Page 143 of Forever, Maybe
Still no sirens.
Fear slammed into him, hard and paralysing. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, just stood there, useless, as the flames roared higher.
The rest of the glass blew out in an explosion of heat and shrapnel.
“Oh, fucking hell!” the young woman cried as Daniel threw his arms around her and the boy, shielding them from the blast.
Glass rained down, shards bouncing off the pavement. One clipped his cheek, sharp and stinging.
“Go!” he urged. She bolted, the child’s wails trailing after them.
Still no sirens.
Where thefuckwere the fire engines? The ambulances? The police?
Another thought twisted his gut.
The heating. Or rather, the lack of it. It had been on theto-dolist for months, but Liza had been making do with the old Calor gas fire—the same kind that had been there years ago when he first showed Nell the shop.
If that went up—
He gulped back the nausea and the shakes.Do it. Move.
The pub next door was closed, but its beer garden shared a footpath with the back of his shop. He rattled the door, hoping someone might be inside. No answer.
No time.
He kicked it in.
The alarm shrieked as he clambered through, the splintered wood scraping his back.
The heat and smoke clawed at his throat, the stench of burning meat and melted plastic thick in the air. But if the fire reached here—a pub packed with flammable liquids—the whole block would be at risk.
The back door was locked. He slammed a shoulder into it, then spotted the keys hanging on a nearby hook. Careless. Lucky.
The lock was stiff. He swore, throwing his weight against it.
“C’mon, you fucker.Open!”
It gave suddenly, sending him stumbling outside.
Ignoring the path, he scaled the brick wall that separated the beer garden from the shop’s back lot, hands scraping against rough stone as he heaved himself over.
He hit the ground hard, landing awkwardly on the other side of the wall. Pain jolted through his left knee and ankle, sharp and immediate.
No time to dwell on it.
Limping as fast as his body allowed, he lunged for the shop’s back door, yanking the handle up and down. Useless.
Locked.
For the second time that day, he threw himself at a door, hammering it down with brute force. This one took longer as his weakened leg meant he couldn’t kick with full power.
One attempt.
Agony shot through his foot, ankle, calf, knee, hamstring.
Another.
