More a need to check his bearings. To make sure the ground under his feet hadn’t shifted so much that he no longer recognised it.

That evening he hadn’t set out with any destination in mind. He let his feet choose. Somewhere along the way he realised he was heading toward an older part of town, where flats backed onto one another in narrow sections. Amanda’s place was there. He hadn’t meant to go that way, but he recognised the building as he came up alongside it — a two-storey place where he’d dropped her a few weeks earlier after a session at Clip ‘n Climb.

He slowed, intending to pass by. That was when he noticed the glow. At first he thought it might be a light left on in a back room. But it pulsed oddly, unevenly, and there was something wrong about the colour. Corey stopped and turned. Moving down the side path, he peered around the corner.

Flames were licking the inside of a kitchen window. For a moment his mind stalled, taking in what his eyes were telling it. Then he was moving.

He ran back to the front of the house and hammered on the door, shouting as loudly as he could. No response. He knocked again, harder, calling out. Still nothing. He couldn’t tell whether the place was empty or whether someone was asleep and hadn’t heard him. He stepped back and dialled 111, forcing himself to be clear and concise. The operator was calm. Help was on the way.

Corey ended the call and stood there for half a second longer. He knew the fire brigade would be minutes away. He also knew that minutes could be too long. He spotted a fist-sized rock near the edge of the garden. Without giving himself time to reconsider, he picked it up and smashed the glass in the front door. The pane shattered inward. Reaching through, he fumbled for the latch and pulled it open, barely noticing the sharp pain as glass sliced into his forearm.

Smoke hit him as he went inside. He shouted as he moved through the downstairs rooms, checking quickly but thoroughly. The kitchen was well alight now, flames climbing the curtains and cabinets. There was no one there. He took the stairs two at a time.

In the first bedroom he tried, he found Amanda. She was asleep, sprawled awkwardly across the bed. He shook her shoulder, then harder. She didn’t stir. Her breathing was shallow and slow.

“Amanda,” he said loudly. Nothing. He slipped one arm under her knees and the other behind her shoulders and lifted her. She was heavier than he expected, dead weight in his arms, manageable just. He turned back toward the door — and stopped. Flames were already licking at the base of the stairs.

For the first time, panic surged properly. His chest tightened. The room felt suddenly smaller. He forced himself to pause, drew in a breath, then another.

Window! He crossed the room and pushed it open. Cool air rushed in, sharp and welcome. He leaned out and looked down. There was no ladder. No awning. No easy way down. Just a scatter of pipes, drain fittings, and ledges that might — at a pinch — serve as holds. His eyes flicked to Amanda. She was still out cold.