Doctor Who_ Bad Therapy - Matthew Jones [31]
The room started to fill with thick, acrid smoke.
Everyone tried to leave at the same time.
On the floor, Chris rolled over twice to suffocate the burning petrol which had landed on the back of his jacket. He felt the heat through the material but he wasn’t hurt. Staying low to avoid the smoke, he made a quick assess-ment of the situation. Already a bottleneck had formed at the door to the club. Those at the back of the crowd were trying to push their way through, only increasing the pressure on the people squeezed in the hallway. It was the classic result of panic. No one was thinking. Instead, like animals stamped-ing, everyone was gripped by the primitive need to survive. Ironically, it was precisely that which was going to kill them. In internal building fires, people were rarely burnt to death, more often it was the smoke or being crushed which killed them.
Chris began to pull off those men at the back of the crowd, telling them to kneel down and keep their heads by the floor where there was less smoke. He gave out the instruction in a calm reassuring voice. It wasn’t an act: Chris felt calm. It was as if the fire was an abstract problem and he wasn’t in any real danger himself. He had a procedure to deal with the fire, and as long as he followed it everything would be all right. After the last few weeks of listless 51
wandering, tackling this emergency was a relief. It felt good just to be doing something.
The doorway began to clear a little, and Chris started to guide the rest of the crowd through. He was coughing continuously now – each breath felt hotter than the last. As he joined the last of the men trying to leave, he heard what he took to be the primitive siren of whatever passed for emergency services in this decade.
Chris was about to make his escape, when he heard Patsy calling him. He looked around trying to locate her in the smoke. He hadn’t seen her since the fire bomb and had assumed that she had been among the first to leave. Her voice sounded close and oddly calm, but he couldn’t see her. It was only when she spoke for the second time that he realized he was hearing her voice inside his head.
The Major. He didn’t get out. He’s still in there.
Guarding his face with his hand, Chris crawled back into the room. Every time he opened his eyes they watered immediately, turning the room into a fierce orange blur. If the firefighters in this era had enhanced visual and breathing equipment then he was taking a stupid risk. But if they didn’t, the heat was going to prevent anyone without them from mounting a rescue in this room in a few minutes’ time.
Chris felt rather than saw the Major, coming across one of his feet as he crawled along the edge of the room. There was no time to establish whether he was still breathing; instead Chris just got hold of his leg and dragged him back into the hallway. Then he picked him up, put him over his shoulder and carried him down the stairs and out on to the road.
The cold air hurt as he gulped great lungfuls of it down. His eyes were streaming with tears. Blinking through them he could see the shapes of fire engines and ambulances. The customers from the Upstairs Room must have fled, because none were in sight, although a crowd was gathering to watch the building burn. Chris allowed the Major to be lifted out of his arms, and felt himself guided towards what he assumed was an ambulance.
‘I’m fine,’ he muttered, his voice hoarse as he was helped into the back of the vehicle. ‘I’m not hurt. I just need to get my breath. I don’t need a doctor.
I don’t need to go to a medical centre. Honestly.’
‘Hospital?’ questioned a gruff male voice nearby. Chris’s hands were tugged behind his back, and he felt the cold metal grip of handcuffs close around his wrists.
‘You’re not going to hospital, mate. You’re under arrest.’
The Doctor had asked for an ice pack but Jack didn’t have a refrigerator, and he didn’t dare go