Hiss.
Shock kicked her in the stomach, then in the chest. She did recognise the sound. It was in her, part of her, yet her brain was smothering it and refusing to let the memory rise.
Hiss.
Objects slapping into the trough. Not splints. Softer, wetter.
They reached the baize door.
Jasper gathered himself and pounced. The door burst open, magnifying the sound and the smell – not roses this time but phosphorus, burning wood and scorched metal. A sharp, sickly note rising high above it all. Blood.
She staggered into the Great Hall. The wind whooped, gleefully hurtling rain against the windows. Light was fading fast. The dying fire touched Jolyon’s face with orange streaks, and beside him—
‘No!’ The word ripped from her, taking her insides with it.
Jasper screeched and arched his back.
Another companion: one she had carried for too long. His leering face, the hefty, brutal muscle of him.
Pa.
Hiss.
She could not feel the pain in her ribs any longer. Other sensations took control. It was so much worse than she remembered; not just the terror but the anger, impotence and disgust.
Hiss.
‘You can’t have him! Get away!’
She went to move but her bad leg crumpled beneath her and she was on her knees, retching.
‘Get away from him!’
Hiss.
She stared at her hands, splayed out on the grey and black flags. Her bandages were peeling off. There, under the recent wounds, sat the scars of old – the sin seared into her skin.
Hiss.
The dam gave way. She remembered it all.
And she did not regret it.
She was there in the factory, twelve years old, crouching with her box of matches, her veins pumping with the beat of her heart. Lighting the fire, too hasty, all fingers and thumbs. Once again she felt its vengeful warmth answering the fury that raged inside her. And she did not mind that it had burnt her hands because then she became the blaze, became the flames, became the lure to her father who ran like a madman to try and put it out.
Did he see her? She hoped he saw her, as Ma did, that split second before he fell. The child he had abused barrelling into his leg, pushing him straight into the circular saw.
Hiss, hiss. The machinery struggling to cope, the clogged blades. Gore slopping into the trough. A kind of fizz as blood sprayed out across the floor, making the match girls shriek. But then the noise turned into a whirring, a clunking as bones jammed the teeth. Steam panted out from the machine. The saw gave a death rattle. All fell still, and Jolyon was safe.
Until now.
‘You . . . can’t . . . have . . . him!’
Jasper sprang before she did, claws flashing by the embers of the fire. The Pa companion toppled, leering still, into the grate.
A puff of smoke, a crack. Then he leapt up in flames.
Jasper skittered back from the fire. It was going too fast; snaking down the length of the companion, throwing out sparks like luminous fleas. No natural fire could burn like that.
Smoke stung her eyes. She grabbed Jasper and climbed, unsteady, to her feet.
A log popped and the oriental rug caught alight.
‘Jolyon!’
But it had him in its grasp. Orange tongues jumped and writhed, reflected on the swords that hung on the wall. She watched it dance, fascinated, appalled, until she began to cough.
She wheeled around and saw the wavering outlines of companions everywhere: on the stairs, peering down from the gallery, standing in every door. Barring her way.
It was hot. So hot. Jasper’s fur made her arms sweat.
Charred snowflakes of ash fluttered in the air. She could no longer make out which companion was which; she could not even see the front door.
There was nothing but the flames.
A window. Spluttering, she fought her way towards a rectangle shining through the smoke. The window overlooking the drive. This was where they had stood, Hetta and the gypsy boy, watching her. Knowing this would happen.
Cradling Jasper in one arm, she hammered on the window with her spare hand. Hot glass – unbearably hot.
‘Come on!’
That old, familiar scorch on her palms. This was how she had won before – fighting through the pain. She could do it. She could make her body do anything. She had learnt the hard way.
She hit the glass again. Again. Her knuckles screamed and she brought them back, dripping blood. Again. The glass cracked.
The fire roared behind her. She felt its breath, wringing sweat out from the back of her neck. Of course, she had let the air get at it. She had made it worse.
‘Quick, Jasper, quick!’
He was a muddle of flailing limbs and claws, trying to press his paws either side of the hole and stop her from posting him through it. But she was rough, impervious to him. The glass cracked again and she pushed him outside with it, yowling furiously.
Heat gusted up her back. She felt her skin lift and tighten. The pain. The pain, rummaging through her clothes with its burning hands.
She didn’t think. There was no time to think – she took a few steps back and ran, as Jolyon must have done, straight at the glass. With her arms protecting her face, she hurtled into the window and shattered it to pieces.
A fork of fire lashed out behind her, but she was already on the ground, beating at her gown, rolling across the gravel and smothering the flames. Rain fell and extinguished the last of it. Too late. The damage was done – she could feel her skin blister and pop in the ruthless air.
Jasper had raced up the closest tree. His green eyes peered down at her as she crawled, steaming and half dead, into the damp gardens. She had to get away from the fire. From the house.
Her muscles were shrieking. Black smuts danced in her vision and threatened to take over. This was the limit: the fountain. Her body would go no further. She slumped over the rim, red-raw arms dangling into the basin.
A gust of wind blew across the hills. She smelt it on the breeze: roses and thyme, peppering the smoke. She coughed.
‘Mrs Bainbridge!’
Sarah?
She peered through the shimmering, heat-hazed garden. But it was not Sarah she saw. There was a companion, by the topiary. The one who started it all: Hetta.
‘Mrs Bainbridge! Good Lord!’
It sounded like Sarah’s voice, coming from the other end of the gardens, although she couldn’t be sure. She could hear two voices at once, one lapping over the other.
As she stared fixedly at Hetta a dark shape, a taller shape, ran through the gardens, over the gravel towards her. Human. Whether it was male or female, she could not tell. It seemed to her that two were moving there, not one. Both of them, holding out their hands for her.
‘Mrs Bainbridge!’
When she came to there was another calling her name, a nurse with a face like a rat. Her surroundings were white and sterile. She smelt carbolic soap. Urine. Pain was stitched into her skin.
She cracked open her parched mouth to speak, but only a croak hobbled over her lips. Her voice was gone – gone with the memory and the smoke.
ST JOSEPH’S HOSPITAL