The Faithless - Martina Cole [140]
On the way home she was playing ABBA on her car stereo and singing at the top of her voice. This really was her Waterloo; she would play up her daughter’s dangerous stupidity for all it was worth. A lit cigarette could cause untold damage – ten lit simultaneously could do even more! She guessed the washing basket full of clothes would be the first to really ignite, but the bin in the kitchen would also be a big help.
She would explain away the petrol by saying it was an insurance scam, that her daughter had hinted at money to come. She had covered all bases, and now she would have those kids until they sorted out accommodation and all the other shite that went with a major fire. Either way, this was a win-win situation for her.
Chapter One Hundred and Forty-Two
Cherie was shaking Gabby, screaming at her to wake up.
‘Mummy, Mummy, the house is on fire!’
Gabby could barely breathe; the bedroom was engulfed in smoke. Coughing, she jumped out of the bed. Vincent, the only thing she could think about was her baby Vincent, alone and afraid in his room.
She phoned the fire brigade in a panic and then, taking her daughter by the hand, she did the worst thing possible; she opened her bedroom door.
Chapter One Hundred and Forty-Three
‘Are you Cynthia Callahan?’
Cynthia, who had partaken of a few drinks to celebrate her late-night excursion, was bleary-eyed as she looked at the policeman and woman at her door.
‘Yes, I am. What’s going on? What’s happened?’
Sergeant Proctor could hear a rising panic in her voice. He walked her through to her kitchen and, sitting her down, he nodded to the policewoman, who looked through Cynthia’s cupboards until she found a bottle of brandy. Pouring out a large one, she placed it in front of the frightened woman.
All the time this was going on there was a panic rising inside Cynthia. This wasn’t just about a burnt-out house. This was too ominous.
‘Please, tell me! What’s happened?’
Sergeant Proctor took her trembling hand in his and said gently, ‘There’s been a fire at your daughter’s house. I’m very sorry to have to tell you that your grandson Vincent O’Casey died in it. The fire was too fierce for anyone to get to him and, believe me, your daughter tried. She’s suffered third-degree burns on her hands as a result. Both she and your granddaughter are in the Old London. Your granddaughter is unharmed though – she’s just being treated for smoke inhalation.’
Cynthia could hear the Sergeant’s words, but she couldn’t take in what he was saying. ‘But they weren’t in the house! Why were they in the house? They were staying at my dad’s. Cherie told me on the phone that they were staying at my dad’s . . .’ She was shaking with shock. She looked into the Sergeant’s eyes, pleading with him to tell her that none of it was true. When she had sneaked into the house, no one had been there – the house had been empty. She knew that because they were supposed to be at her fucking dad’s! Oh, why could her daughter never do what she was supposed to! Now look what had happened. If that girl could only do what she was supposed to . . .
‘You’re wrong. You must be wrong. My daughter and my grandkids are at my dad’s. You’ve got the wrong house, the wrong people . . .’ Cynthia started to cry then. ‘Please . . . Please tell me you’ve got the wrong people, please . . .’
Sergeant Proctor held her while she cried and, as he would say later back at the station, never had he heard crying like it. She had sounded like a wounded animal.