He lowers his head.
More police have arrived, but so have more protesters. Bottles and bricks are being thrown. Bodies forced back. Regrouping. Coming again. Each chant of “scum” makes Augie flinch. He presses his hands to his ears, trying to block the sound. He whispers in a little boy voice, “It’s my fault. I couldn’t save them.”
“Who couldn’t you save?” I ask.
“All of them.” He puts his finger to his forehead, corkscrewing it as if drilling into his skull. “I couldn’t save Mrs. Heyman from the fire. I couldn’t save my brother. I couldn’t save the girl.”
“Natasha?”
“The snowman took her.”
“Why do you call him the snowman?”
“He was made of snow.”
A window smashes in the front room. Mrs. Shaw screams. Almost simultaneously, glass shatters upstairs. Bricks and bottles are landing against the house.
“Everyone stay here,” I say.
Crouching, I run along the hallway to the front room. The curtains are billowing. Broken glass glitters on the carpet. I move to the window and glance outside. The police have surrendered ground under a hail of missiles.
Bottles and bricks are bouncing off parked cars, occasionally finding windows. A police van made it halfway down the street before being abandoned. Rioters are rocking it from side to side, creating momentum. It topples. Metal on tarmac. The mob cheers.
A rock cannons against the window frame above my head. Another shatters a picture in a frame on the mantelpiece.
Crawling to the entrance hall, I press my ear against the front door. I can hear a policeman outside, radioing for help, sounding desperate. I open the door a crack. Blood streams from a split on the bridge of his nose, running across his lips.
“Stay in the house, sir,” he orders.
I see his head snap back as a half-brick hits him flush in the face. He goes down, his helmet rolling across the steps. At that same moment, I see a flash of yellow and hear it smash as it lands. A whump sound fills the front room. Petrol igniting. Flames. Light.
“There’s a fire!” screams Mrs. Shaw.
“Stay in the kitchen,” I yell back.
Retreating down the hallway, closing the doors, I reach the kitchen. I look out the window and notice a gate at the rear of the yard.
“Where does it lead?”
Mrs. Shaw looks confused for a moment. “There’s a lane. It runs behind the houses to Lovett Road.”
“Where’s Augie?”
“I thought he was with you.”
“No.”
“He must be upstairs.”
“I’ll get him. You go. Take your coats. Call the fire brigade when you get to the lane.”
“I’m not leaving without Augie,” says his mother.
“I’ll get him.”
Covering my mouth and nose, I climb the stairs two at a time. There are three rooms upstairs, two of them bedrooms, crammed with too much furniture. I call Augie’s name. No answer. I can’t see him.
Walking around the beds, stepping over clothes, I glance out a broken window at the street. A phalanx of police wearing helmets and black body armor are marching from the northern end. Reinforcements. They’re pushing the crowd back, clearing the street like a human bulldozer. Behind them the road is littered with shattered bricks and broken glass. The police van is burning.
I can’t find Augie. I search the wardrobes and peer under the beds. He’s not here. The smoke is getting thicker and my eyes are streaming. I crawl across the landing, bumping my head against the wall. My fingers find the skirting board and I feel my way towards the bathroom.
By touch, I find the sink and turn on a tap, washing out my eyes. I manage to open the window a few inches and press my face to the gap, sucking in fresh air. Turning back, I notice a dark shape to my right. Augie is sitting in the bath, his arms wrapped around his knees.
I grab his arm. Shouting. “We have to get out.”
He looks at me. Tears stain his cheeks.
“Come with me.”
He pushes my hand away.
“You can’t stay here. We have to go.”
“I can’t,” he says, pointing to his ankle bracelet. “The judge said I couldn’t leave the house.”
“This is different. You’re allowed.”
“But they’ll kill me outside.”
There is a whooshing sound from below. Flames sweep across the ceiling of the entry hall. Wood crackles and burns. The window won’t open far enough for us to get out. I can’t carry Augie and he won’t come with me. He’s too frightened.
I can’t leave him here and I can’t stay.
Turning on a tap, I wet a towel and drape it over his head.
“Stay here, I’ll get help.”