by Ron Ripley
Molly’s hand trembled slightly as she picked up the cigarettes. She took out the matches and discarded the pack. Only a single match was absent from the book, and she grinned. Holding the matches up to her nose, she closed her eyes and inhaled the pleasant scent of chemicals and cardboard. She ran her thumb along the striking plate on the back, and her grin widened into a smile.
Molly opened her eyes and thought about what she could do with the matches. She imagined what it would be like to burn a pile of leaves. Perhaps even some wood.
Then she straightened up as a wonderful idea sprang to mind.
Burn something bigger, she thought. Something beautiful and clean.
She held onto the matches as she turned around in the alley and headed home, the book of matches soothing in her hand.
Bonus Scene Chapter 2: Something Beautiful and Clean
Molly slipped the house key from beneath the back door’s welcome mat and unlocked the door. She eased the key out of the lock and returned it underneath the mat before she stepped into the house. Leaving the door ajar, Molly tread softly across the kitchen, pausing only once when Finley, the cocker spaniel, trotted into the kitchen, his tail wagging.
She crouched down, hugged the dog and whispered, “Do you need to go outside?”
The dog’s tail increased its speed, and she gave him a quick kiss on the forehead. “Okay, go ahead.”
As the dog left the kitchen, Molly stood up and continued into the house. She passed through the dining room and into the hall. From the master bedroom she heard snoring as she walked by it, and when she went up the stairs, she kept to the edges of them so as not to disturb anyone.
When she reached the second floor, Molly took her cat’s cradle out of her pocket and played with it absently as she walked to the bedroom. The door was open, and she stepped in lightly. Molly went to the window, which was up an inch or so, and lowered it, carefully sliding the latch into place. With that done, Molly went to the dresser and slid the top drawer open. She hummed softly to herself as she rummaged through the clothes, found a shirt she liked, and draped it over her shoulder.
Smiling, Molly closed the drawer and went to the bed. She stared at it for several seconds, then she crouched down and slid the first loop of the cat’s cradle over Mary Ellen’s wrist. Her friend didn’t make a sound, her mouth slightly open as she breathed through her nose. The other girl’s eyelids twitched, but she didn’t move as Molly tightened the loop, or when she secured the rest of the cat’s cradle to the thick post of Mary Ellen’s large bed.
Molly watched her friend for a full minute before she opened the drawer to Mary Ellen’s nightstand and removed the girl’s diary. Without bothering to read it, she tore out several pages and balled them up, placing them beneath the bed. When those were in position, Molly added a few more.
Satisfied, Molly nodded and took out her book of matches. She removed one and struck it, the sweet, tangy scent of the match-head catching fire filled the air, and she held it for a heartbeat before she leaned in and set the first crumpled page of the diary on fire.
The paper caught instantly, and Molly had to snatch her hand back before the flames burned her.
Smiling happily, Molly quickly backed out of the room, closing Mary Ellen’s door behind her. Hurrying down the stairs, she remembered at the last minute to slow down in front of the master bedroom. She tiptoed by it, pausing only long enough to pull the door shut.
Molly raced out of the house, meeting Finley in the backyard.
“Come on,” she whispered, giggling, “follow me, Finley.”
The dog did so, his tail wagging as they went to stand in the neighbor’s yard, by the aluminum shed. No sooner did she find a good place to sit then the first of Mary Ellen’s screams ripped through the air.
The light came on in the master bedroom, and a strange light flickered in Mary Ellen’s room. Her friend’s screams took on a frenzied pitch, and Molly could hear Mr. and Mrs. Kowalski’s shouts and screams join their daughter’s.
Molly watched and listened until the sound of fire engines interrupted her, and she sighed.
She gave Finley one last hug, then stood up and followed the well-worn trail that led back to her own house, and her own bedroom, and the memory of the best present she had ever received.
A simple book of matches.
Bonus Scene Chapter 3: A Fair Day in May
“Are you alright, dear?” Molly’s mother asked.
Molly smiled at her and nodded, dabbing at her eyes. They walked away from the graveside, leaving behind Mary Ellen’s bereaved parents and relatives. Mary Ellen had suffered severe burns over eighty percent of her body, and she had inhaled a significant amount of smoke.
The girl had survived a surprising seventeen days in the burn ward before dying.
Molly had been suitably impressed. She had never imagined that Mary Ellen, a frail, blonde girl, would have had such strength.
“I’m okay,” Molly said, then added a lie. “I’m just sad Mary Ellen died. It was terrible.”
“It is,” Molly’s father agreed. “Poor Dan Kowalski. He forgot to change the batteries in his smoke detector. The fire department said it wouldn’t have mattered since the fire started beneath her bed somehow, but by God, that’s not going to help Dan sleep any better.”
“Now, Elliot,” Molly’s mother said in a hushed voice. “Molly doesn’t need to hear this.”
“I’m sorry, Molly,” her father said.
“That’s okay, dad,” Molly said, smiling up at him. “I just wish there was something we could do for them.”
“Pastor Timothy will help them,” her mother said confidently. “Jane and Dan are in good hands with him. He’ll help them, and so will God.”
Molly smiled at her parents, then she slipped her hands into her jacket’s pockets. Her right hand closed around her matchbook, and a sense of calm enveloped her.
Her parents talked over her head, mostly about making certain the batteries in their own detectors were new, and the steps that could be taken to prevent a fire.
Molly ignored them.
She was more concerned with what had happened at Mary Ellen’s house. Only a few pages from a diary and a single match had helped to kill someone. Molly was curious as to what might occur with more fuel and in a bigger building.
Especially where she wouldn’t have to worry about any animals.
Finley had taken a considerable amount of her attention, which was fine, she knew, because she did like the dog. If she hadn’t been focused partially on him, she might have thought about burning the entire Kowalski house down, and not just Mary Ellen’s bedroom.
As she and her parents walked down the narrow cemetery road, and then onto Elm Street to head home, Molly looked around, trying to remember to appear solemn.
Part of her was sad that Mary Ellen was dead, but it was a significantly smaller amount than the rest of her. The setting of the fire had been thrilling, and Molly’s heart raced at the memory of it. She could smell the burning paper, feel the heat that had sprung up and filled the room.
Molly shivered, and her father asked, “Are you sick?”
Molly shook her head as her mother pulled her in for a quick hug. “Just sad about your friend, aren’t you?”
Molly nodded, and as her mother let go, Molly glanced up and saw the Buckingham Home. The ugly, brick and mortar apartment building was, as her father said, the poorhouse for the senior citizens who could no longer afford to live on their own.
The sun glinted in the plate glass windows that interrupted the walls every ten or so feet, and a few of them were decorated with plants. Molly smiled as she looked at the building, and the ways the smoke curled up from the roof were multiple, burnished steel pipes protruded.
Her smile widened, and she held her head up a little higher. Thoughts raced through her mind for a moment, then she let the smile fade away as she asked, “Mother, may I ask you a question?”
“Of course, dear,” her mother said, s
miling down at her. “What is it?”
“I was wondering if I could volunteer at the Buckingham Home,” Molly said. “Pastor Timothy was speaking about it several weeks ago, and Mary Ellen had been very interested. I thought, maybe I could volunteer. Not only to help the old people but to honor Mary Ellen, too.”
“Well,” her father said, chest puffing with pride, “that is a remarkably adult line of thinking, young lady. I am extremely impressed.”
“Of course, you can,” her mother said, beaming at her. “You’re such a good girl, Molly. You make us so very proud.”
Molly squeezed her parents’ hands and swung her arms cheerfully. She loved them both, not only because they loved her unconditionally, but because they had no idea as to what she wanted to do.
Molly glanced again at the Buckingham Home and wondered whether or not bricks could burn.
Bonus Scene Chapter 4: Dame Petersen
“That’s a good girl,” Dame Petersen said, patting Molly on the back of her hand. “Thank you so much.”
“You’re welcome,” Molly said, sitting down in the chair across from the old woman. Molly’s feet didn’t touch the floor, so they swung freely above the old carpeting. Dame Petersen, whose first name Molly didn’t know, loved to knit.
“The baby is only four months old,” the older woman said. “Did I tell you that already, Molly?”
“Yes,” Molly said with a smile, “but it’s alright. I don’t mind.”
Dame Petersen chuckled. “Well, you’re better than my own children. They scold me for forgetting what I have and haven’t said. My own grandchildren won’t even speak to me.”
There was a note of sadness in the old woman’s voice, despite her chuckling.
“I really don’t mind, Mrs. Petersen,” Molly said, picking up the Agatha Christie paperback the woman had let her borrow.
“You are an angel, child.” Dame Petersen sighed. “We are all still amazed at how you have chosen to honor your friend. Such a tragedy.”
Molly nodded and lowered her head, more to hide the grin that threatened to appear than to feign grief. A moment later, when she had regained control, she lifted her chin and smiled sweetly at the old woman.
In the three months following Mary Ellen’s death, Molly had volunteered three times a week at the Buckingham Home. Mostly she sat with women such as Dame Petersen, who wanted conversation and company other than that of their neighbors. Sometimes she vacuumed the hallways or cleaned the glass on the doors. Occasionally, Molly walked with them around the home’s small garden.
But most days were spent inside, wandering through the building, visiting and chatting, and watching. Molly learned to observe everything. Each act and subtle habit. She knew who smoked cigarettes, and what brand they preferred. There were those who chose to light candles; some for religious reasons, others for ambiance. Molly knew which ones were habitually depressed, and who drank themselves into a stupor.
On each of the four floors, there were at least two who smoked and drank, or who took enough cough medicine to knock themselves out. Fire, Molly knew, was everywhere. And she knew who could be made a scapegoat for when she decided to burn the building down.
“Are you alright, Molly?” Dame Petersen asked.
“Hm?” Molly looked at the woman and gave a short nod. “I was daydreaming about the book.”
“Agatha is a wonderful author,” the older woman said, smiling. “And Then There Were None, is one of my favorite books by her. Are you enjoying it?”
“Oh yes,” Molly said. “I love it.”
“I’m so glad,” Dame Petersen said. Her smile widened for a moment, then she returned to her knitting, humming gently.
Molly smiled as well, returning her attention to the book. Dame Petersen was one of the residents she hoped would escape from the flames.
One of only a few. She probably will, Molly thought, turning the page. She’s fast for an old woman.
Bonus Scene Chapter 5: Preliminary Events
On Sunday, after service, Molly got her parents’ permission to take a walk. Still wearing one of her Sunday dresses, the pale blue chiffon with the white ruffles at the collar and sleeves, Molly walked into the narrow alley that ran between the houses of the development. She skipped along as she went, the smooth soles of her black Mary Janes kicking pebbles out of the way.
The summer sun had reached its apex, and the world was warm and perfect. Molly continued until she came to the intersection of the alley and Bridge Street, which she crossed and then entered yet another alley. She did this twice more until she was almost at her school. But instead of turning left onto Hewitt Street, as she normally would, Molly went to the right.
Her destination was a small market on the corner of Hewitt and Blaine. When she reached the store, she walked in through the open door, the smell of body odor and stale cigarettes assaulting her nose.
A tan and weathered man sat on a stool behind the counter. His thin, black and gray hair was slicked back with some sort of hair wax, and he was, as her father would have said, in desperate need of a shave. The man wore a pale white, button-down shirt stained with coffee and the ashes of cigarettes. His arms were thin, the forearms a lattice work of narrow, jagged scars. He glanced up from the folded newspaper he held, and a leer settled onto his face.
When his lips parted in a smile, crooked, yellow teeth were revealed, several of which were capped with silver.
“Hello,” the man said, his voice rough and cracked. “What can I do for you today?”
“I have a note,” Molly said, making herself sound as innocent and as young as possible. She took a folded piece of paper out of her dress’s pocket and passed it to the clerk. His hand brushed hers as he took it, the skin of his fingers disturbingly smooth.
Molly had forged a note from her father, working carefully at it late into the night, until she had managed to copy her father’s blocky handwriting and his graceless signature. The note was succinct, merely informing the clerk that her father was, in theory, ill, and he had sent his daughter to pick up a new lighter and a pack of Lucky Strikes.
Molly watched the clerk read the note, his thin lips mimicking in silence the words on the page.
When he finished, he looked at her.
Molly smiled sweetly, and coyly.
The man had a reputation at school, one Molly had heard of. He liked girls. Little girls. And if he thought he could get away with it, he offered them a drink of cheap whiskey, then propositioned them. The man liked to see their underwear, and he would offer treats and sometimes money to see it. Molly knew of more than a few girls who had taken him up on it.
The man licked his lips, then he took a pack of Lucky Strikes down from the shelf next to him, and a brass colored Zippo lighter. He put them on the counter, folded the note she had given him and slipped it into the breast pocket of his shirt. A sheen of sweat appeared on his forehead, and he asked, in a hesitant voice, “Say, would you like a drink?”
Molly looked at him innocently. “I don’t have enough for a drink. My father only gave me enough for the cigarettes and lighter.”
A smile appeared on the man’s face, and she saw a vein on his forehead stand out and pulse.
“Well, this would be between two friends,” the man said.
“But I don’t know your name,” she replied.
“I’m Barry,” the man said, wiping his hand off on his pants and then extending it.
“I’m Molly,” she said, shaking the offered hand and grinning. “It’s nice to meet you, Barry.”
“And nice to meet you,” he replied. “So, Molly, you want a drink?”
“Yes please,” she said in a serious tone. “It is very warm outside.”
“It is at that,” he whispered. Then, in a louder voice he added, “Now, I only have a grown-up drink that I could offer you, Molly. Would that be alright?”
“Ooh,” she said, clapping her hands. “What is it?”
His shoulders relaxed slightly, and he reached un
der the counter, retrieving an almost full bottle of a clear liquid. The label, Molly, saw, read, Red Irish Whiskey.
“That’s pretty,” she cooed. “May I see it?”
Smirking, Barry nodded and let go of the bottle.
Molly stepped forward, reached out, and turned the bottle so she could read the label in its entirety. Out of the corner of her eye, Molly saw Barry glance toward the front door as a car went by.
When he did, she grabbed the bottle by the neck with her right hand and swung it. The heavy glass bottom smashed into the bridge of Barry’s nose. Blood exploded out of both nostrils, and he let out a strangled gasp. His hands flew up to his face as she wrapped both hands around the bottle’s neck and slammed the bottom of it into his right temple.
The man’s eyes rolled up in his head, and he tumbled limply to the floor.
Still holding the whiskey bottle, the bottom of it dripping blood, Molly hurried to the door and closed it. She locked the deadbolt, then went back to the unconscious clerk. Moving quickly, Molly searched through the area behind the desk and found several containers of lighter fluid. She emptied them on Barry, then opened the whiskey and splashed it on him as well. Grinning, she took the forged note out of the man’s pocket and lit it with the Zippo he had meant to sell her.
Molly held the paper between her forefinger and thumb, watching the flames dance up the off-white note, devouring the words she had worked so carefully on. When there was little more than half of the page remaining, she dropped it onto Barry’s chest and took a step back.
His clothing caught fire immediately, the fire racing along the fabric.
The man’s body writhed, but his eyes didn’t open.
Molly frowned.
Did I hit him too hard? She asked herself. Anger rose up, and she turned around, stalking towards the back, where the girls at school had said Barry had taken them through. There would be an alley, and then a driveway. Molly would be able to get away.
When she reached the back door, a hideous whine reached her ears.