Bronte's Inferno XVIII (I Was Thirsty)

'Do you have somewhere to go, Sir?' The chief asked me, demonstrating an unexpected solicitude given the circumstances.

''Course 'e han't. People in these 'ouses han't got two pennies t'rub together.' Bristles gave her twopenn'orth, proving she felt herself a cut above me and my neighbours.

But I had. I didn't keep – hadn't kept – vast amounts of cash in the house. Who did? I kept two hundred in twenties in my wallet as walking around money, but I rarely spent any of it. As for my neighbours, they couldn't afford walking around money for the most part. If they suddenly had two hundred pounds in cash available, they would spend it on luxuries, like fresh fruit and maybe a decent cut of meat or two. If they were downsizers, like me, they wouldn't keep money in the house. Too tempting for burglars, though there hadn't been a break-in on Consort Street since I had moved in. I gestured at the Fire Chief with my lap-top messenger bag.

'I've got this. That's all I'll need.'

The Chief nodded. 'You live alone? No-one we might find…' Her eyes darted towards the sodden pile of ashes that had been my home.

'Nobody? No, no body there.'

I gave her credit for laughing at my feeble joke.

'Well, Sir, there may be a Police investigation depending on what else we find.'

'What about the box?' I nodded at the cardboard, untouched by the flames and strangely dry already.

She didn't answer for a moment, perhaps the mind-reading was catching, I knew she was thinking the strange box would complicate a straightforward – if catastrophic – house fire, and that if I took it away there would be much less time and paper wasted on the incident.

'Take it,' she said. Bristles spat on the ground, quite near to the box. Maybe she'd breathed in a bit of smoke and ash. I hoped so.

In the Fleece, there were a few customers talking about the fire. I overheard snatches of conversation about the day's events as I took my Guinness (no eye this time, just a wonky shamrock) to the table beside the digital juke. I missed the old ones, with the 45's you couldn't play on a Dansette without an adaptor, a bit of round plastic, or those bits of plastic that looked like shiruken that ninjas threw about in old films and early video games. I thought it was a pity The Fleece didn't let out rooms. There must have been room enough upstairs, even with the landlady living over the shop. Still, what if it really was haunted?

My laptop was on the table. I bet myself it would be ready to go by the time I needed another pint. It took two, but I was thirsty. I started looking for a place to stay. I wanted something in the dales, not in the Calder Valley's towns. I picked something that looked affordable. It was out of season, I doubted it would be busy. I booked it through their web-site. In the name of Mickey Bulgakov. Why not? It was as good a name as any and I had it as an e-mail address. Then I phoned Underworld Limo Hire on my burner. Got an answer machine: told them where I was and where I wanted to go. I hoped they'd send Charon, just because I wanted to see people's faces, whilst she hunted the warren of rooms in the pub to find me.