We are thrilled to share an exclusive extract from the electric debut novel from Roxie Key, The Deadly Spark.
Prologue
I stop as close to the cliff’s edge as I dare. I allow myself a few deep breaths before grabbing the phone from my pocket. Hot tears prick at my eyes, threatening to trickle down my face, but I can’t lose my nerve. Limbs trembling and palms clammy, I inhale the cool summer evening air as I take in the view. The grass illuminated by the sunrise, blades ruffling with every breath of wind. The sea glittering for miles, the horizon unbroken. The thundering noise of the waves crashing over the rocks below sounds closer than it actually is . . . almost three hundred feet to the bottom.
Such a long drop.
The sensation of the phone vibrating in my hand makes me start. Without looking at the glowing screen, I hurl it into the ocean with as much force as I can muster, watching it sail through the air before being swallowed by the dark depths below. A spike of adrenaline burns through my body as I envisage myself stepping over, imagining the sensation of my body slicing through the cold air, plummeting into the darkness of nothing. I take a step closer. Just a few metres away now. Any minute.
The sound of a dog barking in the distance makes me jump, and I turn on the spot, squinting in the weak light. Then, I see him. And he sees me. I don’t have much time. I turn back to face the edge of the cliff, break into a run up the grassy slope.
And leap.
Chapter 1
Eve – Now
The Fitbit on my wrist performs a celebratory buzz as I hit my daily step count target. It’s not even 6 a.m., I think to myself smugly, slowing to a fast walk so I can chuck some water down my throat. I live for this time of year. The sun rises before five and I’m usually out the door shortly after, trainers on, the coastal wind whipping my face as my feet pummel the pavement that leads to the beach.
‘Take that, Bells,’ I say out loud as my avatar slides into first place. DC Bella Cortez and I have been competing for as long as we’ve known each other. On my first day in the CID as a detective constable five years ago, she’d added me to the team’s step count competition. Within a couple of weeks, everyone else had dropped out, but Bella and I never stopped taunting each other. We soon progressed to lunch dates, post-shift drinks, and wild ideas of running the Brighton Marathon together to raise money for the Sussex Police Charitable Trust. It hasn’t happened yet, but our friendship has grown stronger and stronger.
I pause to lean against the rusting promenade railings, pastel turquoise paint tarnished beneath my fingers, and watch the sea lapping against the pebbled shore. It’s my morning ritual, enjoying the peace before the usual onslaught of selfie-snapping tourists and ever-ravenous seagulls. Just me, and anyone else mad enough to be up at this time.
My phone vibrates in my arm strap, shattering the peace of the summer morning. I slide it out of its pocket and see a text from Bella. Smirking, I prepare myself for a ribbing about overtaking her again, but I flinch when I see her message.
You heard about the fire?
If there’s been another arson attack, this would make it the fourth in the area this year. Our team isn’t the one investigating the serial arsonist who keeps breaking into people’s homes and destroying their lives, but we haven’t missed it on the news. As Brighton residents, we’re all too aware of the destruction fire can cause. I can’t help but let my gaze drift to the sorry remains of the West Pier, burnt to a smoking carcass in 2003. I remember standing on the pebble beach with my jaw hanging open, gripping my mum’s hand as we watched it go up in flames.
But another memory, far more recent, is the one that sends a shiver snaking down my spine, and I send a silent prayer of thanks that I, Detective Constable Eve Starling, am not on this case.
Stale air pumps into the incident room, the sound of the ancient air-conditioning unit buzzing in my ears. DCI Gillian Harbrook rushes through the door in an emerald-green suit tailored to her tall, athletic frame, clutching files to her chest in one hand, a coffee in the other, and her phone wedged between her ear and shoulder. Not for the first time, I wonder if I should make more of an effort with my appearance. Gillian burns bright in outlandish colours I’ve got zero hope of pulling off. I smooth out my plain white tee, worn with my usual dark blue jeans and a black leather jacket slung over the top, my feet shoved into Converse trainers. A black mane spirals from my head, refusing to be tamed.
Judging by her tone, the conversation isn’t going well, and I feel grateful not to be on the receiving end. She has the unique ability to be utterly terrifying and likeable in equal measures, a combination I find both puzzling and fascinating. She knows how to switch her warm, Geordie accent into something far frostier. I live in fear of disappointing her.
Gillian ends the call abruptly and sets everything down on the table. ‘Absolute arsehole,’ she mutters, reaching for the remote control for the projector screen. She turns to me, honey-coloured hair falling in a neat crop around her tanned face, which she arranges into a calm smile. ‘Eve. You’re early.’
I pull out a chair. ‘Just needed five minutes. The others are on their way.’
‘Everything okay?’ Her expression tells me it’s a loaded question. I know she’s remembered the anniversary is tomorrow.
‘Probably best I’m keeping busy.’ I offer up a half-smile.
‘Good.’ She approaches me and rests a hand on my shoulder. ‘If you need anything, you know where I am, pet.’
I smile, but I feel awkward, wanting to project a strong, capable image. ‘I’ll be fine.’
She considers me for a moment. ‘I know you will.’ Her hand drops. ‘How’s the new recruit getting on?’
‘Tiana?’ I search my brain, having barely paid any attention to DC Tiana Banks, a slight, dark-skinned woman who wears her afro hair tied back from her pixie-like face. ‘Er, fine. I think. I haven’t had much of a chance to talk to her yet.’ The reality is I’m harbouring bitter feelings towards her for swanning into the CID on a fast-track scheme, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, a detective at the age of . . . well, I haven’t thought to ask.
I know how petty it sounds, but I’ve done my time in uniform, years on the beat, exam after exam, earned my detective constable status. I took my sergeants’ exam months ago, hungry for the next stage, refreshing the internal jobs board so often you’d think I was trying to get hold of Taylor Swift tickets. Desperate to prove I got my dream job on my own merit, and not through my connections. In Tiana’s first week, I asked her to sift through some phone records, and she missed a crucial piece of information I later discovered when double-checking her work. I don’t think I’d have got away with that.
Gillian reads my mind. ‘Give her a break.’ Her voice softens. ‘She’s young. And she’s got potential, just like you did when you started.’
My cheeks flame, and I think back to when she hired me. She’s the younger sister of my old next-door neighbour, Charlie. But Charlie was more than just a neighbour to me. Still is, actually. More like an uncle, making Gillian like an aunt. Maybe even a big sister. I’d grown up calling her Gilly, looking up to her in the way that teenagers often do with young adults who seem to have everything together.
After my life fell to pieces, Gilly and Charlie were the only ones who looked out for me. I clung to them because there was no one else. When I graduated with first-class honours in Criminology, she was the one who encouraged me to apply to be a police officer and work my way up through the ranks, just like she had. I’ve always been unashamedly in awe of her, and secretly pleased that I have a stronger bond with her than anyone else in the team does. When she was promoted to detective chief inspector, calling her ma’am took a lot of getting used to.
‘Yes, ma’am. Sorry.’
‘Don’t apologise, just do me a favour,’ she says. ‘I was going to ask you this later, but seeing as you’re here . . . she needs a coach. She’s great at problem solving but I want her to work on her people skills, and her eye for detail. That’s where you come in.’
My eyebrows rise in surprise. ‘You want me to mentor Tiana?’ It’s not what I expected, but the truth is, I’d dance off a cliff with a smile on my face if Gillian asked me to.
‘Exactly. You possess the skills she needs to thrive. She’s young. You can mould her. A mini-Eve, if you will.’
I grimace. ‘No one wants that, ma’am.’
Gillian laughs. ‘Just don’t pass on your hot-headedness and we’ll all be fine.’
I’m still processing Gillian’s request when a commotion in the corridor signals the arrival of the others. DS Jason Hooper strides into the room like he owns it, followed by Tiana, eager to get a good seat at the table. Bella breezes in, always the coolest person in the room, the rest of the team trailing in her wake. The sound of chairs scraping is followed by the usual hushed silence that Gillian’s presence solicits.
She stands beside the projector screen, her arms folded and her expression serious. I love seeing her in action. ‘In the early hours of Monday morning, a fire was set at 11 Buchanan Drive, deliberately. The fire service was called in at 3.22 a.m. You’ll have seen it on the local news, no doubt. Or bloody Facebook.’
I dig my nails into my thighs as she continues. Why the hell has this case landed in our laps?
‘What is this now, the fourth fire like this in the area?’ Jason’s gaze is intense.
‘Yes. Except this one’s different. There were fatalities.’ She presses a button and two photographs flash up on the screen. ‘The 999 call came in from a neighbour, but it was too late. Lisette Dupont and her daughter Sylvie died. Sylvie,’ she says, tapping the photo of the smiling child with eyes like chocolate buttons, ‘was just five years old. I attended the post-mortems yesterday afternoon and the pathologist confirmed there was soot in their lungs, making smoke inhalation the cause of death. To give you
an idea of the state of the bodies, their identities could only be confirmed via dental records.’
A flicker of a memory seeps into the edges of my consciousness, but I bat it away. Not now.
Gillian continues. ‘The photos I’m about to show you are particularly gruesome. You may look away.’
But I don’t. As much as I struggle, I force myself to look as two more photographs appear on the screen. Two bodies, one unmistakably a child, charred to the point of being unrecognisable. Any clothes they were wearing had completely burned away, and both their postures were curled over with flexed knees and elbows and clenched fists, like a boxer defending against a blow. I lean back instinctively, nausea swirling through my body until I’m finally forced to avert my eyes, focusing on a crumb on the carpet.
‘Pugilistic stance,’ says Gillian, staring at the pictures thoughtfully. ‘Not shielding themselves from the fire as you might think. Caused by the shrinkage and stiffening of the muscles due to extreme dehydration.’
I suppress a shudder. I glance over at Tiana and notice how her facial expression is neutral, as if she’s not affected by the gruesome images on the screen in front of her. How does she do it?
Gillian clicks onto the next slide, showing a photograph of the house, cordoned off with scene tape. ‘The fire was set from inside the house, but there was no sign of forced entry. No broken windows, no smashed locks. We can assume the perpetrator was either known to the victims, or gained entry some other way. A key under a plant pot, a window left open, a back door unlocked, et cetera. There was a set of keys dropped in the hall, but these could have already been in the house. Either way, the M.O. doesn’t match the other three fires.’
‘But it could’ve been the same person,’ says Jason. ‘They might have switched up their strategy.’
‘Possibly. Not ruling it out, Jason. But it’s unlikely.’
‘Hold on. Do we know who those keys belong to?’ I ask. ‘The ones found dropped in the hall. Does someone else live there with them?’
Gillian clicks and brings up a photo of a set of keys attached to an assortment of key rings: a tiny dream catcher I recognise from one of the seafront market stalls, and a metal heart bearing the slogan ‘World’s Best Stepmum’ in purple enamel. ‘These were the keys found in the hall. We know Lisette has a partner called Anya Fernsby, who is obviously a suspect, given the nature of the fire and the presence of the keyring.’
I jot down the name.
‘There’s no chance it could’ve been accidental?’ asks Bella.
‘Absolutely not,’ Gillian replies. ‘Too many suspicious factors. This is officially a murder inquiry.’
‘Where was the seat of the fire?’ Jason asks, pen poised to write his careful notes, neat as an English teacher’s on the first day of term.
‘The fire investigation officer confirmed it was a wicker washing basket, placed just outside Lisette’s bedroom door on the second-floor landing and set alight,’ says Gillian. ‘The damage is mostly confined to the second-floor landing and stairwell. The basket and its contents are in the lab, but the crime scene manager’s report states there was an accelerant splashed inside the basket, along the landing and down the stairs. It’s some form of hydrocarbon: petrol, white spirit, something like that. They’ll confirm what type ASAP.’
I force myself out of my frozen state, knowing I need to engage. ‘Was there anything outside Sylvie’s room?’
‘No. Just the one fire, directly outside Lisette’s bedroom door.’
I frown, my detective brain kicking into gear, overshadowing the side of my brain that wants to run and hide. ‘The deliberate positioning of the fire makes it sound like Lisette was a clear target. What about Sylvie? Do we think it’s possible that the perpetrator didn’t know there was a child in the house?’ Or didn’t care, I think to myself.
Gillian clicks her manicured fingers at me. ‘Good thinking.’
‘Any chance of DNA?’ I ask, hoping there would be a scrap of something to lead us to the killer. A single hair, a spot of blood or a speck of saliva. Sometimes that’s all it takes.
Gillian purses her lips. ‘The CSIs didn’t recover much. The fire saw to that. But here’s hoping.’
‘What about the smoke alarm?’ asks Bella.
‘Batteries vanished.’
Bella sits back in her chair, deep in thought. I wonder what she’s piecing together with her brilliant brain.
‘Why didn’t she just jump out the window?’ asks Tiana.
‘Because her five-year-old daughter was trapped in the room next door,’ I snap, my face growing hot as a memory tugs at my sleeve. ‘Would you jump?’
Tiana bites her lip but doesn’t retaliate, and I feel Bella’s hand squeezing my knee as a gentle warning. Calm down.
Gillian chooses to ignore my outburst. ‘Yes, it’s likely she wouldn’t have attempted to escape without her daughter. Okay.’ She clears her throat, moving on. ‘Evidence. The CSIs found something of interest at the scene.’ She gestures towards another image on the case board. ‘An empty bottle of white spirit recovered from a nearby shrub. The lab’s checking to see if the fluid in the bottle matches the chemical splashed over the washing basket. Plus, we have the keys found on the carpet.’ Gillian fixes her impenetrable gaze back to us. ‘Tiana, you’ll be exhibits officer on this one. Eve, can you rally the troops and get house-to-house inquiries sorted, pronto? Jason and . . .’ She pauses, and her eyes land on Bella. ‘Jason and Bella. The CSIs are finished up now. We’ve got confirmation that the house is safe to enter. I want you two to go and check it out today and tell me what you both think. See if you spot anything else.’
‘Sorry, ma’am.’ Bella sits up straighter in her seat, face flushed. ‘I’ve got an interview with a witness from the Stacey Jericho case in an hour. Can we go first thing tomorrow?’
‘Ideally needs to be today,’ says Gillian. ‘The fire investigation officer will be there at one.’ Her eyes slide to me with uncertainty.
My stomach lurches, but I can’t let my past hinder my career. ‘I can go,’ I say with more confidence than I feel. Gillian’s eyes linger on me, a flicker of understanding passing between us. She nods and stands up straighter, her eyes sweeping the room. ‘Excellent. We need to get this fucker. Do not let me down. And, guys? Tread carefully. You know as well as I do that when a child is killed, the local community watches us very closely indeed.’
That’s something I’m all too aware of.
Chapter 2
Eve – Now
I can still smell the reek of smoke on the coastal breeze as I pull up behind a parked patrol car just outside the three-storey terraced townhouse. Either that, or I’m imagining it. I spot Jason climbing out of his car on the other side of the narrow road, lined with the type of vehicles that signify that whilst this is one of the more affluent parts of town, it’s by no means a wealthy area. Despite the shimmering afternoon heat, his tall, sturdy frame is enveloped in his trademark grey jacket, and he plunges his hands in his pockets as he strolls over to me.
‘Hey.’ He reaches out and gives my shoulder a quick squeeze. ‘You okay?’ His deep voice is gruff and gravelly.
I press my lips together as a small group of teenagers wander past the house with curious looks on their faces at the crime scene tape, the blackened windows. ‘Just about.’ One of the teenagers raises a phone to take a picture and I hold up a hand, shooting her a look that makes her lower the phone immediately.
He surveys me as if worried I’m going to break down. ‘Remember what I said about—’
‘I know,’ I say, not wanting another conversation about counselling. It’s not happening. ‘I’ll be fine.’
But my stomach jolts as I turn my attention to the house, painted duck-egg blue, faded with time, with white-framed bay windows adorning the front, paint flaking at the edges. The windows on the top floor are blackened. The outer cordon has been removed now, the CSIs confident they’ve collected all the evidence, but the inner cordon still remains. A young police officer stands just outside it, his face anxious, eyes wide and darting. A rabbit in the headlights. I don’t recognise him, but from his nervy demeanour I’d put money on him being new to the force. I remember that panicky feeling all too well.
‘DS Hooper.’ Jason gestures at me with one hand. ‘DC Starling.’
After he logs us into the crime scene, we pull on white forensic suits over our clothes and stretch on protective gloves, masks and overshoes before stooping underneath the blue-and-white scene tape that separates horror from normality; a threshold into hell. POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS. Five short words that say so much. An acrid, smoky stench fills my nostrils, making my eyes water, and buried memories resurface, circling above me like a vulture.
Waiting.
‘Afternoon, detectives.’ A stocky man with salt-and-pepper hair greets us in the hallway. ‘Martin Grove, fire investigation officer.’ He reaches out a thickset hand to shake each of ours in turn, and we introduce ourselves.
‘We okay to take a look around?’ I ask.
Martin nods. ‘I’ve got half an hour. Ask me any questions you need.’
I note the lack of destruction as I glance around the ground-floor hall, but there’s noticeable smoke damage on the first-floor landing. By the time we reach the second floor, we’re surrounded by charred carpets and wallpaper curling away from the walls. I can see from the concentration of charring where the blazing washing basket had been strategically placed.
‘So we know the fire started here.’ I point at the carpet outside Lisette’s room. ‘Do you know how the fire spread throughout the rest of the house? And how fast?’
‘Pretty fast. We believe the arsonist splashed more of the accelerant across the landing and down the first set of stairs, judging by the burn patterns.’ Martin gestures at certain areas of the carpet where the charring is more concentrated.
‘Right,’ I say. ‘So it’s likely that the fire started in the washing basket, and then ignited the accelerant on the landing?’
‘That’s a working theory,’ Martin replies, ‘but I’ll know more when the tests have been confirmed.’
A thought strikes me. ‘Is it likely that the perpetrator would have traces of the accelerant on their clothes?’
‘It’s possible. It would depend upon how they did it, how fast, and their state of mind.’
We’re silent for a few seconds as we take in the state of the place. My eyes drift to Sylvie’s bedroom door and I try to ignore the growing pressure on my chest. ‘And how did Sylvie’s room get so damaged so quickly?’
Martin strides over to the charred remains of Sylvie’s bedroom door. ‘These older houses don’t tend to have fire doors. Current building regulations state that all new builds with three or more storeys require FD30 type doors – fire safe for thirty minutes. If these had been installed, it may have been a very different outcome.’
I’m usually numb to death and suffering. After five years on the job, I’ve seen my fair share of the worst of humanity. But when I find myself standing in the doorway to Sylvie’s bedroom, with its collapsed bookcase now devoid of books, and the remnants of unrecognisable objects that I assume are toys scattered across the blackened carpet, a fissure appears in my carefully constructed shell. I gaze upwards, remembering the plastic glow-in-the-dark stars I used to have on my ceiling as a child, and wondering if Sylvie had lain in bed last night, gazing up at a ghostly green constellation before she fell asleep for the last time.
I’m overwhelmed by the sudden urge to get out of the house. ‘I’m done,’ I tell Jason, my voice muffled through the disposable mask, and he gives me a knowing nod before I make my way downstairs. As I walk over the stepping plates to the front door, my eyes lock onto a photo of Lisette and Sylvie smiling into the camera, in a frame decorated with painted pasta shapes. Two pairs of deep brown eyes, the same crinkle at the corners, stare out of the photo at me as if imploring me to bring them justice, and I can almost imagine the little girl trapped in her room, not knowing what to do. I hope, more than anything, that she slept through and had no idea what was happening. Without warning, a series of images unfold in my head with vivid clarity, one after the other.
Flames.
Smoke.
Hospital.
Casket.
I shake my head violently and the memories dissipate, retreating to the corners of my mind.
After removing and bagging our protective gear, we cross the path to Jason’s car. I stop and turn back, taking in the scene in sombre silence.
Jason leans against his car and follows my gaze towards the house, the afternoon sun soaking everything in a golden glow, making it more beautiful than it should ever be. He pulls a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. Is he serious? I glare at him. ‘Don’t you think that’s a bit insensitive? Sarge,’ I add, as I remember his rank.
‘Ah.’ He glances at me apologetically before sliding them back into his pocket. After a moment he speaks again. ‘Initial thoughts?’
‘Someone wanted Lisette dead and was ruthless enough to not give a shit about killing her daughter. We need to find the bastard who did this.’ I grit my teeth. It’s clear someone had planned to murder this woman; we’ve already got enough evidence for that. Finding out who is a different matter.
‘Eve.’ His voice carries a subtle warning note and he looks at me sharply. ‘Keep your anger in check.’
I take a deep breath and nod. ‘Sorry, Sarge.’ He shoots me a smile. Jason knows me inside out and I appreciate his advice. And if I’m going to find out what happened here, he’s right: I need to keep control of my anger.
I’m exhausted when I traipse through the door to my flat. Probably more emotionally than physically, but I can’t summon the will to even go for a walk, let alone another run like I normally would. Seeing that house, that fire damage . . . The stench of smoke clings to the insides of my nostrils and I know I won’t be able to relax until I can get rid of it.
Millie appears and snakes her warm feline body around my legs, leaving a layer of tortoiseshell fur attached to my jeans.
‘Hey, girl.’ I reach down and stroke her soft head. She purrs and presses her face into my hand, lapping up the attention. I bend down to fuss her a bit more, but she darts across the flat in the direction of the kitchen, pausing at the door and looking back at me expectantly with her tail curled at the tip like a question mark.
‘It’s just cupboard love with you, isn’t it?’ I sigh, following her into the kitchen to sort out her dinner. She’s an ideal pet.
I’d actually wanted a dog to go running with, but changed my mind after looking after Dave, Jason’s dog. They’re really needy and I’d never have the time to give enough affection to one, not with my job taking up everything I have. Plus, having a cat is a bit like having a link to my past. I remember Ajax with fondness; I never saw him again after that night.
Once Millie is fed, I run the hottest shower I can stand. I scrub my skin until it’s raw and wash my hair three times to get rid of the stench of smoke that has settled over me like a suffocating blanket. I pull together a dinner for one, consisting of chicken flavour instant noodles with a side of stir-fried vegetables. I haven’t been eating enough green stuff lately. After inhaling my dinner whilst scrolling through a news article about the fire, complete with incorrect assumptions, I complete my usual ritual of triple-checking the gas hob’s off before collapsing onto my sofa and pulling my origami book off the sofa.
I’ve never told anyone about this hobby of folding coloured paper into weird and wonderful designs. Well, except for Charlie. He knows why I do it. I’m embarrassed that my only social life consists of a handful of work friends . . . my family non-existent, my old friends long dropped off the radar. I wonder if they ever think about me. Just as I settle on a complex dragon design that I’m sure will take my mind off things for a couple of hours, my phone buzzes. It’s Bella.
Tony’s being a wanker. Fancy some company?
Sure! BYOB, I text back immediately, knowing I’ve got no alcohol in the kitchen: I never do. I text again: I’m picking the music this time. Her fondness of heavy metal for ambience is at odds with my preference for chilled acoustic and I’m too tired to put my ears through that so soon after last time.
Feeling bad for her, but happy to have a distraction, I heave myself off the sofa and attempt to make the flat look presentable, shoving the origami book deep under the sofa. Tony’s such an arse about Bella’s job, having a go at her whenever she’s working late on a case. He just doesn’t get it. I decided a long time ago it’s easier being single. I have to answer to no one and I can do what the hell I like.
Chapter 3
Eve – Then
I’m kneeling on the carpet, staring at Mum’s round tummy and running my hand over the smooth skin with its funny little red stripes. It’s getting so big. ‘Hello, little brother or sister,’ I whisper into her belly button.
‘You’re going to be such a good big sister.’ She smiles down at me.
‘I’m already a big sister.’
Mum laughs. ‘Ajax isn’t your brother.’
I scoop up the ginger kitten that’s playfully batting at my socks, trying to get him to sit still on my lap. ‘He is. Aren’t you, Ajax?’
Ajax ignores me, taking a flying leap off my legs, no longer interested in me or my socks. I pretend not to be disappointed.
‘Hey, do you want your favourite tonight? It is Friday . . .’
I open my eyes wide, distracted. ‘Pizza?’ She never lets me have pizza. Except on special occasions.
Mum nods. ‘I read your school report, my little smart cookie.’
I grin. ‘Can we do the cinema thing? Can we watch The Parent Trap? Please.’ I love it when we put a video on, turn off the lights and eat hot, buttery, salty popcorn from the big brown mixing bowl.
She reaches out and strokes my cheek. ‘Of course we can. Your dad’ll be home soon. Go and check if the video needs rewinding and I’ll pop the oven on.’
I watch her rock backwards and forwards to try and get out of the armchair, and wrinkle my nose. Being pregnant looks like a lot of hard work, and I decide I’m not going to ever be pregnant.
She waddles to the kitchen with her hand pressed to her back. I hope the baby comes soon. I’m a bit bored of waiting. I wiggle myself across the living room, seeing if I can get all the way to the TV without standing up. I can. I turn everything on and pick out the video. We only bought it a few weeks ago but I’ve watched it seven times. I snap open the plastic case and pick out the tape, before pushing it into the video player and watching it gobble it up like a slice of toast.
I hope Mum’s all right.
We’re snuggled up on the sofa when it happens. I finish my last slice of pizza and wipe my hands on the blanket when no one’s looking.
‘Ow.’ Mum’s hands go to her tummy and she screws up her face.
Dad’s face goes white. ‘Another contraction?’
I pause the video so no one misses anything. Mum nods. ‘They’re getting closer together.’
I don’t know what a contraction is but I don’t want it to happen to me. It looks like it hurts.
‘Is it time?’ he asks. Time for what? I look from one to the other, confused.
‘Might be.’ Mum winces and wiggles around a bit.
‘But we haven’t finished the film yet.’
Dad puts his hand under my chin. ‘Sweetie, your mum might be having the baby very soon. I need to take her to the hospital.’
My mouth opens wide. ‘Oh!’ I pause to think. I guess we can finish the film when we’re back from the hospital. Maybe the baby would like it. ‘Can I bring my book?’
‘No, darling,’ says Dad. ‘We’re going to take you over to Grandma’s.’
‘I don’t want to go to Grandma’s! She treats me like I’m six or seven when I’m actually eight. She doesn’t have anything fun to do and her food is rubbish.’
‘Sorry, Evie. But we can’t take you to the hospital with us.’ Mum’s talking to me but she looks like she’s in pain. I bite my lip. I think I need to do what they say.
I stomp up the stairs and dive under the bed to try and find my rucksack. I shove in my pyjamas, toothbrush, a dress, socks and knickers for tomorrow and my favourite book: Five on a Treasure Island. I reach for my teddy, and then stop. If I’m going to be a big sister, I need to grow up. I don’t need a teddy. I zip up the bag and go back downstairs. We rush into the car, and Mum wails in pain.
I suddenly wish I’d picked up my teddy after all.
The Deadly Spark by Roxie Key is out May 23rd.
