– Dr Thomas Verny
The flickering wings of the crane-flies inside the jar sounded like whispers in the darkness and Harold Pierce held it to his ear, listening. He smiled and looked at the three insects struggling helplessly inside their glass prison. It was the light that attracted them, he had reasoned, as it did the moths. But Harold wasn’t interested in moths, they moved too quickly. They were too hard to catch but the daddy-long-legs were easy prey. He smiled as he repeated the name. Daddy-long-legs. He stifled a giggle. His mother called them Tommies and that amused him even more. She was sleeping across the narrow hallway now, alone for once. Harold didn’t remember the succession of men who she brought home, he wasn’t really interested either. All he knew was that his father would not be coming back.
Jack Pierce had been killed at Dunkirk six years earlier and, since then, Harold’s mother had entertained a never-ending series of men. Sometimes Harold had seen them give her money as they left but, it not being in the nature of fourteen-year-olds to question strangers, he had never asked any of them why. One night he had crept across the narrow landing and squinted through the key hole of his mother’s room. She’d had two men in there with her. All of them were laughing and Harold had smelt liquor. They had been naked, all three of them, and for long moments he had watched, puzzled by the strange goings-on before him.
It was shortly after that night that his mother announced he was to have a brother or sister. The baby had duly arrived and Harold had been dragged off to church for the Christening, puzzled when there was only him and his mother present to witness the ceremony. In fact, his mother was shunned by most of the women in the neighbourhood. They spoke to her in the street but it was never anything more than a cursory ‘hello’.
Harold held the jar of crane-flies up before him once more, wondering if their whispers would tell him the answers he needed to know.
He lowered the jar and looked across at the cot which held his baby brother, Gordon. The child was sleeping, lying on its back with the thick flannelette sheet pulled up around its face. Harold hated having to share a room with his brother. In the beginning, it had been all right. Gordon had slept in his cot in his mother’s room but, since his first birthday, he had been put in with Harold. That meant that Harold was forced to come to bed when Gordon was tucked up for the night and that could be as early as seven in the evening. Most of the time, Harold would sit in the bedroom window watching the other kids kicking a big old leather football about in the street below. He had watched them doing that tonight, perched in his customary position until nine o’clock came around and the other kids were called indoors. Then, Harold had switched on his bedside lamp and watched as the crane-flies and moths flittered in through the open window.
Gordon was sound asleep, little gurgling noises came from his cot as he shifted position occasionally. The nylon eiderdown was crumpled at his feet where he’d kicked it off. It was covered with stitched-on rabbits. Beside the heavy wooden cot stood a pile of yellowing newspapers. Harold didn’t read very well but he knew that the papers were called
The News Chronicle
. Just why his mother kept them he didn’t know. There was another stack downstairs beside the coal fire, those she used to get the fire started in the mornings. Perhaps the pile in his bedroom were destined for the same purpose.
He crouched on the end of the bed for long moments, propping the jar of crane-flies on the window sill. The night was still and windless and, from somewhere nearby the strains of “String of Pearls” came drifting in with the night. Harold listened to the distant music for a moment then he swung himself off the bed and padded across to the door. The lino was cold beneath his feet and he hissed softly as he tip-toed from the bedroom, across the hall to the door of his mother’s room. A framed painting of George VI watched him impassively as he gently turned the handle and popped his head round. His mother was asleep, her black hair smeared across her face in untidy patterns. Harold stood there for long seconds, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest, almost coughing as the strong odour of lavender assaulted his nostrils. Finally, satisfied that she wasn’t likely to disturb him, he gently pushed the door closed and tip-toed back to his own room.
“String of Pearls” had been replaced by “Moonlight Serenade” when he got back but he ignored the music, more intent on the task at hand. He reached beneath his pillow and took out a box of Swan Vestas matches. Harold held them in his sweaty hand for a moment then he took hold of the glass jar. The crane-flies began flapping about even more frenziedly as Harold began to unscrew the top, as if sensing freedom. When it was fully loosened he held the jar before him, eyeing the insect closest to the neck of the jar. With lightning movements, he reached in and grabbed it by one membranous wing, simultaneously pushing the lid back in place.
The insect tried to escape his grasp and, quickly, Harold pulled both its wings off. He did the same with three of its legs. The unfortunate creature was then dropped onto a sheet of newspaper where it tried, in vain, to scuttle away. Harold watched its helpless writhings for a moment then he picked up the box of Swan Vestas and slid the tray out, taking a match. It flared orange and the smell of sulphur filled his nostrils momentarily. He bent lower, bringing the burning match to within an inch of the crane-fly which immediately began to wriggle more frantically. Harold pressed the tiny flame to one of its legs, watching as the spindly limb seemed to retract, much like hair does when it is burned. The insect rolled onto its back, its two remaining legs thrashing wildly, its tiny head moving frenziedly. Harold burnt off another of its limbs then pressed the spent match-head against its slender abdomen. There was a slight hiss and the creature’s head and remaining leg began moving even more rapidly.
Harold hurriedly lit another match.
This one he held right over the crane-fly, giggling when the stumps of its legs moved spasmodically as the flame drew closer. He dropped the match onto the insect, smiling as it was incinerated, its body rapidly consumed by the flame, charred black by the tiny plume of yellow. A whisp of grey smoke rose into the air. When the match had finished burning, Harold took another and prodded the blackened remains of the insect. It merely disintegrated.
Totally enthralled, Harold stuck his hand inside the jar and took out another of the crane-flies. This one he held by its wings, waving the match beneath it until all its legs had been burnt off. He twisted the wings so it couldn’t fly away then he dropped it onto the newspaper and finished the cremation job with another match.
For the last insect, Harold had reserved something special. His
pi
è
ce de r
é
sistance
. He took a handful of matches from the box and, with infinite care and patience, built them up until they were stacked cross-ways, on top of one another in a kind of well. Into the centre of this well, after removing its wings, he dropped the last insect. Then, quickly, he covered the top with three more matches. There must have been about twenty-five in all comprising that miniature funeral pyre and Harold sat back for a second admiring his handy-work. He could see the crane-fly inside the little stack of matches, its long legs protruding through the slits here and there as it tried to escape.
There were half a dozen matches left in the box and Harold struck one, gazing into the flame for a second before carefully applying it to the head of the match at the bottom of the pile.
It ignited with a hiss, burning for a second then setting off a chain reaction. The little structure went up in a flash of yellow and white flame and Harold grinned broadly.
He grinned until he saw that his blazing creation had set light to the paper it rested on.
The newspaper was dry and the flames devoured it hungrily. Harold felt a sudden surge of panic and he snatched up the blazing paper, scattering the burning remains of the tiny pyre as he did so. Matches which still hissed, alive with wisps of yellow, were scattered all over the room. One fell beside the pile of
News Chronicles
and licked at the edge of the dry papers. Flames began to rise. The room was filled with the smell of charred paper and smoke wafted in the still air.
Another of the blazing matches fell into Gordon’s cot. It hit the nylon eiderdown and seemed to explode, the quilt suddenly flaring as bright tongues of fire sprang from it.
Gordon woke up and began to scream as the fire touched his skin.
For long seconds, Harold was frozen, not knowing what to do. He took a step towards the cot, then backed off, his eyes bulging wide. Gordon’s night-shirt was on fire. The baby was screaming, trying to drag itself away from the all-consuming inferno. Already, the skin on its arms and legs was a vivid scarlet.
Harold opened his mouth to scream but no sound would come out. The pile of newspapers beside the cot had ignited with a frightening vehemence and the tongues of flame rose a full three feet into the air. The whole room was ablaze. His own bed was seething, a mass of writhing fire. Smoke, thick and noxious, filled his nostrils and finally, as a piece of burning wallpaper fell and stuck to his arm, Harold found the breath for a scream. For interminable seconds, the paper clung to his arm, searing the flesh. He tore it away to see that the skin was red and blistered. His head swam and for a second he thought he was going to faint but, as he saw the cot disappear beneath a flickering haze of fire, he spun round and dashed for the door.
His mother had heard the screams and they crashed into one another on the landing. She saw the smoke billowing from the children’s room, saw the leaping flames and she shook her head in disbelief. Pushing Harold aside, she ran into the room – into the furnace and flames which seared her flesh and set her clothes ablaze. Harold followed her back in, watching as she fought her way to the cot, reaching in to lift something which had once been her baby son. The body of Gordon was little more than a blackened shell. One arm had been completely burned off from the elbow down, the stump was still flaming. His mouth was open to reveal a blackened, tumefied tongue. The flesh looked as if it had been peeled away with red hot pincers. Through the charred flesh, white bone showed in places.
Harold’s mother screamed and clutched the baby to her. Her own hair was now ablaze, the stench filling the room. She turned, a look of agony etched on her face and she screamed something at him but he couldn’t hear through the roaring flames. As he turned to open the door a particularly violent eruption of flame exploded before him. Harold shrieked and felt one side of his face sizzling. The skin rose swiftly into blisters which immediately burst, the welts hardening as the fire stripped his flesh away as surely as if someone had thrust a blow torch at him. He felt something wet dripping from his burning cheek. Things went black as his right eye swelled under the intense heat then, in a moment of mind blowing agony, the sensitive orb seemed to bulge and burst. Blood gushed freely from the ruptured eye, turning immediately to charcoal under the ferocity of the flames. Harold clapped a hand to his face and felt the oblivion of unconciousness creeping over him but the pain kept him awake and he managed to yank open the bedroom door. The hair on his arms was singed and his veins seemed to bulge as his skin contracted. He turned to see his mother, on her hands and knees, crawling towards him, the flesh of her body apparently bubbling, lumps of it falling from calcified bones. She raised an accusing finger at him and screamed:
“You’re to blame!”
The empty box of matches lay close beside her. Her hair was burnt off and the stench of charred skin was overpowering. Smoke poured from the open window and those living nearby hurried out into the street to see what was happening. The fire-engine was called.
Harold reeled amongst the flames, screaming in agony as what remained of his face was stripped clean by the flames. But, shielding himself as best he could, he stumbled out onto the landing, throwing himself against the wall in an effort to put out the fire which still devoured his clothes. He stumbled and fell, crashing heavily to the floor.
Downstairs, someone was trying to batter down the front door.
Harold looked round.
Through the haze of pain he saw his mother, a blackened vision which seemed to have risen from the fires of hell, standing in the bedroom doorway. She had her arms outstretched, the skin like crumbling parchment. When she opened her mouth, smoke billowed forth. Her eyes were gone, they were now just black pits in a bleeding, ruined face. Bone shone through the charred skin as blisters formed then burst with rapidity. She no longer had hair just the dancing snakes of flame which topped her skull, like some kind of fiery Gorgon.
She swayed for long seconds then, as the front door was broken down, she toppled backwards into the flames.
Harold began to scream.
“Mr Pierce.”
Everything was darkness, he could feel his body shaking.
“Mr Pierce.” The tone was more forceful this time.
He could hear screams, close by, drumming in his ears.
“Harold. Wake up.”
He realized that the screams were his and, suddenly, he opened his eye and sat up, panting for breath, his body bathed in sweat. He looked round, fixing the woman in a glassy stare.
“Harold, are you all right?” she asked him.
He exhaled deeply and rubbed his eye. His hands were shaking madly, like a junkie who needs a fix. But, finally, his breathing slowed and he felt his heart returning to its usual rhythm. He looked at the woman, at her blue and white uniform, the small triangular hat which perched precariously on her head. Gradually the realization spread over him and he smiled thinly.
“I was dreaming,” he said apologetically.
The woman smiled and nodded.
“I know,” she said. “But you frightened the life out of all of us.”