Chapter 29
Chapter 29
‘Where is she?’ Johnny shot along the corridor, barely aware of Noel repeating that he’d found Fran, that she was in the cellar, following the point of his brother’s finger without hesitation.
Johnny took the steps down at speed, hurdling the overturned box and slipping on spilt wine. He grabbed at the rope banister to steady himself, then took the rest of the steps at a more sensible clip.
The blood roared through his ears as he reached her. Johnny threw a silent prayer skywards, laced it with as many begging, ingratiating phrases as he could think of – hoped it might make up for a distinct lack of interest in all things religious, except curse words, up until this point in his life. Because it looked as though Fran was going to need all the help she could get. He’d recognise that hair anywhere, even if the gloss of chestnut had been dulled by a layer of what he assumed was ash. In fact, Fran was almost entirely coated with a thin, grimy layer. She must have been outside in the smoke. But it wasn’t the particles of smog sticking to her clothes and her hair that concerned Johnny as he reached her. Rather it was the grey hue of her skin underneath the dirt. The fact that she wasn’t moving. The creeping horror of not being able to tell whether she was even breathing.
She was way too still, her limbs far too sprawled. He rubbed the back of his fingers against her cheek, aware it was the first time he’d touched her. That he’d wanted this moment almost from the first time he’d laid eyes on her. But not like this.
‘Fran, can you hear me? It’s Johnny.’
He brushed strands of her hair away from her eyes and off her forehead, seeing the livid red gash up near her hairline and recoiling. His gasp brought Noel closer.
‘What is it?’ Noel peered over his shoulder and inhaled almost as sharply. ‘Shit, that doesn’t look good. Is she breathing?’
‘I don’t know.’ Johnny bent closer, a vague memory surfacing from one of the many disaster movies he’d watched of someone using a mirror held above the person’s lips to check for condensation. But he didn’t have a sodding mirror. Perhaps he’d be able to feel her breathing. He held a hand millimetres away from her mouth but felt nothing. In desperation, he brought his cheek as close to her as he could, willing himself to feel the gentle puff of air against his skin.
‘Christ, Johnny … Is she …?’
There was no need for the final word, they both knew what Noel was unable to say out loud.
‘Shut up, Noel. I can’t tell.’
Never had Johnny felt this useless. He’d come close when Natalie had given birth to Estelle, but they’d been surrounded by a team of healthcare professionals, so …
‘Either way, we need to get her out of here.’
For once in his life, Noel was speaking sense and Johnny nodded, scraping himself around on the rough flagstones, lining himself up to be able to lift her. As he slid an arm beneath her shoulders, a micro-movement in her expression had him pausing. He waited, breath held, until it came again. The tiniest of frowns, joined this time by a feather-soft groan.
‘Fran? Can you hear me? It’s Johnny.’
‘Ohnny …’ The frown deepened as the word came out as a groan, a hand moved up and her fingers zeroed in on the gash on her forehead. ‘Hurts.’
‘It’s OK, you bashed your head. But you’re all right.’ Johnny couldn’t stop himself breaking into a relieved grin. ‘You’re going to be all right.’
‘Thank Christ for that,’ Noel said.
‘You’re in the cellar, Fran. Do you remember coming in here?’
‘Fell down the stairs. Tripped …’ Fran’s eyelids fluttered and then opened a slit, as though they were too heavy for her to lift them. ‘Red might be down here.’
Johnny did his best to keep his expression level. There was no way the cat would have survived being anywhere near that fire, let alone made his way into the chateau. ‘We need to get you out of here. There’s a fire, remember?’
‘Fire everywhere,’ she said, mumbling out words. ‘Red’s tree is on fire.’
‘Let’s get you out of here, Fran.’
Fran struggled into a sitting position. ‘Not sure I can walk. Ankle hurts, too.’
‘I’ll lift you. Don’t worry.’
‘No. I can’t just leave him. He must be so scared.’
Johnny sighed. ‘Fran, I know how much Red means to you, but we need to get out of here. Now. If the fire hasn’t already got inside the building, it’ll only be a matter of time before it does.’
In Johnny’s opinion, it was unlikely that the cat could have survived such a blaze, but he wasn’t about to express his fears to Fran. Instead, he did his best to paste an upbeat expression on his face. ‘I expect he’ll be fine. Like he was when you thought he was stuck up that tree, remember?’
A ghost of a smile crossed her lips. ‘Yes. Maybe you’re right.’
‘Noel, you lead the way and make sure the path is clear, and we’ll follow you up.’ Johnny turned back to Fran, aware of Noel brushing past him and heading up the stone steps, his footwear slapping on the granite. Crouching, Johnny was relieved to see Fran’s gaze had a more focused look to it.
‘I might be able to get up,’ she said, pushing herself around and onto her knees.
Using the wall for support, Fran scrambled part-way up, then crumpled again when she tried to take her weight on both feet.
‘Ow, ow, no. Sorry. My ankle.’
‘I’m carrying you, and that’s an end to the conversation,’ Johnny said. ‘Put your arm around my neck.’
With her weight distributed between his arms and taking each step up out of the cellar carefully, they began their ascent. Once out of the cellar, Johnny threaded his way back through the dining room and into the main foyer. Shouldering open the main door, he was relieved to see Noel up ahead of him. Madame Beaufoy and the rest of the search party began to appear, the word that Fran had been found spreading more quickly than the fire.
Through the hazy gloom of smoke, something else became visible, and audible. Flashing lights and sirens greeted them as they headed down the hotel’s front steps.
‘Les pompiers,’ Fran said, on a sigh. ‘Thank God.’
Johnny grinned, the smile staying put as Fran sank her head against his shoulder and folded herself against him.
Penny continued shouting for Fran, even though the words were cut short by a coughing fit. The smoke was getting thicker the further through the building she ran, and as she turned a full circle, Penny realised she was on her own, that she’d left everyone else behind.
Madame Beaufoy had been insistent that they all stay with at least one other person, but she didn’t understand. Fran was lost in this building, and there was smoke getting in everywhere. As she checked another room, Penny rubbed at her face. Her cheeks were wet with tears, and she wasn’t sure if they were because of the smoke or the fact that Fran might die in this place and Penny would never get to see her again. Never get to find out why she’d pretended to be someone she wasn’t, never find out the rest of her story – and Penny realised she wanted that. She didn’t want to lose Fran. Didn’t want the last words they’d spoken to have been negative.
As smoke swirled around her, and Penny ploughed on, she made another decision. If she made it out of this building – and she wasn’t prepared to entertain any other option – she was determined to make things right with Harry, too.
He had to make his own decisions, he had to choose what was best for him, and even though it would cut out a part of her heart if that decision was to go back to Sophie, then Penny would do her best to be happy for him. Would do her best to remain his friend and remember how much fun they’d had. Be happy with that.
If she’d had enough breath, Penny would have laughed at her own resolution. There was no point pretending she’d ever be happy with less than all of Harry, but right now she needed to concentrate on finding Fran, worry about the rest of it once they were all safe.
‘Penny, can you hear me? Where are you?’
Penny heard the muffled shouting. It sounded like Harry, but she couldn’t see him.
‘Harry? Is that you?’
With no reply, and no firm idea of what she’d heard, Penny pushed on into another of the conference rooms. At the far end of the room, she checked behind the glossy mahogany table and the matching set of upholstered chairs. Nothing.
‘Penny. Thank God.’
This time there was no mistaking his voice, and Penny swung around to see Harry, face muffled by a piece of fabric, but his gaze fixed on her as he crossed the room. Reaching her, he raised a hand, gently wiping his thumb across the smoke-streaked grime on her face. His touch made Penny burst into tears.
‘Have you found her?’
He was nodding, holding out the spare face covering for her, all at the same time, but she waved away the piece of cloth.
‘Are you sure she’s OK?’
‘She’s safe.’
Penny wasn’t listening. ‘I was so off with her; I flew off the handle – like I always do … I wanted to punish her for deceiving me, for deceiving all of us, but I wish I hadn’t. Because none of that stuff matters, does it? Not when you think someone might be in real danger. I wanted to find her; I need to apologise. Are you sure she’s all right?’
Penny shook off Harry’s hand and moved to continue searching, until Harry wrapped her tight in a hug to keep her still long enough to gain her full attention.
‘Listen to me, Penny. Fran is safe. Everyone is safe and out of the building. Everyone except you, that is.’
Penny frowned. ‘You came to find me?’
‘Yes. You went off like a bullet, as per, and contrary to what you may think, it is incredibly important to me to keep you safe. I think I just realised how much you actually do mean to me, Penny Scott.’
‘How much I mean to you?’ Penny repeated the words, as though trying to make sense of them.
‘Yes. Now, let’s get out of here.’
Penny wanted to stay put, wanted to ask him exactly what he meant, but Harry was shoving the wet cloth into her hand, gesturing for her to hold it over her nose and mouth as he led her from the chateau.
Fran wasn’t sure how long she spent cradled in Johnny’s arms, but after a while she asked him to set her down, let her try out her ankle. After thinking it must be broken, the sharp piercing pain was giving way to more of a throbbing ache and it began to meld in with all the other aches and pains. Her whole body felt like it had been pummelled. She supposed it had – falling down a flight of stone stairs had a way of doing that to a person.
Now she knew she was out of danger, and so were all the people who had gone back into the chateau to look for her, the concern she still carried for Red resurfaced.
‘What am I going to do?’ she said.
‘You’re not doing anything right now. We’re waiting for an ambulance, Fran. You need to get that bump on your head checked out.’
Johnny had misinterpreted her question. If she’d felt less bruised, Fran might have made a joke at his expense. If she’d felt less worried, maybe she could have come up with a funny quip, something to raise all their spirits.
‘No, I mean about Red. How am I ever going to find him after all this?’
Johnny sighed, his expression clouding to match the smudges of ash and dirt she longed to wipe from his brow. ‘I don’t know. I’m so sorry we didn’t find any sign of him. But maybe that’s a good thing.’
‘You think he’s dead, don’t you?’ It was impossible not to notice the way he tried, and failed, to keep his reaction under control.
‘I think it’s a possibility,’ he said, his words measured and careful. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Tears prickled. She edged her way across to the bridge’s balustrade, trying to take strength from the stone as she leant against it, sucking in a deep breath as his words sank in. Red was gone. And even if, by some miracle, he managed to escape the fires, there would be no way to find him. He would have run far, far away.
Fran bit at her lip, trying to tell herself he was just a cat, a creature she’d known for less than a week. How was it possible that such a tiny creature had managed to find his way so very decisively into the centre of her heart? How was she going to make sense of life without him?
What she would give to see him again, to run fingers through the softness of his fur, to feel his impatient headbutt, the angular bones of his skull against her shin. It was irrational, her connection to Red, but that went no way towards dampening down her visceral reaction, the sudden and overwhelming need to weep, regardless of where she was or who might witness it. It was a moment in time when reality became suspended, and Fran closed her eyes, trying to fix an image of Red in her mind, desperate to photograph it, to store it forever in her memory, alongside the remembering she still clutched of her mother, her smile, her walk, her scent.
The tears came, then. Not just pricking, but cascading. Running freely down her face as she realised she’d never again stroke Red’s fur, her fingers feeling across the sharp crown of his head, along the soft downy ginger of his flank, the majestic brush of his tail.
‘My beautiful Red.’ Her words weren’t audible, they were contained in a noise, an exhalation of grief.
Fran didn’t think it possible to cry any harder than she already had been, but the loss of Red unlaced something so deeply embedded in Fran that she felt as though she were breaking in half.