Firelight

Chapter 6

Amelia stared at her screen, her dark brown eyes focused, but she wasn't really taking in any information. It had been a long day, but another of the bonfire murders had happened, so she agreed to stay back to write tomorrow's front page article. How many had happened anyway? Six or seven?

"I know, how about 'Monster Burns'? That would be a great headline."

Amelia stared in disgust at the source of her irritation. The damned work experience kid had asked to stay behind too. Mike, or Matt, or something, had went straight to her boss, and asked to stay so he could see what happens when important news stories come through.

Since then, she had endured three hours of him spouting out ideas worthy of The Daily Mail, or some other rag; one best kept near your toilet in case of emergencies. He reeked of a sheltered middle class upbringing: his fawning, simpering manner, his forced accent whenever he spoke to someone in authority. It made Amelia feel ill.

"Okay, newbie, I've a question for you: If you're a vigilante, why use fire? Why not just beat someone to death?"

"I couldn't tell you." He sounded crestfallen, as though he had failed some great test.

"Well, journalism is about research, try and find out, and you might get to write part of tomorrows front page." She smirked to herself, even as the wretch leapt to a keyboard, at least she'd have some time without having to babysit.

Still, the question bothered her too. Nothing about the case made sense. Why would you use something that was almost certain to hurt innocents? And the writing didn't make sense either. She found out it was written in Phoenician, an ancient script that no one used anymore, peculiar in itself. But the translation didn't mean anything either. What did "RTSNM" mean?

Thinking about it all made her head hurt. She longed for her warm bed, for a small whisky, and a good book. Glancing at the clock, she swore, two more hours to write her article. Sometimes she wished she worked at a bigger newspaper; then she wouldn't have to deal with the pressure on her own.

It was a little past midnight when Amelia walked through her door, kicked off her heels, and collapsed into an armchair. Reaching over to her decanter, she poured herself a double, and picked up her book.

Dorian Gray, blessed with eternal youth, at the cost of his soul. It sounded like a fair trade to Amelia. She often wondered what she would do if she had her time over. Would she still have made the sacrifices she did? Would she have married her job instead of her ex?

Did she make the right choice? Glancing at the picture on her mantelpiece, she remembered the times she had spent with Jamie. The sweet smile, the gentle kiss, the embrace between the covers. But then she remembered the moods; the dark clouds that would overcome him, the way he'd shout.

She shook her head, then put down her drink and her book. Dwelling on the past wouldn't do anything. After all, there was still the future to look forward to. She had enough problems to deal with, like Mark, without feeling sorry for herself. She laughed, realising she had only just remembered the work experience pest's name.

Too tired to really do much else, she went to bed, letting the events of the world play out as fragments in her dreams.

Not even moonlight penetrated the curtains when the phone started ringing. The noise woke Amelia, who sincerely wished she could strangle whoever was calling her. If that work experience kid had found her number, he could look forward to a highly inventive death.

Grumbling to herself, she stomped to the phone, picked up the receiver, and groaned the word "hello"

Silence. Silence then a scream. A man screamed her name.

Amelia felt sick, she shouted down the phone, hoping for a response, but none came; just a strange crackling sound. Fumbling in the dark for her mobile, she called the police, panic setting in. She recognised that voice; she knew it better than her own.

The fire brigade was already at the scene when she arrived, but the inferno was beyond their ability to control. The column of fire consumed the house she knew so well. She could imagine Jamie screaming inside, what his final moments must have been like.

Not him. Not like this. He didn't deserve this. Getting out the car, Amelia walked tentatively up to the police officers that were keeping back the crowd. Tears burned behind her eyes as she struggled to keep them inside. She was filled with a feeling of surreal horror as she looked at the burning remnants of the house she once lived in. In her mind, she could hear the agonised screams of the man she once loved.

The police officer spoke to her, said something she couldn't understand. The world was just an echo, though. The only thing she could hear with any clarity was the crackling flames, the only thing she could see was the embers and ash whipping through the air.

She fell to her knees. "He didn't deserve this." But he did. The thought came to her mind, as she remembered the darkness she had so often seen in his eyes. The time he came home drunk, threw her to the floor.

Did he deserve this?

Two hours later, and she was waiting in a police station, waiting to give a statement. It wasn't the first time she had done so in her life, but she had never been personally involved before. It felt so different this time, somehow more real.

She had been sitting in the waiting room for around an hour. The officers had been sympathetic, but this was the third fire that night. The vigilante had went on a spree, and they didn't have the manpower to take statements until more of their off duty officers arrived.

The clock's ticking was almost aggressive, as it slowly beat to a constant rhythm. Amelia watched it, willing it to move faster, as she felt the toll of her night's exertion. She felt exhausted, clearly the adrenaline was wearing off, and her mind felt fuzzy.

She glanced at her phone again, longing for her boss to phone her. She had told him what had happened, and he had vowed to ensure the story made the morning paper. The fact that neither of them had really cared about how Amelia was feeling was something neither of them noticed.

"Miss Clark?" The voice of the police officer washed over Amelia, bringing her out of her trance like state. "Would you like to follow me, please?"

Dragging herself up, Amelia trudged along after the woman, barely noticing her surroundings. She hoped that the officer would offer her a cup of coffee; a strong cup of coffee.

The interview lasted for an eternity. Amelia had to go over everything that happened, every little detail. They asked about her relationship with Jamie. How long they were engaged, why it ended. Then when they finally talked about what had happened during the night, she could feel tears building deep within her.

She tried to remember everything that had happened, but it all came out a jumble. More than once she had to go back, fix what she said, ask if it all still made sense, and continue with her story.

It was torture, as she had to relive watching the death of the man she once loved. For their part the police officers seemed sympathetic, but they were clearly as tired as she was and they couldn't understand what she had went through.

When they were finished, they offered to take her home, but she declined. Instead, she walked to the wreckage of the house. The fire brigade had extinguished the flames, and the police had raised a cordon.

The horror was still there though – the harsh wind blew grey ash through the air. Shattered glass was strewn across the pavement, and the blackened husk was all that remained of the once beautiful home.

The gusts gathered Amelia's hair, billowing it around, hurling it into her face. The world obscured by her black curls, she finally let out the tears she had been holding in for so long.