The Count of Eleven Read Online Free PDF

in seconds. The room slewed around him, the smell of burning plastic flooded into his sinuses. Then the glow which flickered at the edge of his vision grew brighter, and he heard crackling. The flames had reached the lowest shelf.
    He staggered upright, grabbing the old man’s wrists to protect himself and to lead him out of the shop, but the old man backed against the counter. “Come out,” Jack yelled in his ear. “The place is on fire.”
    “Whose fault is that? Where’s my anniversary present, you thief?”
    “In the road. Come and get it before a car does,” Jack shouted, just as he saw two small boys kicking the shoe downhill.
    The flames had raced along the underside of the shelf and were sprouting upwards, snatching at the contents of the shelf. A video case sprang open and was immediately ablaze. “That was the last present my wife gave me,” the old man cried. “You threw it, you bring it back before I move an inch.”
    Jack seized him by the shoulders, dragged him away from the counter, got behind him and shoved him, hopping on his one shoe, towards the door. The next shelf up began to smoke as they came abreast of it, and the old man screamed “He’s trying to burn me alive.” The idea seemed to make him perversely determined not to be moved, but a final push sent him hopping out of the shop.
    He caught hold of a lamppost and stared about. “You said I’d see my shoe. Where’s my shoe?”
    The boys had kicked it as far as the traffic lights. Apparently the crossroads were the goal, because the boy in possession of the shoe sent it past his friend into the middle of the junction. Seconds later a double-decker bus ran over it, and at the same moment the lowest shelf in Fine Films collapsed, feeding itself and its contents to the pile of flames. “Damn your wretched shoe,” Jack cried. “My business is on fire.”
    “With my shoe in it,” the old man said, and launched himself at the shop.
    Jack blocked the doorway and gave him a shove towards the lamppost. He wasn’t going to be able to do anything about the fire, he thought in a fever of disbelief, because he would be fully occupied in keeping the old man safe while he hopped back and forth like a demented actor auditioning for the role of a one-legged pirate. “Fire,” he shouted, praying there was someone within earshot.
    “Thief,” the old man responded at once, even louder.
    “Fire.” Repeating it once used up all Jack’s breath, and the old man yelled “Thief while Jack drew another. At first he seemed content to respond antiphonally, then he gauged Jack’s rhythm and set about shouting him down no great task, since Jack’s voice was succumbing to the effects of his cold. Jack shoved him towards the lamppost again and raised a fist to ward him off, at which moment the front door of the house opposite Fine Films opened and a woman in a quilted housecoat hurried across the road. “What’s the trouble?” she called in a teacher’s schoolyard voice.
    Jack saw-her before the old man did. “My shop’s on fire. This gentleman’s confused. Would you mind looking after him while I call the fire brigade?” he managed to say, and dashed into the shop.
    The flames inside the doorway were leaping for the ceiling. The lowest remaining shelf was a mass of flames and writhing plastic, and smoke was boiling from behind almost the entire length of the shelf above. The floorboards around the heart of the fire had turned black, and the video boxes scattered around it were starting to buckle; he had the momentary impression that they were about to gather themselves caterpillar-like and go hunching into the flames. He kicked them towards the opposite wall and ran to the counter, almost falling over the shelf which the old man had pulled down. He tried to wave away the stench of burning plastic as he dialled 999. His eyes were streaming, his head throbbed with the stink and with the thump the old man had given him, his sinuses felt as though