“Seamus,” Wilcox shouted, “get on to Control. Tell them to make pumps four. Then get us police backup, and get these people out of the way until the police get here to take over crowd control.” He turned to the others. “You three, rig in BA. We’ll need to get a hose in through the main doors and make an assessment.”
Wilcox turned to the ladder crew. “Get us entry, then get a ladder up to the roof. And someone have a look round the back side, see what the status is there.”
Both crews sprang into action. It was chaos, but it was the controlled chaos of those who knew their jobs and were prepared to give whatever was required of them. As Rose settled the BA pack on her back and handed in her tally, marked with her set number and the amount of air in her cylinder, she felt the tightness in her chest ease. A rush of adrenaline surged through her, making her feel light-headed and razor-sharp. She was going to be okay.
She had comms, the breathing apparatus radio, and would be responsible for letting Wilcox know what they found inside. As they unreeled the hose, the ladder crew broke down the remainder of the fence and charged at the main doors, axes swinging. The doors splintered under the blows and Rose had a brief glimpse of the padlock flying, then she and Bryan and Steve were pushing through, Bryan at the tip.
A blast of heat jetted out, knocking them back. They crouched, moving forward again, Bryan sending controlled pulses from the hose into the dense black smoke. The jets turned instantly to roiling steam, and Rose felt her face sear through the faceplate of her mask.
Bryan pulsed the hose another half a dozen times, but there was no change in the temperature. They could see nothing but black clouds of smoke mixed with steam, and then, out of the corner of her eye, Rose caught a flicker of flame within the fumes: flashover.
“Guv!” she shouted over the radio. “It’s all going to shit in here. We can’t control it!”
“Back out!” Wilcox yelled in her ear. “Get out now.”
She grabbed Bryan and Steve and pulled at them, feeling the heat of their tunics even through her gloves. “Out,” she repeated. “We’re moving out.”
They backed out the way they’d come, Bryan continuing the short bursts from the hose, Rose keeping a grip on them both. She only knew they’d reached the door when Bryan’s helmet materialized in front of her.
As they staggered away from the building they heard a rumble and a pop, and a jet of flame shot out, licking at them. “Jesus,” she heard Steve say again as they scrambled away.
When they reached Wilcox and MacCauley, they pulled their masks off, and Rose took a deep, gulping breath. In the distance, she heard the faint double tone of sirens.
“We’re going to have to tackle this bastard from the outside,” said Wilcox. “And we’re going to need help. I’ve made it pumps six. Get the hose back on the door-”
“Hey!” The shout had come from the crowd. A man’s finger pointed upwards, and Rose caught a glimpse of a pale face, and the blue arm of a uniform sleeve. “There’s somebody in there! I saw somebody in there!”
“Where?” said Wilcox, scanning the building.
“Third floor,” the man called out. “In the window. Third from the left. A face.”
Rose looked, saw nothing but billowing smoke.
“Persons reported,” Wilcox called over the radio. “I’m sending crew up.” He turned to Rose and Bryan. “The ladder crew’s venting the roof. You two will have to take a look.”
Bryan gave her a quick bright grin, then they moved in unison, raising the ladder and hauling up the hose, Rose leading the way. She felt a moment’s relief that the constraint between them had vanished; then she thought of nothing but the job at hand.
When she reached the window, she grabbed the frame and straddled the sill, feeling her way with her foot. She could feel the wood’s heat through her gloves, but there was no flame showing inside, only the dense, oily smoke.
“Okay,” she said as her foot found solid floor. Swinging her other leg over, she inched forward, testing the surface with the toe of her boot. She kept hold of the window frame with one hand and groped outwards with the other, exploring the darkness like a blind person in an unfamiliar room.
She’d expected, if there had been someone at the window, to find them crumpled beneath it, but she felt only the solid floor. Bryan climbed in behind her, bumping against her as he crouched and steadied the hose on his knee. He gave two bursts of the jet, and this time she felt the temperature drop.
“Anybody here?” Bryan shouted, his voiced muffled by his mask.
Rose listened, her senses straining, hearing nothing but the hiss and crackle of the fire.
Rising, Bryan pulsed the hose again, then stepped forward. Rose felt a sudden vacuum beside her, heard an exclamation cut short. She swung her arm out wildly, towards the spot where Bryan had stood a moment before, and almost lost her balance as she encountered only air.
“Bryan!” She fell to her knees and inched forward, her hands sweeping in an arc through the smoke. When her knee touched something solid she gasped in relief, but her exploring fingers felt not a leg, but the round shape of the charged hose.
“Bryan!” she shouted again, panic rising in her throat. She felt along the hose until she touched the nozzle, then swept her hands across the floor in front of it. He must have caught his foot on something, fallen, but she could find him, she could get him out.
She tried to think calmly, to regulate her breathing. She couldn’t afford to use up all her air. Keeping one hand on the stationary hose as a guide, she crept forward, her free hand patting the floor. Vaguely, she heard a voice shouting into her headset, but she shut it out. Her world had narrowed to the tips of her gloved fingers.
Then, the floor disappeared beneath her hand. She jerked back instinctively, then felt again. Nothing. She ran her hand sideways, touched the hard edge of the floor, then she reached forward again. Nothing. The other side was the same. The floor dropped away in front of her, as far as she could reach.
“Bryan!” she screamed, but only her own voice echoed back inside her mask.
She kept calling, gripping the edge of the pit, until strong arms came round her from behind and pulled her away.
15
Oh, Captain Shaw!
Type of true love kept under!
Could thy Brigade
With cold cascade
Quench my great love, I wonder!
GILBERT AND SULLIVAN
Iolanthe, 1882
WHENEVER HARRIET CLOSED her eyes, the darkness seemed to press against her eyelids with a smothering weight, so she stared at the paler patch of dark she knew was the window. She had no idea how long it had been since nightfall; she’d lost all perception of the passage of time.
She shifted slightly on the narrow bed but kept her left arm tight against her chest. She thought her arm was broken, but not badly. Her mum had told her about fractures – with a compound fracture the bones might stick right through the skin, but a simple fracture was just what it sounded, a clean break.
Her forearm was swelling, and it hurt to move it, but the skin wasn’t broken and nothing felt jagged when she probed gently with her fingers. Still, she felt feverish and nauseated, and miserably thirsty.
At last, in spite of her discomfort, her eyelids fluttered, and she drifted towards the edge of sleep.
Oh, God, she was falling, falling, she couldn’t stop herself… the dark wooden banisters flashed by in a sickening whirl and she felt the impact as the hard steps came up to meet her… then hands gripped onto her ankles, the weight of a body crushed the breath from her lungs, and a searing pain tore through her arm.