His hands are on fire.
`What the fuck `“' he yells. Though he never swears. Not in front of the kids. Not ever.
And then he realizes Harry is in the room too. Harry, who is staring at him, calm as you like.
`Hi, Mike,' he says, smiling.
Matty starts dropping the pale blue flame from one palm to the other and Michael realizes the fire is coming from something the size of a ping-pong ball. And that his skin is completely unmarked.
`Isn't it ace?' breathes Matty. `It's like the fire chargers in Minecraft.'
`Cool, eh?' says Harry. `Something for the kids for Bonfire Night. We found it on the web, didn't we, Matt? If you soak a fabric ball in lighter fuel you can actually hold a fire in your hands.'
`I can smell the burning all the way up the stairs.'
`Yeah, sorry about that. We had a couple of false starts.'
`You could have burned the bloody house down.'
Harry smiles again, a little more coolly now. `The house is perfectly safe. I know what I'm doing.'
`You just said you found it on the sodding internet `“'
Harry reaches out and takes the fireball from Matty, then closes up his fist like a magician and the fire goes out.
`Go downstairs, Matty,' says Michael, not looking at him.
`But, Dad `“' he begins.
`Do as I say. And close the door. I want to speak to Harry.'
Matty gets up slowly and drags his feet towards the door. Harry glances across. `It's OK, Matt. I'll be down in a minute.'
The door closes behind him and they hear the boy moving slowly down the stairs.
`Don't you ever put my son in danger like that again.'
`Really?' says Harry, raising one eyebrow. `Sounded like it was just the house you were worried about.'
`You know precisely what I mean. What you were doing is reckless and completely irresponsible. What if he tries it on his own `“ what then?'
Harry uncrosses his legs and gets up. `He won't,' he says. `He's not stupid.'
`I know that. But he's still a kid. A ten-year-old kid.'
`I told him not to do it on his own. That he could only do it if I was with him so I could make sure we were doing it safely. With the right stuff.'
`Oh, well, that's all right then.'
`You worry too much,' Harry says, putting his hands in his pockets. `Just chill. It's all under control.'
`And what did you mean by `њwe`ќ?'
`Sorry `“ not with you.'
`You said `њwe found it on the internet`ќ.'
Harry is unfazed. `Oh, right. Yeah, it was me and Matt. We did it together.'
`On your phone?'
He frowns. `No, on the computer.'
`My computer. In my office.' Michael is visibly struggling to keep his temper.
`What's the big deal? Matt said you wouldn't mind.'
`That's not for Matty to say.'
Harry shrugs. `If it bothers you so much you should use a bloody password. Though it's not as if you have anything interesting on it as far as I could see.'
Michael takes a step closer to him. `You were looking through my files `“ my documents `“'
`Not looking through. I just happened to notice. Look, Mike `“'
They're inches apart now. Eye to eye. `I told you before. Don't call me Mike.'
`Fine by me,' says Harry evenly. `Do you have something else in mind?'
Quinn is in the coffee shop on St Aldate's, staring at his tablet. But it's not his Facebook page (even though he's started up rather a promising connection with one of the female DCs in Brighton). He's on something else. Maybe even on to something else.
He stares at the image, clicks the zoom to the maximum it will go, and stares again.
`I just need a bit more time, Adam. It's complicated `“ there's something `“ I need to be sure `“'
Of all the days she chooses to call, it's a crap day like today. And even though I know I'm doing it, I'm starting to lose my temper. `Sure about what, Alex? About me? About us? How the hell can you be sure about anything when you won't even talk to me?'
`Please,' her voice is pleading now. `I'm not doing this to hurt you `“'
`Really? You should try being on the receiving end for a change.'
And then I do something I never do. Not to anyone. And certainly not to Alex.
I cut the line.
Because suddenly I've had enough. Of this case, this place, this absurd situation with Alex. I get up and move towards the door, almost colliding with Quinn, who clearly wants to speak to me.
`Boss?'
`Not now. I'm going out.'
He stares at me. At the jacket I'm not wearing. `It's bloody freezing out there `“ just saying `“'
`I don't care.'
I stride out on to the pavement and stop, still breathing heavily, and uncomfortably aware quite what a stupid idea this is. Everyone else is in hats and scarves and gloves. Including the man standing on the other side of the road, staring at the building. He's young `“ probably not much more than twenty. A crew cut, thin hips, and his scarf is in one of those hip knots they apparently call `the Parisian' (I have Quinn to thank for that information, as if you couldn't guess). He looks at his phone and then at the police station again. I cross the road quickly, narrowly missing a bike, and make my way towards him. At least I don't have a uniform to scare him off. Though I wouldn't blame him if he thought I was some sort of nutter, outside in shirtsleeves in weather like this. Close up, he looks nervous. He's biting his lip as he looks at his phone. He's wearing black nail varnish.
`Can I help you?'
He looks up; his eyes widen.
`I work in there. The police station. Is there something you want to talk to us about?'
He flushes. `I don't want to waste your time. It may be nothing.'
`You're worried enough to stand out here freezing your balls off wondering what to do. That doesn't sound like nothing to me.'
He opens his mouth then closes it again.
`Come on. At least it's warm in there. And if it's nothing, well, it's nothing.' I try a smile. It seems to work.
`OK,' he says.
12 December 2017, 3.54 p.m.
23 days before the fire
23 Southey Road, Oxford
`Hey, careful, don't want you falling off!'
Sam is standing on the stepladder, with Harry holding it steady beneath her. She's decorating the Christmas tree. When she answered the front door an hour ago Harry was standing there, with one of the biggest trees she'd ever seen. It must be eight foot tall.
`Well,' he'd said, after they'd dragged it inside. `All these high ceilings `“ might as well make the most of them.'
`It's wonderful, Harry. I can't thank you enough.'
`I'll take Matt out later to look for holly. We can make something for the hall. You think he'd like that?'
`He'd love it `“ of course he would.'
She'd stood and watched him then as he'd hauled the tree upright in the sitting room, biting her lip and remembering the Christmas before when she'd barely got out of bed for three days and Michael had had to roast a chicken from the freezer. But this year, she told herself, it would all be different. She'd get a turkey and mince pies and a cake. And a Yule log. Michael always said he preferred Yule log to Christmas cake, but if they got a cake as well she could ice it with the boys like her mother used to. She could buy some cake ornaments `“ let the boys decorate it like she did when she was little.
And now she's on the stepladder, surrounded by the decorations Harry brought down from the attic. She's never liked the way this house is furnished `“ she'd wanted to do a complete refurb when they moved in but Michael wouldn't hear of it. But, for once, his mania about keeping everything the way his grandparents had it has paid dividends. The decorations are exquisite. No tacky tinsel or shiny plastic but beautiful hand-painted china figurines of snowmen and Father Christmases, folded paper angels and snowflakes, tiny shoes embellished with lace and fake pearls, gold bells that ring. Some of them are so delicate she's afraid to touch them.