Simeon had reached the door – his thick, comforting bulk filled the doorway, and Leo had never been so glad to see anyone in his life. Simeon did not waste time in asking questions; he dragged at the door. It seemed to resist, then Hurst’s extra strength and weight prevailed, and he pulled it wide, banging it back against the stone wall. Leo tumbled through, and half fell against the passage wall.
The furnace was still roaring up, and Simeon, clearly puzzled, went towards it. Leo, huddled in the stone passage, saw two shapes creep out of the shadows. Their outlines were densely black against the red glow, but they were small and fine-boned, and they had long hair.
‘No!’ cried Leo, in panic. ‘Come out! Come out now, oh, please.’ He scrambled to his feet and started towards the iron door, but Simeon did not seem to hear him. Instead, he went up to the furnace, and picked up a long iron rod with a black hook at one end that was lying nearby.
Simeon Hurst’s outline was silhouetted blackly against the roaring crimson furnace, like a cut-out figure. He was intent on shutting the furnace door, and he was slotting the rod in place, so he could push the cover back. Leo started forward, then paused, fearful that the door might start to close again and trap them both inside.
Simeon almost had the furnace door closed, when a sheet of flame seemed to spit outwards, and a tiny crackle of flame caught the edge of his coat. He cried out and the rod slipped from his hands and clanged noisily on the stone floor as he beat at the tiny licking fire. Leo darted across to him, but Simeon had already fought himself free of his coat and had flung it down, stamping out the flames to douse them. Without looking round, he said, ‘Leo – stay clear – it’s not safe.’
‘But—’
‘Stay clear, I tell you.’
There was such a commanding note in his voice that Leo did as he was told. Mr Hurst’s jacket was no longer burning, and he would know what to do about the furnace. It would be all right.
Hurst reached for the hooked rod again, but in doing so he seemed to miss his footing or perhaps he tripped on the uneven floor. He stumbled forwards, flinging up his arms. Leo cried out and bounded across the floor, but it was too late. Simeon Hurst fell head first into the scarlet roaring depths.
The furnace blazed up and there was the nightmare, never-to-be-forgotten sound of Hurst screaming through the fire, and of the triumphant roaring crackle of the fire itself. Leo grabbed the iron rod, hardly noticing that its heat blistered his fingers, and tried to thrust it into the furnace. He was panic-stricken and terrified, but through the panic he had a confused idea that Mr Hurst might somehow be able to grasp the rod and be pulled out.
He could not, of course. There was a moment when Leo could see his silhouette within the flames – writhing, the hands clawing as if for freedom, his hair blazing and flames shooting out of his eye sockets. Then he simply folded in on himself. The fire died down, licking greedily over what was left.
The worst part was the smell. It was exactly the same smell as the kitchen at Willow Bank Farm when Miss Hurst roasted their Sunday dinner. Hot and greasy. A scent that would normally make you think of gravy and potatoes. Leo’s mouth filled with water, then he bent over retching.
He had no idea how long he remained like that, cold and sick, but when finally he was able to go back up the stairs the hunched-over figure had vanished. Leo was shivering so violently he felt as if his bones might break apart, and despite the blazing heat of the furnace a short while ago he was so cold he thought he would probably never be able to get warm again. But he took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and went to find someone who would tell him what should be done.