Firelight

Chapter 5

The sun was streaming through the window, filling the kitchen with a warm glow. Connor sat eating toast, drinking tea, and pouring over three different newspapers. He knew his mother would be awake soon, so had made her a coffee. She wasn't one to function without a caffeine fix.

He looked through the papers, checking the same story, retold by different authors. "Monster escapes justice", "Killer let off on technicality", "My daughter is gone." Three headlines, three angles, three ways to look at the same crime. Still, it was the last of the stories that made Connor feel drained. How hard must it be to bury your own child? To be forced to live on when the child you raised does not?

Hearing footsteps creak down the stairs, Connor folded away the papers, and resumed munching on his breakfast. "Morning sweetie," yawned his mother, padding into the room.

Swallowing his mouthful of toast, Connor grinned. "Morning, your coffee is on the worktop." He knew that smiling kept her happy, as though she feared he might try and kill himself if he went an hour without expressing joy. After all that had happened though, he felt bad if he didn't make an effort to ease her fears.

Finishing off the dregs of his tea, he stood up. "I'd best grab my stuff and hit the library. I kinda fell behind with uni work." His mother nodded in response, still not entirely awake.

The university library was full of students, all dealing with the horrifying levels of homework and essays that had been piled on them by their loving lecturers. Connor smirked to himself, glad that his psychiatrist had proved useful by getting him out of the extra work. He walked to a computer, and began to look through vast databases.

It's a little known fact that electoral registers are available to the public. Not that many people would want to know who is registered to vote in what area. Most libraries keep extensive records of the voters in their district, and that information can include your address. You can, of course, request the information is kept private, but hardly anyone does.

After twenty minutes of research, Connor headed to the Metropolitan Archives.

Elizabeth Shaw was still heart broken. How could she not be? Her beautiful baby girl was gone. She had only been twenty two; far too young. Every day when she woke up, the sheer weight of harsh reality crushed her.

Somehow though, it was getting easier. Hour by hour, day by day, the bleeding wound in her heart was starting to close. Sometimes, Elizabeth thought back to the young man who had visited her.

He hadn't done much, not really. At first she thought he was some journalist, here for the story, but he actually cared. None of that feigned sympathy, he actually deeply cared. He asked a few questions, and then spent a few hours just listening, nodding sympathetically, drinking in her words.

And talking about it helped, she couldn't remember what she said, but she didn't feel like she was dying anymore. She couldn't even remember what the youth looked like. She could remember deep blue eyes, and an angelic smile, but not much else.

Elizabeth stopped herself, and rummaged in her pocket. She pulled out a single white feather, looking at it with a perplexed expression. She knew she got it from the young man, but not how, or when in the conversation. Sinking back into her seat, she came to a realisation.

God had sent an angel to take some of the pain away.

When dawn rose the next day, Connor was still thinking about Mrs Shaw. With all that she had went through, she deserved justice, and maybe a little closure. The state had failed her, burdened by mounds of red tape, thanks to bureaucrats who knew nothing of the darkness in the world around them.

He could make a difference though, he knew it.

It wasn't for another week that Connor would get his chance to enact the wrath of heaven. His life somehow stopped him; pretending everything was back to normal with his psychiatrist, keeping up to date with uni work, and pretending he still wanted to go out clubbing with his friends.

But whenever he had the chance to work on his plan, he did. Blueprints, drawings, and architectural sketches dotted his room. Lighters, cans of deodorant, and bottles of fuel filled his bin. Newspaper articles, cut outs, and random papers littered the floor. He knew he was ready.

It wasn't until Tuesday night that he sat in the greasy spoon, drinking a coffee that resembled tar, and poking his carcinogenic food with his fork. Looking out the window, he could see the block of flats, the police cars outside.

Wasn't it ironic? The demon who had thought himself above the law now demanded police protection; the media had created a vigilante mob, desperate for his blood. It was a little funny though: that someone who thought himself so mighty was reduced to a quivering wreck when confronted with the threat of justice.

And Connor was there to ensure that justice was carried out. He knew what he needed to do. Another five minutes, and the police would change their shifts.

The fire brigade arrived fourteen minutes after they received a report of a fire, but by the time they got there, the building was engulfed in flames. Seven people died that night, and the enquiry never found out what had started the inferno – it just raised more questions about overcrowding and poor housing.

Nobody cared that a monster had been sent back to hell