Michele Forbes - Ghost Moth

“George,” Katherine says gently, “slow down, love.”

George takes a deep breath, then continues.

“Those houses in Willowfield, I know the layout, that’s why, I know the layout like the back of my hand.” It is as though he is trying to rationalize his behavior to himself as he explains the evening’s events to Katherine.

“But I didn’t even tell any of the men I was going in. For some reason, I just grabbed a breathing set and headed straight for the kitchen at the back, why I don’t know, some gut feeling, I just headed straight for it, through the living room, past the stairs”—he is reliving the geography as he speaks—“and I could see nothing, not a damn thing, I was as blind as a bat, the house was so thick with smoke, not a damn thing. And the heat was so fucking intense. But the kitchen sink, it was so cold, so icy cold in that heat. And I brushed against the cloth hanging beneath the sink and I just knew. There, in among the pots and pans, her soft leg, then her sock and her shoe.”

George stops talking for a moment, his eyes staring into the distance, and then resumes as though there has been no hiatus.

“She was hiding there. . underneath the sink. And I guessed when I lifted her out that she was probably no more than three years of age.”

He smiles now.

“I was so pleased to have found her. So pleased. I had been no more than two, three minutes in getting to her. I could hear muffled shouts coming from outside — two firemen had been ordered to go in by the back lane. And I carried her on through the house. Blind. Careful not to hit her head or her arms against the walls. I wanted to talk to her. I wanted to tell her that everything was okay.”

George’s pace grinds down. Katherine raises her body a little, moving in toward him.

“The paramedics were ready outside to take her. And it was only when I pulled off my mask I could see her properly, see her long brown curls and her little mouth and her cheeks all dirty.”

George lifts his head to look at Katherine.

“But her dress was spotlessly clean.” He looks pained now, bewildered. Then, almost in an instant, his recollection is flushed with an intense anger. His voice rises.

“And that fucking idiot just standing there gaping at me when I came out of the house, that young Barton fella, couldn’t put out a fucking fire to save his own life, never mind anyone else’s — standing there with that cartoon face of his, delighted with himself, banging his lips together like a fucking ventriloquist’s dummy! I couldn’t bear to look at him!”

“George, stop. Everyone was doing their best, just like you were. That’s unkind. James Barton’s a good lad. He was only pleased that you’d rescued her. And the thing is, you had rescued her — that’s wonderful!” Katherine reasons with him.

George looks at her with a quiet despair. “She was dead, Katherine. I knew it as soon as I’d touched her.”

“Oh.”

“And the child’s mother screaming into my face as though it was my fault that she’d left the child alone in the house. Christ!” George shakes his head. “But I shouldn’t have gone in on my own without an order. Why did I do that? I shouldn’t have gone in. I could have put other lives in danger. I could’ve. . It’s just not the way it works.”

“Oh my God, George.” Katherine slowly rises onto her knees on the bed and puts her arms around George to comfort him. “Oh my God.”

They hold each other in the dark.

“Who, or what, do I think I am? I’m only a damned retained fireman for God’s sake.”

“You reacted to the situation, George, that’s all. You did your best.” Katherine speaks quietly as they embrace.

“Well, my best wasn’t good enough.” He whispers it, as though he feels the fall of an ordered world.

“And you’re tired,” Katherine says gently.

George rubs his brow with his hand. “The station will call again shortly; I’m sure of it. There’ve been baton charges with the RUC in Cupar Street. The Arkle Bar has been petrol-bombed. There are buses and cars burning everywhere. The city’s gone to hell.”

“Oh my God, George,” she says. She kisses him affectionately. “Try to sleep, even for a little bit, in case they call you back in. We’ll talk this through in the morning. This is a terrible thing that happened, George, but you’re not to blame yourself, because you did your best. C’mon, love, try to get some rest.”

She pulls the blankets over them both, George still in his uniform shirt and trousers, and as they embrace, they feel the unalterable, durable presence of each other.

“Try to sleep,” Katherine repeats softly to George. They curl into each other and attempt to settle. George gives another unproductive cough, then another, though he still cannot seem to clear his throat.

The air in their room hangs silently, although it is as if, at any moment, the sounds of the unsettled city, on whose rim they lie, will drift into their ears and line the insides of their skulls with brittle pictures. The relief that dawn may bring will be a little while yet.

“George, do you think everything is going to be okay?”

Out of the stillness, George is a distant voice. “With us?”

Katherine inhales quickly, slightly taken aback by George’s words, and lifts her head to him. “No, George — I meant — the violence in the city — I meant everything that’s going on in the city.”

“Katherine,” George says quietly in the dark.

Katherine shuffles in the bed, edgy now. “Yes.”

“Do you remember the Milk Bar in Lombard Street?”

Katherine’s response is flat, confused. “What?”

“The Milk Bar in Lombard Street.”

Katherine turns away from him. “George, what are you talking about? It’s late. Go to sleep.”

“The night I asked you to marry me, we went there.”

Katherine turns around to him again, “No, George, we didn’t go anywhere that night,” she says with assurance. “And what has this got to do with anything? You need to rest. You’ve been through enough tonight. What has you thinking?”

“No, that night, I remember, I showed you the ring and you put it on and then we went out together. We walked into town and went to the Milk Bar, and do you not remember how giddy we got? And you sat on the high stool at the end of the counter, clinking your nails against your glass of tonic water and swinging your legs like a schoolgirl. And we laughed. Remember? We laughed at nothing.” George’s voice is now strangely light.

Katherine feels her pulse lift. “No, George, I was late getting home that night and we didn’t go anywhere. Remember? You waited for ages. Talking to my mother.”

George continues, as though Katherine has said nothing. “I remember feeling so happy. Thought I would go mad with happiness. Just sitting beside you. And everything right with the world. And I started reading the menu on the wooden paneling in front of us. Someone had written up the menu with a spelling mistake. ‘Tea, coffee, milk shakes, hot soaps, sandwiches.’ And the more times I said it, the more you laughed.”

“No, George, I don’t remember that. That must have been a different night.” Katherine’s voice carries a gravity with it now. She is aware that George’s memory of the evening is very different from hers. As though he is only selecting the bits of memory he wants and reassembling them to invent moments that never happened. There is a disconnected quality to his voice, which is making her feel uncomfortable.

“And the waitress kept looking at us, and her cheeks were getting redder and redder, and you said—”

Katherine interrupts him. “I think you should get some sleep, George.”

“It’s just that — if it wasn’t that night — whatever night that happened — we were happy together, Katherine. Happy. That night did happen. I remember it as clearly as though it were yesterday.” George turns his body fully around to Katherine.