trailing, were making their way uphill away from the blaze. He wove a path amongst them, barely aware of how he dodged them or gently put them aside. He had one thought, one goal only.
No. He was a copper as well as a husband and a dad. He rounded the corner into Chybucca Square and saw that his duty lay everywhere, scattered about him in flaring rags. Two fire trucks were parked outside the bank, bringing that blaze under control, but the stiff sea breeze was feeding every torch that had been dropped or thrown. Gideon caught sight of a couple of uniformed constables running from one fire to the next, trying to stamp out the brands and only getting their trousers singed for their pains. “Hoi,” he yelled, pulling his ID. “Never mind that. Go into the open shops and get their fire extinguishers. The chippy over there will have a couple.”
He waited until they’d run to obey him, then he darted across the flame-lit green. Most of the troublemakers had vanished at the sound of the sirens, but a little group of them—too drunk or high for caution—were still at work, gleefully chucking torches through the broken windows of the photographer’s shop and helping themselves to the equipment on display. He waited until he was right in the middle of the shrieking, laughing mob before letting loose his law-enforcement bellow. “Police!” Before they could react, he reached in amongst the bodies and accurately collared the ringleader. He used the lad and his own bulk to corner the gang in the shop doorway. “How do you like it?” he demanded, as one pale face and then another fixed on his. “How do you like being stuck in a burning bloody building?” He shook the kid he was holding like a rat. “Wow, Saul Priddy, is that you? Didn’t I arrest you just last year for a spot of B and E in Liskeard? This has got to be parole violation of the century.”
The boy went the colour of cottage cheese. “Don’t tell! Don’t tell, or I’ll go down proper.”
“You will. Adult jail for you this time, too.” Gideon glanced across the square. His two constables were doing a lot better now, and the Penzance citizens were stepping up, passing buckets, washing-up bowls and any other container they could find in a human chain from the fountain. “I will tell, you little sod, but if you get your pack of hooligans to help those people over there, I’ll tell that too. All right?”
“All right, all right. Just let me—”
Gideon tossed him aside, forgetting him. A figure had appeared behind the shop’s glass door, half-wrapped in flames, staggering and pawing at the handle. Gideon grabbed it from the outside and discovered for himself that it was searing hot. The pain shot through him and vanished in adrenaline. “Get back!” he roared, hoping the terrified shopkeeper could hear him. He took three backward strides, braced up and rammed the door with his shoulder.
He tumbled into the shop. The burning man was still on his feet but beginning to shriek in panic. One glance around the flame-lit interior showed Gideon what he wanted: a thick baize cloth in the window, with the remains of the display merchandise still on it amidst the pieces of broken glass. He snatched the cloth free. The shopkeeper was far enough gone to try to fight off his saviour, but Gideon didn’t give him the chance: grabbed him, bundled the cloth around him and hoisted him out onto the green.
He knelt beside him, beating out the last of the flames. “You’ll be all right,” he declared when the shock-blanked stare met his. He had no idea, but he’d learned that convincing a survivor he’d make it was half the battle. “Lie still. I’ll get an ambulance for you.” By a miracle, a vacant one was pulling up by the kerb. Frantically Gideon waved, and a pair of paramedics scrambled out and came racing across the green. “Burns victim,” he said, falling back to give them room. “I don’t know how bad.” He wrapped his arms around himself. His
No. He was a copper as well as a husband and a dad. He rounded the corner into Chybucca Square and saw that his duty lay everywhere, scattered about him in flaring rags. Two fire trucks were parked outside the bank, bringing that blaze under control, but the stiff sea breeze was feeding every torch that had been dropped or thrown. Gideon caught sight of a couple of uniformed constables running from one fire to the next, trying to stamp out the brands and only getting their trousers singed for their pains. “Hoi,” he yelled, pulling his ID. “Never mind that. Go into the open shops and get their fire extinguishers. The chippy over there will have a couple.”
He waited until they’d run to obey him, then he darted across the flame-lit green. Most of the troublemakers had vanished at the sound of the sirens, but a little group of them—too drunk or high for caution—were still at work, gleefully chucking torches through the broken windows of the photographer’s shop and helping themselves to the equipment on display. He waited until he was right in the middle of the shrieking, laughing mob before letting loose his law-enforcement bellow. “Police!” Before they could react, he reached in amongst the bodies and accurately collared the ringleader. He used the lad and his own bulk to corner the gang in the shop doorway. “How do you like it?” he demanded, as one pale face and then another fixed on his. “How do you like being stuck in a burning bloody building?” He shook the kid he was holding like a rat. “Wow, Saul Priddy, is that you? Didn’t I arrest you just last year for a spot of B and E in Liskeard? This has got to be parole violation of the century.”
The boy went the colour of cottage cheese. “Don’t tell! Don’t tell, or I’ll go down proper.”
“You will. Adult jail for you this time, too.” Gideon glanced across the square. His two constables were doing a lot better now, and the Penzance citizens were stepping up, passing buckets, washing-up bowls and any other container they could find in a human chain from the fountain. “I will tell, you little sod, but if you get your pack of hooligans to help those people over there, I’ll tell that too. All right?”
“All right, all right. Just let me—”
Gideon tossed him aside, forgetting him. A figure had appeared behind the shop’s glass door, half-wrapped in flames, staggering and pawing at the handle. Gideon grabbed it from the outside and discovered for himself that it was searing hot. The pain shot through him and vanished in adrenaline. “Get back!” he roared, hoping the terrified shopkeeper could hear him. He took three backward strides, braced up and rammed the door with his shoulder.
He tumbled into the shop. The burning man was still on his feet but beginning to shriek in panic. One glance around the flame-lit interior showed Gideon what he wanted: a thick baize cloth in the window, with the remains of the display merchandise still on it amidst the pieces of broken glass. He snatched the cloth free. The shopkeeper was far enough gone to try to fight off his saviour, but Gideon didn’t give him the chance: grabbed him, bundled the cloth around him and hoisted him out onto the green.
He knelt beside him, beating out the last of the flames. “You’ll be all right,” he declared when the shock-blanked stare met his. He had no idea, but he’d learned that convincing a survivor he’d make it was half the battle. “Lie still. I’ll get an ambulance for you.” By a miracle, a vacant one was pulling up by the kerb. Frantically Gideon waved, and a pair of paramedics scrambled out and came racing across the green. “Burns victim,” he said, falling back to give them room. “I don’t know how bad.” He wrapped his arms around himself. His
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