Pyrophobia

By G.J. Saunders

To save a child who you have grown to love, you will do anything. Even face your darkest nightmare. This compelling thriller by G J Saunders is filled with tension, with heroes and villains, with tears and emotion as the characters weave their own threads through the story. Adrian Finch must ultimately face a trial by fire before the dramatic resolution unfolds.

• Language: English
• Publisher: G.J. Saunders
• Release date: Jan 8, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201898281

Book preview

Pyrophobia

Chapter 1

A twenty minute march from the centre of Bishopsford, perched on the wooded hill, stood the ancient stone priory. Its crumbling walls had been abandoned long ago but its vantage point gave a view down across the modern town. As the first strands of daylight edged across the scene, there was something undeniably malevolent about the old red brick house that stood on the corner of Porchester Road.

The gap in the window was barely wide enough but despite struggling with the gummed up casement since before first light, she could open it no further. All she could do, as the panic of discovery started to make her stomach churn, was to try squeezing herself through the meagre opening. Her frame was slender, even so, the narrow opening threatened to snare her tight. She wriggled, inch by inch, through the gap feet first, until finally free, she clung by her fingertips to the dry splintery wood of the ledge. It was at least an eight foot drop from her dangling feet to the floor and she hung for a moment; nails unwilling to release their grip; scared of falling but terrified of the alternative.

Her pale skin, almost translucent in the early light, gave her the essence of fragility; a young teenager, still just a child really, a child whose bones might easily shatter. Below her the hard concrete pavement threatened her with its unyielding hardness. Christine closed her eyes and with an effort of will abandoned herself to gravity; abandoned herself to fate.

As her feet met the damp cold concrete, her weight crushed down and drove the air from her lungs. She went down painfully on her knees, the shock of the fall reverberating across her delicate abused body; but this was OK, this was a bearable pain and she was back up on her feet in an instant, limping for the first few strides but then running for her freedom; running for her life.

Dressed in faded blue jeans, a white T shirt and trainers, she rounded the corner of the house and made for the main road. It was early; about six thirty she thought, though she had no watch; she had nothing, only what she stood in. There was little traffic yet on this sleepy Saturday morning.

Out of breath she stopped and looked back for an instant; the house was still visible in the distance; it seemed to glare at her with dark menace as it stood on the street corner defiantly evil. There was no sign that her escape had been discovered; no one was following her. Not yet. But it was just a matter of time; she knew that. Christine ran across the main road desperate to get as far away as possible. The streets were all but deserted except for a heavy set man walking his little bouncing Yorkshire terrier and a white Mini Bus which was heading at modest speed in her direction. In the distance she saw the vague image of a boy wobbling on his bike, delivering newspapers. In the distance a dog's bark drifted on the air. It all seemed to her so normal, so surreal. The girl needed help and the white bus seemed her best hope. She ran into the road waving her arms like some possessed creature and forced the bus to slew to a stop.

Please help me. She cried; her hands pressed pleadingly against the glass of the driver's door. The driver wound down his window in preparation for hurling a mouthful of abuse at the lunatic child who had almost made him lose control. His school boy passengers craned their necks and stood to see what was happening. The terror was clear to see in the girl's eyes and the driver changed his mind about the tongue lashing. The girl was in a state of genuine distress; he could see that now. It showed in her anguished face, in the tears that were welling in her eyes, in the trembling of her delicate fingers. So he opened the door and let her in. What else could he do?

~O~

Adrian Finch was heading to an early appointment with his publishing agent. They had agreed to an early breakfast meeting at a café near her flat. He was driving one of his favourite stretches of road. The Oxton to Bishopsford road was nicely cambered and twisting yet in the right car you could carry a decent flowing speed. He had the right car. He was at the wheel of a recent acquisition; a Porsche 911. It was a pleasure to drive but almost immediately after making the purchase, he had regretted the decision. It made him feel self-conscious like a fool with more money than sense. It also made him paranoid; about the car being stolen and being the target for every policeman waiting to give him a speeding ticket. He had almost taken the car back to the dealer after the first week but his wife Nikki, who was normally the sensible member of their marriage, had fallen in love with the car. She of course was never tempted to drive outside the speed limit and was relaxed that the insurance cover would nullify any risk of theft. She felt no paranoia whatsoever; the car simply made her smile.

It was only recently that Adrian had been in a position to buy such a car. Suddenly his novels were starting to sell in numbers; thanks, in no small measure, to the skilled negotiations of his agent Julia Miles. Adrian's wife Nikki was a lecturer in applied mathematics and had supported them while Adrian struggled as an unknown author. Her commitment had ultimately paid off, as she knew it would. On that autumn morning Adrian had left her still in bed enjoying a weekend lie-in. It was only a week ago that Nikki had revealed that she was pregnant again. The news came as both a joy and a cliff edge of worry. Her first pregnancy had come to an end shortly after the doctor had confirmed the joyous news. He remembered the moment. She came out of the toilet with eyes full of tears and wrapped her arms around him.

There was blood. she said. Her doctor later confirmed that she had lost the foetus before it had a chance at life. They said that they could find nothing wrong. Sometimes these things just happen. There was no reason to stop trying. Now they were walking the high tight-rope, again not daring to look down for another seven long months.

It was still early as Adrian drove the car; the sun hung low in the pink sky. Now and again a swirl of mist could be seen rising from the damp road. Russet leaves were left spiralling in the turbulence of the car's wake as Adrian allowed himself a little driving indulgence. Despite the constant throbbing from a hairline fracture in his left wrist, Adrian felt relaxed and happy. His wrist had suffered the damage from a clumsy fall he had taken two days earlier at his weekly judo lesson. The doctor was unconcerned after viewing the X ray and Adrian left reassured with his wrist strapped up. The advice was to take care of it for the next few weeks. Adrian did not need the advice; his body was already sending the same message in a more direct way which was mostly attenuated by doses of paracetamol and the occasional sip or two of Black Label.

He drove past the recently discovered Roman digs where the local university– Nikki's university, different department, was making a careful job of unearthing some interesting remains. The public was generally unwelcome at the site but already pictures of an amazing mosaic floor that had been discovered had been published in the local Clarion newspaper. He changed down a gear for the next corner and felt a swell of satisfaction as the tyres bit into the road surface and the car powered on pressing him sidewards into the supportive seats. Nikki had used the car the previous day and had left the radio tuned to the classical station. It was playing some Wagnerian opera; Parsifal he thought; opera was not really his thing. The screeching mezzo soprano was starting to put Adrian's nerves on edge. He looked down for an instant searching to find the still unfamiliar stereo buttons. As he crested the top of the rise the road dipped away and curved sharply to the right. With a click the soprano was silenced, replaced by the relaxed voice of a news reader detailing the events of the last few hours. As Adrian's eyes re-focussed on the road he saw, almost too late, the ominous shimmering rainbow of spilled oil on the wet corner, he instinctively swerved and found his two left wheels cutting onto the gravel at the edge of the road. It would normally not have been a problem; just a warning to drop a little speed. But he saw with horror that his exit to the corner was blocked. A white Mini Bus had also fallen victim to the oil and lay on its side across the slick road with steam rising ominously from its ruptured radiator. He hit the brakes and turned sharply to avoid the bus. The car's stability control and ABS kicked in but with the two left wheels on the gravel the car started to spin. He over-corrected and the car snaked from side to side. Finally coming to a stop some twenty yards up the road from the stricken bus.

As soon as the car had stopped he threw open the door and ran down to the hollow where the accident waited in all its horror. The bus looked like a beached whale; out of its element. Buses were intended to be on their wheels not on their sides rocking precariously across the edge of a ditch. He peered through the windscreen and saw that the driver was beyond help. A thick branch from the birch trees the bus had ploughed though had smashed a neat hole in the windscreen and had continued until the driver had been impaled through the centre of his chest to his seat. He was dressed in a pale blue tracksuit which was now mostly red and darkly wet.

Further back he could see that the bus held a group of school boys; they looked to be aged about eleven or twelve and were in a state which ranged from shocked silence to obvious panic. No doubt they had been on their way somewhere to play in a Saturday morning football match. Apart from the driver there were no other adults as far as Adrian could see. There was however a girl; maybe two or three years older than the boys. She looked frightened and pale but apparently unharmed and was showing far less overt panic than the boys. She was trying to open the door which was now positioned incongruously above her head. The door would not move despite her best efforts.

Wait. Adrian called to her. I'll try the emergency exit at the rear.

Adrian ran to the back of the bus and pulled on the handle but it refused to move at all. He called though to the boys who had been sitting at the back.

See if you can get the door open from the inside. He called but the boys just looked on bewildered. Adrian pulled out his mobile phone; there was no signal in the hollow. He swore under his breath as he made his way towards the front of the stranded bus. As the wind swirled round the wreckage he could smell the sickening odour of petrol. Normally buses run on diesel. Diesel is relatively difficult to set on fire; not so with petrol. The underside of the bus was now exposed and Adrian soon located the source of the leak: a ruptured fuel line that ran the length of the underside of the bus. It was pouring in a slow but steady stream. If that were not bad enough he could see that the wires to the rear lights had been ripped off and were shorting and sparking in an alarming fashion.

It was clear to Adrian that he had to get the kids out while there was still time. He ran back to the front door and with difficulty climbed up onto the side of the bus. He tried his phone again; even with the added height there was still no signal. Despite his best efforts, the door would not open; the bus's frame had twisted in the accident and the door had become locked in position. He needed to smash the window but there was nothing to hand. Adrian remembered once watching as the windscreen of his ageing Mondeo was replaced. He had followed with interest how the mechanic had removed the glass by freeing the rubber seal and the memory gave him an idea. His fingers scrabbled at the door's side window until finally he was able to prise up a section of the central sealing strip. He pulled it free and continued until it was all removed. He was still unable to get a decent purchase on the glass and his painful wrist was hindering his attempts. He called though to the girl who had been quietly watching his progress.

I've released the window seal; see if you can push it free from your side.

The girl put all her meagre weight against the glass and an edge suddenly popped free. Adrian put his fingers under the window and using his good arm pulled. There was some kind of sealing mastic still holding the glass but now that he had a decent grip he was able to heave the glass free. He slid it along the body of the bus out of harm's way. Adrian carefully dropped down inside the carcase that had once been a comfortable passenger compartment. He had noticed a travel rug lying on the floor, opened it up and covered the driver. It was not a sight for boys who were already in shock.

Adrian turned to the girl. I'm Adrian, what's your name, He noticed the girl look hesitant as if she might not be able to trust the stranger.

I'm Christine. She finally said in a barely audible voice. There was something unsettling about the girl; pale, delicate, her presence almost ephemeral behind a barrier of self preservation. He had no time to waste in idle contemplation though.

Christine, I need you to be very brave, we need to get these boys out of the bus. We must not let them panic and rush to the exit; the window's only big enough for one at a time. Can I trust you to organise them?

Christine nodded and as Adrian clambered back out of the bus and jumped down he could hear her voice shouting with quiet authority at her companions. Adrian raced up the hill close to where his car was still sitting and tried the phone again. This time, with immense relief he got a signal.

I need emergency services, ambulance and fire. There has been a road accident involving a school bus. There's at least one dead man and we have leaking petrol. He spoke as calmly and clearly as he could but the operator detected the tremor in his voice.

Try to keep calm sir. On the main Bishopsford road just past the Roman digs. We should have someone with you in twelve minutes.

Twelve minutes sounded too precise, almost ridiculously so. Adrian checked his watch; it said seven fifteen.

Please stay with the phone sir we need... b... just... and...

The signal was lost. Adrian ran back down the slope to the bus and saw that Christine had already got most of the boys out.

Are any of you injured? He said in his most authoritative voice. The boys shook their heads.

There's James; James Widmore he's trapped by his legs and bleeding. Adrian's heart sank.

OK guys I want you to walk, and I mean walk, up to where my car is parked and stay together in a group. I'm going to help get the others out. He clambered up onto the bus again; his wrist protesting each time he asked it to take any weight.

How are you doing Christine?

There's just three left and I think one is trapped.

That's really good, well done, I want you to go and supervise the boys. I've told them to gather up by my car. Do you think you could get them to sit quietly until help arrives? He glanced at his watch. I'm told it will be another seven minutes. In my car's glove box you will find a pad and a pencil, will you take the boys' names and also try and get the names of the ones still in the bus? This was really meant as something to occupy and distract the boys until help arrived but it would be no bad thing to have a record of the names of the safe ones. You could also help by getting the boys to tell you what they remember about the accident and jot down any details you think could help the police.

At the mention of the word police Christine seemed to flinch for an instant but she nodded an agreement and marched up the hill to her waiting boys. Adrian paused for an instant. The thought that a fire might break out at any moment made his flesh creep and it was with a huge struggle that he made himself drop back into the cabin. He carefully avoided looking at the driver's body and made his way to the back where the boy was trapped. Two other boys were valiantly trying to free him but without success.

"You two make your way out of the bus now and go up and sit with the others. I'll take over here.

I'm not leaving James. Said one of the boys.

Your friend will be fine, what I said was not a request, it was an instruction. Now off you go and walk, don't run. The schoolboys were clearly used to taking instructions from one in authority and reluctantly did what Adrian had told them. He watched them clamber out of the door's window and drop to the ground. He then turned his attention to the trapped boy.

Hi, I'm Adrian, you must be James; James Widmore is it? The boy was in pain and looked disturbingly pale.

Yes sir, my leg is caught and it hurts like shit– sorry sir.

That's all right James, hold on for a little longer there's help coming. He looked at his watch. They will be here in four and a half minutes.

Adrian examined the boy's leg. The framework from the seat in front had been twisted by the impact and had trapped the boy's leg against the ripped steel-work of the side of the bus which was now the floor. It almost looked like he was caught in the jaws of a gin trap; the jagged teeth of the torn steel biting into the flesh of his leg.

I can smell petrol. The boy said as his eyes widened in growing panic.

I know James, don't worry, only three minutes to go.

Adrian didn't know if he had three minutes. He needed a bar; something to lever the seat's frame with. He looked around and wondered if the driver had any tools up front. There must be a tyre jack somewhere, he thought. Adrian stood and started making his way to the front.

No no... please don't leave me. Adrian could see that the boy was at the edge of hysteria.

Hey, James everything will be fine. I bet that by tonight you'll be sitting in front of the TV with your Mum and Dad and this will all be a distant memory. I'm just going to see if I can find some tools to get you out. He glanced at his watch. Sixty seconds to go.

Adrian made his way past the twisted seats; he could hardly believe that there had been so few injuries. He looked back and smiled at James who managed a weak smile in response.

Soon have you free mate. As the words drifted from his lips they were drowned by the explosion which rocked the bus and hurled Adrian to the floor. He watched as a wall of flame rolled towards him. He curled instinctively into a ball with his arms over his head. The curtain of flame barely reached Adrian but it was centred where James had been sitting and had settled into a steady fire. An impenetrable wall of flame separated Adrian from the young boy. He ran back but there was nothing he could do.

It was instinctive self-preservation that made him