“Bloody hell, Tyler,” Doggett croaks. “You look a right state.”

“Oscar?” he manages. “Sally-Ann?”

Paul shakes his head. “No sign of them down here . . . no, Adam. Wait!”

But he’s already halfway up the stairs. On the first floor every room is alight, the fire eating through the fuel Sally-Ann has left for it; this time she’s taking no chances. The second flight of stairs is untouched and Tyler bounds up them, ignoring the light-headed feeling that he knows can’t be a good sign. Then along the upstairs corridor to the little attic room. The door is open, but there is a small mound of burning material blocking the way. He can see two shadow figures inside, struggling with each other. Beyond them the room burns brightly, every item of furniture ablaze, liquid flame skating up the walls and licking at the damaged ceiling. The old-fashioned wardrobe smolders, smoke curling across its curlicue decor. The curtains at the window are towering pillars of flame. In the midst of the conflagration stand Sally-Ann and Oscar, locked in each other’s arms, grappling like wrestlers. Sally-Ann has the edge, her bulky height pitted against Oscar’s skinny, drugged body, pushing his head down into the burning mattress.

Behind him, Paul shouts something up the stairs but Tyler ignores him and kicks at the bonfire in the doorway, pushing the burning fragments to one side. Sally-Ann looks up at him, and while she’s distracted, Oscar punches her hard in the face. She staggers back, just one, two steps, and then Oscar is using the momentum to push her away from him, across the room.

“No!” Tyler shouts, but it’s too late.

Sally-Ann is swallowed up by the burning curtains. He tries to reach her, stumbling across the room with no real idea what he can do. He thinks he sees her smile and for a split second she seems . . . what? Relieved, perhaps. Then she is gone, transformed into a column of fire. It happens so quickly; her clothes must be saturated with petrol. She glides almost elegantly across the room, squealing—a flickering corpse candle.

Tyler looks for something—anything—to douse the flames, but there is nothing that is not already alight. Oscar stands transfixed, watching. The candle stumbles toward the gable window and Tyler sees what is going to happen just moments before it does. Then the rotten wood and broken glass are disintegrating like paper under her weight and Sally-Ann is gone.

Oscar turns to look at him. “I didn’t mean . . .”

Paul arrives, smacking at the flames with what’s left of his T-shirt. He smothers the remains of the blaze in the doorway. “Go!” he shouts.

Oscar takes the lead, Tyler following closely behind with Paul Enfield bringing up the rear. Part of the ceiling collapses and the corridor bursts into a ball of fire.

“This way.” Oscar takes them to the other end of the corridor, where another set of stairs leads them down, and Tyler remembers coming this way on that first day that now seems like a lifetime ago. It was less than a week.