The Chrysalid Conspiracy (63 page)

He would have to wait for Francine to get home. She would find an answer, he was sure. And maybe work out the significance of this, he thought, as he picked up the golden mask.

“Is that you, Francine?” he called out, hearing a door close.

But of the two women who appeared in the doorway, neither was his wife. Apart from the similarities, such as the continental complexion and the long black hair, Francine had never, to his knowledge, carried a sword.

It didn’t seem to matter which way she turned. The acrid smoke stung her nose and eyes. She could breathe, but it left an acidic taste in her throat. The cries for help echoed in her mind and somehow she knew she had very little time.

The smoke was just hanging in the still air of a calm, moonlit night. Moving out of cover, she ‘felt’ for the voices to determine her directions, and set off. She moved at speed through the giant tree, leaping and swinging with precision and purpose. She knew where she was and that the skills she was using were her own. She had to find that garden. As the thought came to her mind, she found herself running on grass. The hut was dark and empty as she sped past it and stopped at the edge of the abyss.

She glanced down into the darkness and then up. Sending out her now highly developed extra sense, she felt the predator. It was Ryxyl, way above her, waiting.

For a split second she was unsure of what to do. Clearing her watering eyes with the heels of her hands, she wiped her running nose on the back of her wrist. This was her dream, her nightmare, and she resolved to take control. A few steps back and she ran and leapt out into that awful, terrifying blackness. To stop herself screaming with fear, she cried out ‘Zanitor!’, and again she was running on grass, real grass this time. She was awake and running across the village green.

Crossing the road in front of the rectory, she could see that the living room windows had been blown out and the flames were licking greedily up the outside of the building. The fear emanating from inside was so strong it felt as if it were her own.

Clearing the wrought iron front gate with ease and increasing her speed, she hit the front door with her shoulder. It succumbed to her size and strength and collapsed with a satisfying sound of splintering wood.

The fire was just beginning to set its grip on the wide hallway. The living room door-frame was well alight, with flames curling up and heading across the ceiling, drawn by its own heat towards the staircase. The carpet was also burning, the flames having spread rapidly across the room and beginning to consume everything they touched. The noise of glass breaking and furniture collapsing coming from the living room told her that it was too late for anyone should they still be in there and, hearing the screams coming from upstairs, she knew she had to tackle the burning staircase.

Her bare feet were cut and bleeding and her shorts and T-shirt held no protection from the flames. Nevertheless, she ran at the stairs and leapt up to the first landing. The fire, in search of a better quality of air to devour, raced after her. She turned the ninety degrees to continue up, but stopped short. At the top was that now familiar figure in the golden mask, wielding her sword.

Ryxyl was waiting, sword raised, enjoying the delicious thrill of victory. She wasn’t going to make the same mistake as last time and stop for a chat. This time she would make full use of her opportunity.

Amelia turned, with no weapon she didn’t stand a chance, and there wasn’t much of a chance if she’d had one, she realised, and looked for a way out. But, to her shock and horror, at the bottom of the stairs stood a carbon copy of what was waiting for her above. The same mask, clothes and sword; she was trapped. Ryxyl had enlisted some help, and this unwelcome doppelgänger had Francine West in an arm-lock, using her as a shield against the flames. But which was which? And did it make any difference?

Paralysed by indecision, she could only watch as she weighed up her limited options. Amelia was trapped. Above her, a deranged killer about to strike, and below her a fire breathing dragon and it’s screaming victim. The heat was intolerable and she could feel the skin on her bare legs start to blister.

The screaming abruptly stopped as Francine West was slammed against the wall. The perpetrator took up the ancient cry with a shriek of surprise and pain as she was brought down by Rayn’s clumsy, but effective, rugby tackle. The mask came off and the unfamiliar face Amelia could see told her Ryxyl was above her. As Francine staggered screaming to the kitchen door clutching her face Rayn squared up to her adversary and they moved in to close quarter fighting.

The unknown woman had lost her sword with Rayn’s timely attack; it was below her at the bottom of the stairs. With the screams of Carrieanne and Claire piercing her mind, she knew she had no choice and, with one leap she snatched it up and charged back up the stairs.

Ryxyl, unaware of the events on the ground floor, was surprised at Amelia’s tactics. Charging upwards was a very amateurish action, even with a sword. She knew she couldn’t kill this girl, but it would now be very difficult to take her alive. But what set her back was the ferocity of the attack.

Amelia, unfamiliar with the great broad sword, felt as if she were wielding an iron bar, but after readjusting her grip on the long hilt, found the point of balance. Her manipulation of the clumsy weapon improved considerably as her weeks of practice began to pay off and she knew exactly what she was doing. The strength was in the shoulder as she parried and slashed with competence, if not accuracy.

“You killed my father!” she screamed to give herself impetus, but it was to no avail, Ryxyl was just too good. It was only Amelia’s advanced and highly tuned reflexes that prevented a disaster as Ryxyl forced her down to the central landing.

Gasping in pain as her thigh came into contact with a Chinese-style ornamental table; she glanced down and saw that the delicate fretwork with its painted dragons was well alight. Scooping it up, she hurled it at Ryxyl. As she let it go, she felt the melting lacquer tearing the flesh from her fingers.

Ryxyl slashed sideways to knock it aside but, fortunately, the stand had other ideas. It disintegrated into several million pieces and a cloud of sparks and burning embers coated with searing hot lacquer adhered itself to her clothing. Ryxyl staggered back. Her mask had protected her face, but her attempts to brush herself clear resulted in the lacquer merely sticking to her hand and continuing to burn her skin as her clothes smouldered. She didn’t scream or cry out, instead she just turned and fled. She ran down the corridor and through the open French windows, which were beckoning the flames to their ultimate freedom out onto a small balcony. With one foot on the safety rail, she launched herself into the darkness.

Amelia gave chase, but stopped on the balcony. For the moment she had a higher priority, and grabbing a lungful of clean air she turned back into the fire. At the top of the stairs, through stinging, watery eyes, she saw Rayn against a backdrop of burning fury eager to overwhelm her in its quest. She was slapping at the flames that had latched themselves onto her anorak sleeve.

“Claire’s in here!” Rayn shouted, with panic in her voice, “but the door’s locked.” Amelia threw herself at it but with no room to manoeuvre the door ignored her. She gathered herself for another try, but Rayn shouted to her.

“Wait!” She crouched down, putting her hands on the lock. There was a click and the door opened. “Good old Sesame,” she said. “I’ll get Caz.”

Amelia dived into the room, flames already licking the top of the doorframe in its bid to join up with its all-consuming friends coming up the stairs. Thick smoke invaded every available space as she looked for Claire

Amazingly, the light was still working and she found Claire on the floor. She was choking and crying and trying to scream at the same time. With no time for niceties, Amelia grabbed a handful of her hair and a combination of nightdress and knickers and threw her over her shoulder in a fireman’s carry. Claire weighed so little she slammed down onto Amelia’s shoulder with such force that Amelia felt warm vomit running down the backs of her legs.

Escape through the window was out of the question. There was nowhere to land between the gravestones. Deciding to follow Ryxyl out to the trees, she dived through the now burning doorway into the corridor, which was rapidly filling with flames.

Turning to her right she was making a dash for the French windows when her heart froze. The floor shook so violently she was thrown against the wall and before she heard the almighty crash that followed she knew what had happened. Carrieanne’s bedroom was immediately above the living room. The floor had collapsed, and anyone in there would have gone with it.

The newly invigorated burning fury was shooting out through the door like a horizontal volcano. The stairs, happy to employ the efforts of its reinforcements, exploded into an inferno.

By the time she’d cleared the balcony she was already enveloped in smoke and flames, broken glass and the residue of the rapidly disintegrating building. But it wasn’t pain or fear, or relief or anger, that forced the scream from her damaged throat and the tears of anguish from her eyes as her body descended into a paroxysm of despair. Then she hit the ground and found the relief of temporary oblivion.

***

The first thing she was aware of was lights. Somebody was shining a torch in her face, then other torches, bright ones, dim ones, car lights, flashing blue lights, flashing red lights, and a kaleidoscope of colour from the reflections. Then the sounds drifted in. People talking, people crying, a crackling radio voice, and then another, somebody shouting instructions, engines going and doors slamming.

The pain came next. Her left hand, her right forearm and her feet – oh, how her feet hurt. She was still choking on the smell of petrol fumes and the stench of fire being quenched by water. The gut-wrenching mix of steam and smoke triggered her memory.

“Rayn! Oh my God, Rayn.” He screamed on all levels of her senses. She tried to get up but a burly medic was holding her down. “I have to get to Rayn! I must find her,” she called out, her mind refusing to accept the worst. Then she heard a familiar voice.

“Come on, you lazy sod. What are you doing down there? We’ve got things to do.”

“Rayn! You’re alive!” Amelia screamed out the obvious in relief, her mind telling her that she’d reached an ‘After’ more welcome than snow on Christmas morning.

“Only slightly more than you, by the looks of things,” Rayn gasped back at her. Pushing the surprised medic aside she grabbed Amelia’s uninjured hand and pulled her upright. “We’ve got to go, Amelia. I heard a cello and it hurt. Your mum needs us. Now! Let’s go!” and she dragged her off towards the road. “Caz and Claire are okay though,” she added.

But the very mention of her mother had driven all other thoughts from Amelia’s mind. Her pain vanished and the two girls ran at top speed towards the flower shop, ignoring the rough surface as they crossed the road.

As they approached, they saw that all the lights were on and the door was open. All Nigel’s patient instructions on strategy and alternatives were gone as they dived through the door, ready to kill.

“Mother!” screamed Amelia.

“In here,” a voice called from the living room. “It’s okay, we’re fine.”

Amelia and Rayn stood in the doorway, holding each other up. Five people gazed in horror at the sight of their smouldering clothes, smoke blackened faces and badly singed hair.

“What happened?” everyone chorused together in variations of the same question.

Amelia and Rayn were so smoke-blackened they were almost unrecognisable. Rayn had lost a good deal of hair and there was dried blood around her mouth. Her hands were cut and bleeding and the anorak, the only clothing she could grab in her initial panic, hung in scorched shreds. She had one arm on Amelia’s shoulder to take the weight off her badly damaged knee. It was bleeding badly, her blood staining the carpet.

Amelia too was a mess. She had a bandage around her head, with blood showing through. She had also lost some hair, but not as much as Rayn. The front of her T-shirt was covered in blood and her clothes too, hung in shreds. One hand had been hastily bandaged and she had the arm around Rayn’s waist to keep herself upright.

Now the adrenalin had subsided, the pain had begun to regain its dominance. Two pairs of exhausted, red-rimmed eyes gazed back at everyone as the girls slowly and painfully moved to the settee and eased themselves down. Their feet looked as though they had been over cooked on a barbecue.

They gazed in amazement round the living room. Joe was sitting at the table. He had his shirtsleeve rolled up while Sheila was stitching a nasty cut along the edge of his hand. Jemima sat next to him, her right hand covered by a wet flannel and clutched to her chest. Lucy was in her carver chair with Bridie next to her. Both women looked pale and shaken, but the half-empty bottle of brandy between them looked to be doing its job.

Bridie poured two more glasses with a liberal measure and gave one each to the two girls. Amelia managed okay, as she still had one good hand. Rayn, with her lacerated palms and fingers, gently cupped the glass with both hands and drained it. She then held it out to her mother like Oliver with his porridge bowl. Nobody had spoken a word. Bridie managed a smile as she topped her daughter’s glass up, and then responding to Amelia’s nod did the same for her. Both girls felt relief knowing their mothers were safe and unharmed.

Jim appeared in the doorway. “Any chance of one of those, please?” he said. He, too, was smoke-blackened. His shirt was torn and one shoulder was raw and blistered, but apart from that he was unhurt. He took the drink that Bridie have given him and, after checking that his dad and Jem were Okay he sat next to his sister before taking a drink. A consideration observed by an admiring Amelia.

“Is somebody going to do some explaining, or shall we wait and catch it on the late night news?” Sheila was on a short fuse. She was pale and her accent had turned into a drawl. Thankfully, her hands weren’t shaking.