Free Changeling by Steve Feasey Page B

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7
    Lucien stopped as they entered the living room, turning to look at the television that was on and tuned in to one of the twenty-four-hour news channels. Text scrolled along the bottom of the screen and a sign in the top-left-hand corner announced that they were witnessing ‘Breaking News’.
    ‘Police are still trying to ascertain exactly how many people were in the building at the time of the fire . . .’ The reporter, holding a microphone bearing the name of his news channel, was standing in front of a cordoned-off area of police tape. Behind him a fire engine had pulled up – firefighters disembarked and instantly assumed the roles that they had practised a thousand times. Trey watched as a number of men in full safety equipment struggled against the power of the hose they were using to spray a thick, foaming substance into the heart of the flames. The reporter facing the camera had his collar up and shoulders hunched to shelter himself from the intense heat at his back.
    ‘. . . firefighters have been struggling for over an hour now to bring the situation under control,’ the reporter continued. ‘An insider within the force has told us that at this stage they cannot rule out foul play.’
    Trey watched as a police officer ushered back a small crowd of people braving the cold night air to gawk at the conflagration. As the crowd moved back he caught a glimpse of a little lime-green car parked in one of the spaces behind the fire engine.
    Wendy had bought the car from her mum when she had first got the job at the care home. She’d proudly driven it in on her third day, parking it in a spot just down from the one it was in now. The children had teased her about the car’s colour, calling it the Kermitmobile, but Wendy had just laughed along with them, telling them that it was her pride and joy. She even had a name for it, Trey remembered: Priscilla.
    ‘. . . early reports suggest that there were twelve children and five staff members at the home. It is not yet known how many, if any, managed to escape the blaze. This is Giles Fox, outside the Apple Grove Care Home, for Sky News.’
    The picture cut back to the studio, where the anchorman introduced an expert on fire prevention. But for Trey the world had stopped turning. He was oblivious to everything around him, the picture of those flames licking at the sky from the roof of the building playing over and over in his mind.
    He’d hated the care home. He’d hated the fact that he had to live there in its sterile, loveless atmosphere while other children lucky enough not to be abandoned or orphaned lived in proper homes. But seeing it in flames like that, hearing the news of the carnage that the fire appeared to have caused, made him feel . . . lost. Utterly lost. There was nothing now. There was no one and no thing that he could identify with or cling to for support, and he felt more alone than he had since his grandmother had died. He put his head in his hands and tried to hold back the blackness that built up inside him.
    A huge, rending pain tore through his stomach and spread – like the fire on the screen that had ripped through that building – into every cell in his body. A high, keening screech escaped him and he sank to his knees, tearing at skin that felt as if a thousand rusted nails were bursting through its surface.
    ‘Quick!’ shouted Lucien. ‘He is going to transform, we need to get him somewhere safe.’
    Lucian and Tom moved swiftly to the boy’s side to see if they might be able to get him to his feet, but Trey was writhing on the floor, his arms and legs lashing out in all directions.
    Without thinking of the danger, Lucien bent over and picked the boy up as though he were a child’s toy, ignoring the deluge of kicks and punches that landed upon his face and body, one opening up a large gash under his left eye.
    He placed Trey carefully on to one of the chairs and turned to look at his daughter. ‘He needs help, Alexa. He is