Phoenix and the Bag Man

Chapter 19: The Burnt House

So it was, with a hard middle-of-the-day cloud-filtered sun high in the sky picking out every detail of the burnt house with a flat bright light, we passed it by, and directed by Bullimore, parked up in the now empty road beneath the impossibly perfect family and their shiny car. The engine died and for a moment we sat still, silent, each of us looking around. Church bells rang. It was Sunday. Grass grew in the cracks in the pavement, old muddied litter tangled with weeds where filth had accumulated in the angle where walls met the pavement. Scattered along the street lay the pages from a recently dismembered newspaper, jarringly bright and clean. I remember the moment because time seemed to stop, draw breath and reorder itself, preparing for the final rush, the final act. Have you noticed how no second, minute or hour ever seems to be the same length? Some time passes quickly, some slowly. Some is full of things that actually happen, or of things you know are waiting to happen, and some is empty. It makes you think. I mean, how long is a life, really? This moment passed slowly, pregnant with all the things that might happen next, but not in a hurry, confident of the time to come. At least that's how it felt to me. Maybe that's what they call fate. Fee felt differently. She was ricocheting off the sides of my skull like a pinball. Time was running too slow for her. She was frustrated having to share it with me. I could feel she was desperate to get to the burnt house. I was definitely in no hurry. It gave me a fresh insight into the phrase 'being in two minds'. Part of me wanted to delay what was going to happen next for as long as possible, the other part of me was impatient to get it over with.

There was no one in the street. Without a word Bullimore got out pulling me after him, the knife firmly pressed against my cheek so Katyia could see it. Our eyes met and she gave me a small, wan smile. He swivelled the handle of the knife around in his hand so the blade slipped up the sleeve of his coat. He put his arm around my shoulder. Then he pulled Katyia to him and draped his arm around her instead. He did that thing with his head, thrusting it forward, and looked at me questioningly. I didn't have to acknowledge. He knew I understood.

"That's better, she's so much better looking than you, Michael, and has such a nice smile," he playfully squeezed her to him. "You know where you are going, MicMic, lead the way!" His anger and all the tension in his body had drained away. He seemed to be enjoying himself. Still holding on to Katyia he opened the boot and pulled out a green can. He shook it. We could hear the petrol sloshing about inside.

From behind me: "Where are we going?" Her voice was small but tight with anger. I wanted to say something to comfort her but before I could mouth any kind of platitude: "Don't fucking touch me!" There was the sound of scuffling. I span round. The knife was out. Katyia and Bullimore were stood facing each other, Bullimore still on the pavement but Katyia several feet away in the road.

"Run, Katyia!" She looked at me. Hesitated. There was the sound of a door slamming up the street behind me. Katyia turned her head. I turned round. A figure stood on a step locking the front door of one of the few terraces left on the street.

"No!" By the time I turned back Bullimore had Katyia by the arm. The knife had vanished. We all looked round towards the sound of quick sharp steps echoing in the road. The figure was an old woman, red hat perched on grey hair, beige woollen coat, shiny black shoes, her Sunday best. She crossed the road and passed us by on the other side, not glancing up once.

Move the moment on.

Crazies can go off at any time.

I told him. I told him - the farm, Raif, the people trafficking, Edward, I told it all to the police.

"You fucker." I said. "Know who told me? Phoenix, dead Phoebe, risen from the ashes Phoebe, now isn't that weird? Even the dead are coming for you. Back from the grave to nail you in the eye." That last bit, that came from Phoenix. And that was the bit that truly got his attention. His grip on Katyia tightened, his head jutted, but his eyes had lost their steeliness. He looked worried, and glanced about him, as though looking for an answer. I became aware that I was smiling, a static, fixed smile. I could feel the distorted skin of my cheeks and the muscular effort required to keep it there. I caught Katyia looking at me, her expression a mixture of puzzlement and fear. It was Fee's smile, not mine. It shook me, that. I mean having your private thoughts hi-jacked is one thing but your body as well? The Phoenix-fuelled bravado drained out of me.