Phantom of Fire

by Peacock, Shane;

  Fiat ignored me. He was in full story mode.

  “She was desperate for money. I convinced her to be the young maiden in the boat. She would have done anything for a few dollars...immigrants will. I built my dressed-up raft and paid my little maiden some change to sail on it. We towed it out to a spot on the other side of the island and she got on it, I tied her on, waited for dark, and set it on fire and pushed it off from my boat toward a spot where it could be seen from shore.”

  My phone vibrated again. I glanced down. “EVERYONE IN MAYA’S FAMILY BUT HER MOTHER KILLED IN A BOMB BLAST IN AFGHANISTAN.”

  “It was a perfect day to see the ghost ship of legend!” said Fiat. “It was also a day, an early evening, when there were lots of people on the beaches. It felt so good…so good…to make them look at what I had done. Jim Fiat, loser-son of the greatest man in the region. I intended to photograph it. No one, no one in history, had ever done that with any success. No one had ever been close enough for any details to be evident. I would have a ringside seat out there in the bay, with an extraordinary view of the famous ghost ship! I would be able to sell that photograph for a great deal of money, gain acclaim as the only person who ever accomplished the feat, the man who finally proved the existence of the burning ghost ship of Chaleur Bay! James Fiat, me…I would go down in history and profit too. My photograph, which would have been shown on media around the world, would have drawn attention to the region, increased real estate values…I was imagining what my father would think of me then!”

  He didn’t notice me peek at my phone again. “SHE AND HER MOTHER STRUGGLED IN CANADA.”

  “It does feel good to get this off my chest. I have told no one. I couldn’t.”

  “MAYA’S MOTHER DIED. MAYA WAS ON HER OWN. NO ONE REPORTED HER MISSING FOR A YEAR.”

  “The fire, however, took off,” said Jim, “the wood was particularly combustible…it was an inferno in minutes. My plan went up in flames.”

  “And so did she,” muttered Antonine.

  “I had tied the girl loosely to what I hoped would look like a mast from a distance, just a pole and canvas, really. In her terror, she had a difficult time getting away, and got caught up in the rope…and engulfed in the flames as the ship went under. I remember she screamed.”

  Antonine put her hands over her face.

  “She screamed…and she flailed her way to the island…but died as I raced toward her in my boat. She…she breathed her last gasp just as I got there, expiring at my feet.”

  Antonine wiped a tear from her eye.

  Fiat was staring into the distance. “I buried her in that shallow grave.”

  The figure in the living room got to its feet.

  Fiat shook his head. “I knew something of her situation. I figured she would not be missed, and went on with my life. I am not proud of it, but accidents happen and she was a willing participant. Likely in this country illegally to boot. I…I only had time to take a single terrible photograph and destroyed it soon after.” He looked sad. “I had been paralyzed with fear the instant the fire grew out of control. For a short while, I simply watched it burn…listening to her shriek.”

  The figure from the living room stepped silently out onto the deck behind Fiat.

  “Six months later, my father got me into a university, I began working for the family company, did well, knew the art of the deal, and as you know, decided to run for federal office this very year. I have worked my tail off.”

  I imagined Antonine and Jackson Clay on the other side of the raft from Jim Fiat, getting close to the fire, glimpsing the girl but having to retreat, and Fiat zooming up to the scene as they returned to shore.

  “My method and my message to the people of this region burns with truth! No immigrant’s indiscretion, no one who tempted me into a mistake, will put a stain on my life! Here is one thing I will guarantee you: I will be more successful than my father—much more!”

  The man behind Fiat was wearing a uniform. Bathurst Police Force. He was putting his cellphone—full access to police records —into his pocket.

  “I somehow doubt that, Jim,” he said.

  Fiat whirled around.

  “Hello, Chief Boudreau,” said Antonine.

  “Hello, Mademoiselle Clay. How is your mother?”

  “How long have you been here?” demanded Fiat.

  “Hell of a story, Jim: that first word being the key one.”

  We heard the front door creak and Constable Leblanc squeaked and squished toward us, her boots obviously a little wet.

  “Gabby!” said Jim Fiat.

  She gave him a withering look and kept her distance.

  “It was a girl,” she said to us, “mid- to late-teen, deceased at about the time of the incident.”

  “James Fiat, you’re under arrest,” said Gates Boudreau, “for the manslaughter of one Maya Khan.”

  He took out a pair of handcuffs and slapped them onto the man of the people.

  19

  The Invisible

  We were supposed to have been gone by early that morning, but when Mom and Dad came into my room at about 6 a.m. and found me sitting up in my bed with all my clothes on, totally wired, the schedule changed immediately. I told them everything—from finding the burned plank in the Clays’ shed, to discovering the remains on the island, to the deal we made with Constable Leblanc and Chief Boudreau, to our daring break-in at Jim Fiat’s place…and what the “man of the people” had done long ago. They must have looked at me with their mouths open for about a minute after I was done. Then they told me that I needed to get into bed and go to sleep.

  Our departure would be delayed for twenty-four hours. One day. That was going to be all I had left.

  Antonine seemed relieved when I called and told her I would be around a little longer. That only made me feel slightly better. It was great that she felt that way, but the clock was ticking. Would she become simply another Wynona Dixon or Dorothy Osborne, lost to me, far away in my past? Or even worse…Alice?

  We had to find something to do with the rest of that day, maybe the rest of our lives together. Dad had said we had to be on our way by very early the next morning, even earlier than we’d planned to leave today.

  “We will be off at the crack of dawn!” he declared.

  Mom took me over to the Clays’ house. These last hours were going to be bittersweet. The first part was definitely of the sweet variety. Eve put on another spread of food; I guess her version of a “late lunch.” No quinoa, though, thankfully. I tried not to look at the clock ticking on the wall behind Antonine’s glorious black hair as I ate, attempting to concentrate on the amazing food instead of us parting. Not only were we going to be in different parts of Canada, but very soon Antonine would be out of the country entirely, entering a new world and making new friends, her life changed forever. I would just be a distant memory, if that.

  After we ate, I called Mom on the Clays’ landline and asked if I could stay for the rest of the day. Though at the beginning of this trip she would have been opposed to this, arguing that I needed to be a good visitor and spend time, especially these last few hours, with our hosts, she didn’t put up a fight of any sort. That might have had something to do with saving Bill from the embarrassment of having to hang out with the kid who told him from the beginning that Jim Fiat was a piece of seagull poop.

  “Take your time, honey,” said Mom, “but don’t propose to her without telling us first.”

  I hung up the second she said that.

  It was a strange experience spending that time at the Clays’ house. During a typical day at home in the old days, I would have had my phone going overtime, sorting through other people’s lives, celebrities or not, texting Terry and Jason and Rhett. Of course, now I don’t even contact them at all. Then I would have fired up Mom and Dad’s big HD TV, guiding myself through a little heroic action in some nea
r-reality world in a video game. Maybe I’d be at the head of an evil clan in medieval days, war club in hand, or destroying the rest of the league as I led the Leafs to the cup on the screen.

  It was very different with Antonine Marie Clay, goddess of Chaleur Bay. I had almost forgotten that she didn’t have a cellphone. That was strange enough, but she didn’t own a single video game…or any way to play them on TV. Their television was a little box that looked like it was made in the days before they invented the wheel, and about as thin as a sumo wrestler.

  So we just hung out. We talked, we played board games…and it was amazing. Although, I must admit, most of the amazing part was the company.

  She was so much fun to be around. She was just so smart and interesting and, well, not too hard to look at…I guess I’ve said that before, but I have to say it again if I’m telling the truth. After the board games, we went outside and actually played tag, something I thought kids—kids younger than us—played about a million years ago. At times, we laughed so hard we couldn’t stay on our feet and just rolled around on the lawn as if we were having fits.

  When it came time for dinner, or supper, as Mrs. Clay put it, Antonine said we should take it with us to the beach, just the two of us.

  “The Last Supper,” said Eve, which I thought was a little dark.

  Before we left, Antonine did something funny. She went out to her father’s shed and got the burned board. We put it into Eve’s little car and took it with us, along with the massive hamper of killer food, and Antonine’s bike—she was going to cycle home—and headed for Youghall Beach.

  We didn’t do a lot on the beach, mostly we just walked. It felt like we went all the way up and down the shore, from Youghall north past the Fiat’s massive home, past a place where we had to wade across a bit of water and all the way to a spot called Beresford Beach, and back. We ate half way along the trip. I am likely wrong about us having travelled most of the way up and down the entire beach, because I have the feeling that this killer shoreline of sand in this absolutely beautiful part of the world went a long, long way along the giant bay. We likely could have walked for days.

  We talked nearly every second about our lives, about our past, our future. I even told her about Wyn and Dorothy, and believe it or not, Alice. She kind of giggled about all of that. We wondered what it would be like if we ended up knowing each other our whole lives, if when we were old, it would be just like it is right now between us, if we would still like each other or get sick of being together. She talked about how scared she was about the future and living in France, but how excited she was too.

  “What do you think was really out there, Antonine?” I asked, “When we chased after that fire? We know now that what you and your dad saw was a burning raft, but what about us, what did we see? Twice! I keep wondering about the vision I had, right in front of me, after you hit your head. It was so vivid.”

  “I don’t know, Dylan. I guess what we saw from land had to be some sort of natural thing that makes fire appear on this water. I guess experts just can’t explain it yet. When we got out there, you were pretty wound up; your head had taken that blow too. You likely imagined it.… Who knows, though, maybe Florence is right. Maybe there is something in between.”

  We smiled at the same time. It felt like nobody else in the world could say that to someone else and totally understand what the other one meant…nobody but us and Florence Green.

  By the time we got back to the Youghall area, it was dark. In fact, it had been dark for a long time. We had passed by Bill and Bonnie’s place about half an hour before and I had noticed not all the lights were still on in the house. I was late, and by the time we reached Youghall, it was very late. I wondered if it were past midnight. No phone, couldn’t check.

  We had hidden Antonine’s father’s burned board under some bushes at the beach. I wondered why in the world she had wanted to bring it along, but figured it was probably because it was so meaningful to her, to her father, and to us. I thought she just wanted it nearby. Then, she surprised me.

  “I want to burn the board,” she said.

  “Pardon me?”

  She pulled some matches out of her jeans. She had brought a sweater along. It was getting colder now. It was a red one and warm looking. She had wrapped it around her hips, now she put it on and it just looked so comfortable on her.

  “I want to burn this board and send the smoke into the air. I want it to vanish, forever.”

  “Vanish? Antonine, this is something that connects you to your father. You want to destroy it?”

  “I didn’t say that. But I want it to be gone. My father isn’t this board. He is in here.” She pointed to her heart again. “Remember what I said about invisible things? I don’t want him to come back. He can’t. I want his spirit though, his invisible, magical spirit, inside me forever.”

  I thought of Bomb. Then I realized, as we put the board down, set it on fire, and watched the smoke furl into the sky, that what we were doing made me think of Antonine Clay too. She was about to disappear.

  Then she kissed me. Very quickly. It seemed over before it began, unfortunately.

  “Believe in me,” she said.

  She squeezed my hand and walked away. I turned and watched her, without saying anything in return. She retrieved her bike from under another bush, flicked on its little light, got on and peddled away without even looking back. I just stood there and watched her. In a few minutes, there was no sign of her and all around me there was absolute silence.

  I walked out to the beach and headed back to Bill and Bonnie’s place. Before I went inside, I looked out over the water. In the distance, I thought I saw a ball of fire, but when I squinted, I realized that there was nothing there. And yet, the most marvellous feeling filled my heart.

  It made me smile.

  We indeed left at the crack of dawn the next morning. The parental units actually made a few snide comments about the Bill and Bonnie Show on the way out of town. It was hilarious. Dad was at the wheel, explaining the history of every place we passed and letting us know the exact population of every town. Mom was making fun of me whenever she got a chance. She seemed very happy, especially when she looked at me—I guess I didn’t have that normal sour expression on my mug.

  We just zoomed back across the eastern part of our amazing country, through New Brunswick and Quebec, back home to Toronto. Bomber didn’t make a single appearance in the back seat with me, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t there. He was in my heart. Dylan Maples’s heart.

  I was thinking about Rhett, Jason, and Terry too, and about a couple of people in my class with whom I figured I might hang out. I had Antonine’s invisible necklace on, tucked under my T-shirt. I liked the fact that no one could see it and not because I was ashamed of it.

  “Can I have my phone, Mom?”

  She looked at Dad.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “I have to text a friend.” I paused. “No, I have to call him.” Then I paused again. “Three of them, actually.”

  About the Author

  KEVIN KELLY PHOTOGRAPHY

  Shane Peacock is a novelist, playwright, journalist, and television screenwriter for audiences of all ages. Among his novels are Last Message, a contribution to the groundbreaking Seven Series for young readers, and The Dark Missions of Edgar Brim, a trilogy for teens. His picture book, The Artist and Me, was shortlisted for the Marilyn Baillie Award. His bestselling series for young adults, The Boy Sherlock Holmes, has been published in twelve languages and has found its way onto more than sixty shortlists. It won the prestigious Violet Downey Award, two Arthur Ellis Awards for crime fiction, the Ruth & Sylvia Schwartz Award, The Libris Award, and has been a finalist for the Governor General’s Award and three times nominated for the TD Canadian Children’s Literature Award; as well, each novel in that series was named a Junior Library Guild of America Premier Selecti
on. Visit him at shanepeacock.ca.

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