Paul Grzegorzek - Flare

I paused at the end of the footpath, leaning out past a hedge to check the road in both directions. Once I was sure I was clear, the fire and its complement of men a good twenty metres away and all but lost around a slight curve in the road, I hurried across to the far side and straight into the first garden.

This was where my plan got a little hazy. I’d seen from the car earlier that all the gardens were linked, a concrete path running between house and garden just wide enough for one person, passing every front door in the row, so I could get as far along the road as I needed to without jumping any more fences. But could I really do what I was planning? Despite everything, even knowing that the people around me would quite deliberately and cheerfully tear myself and my friends apart if they caught us, I was about to put them and their dependants at risk, possibly even kill some of them. Could I honestly justify my actions? My father, a civil servant for most of his adult life, and a particularly law-abiding man, had once said to me, ‘don’t do anything you couldn’t put your hand on your heart and justify in front of a jury’. Despite our disagreements about other things, that particular quote had stuck with me, and I’d always tried to follow the spirit of it, if not the letter.

But now I was about to change all that. For the first time in my adult life, I was going to break a law, risking lives in a cold, calculated attack that could very possibly leave someone dead.

My hands shook as I checked the contents of my bag, making sure everything was there. Once I was certain, I moved along the path, ducking under windows and keeping to the shadows as much as I could while the whole street seemed to be congregating around the fire out on the road.

I could hear dozens of voices now, with children shouting and playing as they ran in and out of the gardens, one running right past me as I froze in the dark, almost shouting in shock as the little lad barrelled out of his house and into the street with a tin of chocolates clutched in his hands and a wild grin on his face.

My heart felt like it was about to burst, and by the time I moved again my hands and legs were shaking and my knees felt like jelly. I made it another two houses before I decided that I was close enough and pulled the stolen items from my bag, setting them out at my feet and looking around to make sure that the low hedge shielded me from view.

Confident that I wasn’t being observed, I opened the box of matches and took two out, laying them on the path, then picked up the can of lighter fluid and gently pushed the letterbox open, squeezing the tin as hard as I could and liberally dousing the carpet inside with the foul smelling liquid. I sprayed yet more into the inside of the letterbox itself, then coated the outside too before throwing the empty can back into the sack and shoving it behind a bin.

Taking a deep breath I lit the first match, my hands shaking so badly that the flame went out. Tossing it aside, I lit the second and this time the flame sprang to life, its yellow glow making the fluid on the door glisten.

Knowing that I couldn’t delay, I held the letterbox open and dropped the match onto the wood inside.

It lit with a whoosh, flames spurting out and burning my hand, arm and face. I stumbled backwards, the smell of burnt hair matching the hot, stretched feeling of the skin on my cheeks.

Within seconds the hallway was on fire, flames licking hungrily at the carpet, door and walls, throwing crazy shadows through the glass that made up the top half of the door.

I heard a shout from the street and ran without thinking, back along the path to the end of the street, not noticing the pain in my ankle as I rode the wave of adrenaline and let it carry me out of sight of anyone coming to investigate.

I hit the end of the path and ducked behind the last hedge, peeking back out to see if anyone had seen me.

I needn’t have worried. The whole street appeared to be packed into the front garden, staring in surprise at the flames that were now bright enough to see from even this distance.

“It’s Jamie’s house, where is he?” Someone shouted.

“He’s in the woods,” someone else replied, “someone get a bucket or something!”

Seeing my chance, I fled across the road while they were all busy, taking the footpath back to the fields and following the treeline until I was close to the oak and the group of men below it, their faces thrown into sharp relief by a small fire one of the had made.

This was where it could all go wrong. I looked back towards the village and was surprised to see a glow from the fire I’d set, a thick pall of smoke beginning to form over the street. It had spread far more quickly than I’d imagined, and I hoped that would help my cause.

Stepping into a thick stand of trees, I hid myself as best I could among the narrow trunks and deepened my voice, trying to make myself sound like one of the villagers.

“Jamie,” I shouted, letting the very real fear I was trying to control enter my voice.

“What?” Came an answering call from below the tree.

“Your house is on fire,” I shouted, “we need help before all the other houses go up!”

“You what? You’d better be pulling my fuckin’ leg.”

“I ain’t, go look!”

A few moments later two forms hurried past my hiding place.

“Shit, look, you can see it from ‘ere,” one said nervously.

“Oh fuck,” the other, a man in a lurid green t-shirt, breathed, beginning to run towards the village, “my fuckin kids are in bed, come on, what are you fuckin’ waiting for?”

The last was screamed as he sprinted, his companion and several others from the tree following with shouts of alarm.

That should have been the moment to strike, to let the others know that there were only two or three men left to guard them, but as Jamie’s words sank in I dropped to my knees, overwhelmed by the urge to vomit.

My kids are in bed , he’d said, and as I realised what I’d done I began to throw up violently, huge convulsions that sprayed the forest floor with what little was left of my breakfast.

The crunching of feet on dry leaves made me look up, helpless, as two of the remaining men came to investigate the noise.

“What, had too much beer?” Said one, laughing, then he leaned closer and comprehension dawned.

“Hang on, you’re one of the… oof!”

He dropped the ground bonelessly, his friend turning to see what was happening just as the butt of a shotgun smashed into his neck where it met his shoulder.

He just about had time to gasp and reach for his neck as he collapsed, Emily stepping over them and grabbing me roughly by the collar, hauling me mercilessly to my feet.

I stared up at her through tear-filled eyes, seeing Ralph at her shoulder, carrying her Bergen and the second shotgun.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Emily asked, but I could only shake my head, unable to tell her that I’d most likely just murdered someone.

“Well whatever it is, we don’t have time for it,” she continued, pushing me roughly back towards her house, “not if we want to get in the car and get out of here.”

Between her and Ralph they got me pointed in the right direction, alternately guiding and shoving me until I managed to put one foot in front of the other and keep going, unable to take comfort in the fact that I’d saved my friends when the price was so very high.

I don’t remember much of the walk back to the car. I remember Emily physically pulling me through the hedge when I stopped and just stared at it, and I remember catching the worried glance she and her father threw each other when they thought I wasn’t looking. I was looking; I was just so wrapped up in my own misery that I didn’t care.