Free The Devil's Staircase by Helen Fitzgerald

the gear I’d scavenged since arriving, and all that remained in my room were my grotty jeans and my singlet, and two runners, one of which wasn’t mine, and which – on closer inspection – seemed to have a blood stain on it. Secondly, I smelt. No matter how many times I washed, the smell of the squat, particularly my room, seemed to seep into my skin. Thirdly, I hadn’t had time to do my nails, and Fliss had stressed that jaggy, unmanicured nails were a sure sign of unpruned bush syndrome, which was apparently enough to put any bloke off. Fourthly, I was starting to realise that having sex with Francesco might be as unappealing as having dinner with him and that there was every chance that he would yell: ‘Medium-rare!’ when he was ready to be served. And lastly, when I put the runner back down on the floor, I fell over.
    I hadn’t fainted, just fallen, and this wasn’t the first time I’d been a klutz recently: I’d tripped over a non-existent crack in the pavement on the way to work that morning. Now I lay on the floorboards, astonished at my clumsiness. And as I stared at the ceiling, I felt oddly warm, as if I was back in the steam room. I thought I was going insane, but then I smelt smoke. I sniffed at the air, sat up and sniffed, stood up and sniffed, but it seemed to disappear. I knelt down on the floorboards and put my nose to the floor. Definitely smoke. I placed my hand on the floorboards. Definitely warm. I lay down on my stomach and pressed my nose into the crack between the floorboards.
    There was smoke coming from the basement.

 

PART TWO

 
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    Six feet below, a woman was tied to a chair. The yellow polyester that firmly gagged her mouth was on fire. The woman was Celia. She was thirty-eight and had two children. She’d been in the basement for four weeks.

    On the morning she was taken, Celia had finished her single weekly shift, an all-nighter at the hospice off Ladbroke Grove, changed into her power-walking gear, strapped her backpack tight around her back, stopped off at the garage for Walker’s salt and vinegar crisps and the latest Dr Who magazine, which she’d added to her backpack, and then walked fast for two miles till she reached her street. She’d smiled, excited that she would see the faces of her little boys any moment, that she would climb into the king-size bed the four of them inevitably ended up in and cuddle for at least an hour before the breakfast and school-lunch rush. She was looking forward to waving off the husband she still adored, walking the boys to school, having a second cup of coffee, and then snuggling in bed in front of last night’s episode of The Bill.
    As she passed by the Royal she marvelled at the street she lived in. She and Greg hadn’t given in to the suburban pull. They loved the busy, bustling youth of the city, and they never wanted to leave. She often thought such happy thoughts, saying thank you for the luck: for the happy childhood, the well-adjusted sibling, the healthy helpful parents, the job that means something, the husband that still thinks you’re the most beautiful woman in the world and regularly tells you so, the groovy flat, the cuddly cat, the children who make you smile and laugh all day, every day.
    But Celia didn’t get to walk into her flat, or lie in bed with Sam and Johnny, or drink the coffee that Greg would bring in to her at 8 a.m., or make toast and Nutella for breakfast then tuna sandwiches for lunch, or wave goodbye to Greg, or smile and laugh as she walked to school, or watch last night’s episode of The Bill.
    Instead she lost her shoe, and as the flame from her polyester gag began to lick her cheek and catch her hair, she really wished she hadn’t.

 
14
    The Sick Man felt very sick. This time it seemed to be concentrated in the stomach area: sharp, stabbing pains. Initially he’d thought of his appendix, forgetting for a second that it had been removed two years earlier. He wondered about his heart, but there