It was his before they met, and now he was turfing her out to move in his girlfriend. How could he? This was their home, albeit in his name, but it was theirs. They’d shared and decorated it and made it their own.
Falling to her knees, she clenched her stomach, as if her insides were being pulled away from her. She gasped for air, as though her lungs wouldn’t work. Unexpectedly, she was fraught with an uncontrollable rage. Her otherwise disciplined persona was somehow switched off, as if the devil himself had taken control of her senses. Tidal waves of incensed fury pushed her to act so out of character, that she wasn’t fully aware of her actions. A sudden red mist descended and blinded her.
The sleeping tablets, the drink, and the feeling of utter betrayal pushed her to search the cupboards for something to destroy their love nest. If he wanted the house, then he could fucking have it. Yet, she was going to make dead sure he would never live in it again. She headed straight for the garage – his garage that housed every tool imaginable. There, by the garage doors, were the lawnmower and strimmer, which had stood unused because they employed a gardener, but Justin, being Justin, liked his man tools and toys.
By the side were two petrol cans, in case he ever needed to mow the lawn himself or fill up his car. In a fit of anger, she grabbed the cans and returned to the kitchen, intent on a mission. She would destroy their home – his home.
Her anger now reaching to a new level, she could only imagine Justin and some bimbo enjoying a house that she and Justin had painstakingly decorated and furnished. She splashed the petrol up the walls, over the sofas, up the stairs, and on the bed. Then, almost falling down the stairs breathless and seething, she ran into the kitchen, where she splashed the rest of the fuel over the worktops before throwing the can at the French doors, smashing the glass.
The sound made her rage heighten, as she pulled open a drawer, snatched the sharp carving knife, and began stabbing the highly polished cabinets, imagining it was his body she was desecrating. With one swift movement of her arm, she cleared the worktop of everything: the cups, the toaster, the kettle, and the antique vases belonging to his great-grandmother. They all crashed to the floor. Then, taking a deep breath, she reached for her lighter.
She backed away from the kitchen and towards the French doors. The broken glass on the floor pricked the heel of her foot and she winced in pain. Then, grabbing the newspaper that had been left on the kitchen table by the door, she set it alight.
Instantly, the flames grew at speed. Without a second thought, she threw the burning newspaper onto the kitchen worktop and retreated into the rear garden. Wearing only a thin tracksuit, the cold night air caused her to shiver. As she turned to walk away, an enormous explosion knocked her to the ground. The gas boiler had caught alight and had blown the side window clean away from its frame.
Kara lay on the cold damp grass, unable to move. The blast had also shot a heavy piece of the doorframe across the garden, striking her across the back. But all she could do was stare and watch as the brilliant-white detached house became steadily consumed with grey choking smoke. The growing flames flared up and out of the broken windows, licking the walls and turning them black. Everyone in the close could hear the loud bangs and whistles. As she lay there winded, a horrific high-pitched scream belted out from next door – it was not a woman’s scream.
It hit her all at once like a bat across the head. Her eyes widened at the destruction in front of her, and voices in her head were pummelling her with fury for her irresponsible actions.
‘Oh my God! Have I done this?’
Mr Langley was cradling his wife on the drive. Her head was bleeding profusely, and she lay there unconscious. The blast from the side window had shot shards of glass and debris just as Jenny Langley was taking the shopping from the boot of her car, resulting in her being hit hard around the head.
The neighbours ran from their homes to see Justin’s house billowing smoke from the flames. One man called the fire brigade and another called an ambulance. Hearing Mr Langley’s screams, they ran to his aid. Mr Johnson, a retired police officer, helped carry Jenny Langley away from the burning building and onto the grass where he rolled his jacket and laid it under her head. Mr Langley was in a blind panic. All he could do was hold his wife and offer up a prayer that she wouldn’t die.
‘Is anyone in there?’ asked Mr Johnson.
Mr Langley was too traumatised to answer. The rest of the neighbours couldn’t or wouldn’t help. They gathered in the close, watching the once beautiful house being destroyed and seeing yet more devastation as the windows blew out from the blasts.
Slowly, but surely, Kara got to her feet and tried to register the devastation she’d caused. Reality hit her; she had just burned down Justin’s house.
She heard the fire engine in the distance and knew then that she was in shit up to her neck. It was too late to turn back now though – actions have consequences.
Kara looked around the room. It was soulless, with just the one table, four chairs, and a recording machine for company. She cupped her hands around the hot tea, hoping it would control the shakes. Was it the cold or shock? She didn’t care, either way; all she felt was a deep head-banging numbness.
The chief superintendent marched into the room, with files under her arm, and sat pertly on the chair. Stony-faced and with eyes that were open but glazed over, Kara slowly peered up to see the middle-aged woman, with cold, spiteful eyes and wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, probably from too many cigarettes. With lank, lifeless, and short hair, with a few stands of grey, the policewoman was hardly a looker in the feminine stakes.
Cynthia Lipton, the chief superintendent at Bromley Police Station had been called on to interview the woman because the victim, Jenny Langley, was in the hospital on a life-support machine, and if she died, which was probable, then the person now in custody was looking at an accidental manslaughter charge with arson, which would carry a hefty sentence.
She sharply placed the folder on the table and clicked her pen. Then, having given the young woman the once-over, she concluded fairly quickly from her pale-as-the-moon complexion that Kara Bannon was in shock. This was going to be either like pulling teeth or watching paint dry. She introduced herself and quickly ran through the formalities.
She nodded to the young smartly dressed duty solicitor. ‘Well, are we ready to take a statement?’ she snapped.
Paul Reeves was fresh out of law school and ready to take over at his father’s law firm. Lipton knew he was green around the ears and assumed he would be overly eager to get stuck in. However, she was taken aback when he replied, ‘She wants to give a statement and is not interested in being represented, so I’ll sit in, but to be frank, she’s all yours.’
It wasn’t like him. Lipton frowned. Usually, he was a pain in the arse, meticulous at putting her sort in their place.
‘So, for the recording, please tell me your name, age, and occupation.’
Kara reeled off: ‘Kara Bannon. Twenty-six. Epidemiologist.’
Lipton glanced at Reeves with a questioning expression.
‘It means she studies diseases, how they originate, and how they affect the population,’ responded Reeves, smugly. He loved it when he got one over the police.
Kara remained focused on a tiny
