PLAYING WITH FIRE: By Graeme Reynolds
Friday, January 21st, 2011Steven closed the van door and crossed the street to the empty house. The terraced property was like any other on the estate, or at least, it had been before the fire. Now metal grills, daubed in graffiti covered the remains of the windows and black scorch marks stained the brick work.
Sections of the roof had collapsed, either as a result of the fire, or from the subsequent years of neglect. What had once been the garden was now a mass of weeds. The rusted handlebars of a long abandoned child’s bicycle protruded from the vegetation and the head of a plastic doll lay on the side of the cracked concrete path.
Steven sighed. He remembered reading about the fire. A man had killed his young daughter with a hammer and then set fire to the house while his wife was at work. Now, two years later, the council had sent him to assess the damage and manage the renovation.
As if anyone else would want to live here after that, he thought.
He unscrewed the heavy steel grill from the door and pushed it open. The stench of mildew mingled with stale smoke filled his nostrils and for a moment he stood on the threshold, unwilling enter the oppressive building.
It’s only a house, he thought as he stepped inside. Get in, do the job and get out before it falls down around your ears.
Inside of the building was mostly as he had expected. The walls were blackened and in places the plaster had fallen away to show the rotting stud work beneath. Parts of the ceiling in the living room had collapsed and melted debris littered the floor, their original purpose lost as the materials had melted and flowed like hot wax in the inferno.
What was surprising were the items that had survived the blaze. An armchair in the living room still looked usable. A cupboard in the kitchen contained cups and plates that looked like they had been put away the day before. One of the cups had the words “Worlds Best Dad.” written on the side. A school bag without a mark on it hung on the back of a charred wooden chair in the kitchen. Steven shuddered.
A floor board creaked upstairs. Steven stopped, straining his ears for any indication that the building was about to collapse.
Another creak. Then another. Footsteps from the landing above. He moved to the hallway and peered up the ruined staircase into the darkness.
“Is anyone up there?”
Silence.
“You can’t be in here. This place is dangerous.”
Another sound from above. The light giggle of a child enjoying their game. Footsteps retreating further into the house. One of the local kids must have sneaked in when he opened the door. Steven looked at the rotten timber of the staircase, cursed under his breath and carefully climbed the stairs.
After what felt like an eternity he reached the landing. At the far end of the corridor a young girl, no older than nine or ten years old, regarded him with a solemn expression on her face.
“Sweetheart, you can’t be in here. You could hurt yourself. Come to me, but be careful.”
The child crossed her arms and shook her head.
“You won’t get in trouble, but I need to get you out of here.”
“I can’t,” the girl replied. “He’ll get me if I go downstairs.”
“Who’ll get you?”
A shadow blocked the light from the front door and Steven turned to see a figure at the foot of the staircase.
“Mate, you’re not allowed in here. This building is condemned.”
The man ignored him and started climbing the stairs. He had a claw hammer in his hand and muttered “Little bitch.” over and over, slamming the hammer into the plasterboard with each step like a punctuation mark. Steven turned to the child and saw her retreat into a room at the end of the corridor. Seconds later, he joined her, slammed the door closed and pushed a dresser against it.
The door shuddered as the hammer impacted against it. Swollen plywood splintered under the blow.
“Little bitch. Little fucking bitch.”
“Mate, what the hell is your problem,” he cried, terror surging through him in waves as he pushed against the dresser with all of his strength.
“He’s mad at me,” said the girl.
Steven turned his head to face her as another blow resonated through the flimsy door. Flames flowed like liquid from the curtains behind her, moving across the ceiling and walls like a living thing, consuming the room with alarming speed. The girl was transparent, like a reflection in a window. A grin spread across her face.
“Daddy gets cross when I play with matches.”
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©2011 Graeme Reynolds
Graeme Reynolds has been called many things over the years, most of which are unprintable. By day, he breaks computer programs for a living, but when the sun goes down he hunches over a laptop and thinks of new and interesting ways to offend people with delicate sensibilities.
He lives somewhere in England with two cats, a flock of delinquent killer chickens and a girlfriend that is beginning to suspect that there is something deeply wrong with him. Visit him at http://www.graemereynolds.com
