It is late at night and the house is quiet, the occupants both asleep, and the only sound comes from the trickling of the contents of the canister as I walk the perimeter of the property, trailing liquid up the walls.
Round and round I go, like a teddy bear, the trickling sound soothing as the fluid falls. The heady smell of petrol fills my nostrils, making me giddy with anticipation. As I place the second empty canister down and study the house for a final time, I remind myself that I am just putting things right and that tonight I will sleep easier.
The match burns bright, an orange flicker against the darkness that grows quickly in intensity as the flames lick the house.
The flames rise higher and their passionate roar is like music to my ears as the heat warms my skin. Thick smoke billows into the air and I imagine what is happening inside the house. Can only hope the last moments are of terror and remorse.
Glancing at my watch I note the fire has only been burning for four minutes. The fire engines will still be at least five minutes away and by the time they arrive, it will be too late.
I smile to myself.
Living in the countryside isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be.
As I stand and watch the fire rage, I am aware of someone coming to stand beside me, taking hold of my hand.
I think of the people inside, the two religious school teachers, so pious and judgemental. They are to blame for what happened to their daughter, Margaret, and they are to blame for what happened to me too.
I turn to my brother and nod, understand now that he was right.
He smiles down at me, squeezes my hand. ‘I told you, Alice. I’m here now. I promised I would help you finish this.’
