Fire Damage: A gripping thriller that will keep you hooked. Kate Medina

haunches.

      ‘Why don’t you get out some animals, Sami?’

      He nodded, aped in a monotone, ‘Sami get animals.’

      Both hands gripping the shaft of the torch, he hoisted it over the edge of the bucket, spotlighting each animal in turn.

      ‘Here is a sheep.’

      Balancing the torch on the edge of the bucket with one hand, he reached in with the other and picked out the sheep. Placing the sheep in one of the fields on the play-mat, he reached back into the bucket.

      ‘Here is another sheep.’

      He stood it next to the first.

      ‘Here is a cow.’

      He repeated the process, his torch beam picking out a brown cow, a group of chickens, a dapple-grey carthorse, two pink pigs. Each animal was arranged carefully on the play-mat, the chickens in the cobbled farmyard by the farmhouse, the pigs in the sty, the cow and the horse in different fields. He seemed to be enjoying the game. For the first time since Jessie had met him, she heard animation in his voice, saw a flicker of light in his eyes.

      ‘You like the farm animals?’ Jessie asked.

      Sami met her gaze and smiled a tiny, tight smile – the first hint of a smile that she had seen.

      ‘Sami like animals,’ he murmured. He looked back to the play-mat. ‘All the animals are in the farm. The sheeps, the cow, the chickens, the horse, the pigs, are all in the farm.’

      Jessie glanced into the bucket; there was a dark shape at the bottom.

      ‘Hold on,’ she said. ‘Here, look, you’ve missed one.’

      At the bottom of the bucket was a donkey. A black plastic donkey. Reaching in, she retrieved it, held the donkey out to Sami.

      He cringed away, his face a mask of terror. Only his shoulders moved, their rise and fall exaggerated, as though he was struggling to catch his breath.

      ‘The donkey is dead,’ he whispered, through pale lips.

      He stared at the donkey, unblinking. Shadows ringed his eyes, dark smudges in the pallor of his face.

      ‘The donkey is fine,’ Jessie said, her voice deliberately higher in pitch, jolly. She placed the donkey on the play-mat, in the same field as the carthorse. ‘Look he’s fine. He’s in the field with the carthorse.’ She turned the donkey ninety degrees so that it and the carthorse were nose to nose. ‘They’re having a chat. What do you think they’re talking about, Sami?’

      He had started to tremble, his breath coming in quick, shallow bursts.

      ‘The donkey is burnt.’ Reaching out, he pushed the donkey on to its side with the tip of one finger. ‘The donkey is dead.’

      ‘No, Sami. The donkey is made from black plastic. It’s just a black plastic donkey.’

      Sami shook his head. He rocked backwards and forwards on his haunches.

      ‘The donkey is burnt. The donkey is dead.’ He started searching frantically around him, eyes wide with fear. ‘Where is the blanket?’

      Jessie wanted to touch him, to reach out and wrap her arms around him, keep him safe. But she couldn’t. Wasn’t allowed to. Modern political correctness made cuddling children – even distressed ones – forbidden. She had already taken a risk shutting the door.

      ‘Blanket? Why do you need a blanket, Sami?’

      Ignoring the question, he delved into the dolls’ container, tossing dolls and pieces of equipment out on the carpet behind him.

      ‘Where is the blanket, where is the blanket, where is the blanket?’ he chanted in a singsong voice, almost under his breath. He found a pink doll’s blanket, a silky rabbit embroidered in one corner.

      ‘The girl knows.’

      ‘What does the girl know?’ Jessie asked softly.

      ‘Here is the blanket,’ Sami muttered.

      Shuffling back across the carpet on his knees, he reached the play-mat. He laid the doll’s blanket over the donkey. Carefully, he tucked the blanket under the donkey, flipping it over so that the animal didn’t touch his skin, rolling the donkey up. He laid the roll of blanket containing the donkey on the carpet next to Jessie. Picking up the Maglite, he shone it on the roll.

      ‘The donkey is burnt. The donkey is dead.’

      ‘You think the donkey has been burnt? And the donkey is now dead?’

      The little boy’s face looked suddenly old, lined with fear and sadness. ‘The donkey is dead.’

      ‘So you’ve covered it with the blanket?’

      ‘The torch can see. The donkey is burnt. The donkey is dead.’ Tears welled up in his eyes and a barely audible croak came from somewhere at the back of his throat. ‘The Shadowman came. The girl knows.’

       8

      Jessie found a parking space at the far end of Aldershot high street, shoved a couple of pounds in the machine and tacked the ticket to her windscreen. For a Tuesday afternoon, the high street was unexpectedly busy: shoppers, trussed up in padded coats, scarves and hats, gloved hands clutching bulging plastic bags, scurrying along, heads down against the chill wind cutting between the buildings.

      She popped into Pret A Manger to grab a sandwich, ate it, sitting at a stool in the window, chewing but not tasting the malted granary bread, tuna and rocket – fuel rather than enjoyment. Back on the high street, she scanned the shops on either side of her, caught sight of the green triangular Early Learning Centre sign a hundred yards to her left.

      There had been something about the animals in that farm that had resonated with Sami, both good and bad. In the two sessions she’d had with him, he hadn’t smiled once. The animals had achieved the hint of a smile at least, if only a fleeting one. They had also delivered the opposite: abject terror. From today’s observations, she believed that they might provide her with a way to access his mind; a door, ajar a fraction now, that she could perhaps push open. Particularly if she could recreate the farm, the timing and sequence in which he received the animals in the more controlled environment of her office at Bradley Court.

      The Early Learning Centre was empty: the rush to stock up on large multicoloured plastic objects for kiddies’ Christmas presents had clearly not yet begun. A blonde sales girl, early twenties, was standing behind the counter, texting on her iPhone.

      She glanced up and smiled. ‘Let me know if I can help you.’

      Jessie returned the smile. ‘Thank you.’

      The shelves bore a bewildering array of toys in all shapes, sizes and colours: dressing-up and pretend play, dolls and doll houses, vehicles and construction, art, music and creative play, a whole range of beach toys, incongruous given the single-digit temperatures outside and the chill rain that had begun hammering the shop’s plate-glass window.

      ‘The baby toys are on special, if you’re interested.’ The shop assistant had finished her text.

      ‘Oh, no, thank you. Actually, I’m looking for a farm.’

      ‘Action figures and play-sets … at the back,’ she continued, when Jessie couldn’t catch sight of the sign. ‘Follow me.’

      At the back of the store were boxes of every conceivable kind of play-set: dinosaurs, pony club, police, army – tiny green plastic warriors in jungle camouflage – schools, hospitals and farms.

      ‘This farm is wonderful.’ The sales girl held up a large vinyl box. ‘The actual box unzips down the sides … look … and flattens out to become the play-mat.’ She rotated it so that Jessie could see. ‘It’s got a