Bonfire Night
by
Jane Croft

 

Malcolm Harding constructed the bonfire with care putting larger items at the bottom, starting with the sofa and the armchairs. On top of those he stacked the coffee table, stereo, clothes, CDs, and books, all the paraphernalia of living, the accretions that stick over time like barnacles to the keel of a ship. It was time for a complete careening, a removal of the reminders. Only then could he move on and make a fresh start.

The evening air was cool and redolent of wood smoke from bonfires in neighbouring gardens. From the road he heard the distant roar of traffic punctuated at intervals by staccato pops of fireworks and the excited shrilling of children’s voices.

Letting the sounds wash around him, Malcolm added, piece by piece, to the pile in front of him. He left the photographs till last, placing them with care, balancing them among the rest, facing outwards, a random gallery of memories forever fixed in time and place.

Lisa: a dozen images captured her likeness, gave back the outward form of beauty. Just for a moment or two he withheld the last one, a wedding photo taken five years before. He traced a finger across her face, a last gentle caress of hair, cheek, lips, throat – so familiar and so unknown. Awed by the intensity of his feelings, he had been so certain that, at last, he had found the right one. She had possessed him, mind, body and soul. He had lived with her, in her, for her. He had known her intimately, and not at all. Was it ever possible to know what lay behind another person’s eyes? Had there been a particular moment when it all began to unravel: some careless word or gesture that could not be recalled? Or was it something else entirely: boredom perhaps, contempt for what was familiar and the seductive lure of what was forbidden? Forbidden because of the vows they had spoken, forbidden because she was his.

Suspicion had festered beneath evasion and lies. Unable to live with doubt and needing to be sure, he had come home early one day. Shutting his eyes he relived it, seeing them there in the bedroom, Lisa and the other man, and the air rank with the musky pheromone scent of betrayal. His guts twisted and he tasted bile again, all reason dissolved in rage and pain. It was treachery beyond forgiving, beyond bearing.

He drew in a deep breath and anger faded back to sadness. Lisa had never been what he thought her, what he wanted, needed her to be. She was no different from all the others. It was time to let her go. He placed the last photograph on the pyre of his possessions. It was almost finished. There were just a couple of items missing. He must go and fetch them. When he had done so, he surveyed his handiwork with satisfaction. It was a true bonfire of the vanities. Finally he unscrewed the top of the petrol canister, and began to douse everything - unhurried, methodical, and precise. The living room filled with fumes.

When he finished he crossed to the open sash window and climbed over the sill into the garden. The scent of wood smoke was much stronger out here, and the sound of the traffic overlaid by the nearer explosions of fireworks. Above him a rocket burst in a spray of brilliant green and red stars. Taking a lighter and a pack of Marlboro from his pocket Malcolm leaned back against the wall to watch the show. It seemed apt for bonfire night was, in essence, a denunciation of treachery.

He had smoked the cigarette almost to the end before he looked back into the living room. For the space of several heartbeats his gaze held Lisa’s, her lovely eyes wide with terror above the gag, her whore’s body writhing against the ropes he’d tied her with. It had been easy. He’d warned her earlier that he’d be back for his things. Beside her, the other man struggled too, bruised but conscious again, angry bluster silenced, disbelief replaced by fear. The bastard understood now, and that was good. Malcolm smiled. Then he took one last drag on the cigarette and flicked the glowing butt through the open window.

© Jane Croft, 2009

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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