43
Lottie clambers into the back of the ambulance and abstractly marvels at how they manage to fit so much equipment inside such a small vehicle; it is like a mini hospital on wheels.
Perhaps, just maybe, that means they have been able to help the two victims of the fire, have been able to save their lives.
Give them a chance anyway. She swallows at the thought, bile rising in her throat.
She sits down dutifully, as instructed, while Tim takes hold of Josh. The paramedics have already checked him over and he is fine, just a little cold and in need of sustenance and rest, like them all.
‘Those feet look nasty,’ says the grey-haired man, whose name is apparently Jim.
He has kindly eyes, which are creased around the edges.
His tan only seems to reach to the areas exposed around the short sleeves of his regulation green shirt.
The V shape at his neck is a dark brown, with white whiskery hairs peeping out where the last button is done up.
She reflects on all these things, what they might mean.
Does this guy work a lot of shifts? Perhaps he doesn’t get to enjoy the beach, the water, all the joys of the coastline in summer like others.
‘Let’s have a look at them,’ he adds gently.
He opens a packet of sterile wipes and begins to clean her feet, swabbing them carefully.
Lottie is aware of the sting and bite of antiseptic.
She hadn’t noticed that she had stood on a piece of burning debris, traversed scorched earth.
Had literally walked over hot coals to save her son.
But it is all coming back to her now. It is the first time she has ever been in such close proximity to something like this.
No one understands the capacity of it until they witness it with their own eyes.
She still can’t believe how fast the fire must have spread, how it ate through the renovation like a ravenous beast, even an empty shell of a place like a building site, without any soft furnishings or belongings.
How is that possible? She shakes her head in horror.
But it is true what they say, she admits; fire is a good servant but a very bad master.
A pair of clean, warm, fluffy socks has been produced for Lottie from somewhere.
She eases them over her freshly bandaged feet and draws the foil blanket around her shoulders like some strange silvery cape.
The last time she had used one of these was a lifetime ago, in her early twenties.
She had just finished running the London Marathon.
Her feet were in tatters then as well, as she had staggered over the finish line and promptly burst into inexplicable tears.
She had been running to raise money for charity, of course.
But she can’t remember which one now. She has done so many sponsored walks, climbs, runs, challenges.
She has adopted so many causes, taken on so many of other people’s issues for so long now, she is unsure what it is she does and doesn’t stand for anymore.
The rights and the wrongs of everything have become blurred, indistinct, muddied into a grey area in her mind.
On the one hand, there is a part of her – the secret, sadistic side she’s not proud of – that feels a sense of elation that the renovation has been thwarted.
That this might send a message to locals and visitors, the wider population, that people are not happy with the status quo and something has to change.
That change will only come about through disruption, which often takes many forms; vandalism, destruction, whether accidental or on purpose.
You only have to look at the suffragette movement or the Just Stop Oil campaigners.
They are not so very different in some ways; vilified in their own time but will future generations thank them?
Are some things just too important not to fight for?
But on the other hand, there is a sickening feeling of horror she recognises.
The fact that there is always a consequence to someone’s actions, no matter how well-meant or noble.
Factors that can never be predicted or controlled.
Collateral damage. Like a woman trampled by a horse.
An ambulance delayed on a closed motorway.
Two victims of a fire. An old lady named Muriel Hadlow.
She is brought back to the moment by the crackle and rasp of a radio to which the female paramedic responds. Her face is stern as she listens intently.
‘Copy that, on our way,’ she says. ‘We need to go,’ she calls to her colleague, moving around the side of the ambulance and climbing into the driver’s seat.
Josh’s eyes follow the woman greedily. Thankfully, now that things are calming down and he has been given a drink and a snack, her son seems to be enjoying the novelty and adventure of all this. Jim gives them all one last smile.
‘I’ll hand you over to the family liaison officer,’ he says, nodding towards one of the police officers.
‘Look after those feet,’ he adds before scrambling towards the other side of the ambulance.
The engine starts and after a moment’s delay, flashing lights are streaming along the vehicle, adding their own colours to the broadening sunrise.
Josh gives a small gasp and they all stand back and watch as the ambulance disappears away in the direction of the coast road.
‘Mr and Mrs Jenkins?’ comes a voice further along the pavement. ‘Please can we have a word down at the station? We just need to get some information from you. Take a statement, if that’s okay?’
Lottie swallows and catches Tim’s eye as he takes her hand in his and they move towards the uniformed duo.
‘We going in police car, Mama?’ lisps Josh expectantly, his small mouth hanging open.
‘Yes, sweet pea. I think we might be going for a ride,’ she says, trying to keep her voice steady and light. ‘I’m a bit nervous,’ she adds, her words wavering with the strain of the evening’s events. ‘Will you look after me?’
Josh nods solemnly and takes her other hand, leading her towards the patrol car.