Free The Burning Air by Erin Kelly Page B

desperate looks, both recognizing a tantrum that had gone beyond the point of no return.
    “What can we do?” said Sophie. “He’s terrified, and he’s exhausted. Maybe we should go back early.”
    “Oh,
Charlie,
” said Will, ruffling the blond head as he thought. “Look, it’s only just gone half nine, it’s not fair to cut the other boys’ night short. I’ll be the quicker driver; if I drop him home now, Kerry can put him to bed and I can be back in time to get the rest of you at eleven. Hey, little man,” he said to Charlie. “Want to come home with Daddy? Go home and play with Kerry?”
    “No!”
screamed Charlie, a small fist finding its way into Will’s face. “I don’t want you, and I don’t want Kerry, I want Mummy to take me back and I want Mummy to put me to bed.”
    “It’s not worth it,” said Sophie, stroking Charlie’s hair, drawing on reserves of tenderness and patience deepened to the point of infinity by self-reproach. She was glad now that she hadn’t had a second glass of cider. “I’ll do it, give me the car keys.”
    Will got them out of his pocket but dangled them over her palm and, with a feeling like a stone dropping through a well, Sophie understood why he was so keen that he be the one to drive Charlie back to the barn.
    “You still don’t think he’s safe with me, do you?” she said. She had shouted to make herself heard over the noise and chaos and, although Tara didn’t acknowledge that she’d heard it, she gave an involuntary twitch.
    “Soph, don’t be daft,” he said. “After everything I said this afternoon? I was actually thinking that if you took Matt’s car, there would be enough space in ours to bring everyone home, and you wouldn’t have to do that drive twice in the mist and the dark.” He half-turned to Tara. “You keep a spare key, don’t you?”
    “Oh,” said Sophie. Of course he was right. By the time she had driven all the way back and settled Charlie, which might take hours . . . “Right. Tara, could I . . . ?”
    The keys were in her palm before she finished the question.
    Will kissed her, this time on the top of her head. “Wait up for me?” he said.
    She fought her way through the throng with Charlie in her arms, whispering soothing nonsense in his ear until they reached the relative calm of the country lane and she felt his body submit into floppiness. He refused to get down and walk, though, and by the time she got to Matt’s car, she was exhausted, her legs ached, her back and shoulders were screaming in agony, and she was pouring with sweat. The relief when she set Charlie down on the ground was inexpressible. She took off her jacket, grateful for the cold shock of air on her hot, damp body, and folded it in half twice to make a makeshift booster seat for Charlie in the passenger seat.
    Before she put the key in the ignition she checked her phone to see if Kerry had sent her an emergency voice mail. The screensaver, a picture of Edie asleep with Cloth Rabbit, was clear of messages.
    •   •   •
    Sophie could not remember having driven with such extreme care before. The mist was now a solid wall of white, a bizarre inversion of darkness. Had visibility been so poor when they left the house, they would not have risked driving in these conditions, festival or not. Headlights did little to disperse it, just spotlighted the whirlpools of vapor that spun in midair. She had not felt so nervous behind the wheel since her driving test: Will had been right; he was the more confident driver, he would have done a better job of this. The few cars she passed were all driving with the same tentative care that she exhibited. The fog was dense in patches, strange flashes of clarity before the cloud began to descend again, so that just when her eyes had adjusted, the situation would change and she was temporarily blind again. Fireworks would occasionally illuminate it, tinting the white mint or flamingo or iceberg. Her only