Page 52 of Craving the Edge

I sat bolt upright, the sheets falling off me. “What?”

“The fire brigade’s here but it’s bad.”

The stupor of my Declan-fuelled self-pity party vanished.

“I’m on my way,” I said. I hit end before he could reply.

I shot out of bed, the knotted sheets tangling around my ankles for a second before I kicked free. I pulled a pair of jeans on and the first t-shirt I could find. My feet found my boots without me looking. I found my black hoodie and dragged it on, grabbing my coat from the back of the door, then my keys from the hook.

My mind wasn’t on the flames or the damage. It was on one single, infuriating moron. Gary. His bullshit had finally come home, and it’d set fire to the only place I had left.

I ran all the way from my unit, my boots thudding on the footpath, the cold Melbourne air scraping my lungs raw. I could smell the fire before I saw it, and when I rounded the final corner onto the gym’s street, I stopped dead.

The night was gone. Replaced by a writhing, pulsing orange, and the red and blue flashing lights of emergency vehicles flashing against the neighbouring brick walls.

Fighter’s Edge was an inferno. Flames erupted from the roof, spitting black smoke into the clear night sky. The intense wave of heat made the winter chill vanish, my skin buzzing.

Police had already taped off the street, a thin line of blue and white tape keeping a handful of neighbours on the footpath opposite. Two massive fire trucks blocked the road, water arcing from their hoses.

I stood on the footpath, my breath caught in my chest. The brick walls glowed. The roller door was a warped, blackened mess. Through the shattered front windows, I could see the heart of the fire raging, consuming everything. The bags, the worn canvas of the ring, weights, machines, my desk, the clipboards, my whole life turned to ash.

All that work. All that time. Gone.

“Fucking Gary.”

The words were swallowed by the roar of the flames. His debts. His incompetence. His cowardice. This was the price and I was the one paying it. I remained frozen on the cracked concrete, the inferno’s heat searing my face as a different kind of inferno ignited inside me. Rage.

A uniformed officer materialised beside me. “Miss? Can I ask what you’re doing here?”

“I work here.”

He held a small notebook, the pen poised. “Your name?”

“Charlotte Judge.” My voice was a stranger’s, thin and hollow. “I’m the manager.”

He jotted it down. “The owner, a Mr. Gary Henderson. Do you know his current whereabouts?”

“No. I haven’t been able to get in touch with him for about a week.”

“A week?” The officer’s eyes lifted from his pad. “We have reason to believe this fire was deliberately lit.” He nodded toward the front of the gym where the burnt out shell of a car sat smoking. I hadn’t noticed it. “They used a stolen car to ram the doors. The boys from the MFB found what looks like an accelerant.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” I said, my gaze fixed on the geyser of water hitting the building. It seemed to do nothing.

“Can you think of anyone who might want to do this?”

A laugh almost escaped me. Where do I start? Instead, I just shook my head. “Gary handled the money. All of it. He was shit about maintaining the books. I did my best to clean it up, but… Gary handled all the money.”

The cop gave me a long look, probably trying to gauge if I was a suspect or just in shock. He must have decided on the latter. He scribbled another note, his expression grim. “We’ll need a proper statement from you down at the station, but not tonight.” He gestured with his pen. “For now, just stay behind the tape for your safety. It’ll be a while before the fire is under control.”

He nodded once, then moved away, his radio crackling as he went to talk to one of the firefighters.

My rage simmered, a low burn beneath the shock. I pulled my phone from my coat pocket, my fingers clumsy. I scrolled through contacts until I found Carla’s number. It was about six in the evening in London. A perfectly reasonable time.

The line rang, each tone echoing in the space between the roar of the fire and the shouts of the fire crew. It rang four times, then cut to her voicemail.

“Hi, you’ve reached Carla! Sorry I can’t take your call right now, but please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Have a lovely day!”

The voice of a stranger. The beep sounded.