Cold Fire Read online

  We’re giddy, but not completely stupid. We come back to it. Look at it from a different angle.

  OK, stupid. Making a decision about where to live based on an Internet search is pretty stupid. We did it, just the same. But it’s not so much about the actual move. It’s about us. This thing, the move, the search, this is for us.

  If there’s something we don’t agree on, we don’t do it. I’ve seen plenty of marriages, good and bad. This is the only one I’ve seen from the inside. This one, it’s made of two parts. Before, it was all me. That didn’t work.

  This time around, part two, I figure we’re equal, at the least. If anything, Helen gets the deciding vote. I can’t be trusted.

  We don’t know a thing about property. New? Old? Turns out old’s got character. I don’t know what counts as character, but unless the house is crack me up funny I don’t see why I should pay extra for it.

  I’m not tight, but this is big. This is the rest of our lives.

  We look up crime rates, council tax, school results. Helen thinks of most of this stuff. The thing is, she explains, poor kids get worse exam results than smart kids. Poor people commit more crime than rich people. Right or wrong, it’s true. If the schools in the area get bad results, chances are it’s not the nicest area to grow old in.

  Somewhere with lots of old people, she says. Old people need medical attention, lots of them means more doctors, which is good for us. Plus, old people commit less crime in general, whether they’re rich or poor.

  We could afford a big place, but we’ve got to be prudent, I say. It’s new, for me, prudence. It feels good. It feels good to know the extra we’ve got won’t be going on drugs.

  It reminds me of being a kid. I get this kind of nostalgic, warm feeling, remembering what it’s like to save up for something you really want, instead of just buying it straight away on a credit card. Being able to buy whatever you want spoils you, I figure. Things are better with anticipation. If people had figured that out sooner maybe we wouldn’t be in such a mess now.

  Still, maybe it’s easy for me to get on my high horse but all the prudence is going to my head.

  We decide on a town and then it comes down to two estates. One of them, the older estate, the houses are built of this ugly grey brick. The other, brown. I spend enough of my day looking at grey.

  The rest is just logistics.

  It’s getting time for me to take a break. But before I can, there are two more things. Two important things.

  First, my dead eye.

  Second, a goodbye.

  Helen’s the reader out of the two of us. She’s always reading. She says a story is all about balance. It’s about darkness and light, the base emotions. Mostly, it’s about timing, though. That’s what I believe.

  The dead eye comes first, because I don’t want to end on that.

  People like happy endings. That’s important, too.

  People like to close a book, turn out the light, and go to sleep with a smile on their face.

  So, darkness first. Then light.

  It’s best that way.

  *

  8.

  Helen drives me to the hospital. I don’t have to go, but I’ve got a secret. It’s a good one. I want maximum impact.

  Helen’s my taxi. I could have taken a real taxi, but Helen’s much better looking than any taxi driver I ever met, and she needs to be there, too.

  ‘Here,’ I say.

  ‘I can’t stop here.’

  ‘That’s what the stickers are for. There,’ I say, pointing to a clear patch of double yellow.

  ‘I can’t park there.’

  ‘You can park anywhere you like when you’ve got your cripple stickers and a bona fide crip in the car.’

  ‘I’ll go round the block.’

  ‘I can’t walk that far. Come on. This is important.’

  She’s shaking her head, but I won’t give in. This is important. She gives in, but I don’t get a bad feeling for bullying her. Not this time.

  She pulls into the space. I give her a kiss on the cheek. Shuffle my cane. Did I forget to mention it? I’m all blasé now, with my cane.

  I get out of the car, but I need Helen to help. Then I shoo her away, hobble-hop off into the sunset, which sounds crap but beats the shit out of my previous hoppity-hop.

  The house has gone through. Today is Friday. Saturday is move day. This is my last chance to do this.

  I make it to the front door of the shop and shuffle in.

  ‘Can I help?’ says a girl. No more than twenty. Probably working here in the hope it will look good on a CV someday. Maybe she wants to be a lifeguard, or a personal trainer. She looks fit. No doubt she’s wondering what the fuck I’m doing in a sports shop.

  I’m angry at her for no reason. For a second I imagine snapping her elbow, just her right one. Fuck up her chances of ever being a tennis coach...

  I don’t do it, of course I don’t. But it happens that way sometimes. Once, I imagined taking a glass to Helen’s eyes, back in the early days. I didn’t do that, either. Difference is, early day, if I could have done it I would have.

  I take a breath.

  ‘Got any tennis balls?’

  ‘Tennis balls?’

  I take another breath and wait a beat. I remember an old joke. Got any nails? I think. No? Then, got any tennis balls? It makes me smile. I think the smile makes her rethink her initial approach. I’ve got a crazy smile now days.

  ‘Tennis balls,’ she says. ‘Sure.’

  She goes away. I don’t bother trying to follow her. She comes right back, anyway.

  The till’s right there. I can make it that far. She’s got the tennis balls. I’ve got the money. It’s just a matter of time before they’re mine. But I still haven’t moved.

  Because behind the till is a man on fire.

  His face is bright, burning with a fierce, terrifying light. I can’t help staring at him. I’m terrified he’ll see me...I back away, backing toward the door. I don’t want him to see me.

  ‘You burn, too,’ he’ll say, and I don’t want him to say that. I don’t want to know what that means. Now. Never.

  I grunt, clutch my chest. I’m not having a heart attack, I’m just fucking scared. That’s all. I’ve never known fear like this, sheer terror, but there’s a guy in a shop and he’s on fire and I burn, too. I burn. I burn...

  But he’s not staring at me. He’s with a customer. They’re talking. It’s a normal conversation. I can follow the words, but the whole thing’s distant. There’s a deafening roar in my ears, drowning out the words. I want to scream. I want to scream so badly.

  I want to run. My feet won’t move. My stick’s planted firm but for all the good it’s doing it could be cast in concrete. And my chest, God, my chest. It’s burning but hot and that’s good because if he touches me, if they ever touch me, it’ll be so cold I won’t be able to stand it.

  ‘You burn, too,’ she said.

  The woman in the chapel. The burning woman.

  She knew she burned.

  The guy behind the till doesn’t know and somehow that’s more terrible than anything I could imagine.

  I want to throw water on his face, his hands, wherever his clothes aren’t touching him. He’s burning brighter by the minute.

  I open my mouth to let out the scream that’s building there, making me sick, its weight cloying and thick. Then the flames are gone and the shop assistant is holding me up.

  I’m not worried about her patronising me anymore. I’m just thankful I’m not on my arse.

  My heart’s pounding way too fast. I’ve got a sudden bitch of a thumping headache and a stabbing pain in my dead eye.

  ‘Are you alright?’ she says. I realise she’s said this a few times. How long she’s been saying the same thing, I don’t know.

  I have no idea. All I know is that the burning man isn’t there anymore, and that I might be dying.

  ‘Did you…’ I start to ask, but of course she didn’t. She’s fine.
It’s me. I’ve just had another stroke, or I’ve had some kind of episode. The burning man isn’t there, same as the woman in the chapel was just some fucked up remnant of drugs and a crippling stroke. I know he’s not there, because if he was I’d be screaming my fucking head off, episode or not, and a stroke or a heart attack is better than that cold, cold fire.

  My breath’s sticky, but I manage to get through it. I give the girl the money with a shaking hand and she bags up my tennis balls.

  Helen chooses that moment to come in.

  It’s OK though. The balls are in the bag.

  Fucking bitch, I think. Fucking coming for my fucking ball bag. Ball bag. Ball bag.

  I laugh at the same time as I’m angry and for a second there, it’s not me. It’s not me thinking those things at all.

  But then it’s gone and she’s there, steady as a rock.

  ‘Jesus,’ she says. ‘Are you alright? You’re not, are you?’

  Understatement, but that’s for the best. I don’t want to say anything, not yet. I don’t trust my voice. I don’t want to fuck up the move.

  ‘I need to sit. In the car,’ I say. She’s pale. She thinks I’m dying on her. I manage a smile. It doesn’t help. She takes my arm, though, and I let her.

  She pretty much drags me back to the car.

  ‘Do I need to call an ambulance?’

  ‘You don’t need to worry,’ I say. ‘It’s just a headache.’

  I don’t know why I don’t tell her. I think it’s because I don’t want to be ill. I want to move. As much as I don’t want to be having a stroke or a heart attack, I really don’t want to be insane.

  ‘You’re getting checked out.’

  ‘I’m seeing Seetha, then we’re moving in the morning. Just need to sit for a while.’ And concentrate on not dying, I think, but I say, ‘Don’t make a fuss.’

  She doesn’t overrule me.

  The headache’s still there and it’s a bastard. One of those headaches that makes you just want to stay very still in the dark.

  I’m worried about it. Really worried. But I’m not going to let it spoil this.

  ‘Come on,’ I say. ‘We both need to say goodbye.’

  I look up and notice the sunset for the first time. It’s beautiful. It’s not grey at all. It’s golden.

  It’s yellow.

  *

  9.

  It takes a minute to register. The yellow. The fact that I’m seeing what I’m seeing. I rub my eyes. Really. Like a cartoon. I rub them hard and stare out through the windscreen and it’s still there. Bright, beautiful and definitely yellow. A sweet buttercup glow right across the visible horizon. It’s hemmed in, between two concrete high rise buildings, but it doesn’t matter that it’s got limits. That I can see it at all is good enough for me.

  ‘Helen,’ I say. ‘I can see the sunset.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I can see yellow.’

  ‘Honey, really?’

  ‘Yes! Look!’

  ‘Honey, the sun set while you were in the sports shop. That’s…dusk…I guess? It’s more blue. Red. I don’t know. There could be a hint of orange…maybe. But it’s on its way to night.’

  She sees my expression.

  ‘Sorry. What is it you see?’

  I can see fucking yellow, is what I can see. I can. But why am I seeing it if it’s not there?

  ‘I see yellow, Helen, I swear it.’

  I think I’d be angry at her if this was any other day. But not today. I’m too tired. I’ve gone from shit scared to elated in the space of a few minutes. The guy behind the till fades right then to a problem for later. The headache’s all but forgotten. I’m too excited.

  ‘That’s good, right?’ she says.

  ‘If it’s not there?’ I don’t care, my head says to me. I don’t care if it’s not there.

  ‘It’s still yellow,’ she says, and she says it with such finality that any doubts I might have had slip away.

  I sit and look at the yellow as it slides into black. People don’t think yellow can go straight to black, but I’ve seen it. I saw it that night, and on many others since then.

  Helen doesn’t rush me even though she’s worried about parking. I sit in the car, thinking how much I’ve missed yellow. I didn’t know how much until right then.

  I feel like I’ve lost something when it’s finally gone. Even if it wasn’t ever really there.

  It makes me wonder about the burning man. Am I in the grip of some strong, long-winded hallucination?

  I wish I hadn’t said anything about the sunset. I don’t want Helen to think I’m losing it, or having some kind of relapse. I want to move, and that’s all I want to do. I don’t want to spend the next week in a hospital bed while they run scans on me. Most of all I want to be well.

  I’m calm, though. I’m not having a stroke.

  The yellow’s gone, totally, completely, and with it, the pain in my head fades to background noise. I can live with that. I hope. Headaches worry me.

  I nod and we drive to the hospital.

  ‘Help me out?’ I say, after she kisses my cheek.

  She nods, gets out, and slams the driver’s side door. It’s quiet for a few seconds, then my door opens and she’s holding me, supporting my weight as I shift and huff. I weigh far less than I used to, but still a hell of a lot more than Helen.

  I get my stick in place. I let her take some of my weight as we walk. I’m grateful. I don’t think I’d make it on my own today.

  Rehab’s a flat add-on to the main hospital. The parking’s close, closer still for those of us blessed with crip stickers.

  We’re late, but Seetha’s there. Waiting for her ride. She’s not married. I can’t imagine many men brave enough for her, though she’s got so much to give.

  Her mum’s late, too. We’re lucky. She’s standing by the front door, beaming as she watches me walking toward her. Helen seems to sense what I want. She takes her support away. I totter a bit, but I know Helen won’t let me fall. I’m glad for both of these women. Neither one of them let me fall. Helen’s job is lifelong, I hope, if I’m lucky. Seetha’s job was done, but I wanted to say thank you properly.

  I’d been rehearsing the words for a few days. Everything was wrong, though. How could you say thank you to someone who saved your life? Not just saved, but gave it to you like it was something fresh?

  Words work, sometimes. But not this time.

  ‘I’m glad we caught you,’ Helen says.

  ‘Mum’s late. It’s good to see you. Both of you.’

  She’s got a smile for Helen and a smile for me. They’re different, but they’re both good, in their way.

  ‘I got you a gift,’ I say.

  ‘You know I can’t…’

  ‘You can. This you can. Helen, hold me up?’

  She does. I take my left hand from my stick, resting its head against my thigh. I put the bag from the sports shop in between my legs and with my good hand take the tennis ball out and hold it out for Seetha.

  ‘For you,’ I say. There are tears in her eyes, and for whatever reason, I know she has tears held back for all her patients. She comes to take the ball, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, and I smile and pass the ball to my right hand, and concentrate, concentrate so hard on making this right.

  Timing, Helen says. She’s right. That’s how you say goodbye. If you don’t let someone down, saying goodbye is easy.

  ‘You cock,’ says Helen, and I laugh.

  ‘I’d second that,’ says Seetha.

  But, ‘You’ve just got to walk the line,’ she says, too, before me and Helen and Seetha dry our eyes and part ways, and that’s what I need to hear.

  I promise her I will. I’ll walk the line.

  But that’s before the estate. It’s hard to walk the line in the estate, especially when the stranger’s in me. When the stranger takes hold, all bets are off, and I think he’s awake. He’s coming back, and God help me if I didn’t miss him.

  *

&
nbsp; Part Two

  -

  The Sea and the Sunset

  10.

  It’s eleven. The sun’s long set and the evening’s done. The furniture is in the right place in so far as it’s in our new house and that’s about as far as it goes.

  I haven’t been this tired since the early days, when I was more dead than alive. I’m so tired parts of me ached that you wouldn’t think. It’s not like my ears ache, or my eyes, but odd parts like my ankles, my elbows.

  I didn’t even do anything, not really. I made the movers a couple of cups of tea. There were only two of them, but they made short work of the lifting. I watched. I made tea. Helen did the tray thing, but I made it. I stirred, I poured. Thankfully nobody wanted sugar otherwise I would have quickly gone from helpful cripple to pointless spastic.

  Helen says I shouldn't say that kind of thing, but fuck it. I can’t have a wank without worrying about tugging something loose. I figure I can call myself whatever I want.

  I’m sitting in my armchair. It’s my old armchair I got in a second hand furniture shop back when I was single. It was my second piece of furniture, back then. First was the bed. The bed didn’t last. The chair’s got to be thirty years old, maybe more.

  The ball’s in my right hand and holding it is enough for tonight.

  Helen’s sitting on the couch. I watch her as she drifts in and out. This move was our idea, but she’s the one who did all the work.

  I’m thinking of ways to make things right for her. There’s no easy way to do that. It might take the rest of our lives and I’ll be behind on points the whole way.

  But for tonight, it’s enough to watch and I’m enjoying watching. Her hair on her neck, her chest rising and falling, her delicate, strong hands, one tucked between her cheek and the arm of the sofa, the other kind of bent inwards under her ribs.

  That couch used to be for her and Samantha. That’s one thing she’s held onto all the years since.

  I’ve held onto my chair. I’m enjoying my chair, too. The chair’s sway-backed. I sink low in it and it’s a bitch to get out of. But that chair and me, we’ve been through a lot.