Part 2

A book, perhaps the collected works of Shakespeare, propped open the window. It was after midnight, the moon rising high into the perpetually cloudless night sky, its luminance overpowering most of the stars. A nearly imperceptible breeze ebbed and flowed through the open panes, caressing my skin as I lay on top of the sheets. There had been no air movement for days, only everpresent heat and humidity; even a miniscule movement of air entertained my gratitude.

Unable to sleep, I pushed myself from the sheets and stood at the window. Fields stretched outwards from the house, like an ocean without end, the moonlight bathing the wilted crops as if reflected from gentle swells. Somewhere deep in the house, I could hear the regular breathing of my parents, blissfully unaware of the turbulence racing through my mind.

Out beyond the fields, a chorus of canine howls echoed across the emptiness.

While the night appeared calm and peaceful, something was moving out beyond my ability to see. The night couldn’t remain calm.

Silently, I gathered rough clothing to me and slipped out of the bedroom. Soft snoring continued from upstairs as my feet automatically avoided the squeaky floorboards more out of habit than a conscious desire.

Stepping out into the night and carefully locking the door, I breathed in the humid air. The breeze bathed me.

Unease filled my soul.

The steeple stood in silhouette, a shadow of deeper darkness rising upwards, blocking the faint starlight. I stood on the empty road gazing at the church. To the right of the church, the residence house lay in darkness, its occupants asleep with the rest of the town. Standing in front of the church, it felt like I was the only soul awake in the entire world, time halted by some divine intervention. My earlier unease seemed nearly foolish, and I wondered briefly why I had wandered here while the town slept.

Despite my attendance every Sunday, I did not believe any more than I had back in June when the lazy fans inside had demonstrated their ineffectiveness.

Ascending the stairs, I tried the main doors, expecting the building to be closed for the night. To my surprise, the doors swung outward silently, beckoning me into the dimmed interior. While few in the town locked their doors, I’d assumed that the churches and other public buildings would barricade their doors as night fell.

Yet the doors had opened to my touch. The house of the lord, perhaps, need not fear evil.

I glanced around before stepping into the building. Despite the silence and peace here, it was difficult to shake off my earlier premonition of dread.

Moonlight dimly illuminated the stained glass representation of Jesus upon the cross as my eyes adjusted to the gloom. Red candles glowed softly, a remembrance of times and parishioners past.

My footsteps echoed as I entered the cloister and then slipped into my usual hardwood pew at the back of the church. There was not enough light to open either of the testaments or the hymnal, although dimly, far above me, the shadows of the fan blades were visible standing sentinel silently. It was cooler in the church than outside, despite the absence of any air movement.

Had I believed in a higher power, it would have been an excellent time to pray. Instead, I closed my eyes and let my thoughts drift.

Low voices awoke me from a shallow doze. With a groan, I sat. Pews are uncomfortable to sit upon for hours of sermon; they are far worse to sleep upon. Massaging my muscles, my ears strained for the source of the sound that had awakened me.

As I was preparing to push myself to my feet and walk home, the voices sounded again, low, insistent, angry and jovial all at the same time. A few moments passed until I realised that the voices sounded familiar, they were very close, perhaps outside the front doors of the church, and that there was a mixture of voices.

Shaking off the last vestiges of sleep, I considered hiding, concerned that I might be breaking some law by sleeping in the church. Perhaps the Reverend had realised in the early hours before dawn that he’d neglected to lock the front doors and that hooligans might vandalise the altar or the rock hard pews. Hooligan or not, I did not wish to be locked inside the church until Sunday.

Wearily, I rose and walked quietly to the front entrance where the oaken doors mocked me. Beyond them, the voices continued, muted. By straining, I could tell that the voices were male, perhaps three or four, none immediately recognisable as the Reverend.

A clatter, as if something had been dropped, some hushed laughter, and then a soft cry of triumph.

I reached for the door handle, hesitating. A sinking sensation lodged itself into my stomach. The voices were recognisable, even through the heavy doors, especially the cruel laughter.

It wasn’t the identity of the hooligans in front of the church that made me hesitate, but rather the single word that drifted through the still air.

“Bitch.”

I closed my eyes and drew a deep breath.

Then I swung open the doors.

Zeke, Bobby and Vincent stood hunched over the church sign board, Zeke with a canister in his right hand. As the door opened with a sigh and a squeak, they collectively turned, a strange combination of guilt, fright and anger passing across each boy’s features. They reminded me of children caught with their hands in the cookie jar, or of deer frozen in the headlight of an onrushing transport.

They stared at me and me at them for what seemed like an hour.

Then Zeke laughed, a little nervously.

“Fuck, Flan. You nearly scared the shit outta us.”

Carefully, I stepped towards the group, letting the door swing shut behind me. The doors closed with a finality, like the gates of St. Peter upon the damned.

I saw puzzlement, then a shade of open deviousness cross Zeke’s features.

“What are you even doing here, man? It’s like three in the morning...”

I cleared my throat.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

Zeke pulled himself up to his full height. He was significantly taller than me. Then he shrugged.

“We were looking for you, man.”

“I was here.”

“You become a pansy altar-boy?”

Zeke and the boys laughed uproarishly at his witticism.

I shrugged. “I wanted to be alone. You assholes killed that plan.”

Zeke’s eyes narrowed. I gestured towards the sign that they remained gathered around.

“What you morons doing at a church at three in the morning then?”

My sense of dread intensified.

Zeke laughed.

“We were prayin’, man...”

His comment was followed by a chorus of “Yeah, we prayin’.”

“ ... prayin’ for justice.”

Zeke was slurring his words a little and Bobby and Vincent didn’t look entirely steady on their feet either.

“Justice?” I’d reached the base of the short flight of steps. Between their bodies, I could see that the church sign didn’t look quite right.

Zeke laughed again.

“I told you we’d get her.”

“Who?” Though I had a sinking feeling that I knew.

“The bitch, man. The bitch.”

Bobby and Vincent giggled. “Yeah, the bitch. Fucking bitch.”

Carefully I walked up to them and they parted, exposing their handiwork. It was difficult to see properly with the shadows cast by the partial moon, but there was something written across the sign.

In better times, the sign proclaimed inspirational Christian quotes, usually from Leviticus or Psalms or Genesis.

It would be easier to read in the daylight, but I was reasonably sure that Zeke had written something less inspirational across its shiny surface in dark and permanent spray paint, the canister of which remained loosely dangling in his right hand.

I squinted at the new writing as Zeke, Bobby and Vincent cackled at their nighttime vandalism.

The only word that was immediately visible: “Bitch”.

I was reasonably sure that the word “burn” also featured in Zeke’s diatribe.

I shook my head, unamused at the petty actions of the group. A few months earlier, I might have happily participated, but tonight, as the moon shone down through the heavy air, it occurred to me that vandalising a church sign would be a reasonably decent method to avoid St. Peter’s good graces if one believed in such judgment. A sure one way ticket to Hell.

Zeke clapped me on the back hard enough to make me gasp.

“And the night is still young,” he laughed.

Still laughing, he dropped the empty can of paint at the foot of the sign with a clatter. The group of us began to walk across the lawn towards the church residence, me more out of a sense of morbid curiosity than a desire to participate. As we walked, my sense of dread reawakened like a lion hungry for the kill.

Rebecca and her father, the Reverend, both lived at the residence. The residence sat a short walk from the church; a simple commute for a sedate profession. It was an ornate wooden home, built around the same time as the church. The Reverend, with help from some church members, kept the old Victorian structure and the gardens surrounding it in pristine condition.

Tonight, the moonlight reflected eerily from the steep roof and white paint of the porch that led to the front door. I had never been inside it before, but as far as I knew, only the Reverend and his daughter lived there. I had no idea what had happened to Rebecca’s mother, and Rebecca had never mentioned her in all our lengthy talks that summer.

Zeke carefully approached the steps and extracted a container hidden beside it. Then he sauntered back to the group. A strong scent of gasoline drifted from the can as Zeke approached.

I eyed the jerry can and then raised my eyes to Zeke’s face.

“You aren’t serious,” I said quietly.

He nodded. It was then that I noticed that Zeke was more drunk than I’d realised back at the sign vandalism. His eyes shone with the insane light of a fanatic.

“That’s some serious shit,” I remarked as coolly as I could.

Again he nodded.

“She laughed at me, man. Fucking bitch.”

I glanced around at the others, but they all wore the same grim grin that Zeke did.

I reached for the canister of gasoline, but Zeke merely laughed and pulled it away from my grip.

“She needs to pay for it.”

“She didn’t laugh at you, Zeke,” I said quietly. It was a dangerous gambit, but this whole crazy night was a crazy gambit.

Zeke cocked his head to one side.

“She laughed at me. When I asked the prissy bitch out.” His tone of voice implied much more, a deep lack of understanding of why any girl wouldn’t want to date old Zeke.

“So you’re going to kill her?”

He laughed.

“Maybe. But more likely just a little burn or two. She’ll survive, but what guy will want to date a burnt up witch?”

I clenched my fists.

“She didn’t laugh at you, Zeke. She laughs when she’s nervous.”

Zeke eyed me, a dangerous understanding penetrating into his mind.

“And how would you know that, Flan?”

“I know.”

“You fucking her? When she wouldn’t fuck me?”

I drew in a breath.

“I just know. Let’s get the fuck out of here. You guys can sober up and tomorrow...”

The fist came from out of nowhere, striking me in the jaw. I spun and hit the ground with a grunt of pain. Blood filled my mouth and trickled slowly down my chin to drip into the soft grass. Above me, laughter rained down on me. I was expecting another blow, perhaps a kick, but it never came. Slowly, I raised my head, the world spinning. Blackness, deeper than night, threatened, but I forced it from my vision.

Zeke, Bobby and Vincent were standing by the steps. Dancing and laughing, Zeke splashed liquid from the can across the boards of the porch.

Dizzy, I pushed myself up, swaying and blinking. I swallowed a mouthful of blood. I checked my teeth with the tip of my tongue. Everything seemed to be in place.

Stumbling, I approached the group. So intent on their plans and laughing hysterically, they were unaware of my approach.

Zeke raised his right fist. A silver lighter lay between his fingers, thumb poised. With a careless flick of his thumb, the flame ignited.

For a moment, he stood there like an Olympic torch bearer, his face illuminated in moonlight. I’ve never seen anyone look crazier, before or since.

“Burn in hell, bitch,” he muttered.

As his fingers began to loosen to drop the lighter, I grabbed his shoulder and spun him, my right fist crashing into his jaw. Blood sprayed as he screamed.

His fingers opened in surprise and pain.

The lighter dropped, as if in slow motion.

Bouncing.

And then the night was alight.

As Zeke and the others ran, I turned my face towards the open windows on the second floor, stepping back from the rapidly moving flames.

Cupping my hands: “Rebecca!”

Instead of Rebecca, a sleepy Reverend stuck his head from the nearest window. He squinted, not immediately seeing the danger.

“Flan McBride,” he bellowed. “I’ll have you arrested for this.”

Instinct told me to flee, as Zeke and the others had, but instead, I called out again.

“Rebecca!”

The Reverend began to splutter.

“Rebecca!”

At last, a window halfway down the house opened and Rebecca’s head emerged, her hair braided, and her eyes at half mast, sleepy.

“Flannery, it’s four in the morning. You shouldn’t...”

“Fire,” I said simply.

Rebecca glanced down, her eyes immediately widening.

“Oh my God,” she whispered. Even over the crackling of the flames, I could hear her. A similar sentiment echoed from the Reverend.

“I’ll see that you never get out of jail for this, Flan McBride,” the Reverend said vehemently as he disappeared from the window.

I hesitated, wanting to brave the flames. Help them. Somehow.

Instead, I walked away. It wasn’t cowardice. There was simply nothing that I could do beyond what I had already done. The flames had already risen in on the front porch to the point where unprotected approach was impossible. Rebecca and the Reverend could escape out of numerous windows or perhaps a rear entrance.

She stood shivering, barefoot, wrapped in a blanket, the Reverend’s arm draped protectively across her shoulders, watching her home burn. I watched them from the shadows for a while, until I began to hear sirens in the distance.

All because of wounded pride.

I sighed, turned, and began to walk.

Our place by the river seemed ethereal in the moonlight. The muted radiance illuminated the elm, the slow moving river water, and the dry grass. The distant sirens had silenced as I’d arrived.

I settled with my back against the elm’s bark. It was doubtful if Rebecca would ever join me here again, and that saddened me.

But for now, it was peaceful and quiet and I closed my eyes, exhausted and sore.

I winced and opened my eyes as soft fingers touched my jaw.

It was still night, the moon the only illumination. For a moment, I thought it was a dream.

Rebecca crouched in front of me, her soft features bathed in the moonlight.

“Why?” she asked. Tears welled in her lids.

I had no idea what she was asking me, then the enormity of what had happened flooded back into me. I reached for her face.

“Are you all right?”

She nodded slowly.

“I trusted you,” she murmured. “Why, Flannery, why?”

I shrugged, not quite sure what to say.

“It’s all gone,” she said, her voice breaking. “Everything burnt to ashes. Daddy says that we can rebuild, but he’s going to make sure that you go to jail this time for good. Why?”

I suddenly realised what her implication was.