Extract from John Ryan’s Spy story (published on Amazon.com, Kindle direct publishing)

Moses removed his football boots and socks, pumped paraffin into the Primus from the ten-gallon tin that also served as a bedside table, lit the stove and lay back on his bed. He would make tea and then wander up to one of the Greek cafes to buy a pie for supper.

    When Moses awoke, the cottage was in darkness but for the blue flame of the Primus. Yet something had awoken him. He listened and the noise came again. Someone was trying the door to Mrs Buhl’s kitchen, across the path.

     Moses opened his own door. By the partial light of the pressure stove he could see someone on the kitchen steps. The person was carrying what looked like a large book or a parcel.

    Alerted by the gushing noise of the Primus, the figure turned and lunged at Moses, propelling him backwards into the cottage. Moses glimpsed a white face under a cloth cap before strong hands grasped him around the throat and he realised with alarm that the man was trying to strangle him.

    Moses managed to pull up one knee and lash out with his instep. There was a cry of pain and a fist struck Moses on the side of the face. But by then he was rolling away and scrambling to his feet.

    Moses grabbed the stove by its base, below the hissing flame, holding it out in front of him like a torch, hoping the light might force the intruder to turn and run. However, the man lunged at him again, throwing punches, forcing Moses against his makeshift table.

    Moses lost his grip on the stove and, as it fell, he heard a gurgling sound behind him. He realised with horror it was the noise of paraffin escaping from the overturned drum.

    Moses tried to run for the door but found the intruder blocking his way, his arms outstretched.

Stanley Robertson, the stationmaster, said afterwards he caught sight of the blaze just as the overnight goods train from East London was pulling in. The train was two hours late as always. Stanley said the flames were so high that he thought the town hall was on fire.

    The O’Briens felt the heat before they saw any evidence of it. So intense was the fire that it melted the tarmac on that side of Owen Street.

    Jack Langton, Howard’s father and the former policeman, was the first person to ring up the manual telephone exchange and tell the operator to get hold of Harry Perry, the town clerk. He told Perry to rally the fire brigade and quickly. Forget about sounding the hooter, Jack said, it’s too late for that.

    When Danny ran across the road and saw the source of the fire, it was as though a dark cloud entered his brain and he could not think or speak.

    Patrick said to his father, ‘Moses can’t be in there, dad! Can he? He told us he’d be going up to get a pie!’

    Digger O’Brien put a hand around the shoulder of both sons. They were standing on the island in Owen Street. The rafters of the cottage had started to collapse, leaving a red imprint on the black sky. Danny stared, fixated, until his father physically turned the boy’s head away.

    Jimmy Millar, the wall-eyed Mr Fixit, was in charge of the firemen that night. They broke down the door of the Buhl’s cottage, releasing a blast of hot air and a smell that took Digger O’Brien back to the trenches.

    Emerging from the cottage a few minutes later, Jimmy beckoned to Digger.

    ‘Don’t go in, because it’s a mess, but there’s a corpse,’ he said.

    ‘Moses?’ Digger asked.

    ‘I’m afraid so,’ said Jimmy Millar.

    Digger O’Brien went in anyway. The body, trapped between the skeleton of the bed and a red-hot paraffin tin, was charred beyond recognition. But the sight of what remained of Moses’s football boots under the bed, burned leather and metal studs, would stay with Digger forever.