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Today's letter from the trenches of my creative world is a little different.

But first...

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Le Grande Mystérieux and the Case of the Spider People

Chapter One

The summer of 1888 saw the City of London transformed into a boiling cauldron. The days were spent attempting to hide from the scorching sun, and the nights thrashing in bed, the sheets sodden with sweat.

And through that damnable heat, down alleys stinking with bodies packed into slums, and drains blocked with rotting offal, stalked that twisted, evil creature Mr Stitcher, dispensing death with his blade and disfigurement with his needles.

As the number of his victims climbed, five at the last count, and the police investigation floundered with ineptitude and corruption, a pervasive fear threaded its way through the city as the temperature climbed ever higher.

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​Six Minutes​

I hate being in the news, but here we were last week, the number one item on BBC News.

I had an appointment for a haircut at 2:45. At 2:30 I finished my Zoom call with the CEO of Writing West Midlands and thought to myself, ‘Is that smoke I can smell?’

I left the cool of my cellar office and, back on the ground level, I was hit with the usual wall of heat that has been characteristic of this summer.

Yes, there was definitely a hint of burning in the air. Jo said she could smell it too, and we stepped outside into the garden where we noticed a faint haze of smoke on the horizon. Hoping that whatever was happening was under control I walked towards my barbers. Halfway there I chatted to a couple who were talking about a fire, and she showed me a video her friend had sent her of a blaze in a field at the junction of Racecourse Lane and Stourbridge Road.

‘That looks bad,’ I said.

It was worrying, but at the same time the location was far enough away that I didn’t have to be frightened. By the time I got to the barbers, it was all anyone was talking about.

And the news now was that the fire had spread to the golf course.

I have friends whose house backs onto the golf course, so now this had gone from vaguely worrying to more concerning.

I called my friend. He was in his garden with his hose, dampening down the hedge that separates their garden from the golf course. He could see the thick plumes of black smoke, but not the fire.

That sounds really bad, I thought. I asked him to keep me updated and to let him know if he needed help.

I had my haircut.

Back home I called my friend again.

He hung up without speaking.

I tried again.

The same thing happened.

Okay, he’s obviously busy, I thought. Maybe give him some space for a few minutes.

Six minutes later he called me. The fire was closer. It wasn’t just smoke he could see now, but flames. He ended the call.

Jo texted him, offering to have their two dogs at ours.

I said, ‘I’m going round there, see if I can help.’

‘But everyone’s been told to stay away from that area,’ Jo replied.

Ten minutes later our friend replied to Jo’s text: On my way.

I met him outside our house and he almost threw their labradors at me before jumping back in his car and driving back home. We got the two dogs settled. Thankfully they get on well with Brodie.

And then I stood in the living room, not knowing what to do.

‘You’re worried about him, aren’t you?’ Jo said.

‘Yes,’ I said, and made up my mind. ‘I’m going round there now.’

The next few minutes were some of the most surreal of my life. I drove down streets filled with groups of people standing and looking at the plumes of smoke billowing over the houses. Smoke that I was driving towards. I constantly had to give way to cars driving away from the fires. I was the only one headed in my direction. The sounds of sirens filled the air. Fire crews were gathering.

My friend had abandoned his car half on/half off his drive. I jumped out of the car to be met by a woman looking at me as though I was crazy.

‘Do you know them?’ She pointed at the house.

‘Yes.’

‘Please make them leave, they’re not leaving!’

‘I will,’ I said.

I ran into the back garden first, but it was deserted. I could hear the crackling of trees burning up, and the smoke was growing thick. I ran into the house, shouted their names.

Turned out that woman was mistaken. They were leaving all right, and in the process of snatching up important items.

We got out of the house and drove back to ours.

The next few hours were probably the worst part of it all for our friends, waiting to hear if their house was okay. Sitting inside our house on a hot summer day with all the windows and doors shut because of the smoke, seven adults and three big dogs, our friends waiting to find out if they had a home to return to.

Our eldest, Matthew, cooked us a lovely evening meal. We even ate in the garden once we realised the air had cleared.

Later, once my friend had received word that the fire was under control, he drove back home to scope out the situation, and I went with him. We drove past members of the fire brigade lying on their backs on the road, utterly exhausted. A fire engine was parked on his drive. A fire officer was in the back garden and his crew were on the golf course.

My friend said thank you to him.

He said the fire had been six minutes away from reaching the house.

Nineteen houses were destroyed in that fire, and another eighteen were damaged. A handful of people were treated for smoke inhalation.

No one died, thankfully.

The emergency services were amazing, working so hard and putting themselves in danger to battle these fires. Farmers went out in their tractors to plough firebreaks in their fields. The town hall and a local school opened up to house people who had fled their homes.

And the Stourbridge community came together with food and essentials and support.

The Prime Minister visited the town the next day.

And, like I said, I hate being on the news. It doesn't happen often, thankfully. The last time was when I was filmed pouring cups of tea for homeless people in Birmingham city centre, part of a charity that handed out food every Friday night.

But here we were, in an event that happens to other people, in other parts of the country and the world.

Not here. Not to us.

So here I am, drowning in a sense of helplessness. Climate change. Wars I can't stop. A world that feels like it's tipping. My children's future.

What the hell can I do about any of this?

Nothing. Not a damn thing.

Except this: I can spend time with my family and my friends. I can keep writing, building my stories and novels and made-up worlds full of made-up people. I can keep leading creative writing workshops in schools and prisons, meeting new people who need somewhere to put their own stories.

I can write to our Prime Minister and thank him for his visit, and ask him to prioritise the fight against climate change.

And I can take Brodie for a walk in the beautiful countryside we have here, and be thankful — for the fire crews lying flat on their backs on the road, utterly spent; for the farmers out ploughing firebreaks in their fields; for a town that opened its doors and turned up with food. For our friends who made it out with their dogs and their lives, six minutes ahead of the fire.

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