The Boy in the Burning House

by Tim Wynne-Jones

  Ruth Rose snapped her head in the direction of the high ground. They stood in the middle of the road and watched the light creep over the rim of the ridge and seep like pale lava down the edges into the trees.

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” she said.

  There were no surprises waiting for them in the farmyard. The Godmobile was gone. Fisher could be hiding, waiting. Somehow Jim didn’t think so. Maybe it was the ragged light of day or the prospect of his mother arriving home soon. Whatever the reason, he was willing to take his chances.

  The back door was hanging open. Jim stepped into the kitchen but stopped on the threshold and gasped.

  He saw the table on its back, a broken chair lying in the corner. He saw smashed dishes and torn curtains, and red. Everywhere red. Primer-paint red.

  Three words spray-painted like splattered blood on the wall, the floor, the fridge.

  He felt Ruth Rose’s hand on his arm. He slapped it away and turned on her, breathing hard, dizzy with rage.

  Ruth Rose met his gaze, her mouth gaping.

  “Thought you’d steal his car,” shouted Jim.

  “What are you talking about?”

  His arm flung out and pointed behind him to the kitchen. His eyes blazed with betrayal. “Hid in the barn,” he shouted. “Waited him out.”

  Her eyes retreated into angry slits. “You think I did this?”

  He didn’t speak. His face said it all.

  Neither of them moved. Then Ruth Rose stepped into the room and looked around at the ugly lettering, the ugly revelation scrawled everywhere, the empty spray tins, the derangement of what had once been a spotless country kitchen, and she laughed. It was the laughter of a mad person.

  “Shut up!” yelled Jim, his face burning, his neck muscles standing out like cables. “Shut up!” he screamed, his voice shattering into a thousand pieces.

  “You don’t get it, do you,” she spat at him.

  “Oh, I get it, all right!”

  “No, you don’t. You can’t. He’s brilliant, Jim.”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  She stared at him, shaking her head. Then she scanned the room, looking for something. She marched through the kitchen and into the parlour, barely limping now. Behind the couch, where they had hidden the night before, she found her sneakers and her jacket. She kicked off Billy Bones’ boots. The knife tumbled out of its paper wrapping. She tore off her makeshift bandage, pulled on her shoes, her jacket, and then marched back through the kitchen.

  Jim grabbed her as she passed; she shook him off.

  “You’re staying,” he growled, his voice gravel.

  “Oh, sure!” she said spitefully, thwacking his hand away. She looked around. “Hey, Jim, you’ve gotta admit. This is a great idea.”

  “You’re a lunatic!” he shouted. He grabbed at her again, cuffed her, and she cuffed him back.

  “Come on, Jimbo!” she spat. “It’s just perfect.” She pounded him on the chest with both fists. “Perfect, perfect, perfect!”

  He wanted to kill her, but, even wounded, she was way too strong for him. She flung him to the floor. Then she fled. He clambered to his feet, took off after her, but as he stepped through the doorway, a rotten apple smashed on the wall beside him.

  “Thanks for nothing, idiot!” she bellowed from the garden. She hurled another apple, which didn’t make it as far as the porch. Then she took off through the orchard. She wasn’t limping anymore.

  19

  Jim didn’t move. He stood in the centre of the kitchen until the room stopped spinning. The anger in him subsided, but it did not go away. It dispersed into every limb, every cell, every part of him now.

  Looking down, he saw that he was standing on his father’s name. Huge sobs burst from him. The tears coursed down his face and he made no attempt to wipe them away.

  He took a deep breath and headed towards the counter, walking like a zombie. In the cupboard under the sink he found some scouring pads. He found a bucket and filled it. On his knees, he started scrubbing away at FATHER, at KILLED, at HUB. But the paint, as viscous as drying blood, only smeared horribly. He sobbed and scrubbed and the tears fell again, but not enough tears to wipe away the mess Ruth Rose had left behind.

  He was still on his knees when his mother arrived home. She dropped what she was carrying. In a flash, she was on the floor beside him, cradling him in her arms as if he were a small child. She smelled of soap. She had spent the night stirring it or cutting it into bars or whatever it was she did. But for once the heavy perfume wafting off her skin and clothes didn’t make him sick. Her own tears joined his. She looked around at the mayhem, the gory graffiti and leaned on him for support as much as he leaned on her.

  Finally he pulled away, rubbed his eyes on his sleeve, sniffed and crawled to his feet. His mother picked up a chair and set it at the table. She led him there, then found the kettle — it had been hurled into the wood box. She filled it at the sink. Sniffing, she put the kettle on the stove, turned it on, found the teapot — mercifully unbroken — and went about making tea.

  The comforting sounds helped to bring Jim around.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said.

  “It isn’t your fault.”

  “It is so! I brought her here.”

  “You took her in,” said his mother. “That was the right thing to do.”

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “It was stupid, stupid, stupid. I hate her. Hate her.”

  He heard the intake of breath, but the rebuke didn’t come. She brought him tea with extra sugar, instead. They sat for a long time, letting the drink calm them down.

  When his mother spoke again, there was only hurt in her voice.

  “Why would she do this?”

  Jim shook his head pathetically. “I don’t know. I just don’t get it.”

  After another moment she went to use the phone. It was dead. The line had been torn from the wall. She glanced at the blackboard. Nancy Fisher’s phone number in Tweed had been erased.

  Iris sighed. “Where is she now?”

  “She’s gone,” said Jim.

  “You only did what you thought was right. I should have known better.”

  Jim sat up. He suddenly realized that his mother knew nothing of what had happened during the night.

  “It was because he came back. Father, I mean.”

  Iris looked startled. “Last night?”

  Jim nodded. “Around three. He knew she was here. When he talked to you, he knew it. Mom, he came inside. I locked the door, like always. He just got the key from the porch and walked in.”

  Iris looked aghast. “Did he hurt her?”

  “He didn’t get a chance,” said Jim. “We split.”

  Iris looked around at the devastation. “Where were you when this happened?”

  Jim’s face fell. “We got separated,” he said. “We climbed out a window and took off. I went to Billy’s place. I didn’t see her for…I don’t know…hours, I guess.” He shook his head, trying to kick-start his brain. He looked up again, looked around him, his eyes opened wide. “I can’t believe it.”

  His mother sat back in her chair, her arms hanging limply by her side. “Jim,” she said, “Ruth Rose is a sick girl.”

  He nodded and hated himself for agreeing with her. But what could he do? She was sick. Twisted. Deranged.

  Hey, Jim, you gotta admit. This is a great idea.

  “She was right about one thing,” he said. “I’m an idiot.”

  “Jim, stop blaming yourself. Bringing her home was the Christian thing to do.”

  “What does that mean anymore?” he said. “Was it Christian of Father Fisher to come here at three in the morning and scare us to death? Was it Christian of him to drive me out of my own house? Ruth Rose is crazy — okay, I know that now for sure. But I know what made her that way. Him. He’s just as crazy and I hate him,” he said. “I hate them both.”

  With what patience she could muster, his mother spoke. “You
know you are not to use that word in this house.”

  “Why not!” said Jim darkly. “I’m supposed to tell the truth, aren’t I?”

  “Jim Hawkins, please.”

  But Jim couldn’t stop. “Right, I forgot. Because Dad hated someone and regretted it, I’m not allowed to hate anyone. Great. That’s really fair.”

  His mother’s face went ashen, then grew stern. “Did she tell you that?”

  “No,” he said. “But it’s true, isn’t it? Dad hated Wilfred Fisher. Well, I hate his son. Maybe it’s hereditary.”

  Iris leaned her elbows on the table, let her head fall into her hands, too weary to fight anymore.

  Jim looked over at her feet. She was still in her rain-boots. She never wore outdoor shoes in the house. Nothing was as it should be. Everything had changed.

  “Jim,” she said, gently. “Your father told me before we got engaged all about his hatred for Wilfred Fisher. He told me all the bad things he did. He told me he had been consumed with hatred and it was a terrible thing. He wanted me to know that about him. And he wanted me to know that he was ashamed of it. Said he wanted to dedicate his life to loving what there was to love and turning the other cheek to what he could not love. Those were his words. We even said them in our wedding vows.”

  Jim rubbed his eyes with his fingers. “I’m sorry,” he muttered.

  “I accept your apology. That girl has made you crazy.”

  A scratching noise at the outside door stopped them both. Jim was on his feet in an instant. The noise came again. Jim opened the door and Snoot dashed inside, sopping wet. She stopped and arched her back, then lifted a paw sticky with coagulated paint. Jim picked her up. Held onto her squirming wetness. Took a step, felt the soles of his shoes stick to the floor.

  Iris stood up with a sigh. “Sleep,” she said. “Nothing more should be said and nothing can be done until we’ve both had a sleep.”

  Jim swallowed hard, buried his head in the purring cat. It wasn’t true, of course — that nothing could be done before sleep. Before his mother went to sleep she had the livestock to feed. He wanted to help, but didn’t have the strength. He kicked off his shoes by the parlour door, submitted to a bone-crunching hug from his mother, then headed towards his room.

  Thoroughly defeated, he noticed, passing through the parlour, that his binder was gone. The transcript from the Expositor, the photo — everything. And who had taken that?

  20

  The school bus came and went, its yellow sides and empty windows splattered with muck. Jim heard it pass from somewhere just under the surface of a sleep filled with running and Poochie barking and Fisher shouting and Ruth Rose’s eyes filled with hatred.

  It was noon when he woke up, his head woozy, his body aching all over. He lay in bed startled by the grey daylight like water wrung from a sponge mop. He wondered where he was. Snoot, beside him, rolled over to have her tummy rubbed. Jim complied.

  Before his waking eyes he saw again the look of loathing Ruth Rose had hurled at him when she left.

  Betrayal. That’s what he had seen, though he had been too enraged to recognize it.

  Betrayal? Surely she was the one who had betrayed him. Vandalized his home.

  Or had she?

  She had the motive. She had the time. But if she had done it, she had not given anything away at Billy Bones’ or on the walk home. Was that part of her illness? Could she do something like that and completely forget it had ever happened? Jim had heard of such things, but he couldn’t believe it.

  So what if she really hadn’t done it? But then why didn’t she defend herself when he accused her? She had even flung it in his face. Hey, Jim, you gotta admit. This is a great idea. What else had she said? It’s just perfect. What did that mean?

  His mind was working overtime as he pulled on his tatty robe and slippers. He peeked into the spare room. Ruth Rose’s bedclothes were all over the place. He picked up her pillow and held it close to his face, sniffing. The pillow was cold, with no lingering smell of roses. No wonder, the window had been wide open all night. The wind had blown her away. He closed it.

  In the kitchen, his mother sat at the table, fixing the phone cable. Hub’s red toolbox lay open beside a plate of scarcely touched toast. She looked up, but there was only warmed-over comfort in her dark eyes. He wondered if she had slept at all. She looked back down at her work.

  “When I’ve got this done, I’m calling the police, unless you’ve got a better idea,” she said.

  “Maybe you could call Hec instead,” he said. She looked at him curiously, as if there were more secrets. “It’s just a suggestion.”

  On the counter he found a paper bag from the bakery with three Danish pastries inside. The paper bag was smeared with red paint. There was red paint everywhere.

  She reconnected the phone, then called the factory to let them know she wouldn’t be coming in that night.

  “I’m going into town,” she said. “I don’t care if I have to spend our last cent, I’m not going to live in this house with this…” She couldn’t go on, didn’t need to. The kitchen spoke for itself, no less dreadful by noon-light.

  Jim tried to keep his voice calm, sensible sounding. “Mom,” he said, “this is going to sound weird, but I’m not so sure Ruth Rose did this.”

  His mother’s face screwed up in an expression of disgust.

  “Are you out of your mind?”

  Jim took a deep breath. “Maybe,” he said.

  His mother slammed the tools back into the tool box. “So you are suggesting he did this?”

  “Maybe.”

  His mother stared at him. “What kind of a…a lunatic would accuse himself of murder in the house of the victim?”

  As impossible as it seemed, Jim thought he knew exactly what kind of a lunatic.

  “Don’t you see,” he said, urgently now. “He’s talked to you about her. He knows that you know that she thinks he murdered Dad. So this graffiti doesn’t tell you anything new.” Jim gave up. It sounded ridiculous.

  “Jim,” said his mother. “Think of what you are saying.”

  “I am.”

  “No, you’re not. She’s completely bamboozled you. She’s…she’s kidnapped your mental faculties.”

  “No, she hasn’t.”

  “Stop!” said Iris, holding up her hand. Her face was flushed. She stood up, slammed shut the steel top of the tool kit. She glared at him. Then she reached for the phone again and punched a number.

  “Hec, please,” she said, glancing Jim’s way.

  Hec was out on a call. “It’s urgent, Dorothy,” said Iris. “Please tell him to call as soon as he gets back.” Jim watched as his mother hung up and started to punch in another set of numbers, then hesitated and hung up.

  So. No police. Not yet. And he knew why. They’d had enough police a year ago to last them a lifetime.

  Jim made to speak, but she held up her hand.

  “Save it!” she said.

  He took a seat across the table from her. He tried to compose himself for whatever was coming next. He watched her wipe her eyes with her hand, pinch the bridge of her nose. When she opened her eyes they were bloodshot but looked upon him gently nonetheless.

  “Jim,” she said. “Remember at church when you came back after so long? Remember how people looked at you?” He remembered, all right. “Some of that, Jim, was sympathy for losing your father. But some of it was something else.”

  Jim cast her a curious look.

  “We…a lot of people…were worried about you,” she said. “You were not well for quite awhile there. You remember. We weren’t sure…what you might do.”

  Jim bowed his head. “That’s all passed,” he said. “I told you.”

  “I know, Jim. Or at least, I thought I did…”

  Jim looked at her with dawning awareness. “You think I’m nuts,” he said.

  His mother shook her head. “I don’t know what to think.”

  “Yes, you do,” he said. “You think I’ve
lost it. Like I’m having delusions. Hey, maybe I did this,” he shouted, holding out his hands to take in the defiled kitchen.

  Iris looked distressed. “Talking like that is only making things worse.”

  Suddenly Jim knew what it must be like to be Ruth Rose. To always be under a cloud of suspicion, to never be accepted at face value. As soon as you knew she was under medication, that she had been institutionalized, you could never be sure. And Father had made sure everybody knew that.

  Then he recalled something Fisher had said, about Jim being sick, about it running in the family.

  “Hey, maybe I’m like Dad,” he said.

  Iris sighed.

  “That’s what Fisher said. Last night. I have the same thing Dad has.”

  “He didn’t say that,” said Iris furiously.

  “How would you know?” said Jim. “You weren’t here.” Then he dropped his voice. “Or maybe it wasn’t Fisher. Maybe my voices told me that.”

  “Jim!” Iris pushed her hair back off her forehead. “This is no time for joking.”

  “He threatened me. You think that’s a joke?”

  “Enough!” said Iris.

  He was going to argue, but she stopped him with a steely glance. She closed her eyes. Without opening them again, she said, “I’m going to the hardware store. You think you’ll be okay here alone?”

  Jim thought of something smart-ass to say, but kept it to himself. “I’ll be okay,” he said. “I can start cleaning up. When Hec phones I’ll ask him to come up here.”

  He watched her closely, wondered whether he had sounded sane enough. She nodded. Smiled. And, without another word, went upstairs to change. She left with only a hug and a promise to hurry back.

  She wasn’t gone more than a few minutes when Hec called.

  “Jimbo?” he said, his voice wound up tight. “I just heard that your mother called, but I’m glad you’re there. I was on the verge of calling you.”

  “You were?”

  “I’m out at the Sagittarius Motel. You know, near the 511 turn-off. There’s something I want to talk to you about. Tell your mom I can be up there in fifteen minutes.”