Fire

I have set him on fire. Poured petrol over him as he lay in bed. Held the plastic container upside down, shaking out every     last     drop. I struck a match, watched it flicker, grow tall, before throwing it. I turned, hearing the crack, the roar, felt the heat on my back as the flames towered behind me. I walked out of his room and shut the door. 

   Never again will I have to step in there. Feel the thick bottle-green carpet between my toes, see the light come through the thin floral curtains, or smell the smell. His smell. Never again will I hear his hoarse voice shout out in the morning:

   ‘A glass of water, son. Get me a glass.’

Never again will I carry its heaviness up the stairs using both hands. The glass handle, the pocked indents, the waves of water spilling over the top. Never again will I hear his raspy laugh or the sound of him cracking his toes.

   I imagine as I walk away, his lacquered black wardrobe doors melting, running like a waterfall. Behind the wardrobe doors, lies his neat piles of jumpers, balls of socks, secrets letters, and rolls of money, all of them exposed before the flames rush in, intensifying. Spitting louder than when I used to throw my empty crisp packets into grannie’s open fire. The fringes on the hanging lampshade will singe at first then flames will eat up its pattern, distort its frame.   

   And him. What of him? Will he lay still like a Viking, as flames engulf him? Like a hero, someone to remember fondly? No, he will lie like I used to, in foetal position duvet covering all of him. No, that’s not right, a foot, a hairy leg, with varicose veins will be sticking out at the bottom of the bed, and nothing else, I’ll see nothing else. Or maybe - a tuft of dark hair on the pillow. And soon the whole room will be one, no furniture will be distinguished. It will gather momentum, power, until it reaches its peak, then it simmers down, dies. Leaves charred blackness. Fragile ash.

*

   I sigh. Put down my pen. I mean I just want to be honest. But these men to my side are so loud. So self-important. They are, well the most dominant one, is, talking about his recent stay in the highlands, how the hotel had the strange, stifling atmosphere of those sort of family-run places. Faulty Towers. Yawn. The café seems to get louder and as it does, so do they. I press to increase the volume of my headphones, ‘Calm the mind,’ type of stuff, with chirping birds and soothing water. But the volume is in the red, full capacity. I look at the top of the Yukka plant to my left, it’s thick stalk looks like it has a wiry brown hairnet on top, is this to make it tidy or to stop it from growing?

   How can I write when these men are talking so loudly? Something about them makes me nervous, as if they are going to say something to me, loosely disguised as Scottish banter. I ready, steel myself, always. I glance quickly in their direction, and notice grey hair, bomber jackets, and moccasins. I’m surprised, they have younger sounding voices. Does this make it less threatening? Their voices continue to dominate the room, interrupt my thoughts. I imagine holding onto the thick of their tongues and cutting them off - try talk now. The louder of the three lifts his phone up, holds it horizontal and plays a video clip for them to watch.

   ‘A languid song if I ever heard one.’

And they laugh, laugh!

A man sitting at the table next to them, seems unperturbed, stares at his roll and sausage as he holds it in both hands ready to take a bite.

   I decide I’m going. I take a last sip of tea, but it’s gone cold, some spilled milk pools in my teaspoon on the saucer, I tip it out. It looks curdled with the tea, watercolours mixing. I start to pack up my rucksack. Their conversation continues. I do not want to look at them again. I do not want them to think they have an audience, or an eavesdropper.

   ‘The director wants me to do something more on the nose,’ says the loudest one. ‘They are paying me to do another draft, but it has to be on the nose.’

   ‘What does that mean, on the nose?’

   ‘It has to be multicultural. But not actually saying multicultural. It’s to show a reflection of multicultural Scotland, is what they want.’

   ‘How do you do that, on the nose?’

   ‘Well, I’ve written about a child preparing a lantern festival, and he has a parent from Iran and a parent from India, and you know he has these grandparents, and….that sort of thing…’

He trails off, the other men not perhaps giving him the encouraging sounds he’s wanting.

   ‘I’m being paid to write the second draft,’ he says again. 

I put my notebook into my rucksack, wind my earphones round my fingers, and tie them in a loop, then squeeze myself out of the small space at the window seat.

*

   ‘Cara, the best thing to do with your anger,’ my therapist said, ‘is to create something. A manifestation of it, if you like.’

I have not been able to express anger. I can do empathy. I can feel sorry for. Boy, can I do that. I can wish someone, or my past was different. I can feel frustrated. But underneath that, I realise, anger has been in hiding and it feels like it’s wound itself tightly around me. It scares me. I’m not sure I can keep a lid on it, but I don’t know what to do with it either.

   ‘I love my anger,’ a friend says when I tell her. ‘My anger is mine, it belongs to me, its strong, it guides me.’

I walk home from the café clenching and unclenching my fists. This feels powerful, in some sort of way. Normally, I smile at people, or if I’m not in the mood, look away, up at the sky or my phone, but never like this, stomping, arms engaged. Not giving a fuck if I appear ‘angry.’

*

It wasn’t easy to set him on fire. But that was my manifestation, I hope my therapist will be proud.