Here’s the second piece under consideration for reading to the Literary Society. These two sections were singled out by a reviewer while the manuscript of Burn, Baby, Burn was in its infancy. A senior buyer for Waterstones, his encouraging remarks were of great benefit at the time. Writers are constantly beset by self-doubt and being told by a senior player in the book industry that my writing had shocked him to the core was a massive encouragement.
*****
“Clive, Are you coming out to play?”
The voice reached Clive’s ears moments after he woke to the smell of smoke wafting up the stairs. The voice was unmistakably that of Marcus, even though he’d not heard him speak since they were both children. He’d expected to hear that voice, expected Marcus to reappear in his life, every day, every night, especially every night. Now Marcus was here. In the house.
Clive scrambled from his bed, eyes wide as he moved quickly to the door and listened for sounds of an intruder. He heard nothing, but was not surprised. A full-frontal attack would be too obvious. Marcus would want him to suffer first, flee from the horror of the burning house to his inevitable death. Clive snarled with sardonic humour at the thought that, at the end, he’d out-smarted his pursuer.
Reaching up to the top of the wardrobe, Clive grunted with effort as he hauled a plastic bag over the raised decorative scrollwork. Inside the bag were short lengths of nylon rope, bought weeks previously and stored in readiness for this day. He tipped the rest of the contents onto the bed, a further piece of rope, very thin nylon, hardly more than cord, but immensely strong, an industrial strength plastic bag, thick rubber gloves, and a jar of cooking oil – Tesco own-brand, from their Value Range.
Smoke leaked under the bedroom door, but Clive ignored it. It didn’t matter, not any more. He walked to the door and listened with his ear to the crack of the door.
Nothing.
As he walked away, he heard the voice again. Closer now. On the stairs?
“Clive, are you coming out to play?”
Clive sat on the hard chair that he’d placed against the wall with no other furniture within reach. Grunting with the effort, he bound his own feet together, then tied them securely to the legs of the chair that was firmly screwed to the floor, leaning into the knots until he could no longer feel his feet. Smoke was filling the room now, but he remained absolutely calm. This final meeting with Marcus had been envisaged for some time and he worked with total certainty. Pulling the plastic bag over his head, he tied it securely with the slim nylon cord. He grimaced as the binding cut deeply into his skin, but the pain was immaterial. It would not inconvenience him for long. His next breath would also be his last as he sucked the plastic against his mouth, using up the air trapped in the bag. Working quickly now, he slipped his hands into the thick rubber gloves and doused them with the contents of the cooking oil and dropped the empty container at his feet. He’d expected the panic that came with his next attempt to take a breath, but the strength of his reaction surprised him. Hands scrabbling vainly at the knots securing the bag in position, oily fingers failing to find any purchase, his lungs burned and his temples pounded like a kettledrum. From what seemed a vast distance, he heard the voice once more. “Clive, are you coming out to play?”
Even as his open mouth sucked at the unyielding plastic, teeth ripping his lower lip, he was exultant at this final cheating of his tormentor. Hot salty blood from his ravaged lips trickling down his throat, Clive slumped, his upper body pitching forward from the chair. His bound legs twitching, he fell awkwardly, head slamming against the floorboards with a sickening crack. The first flames licked at the door frame, but Clive didn’t see them. By the time his room was consumed by the fire, he had been dead for some considerable time.
