Fire Spirit

by Graham Masterton

  ‘Was this a dream you had?’ Ruth asked her. She was used to Amelia describing her feelings in unusual ways. When she had a migraine, she said that somebody had smashed a mirror in her head.

  ‘No, it wasn’t a dream. It was when Uncle Jack called you. I had a feeling that all these people had started to come in. That’s why I didn’t want you to go.’

  Ruth said, ‘Come here,’ and gave Amelia a hug. ‘It wasn’t very nice. I mean, whoever it was who died, they were very badly burned. But there were no faint people there, or people with white faces.’

  But then she thought about the dark-haired boy, who had been so faint that he hadn’t even appeared in her photograph.

  Craig didn’t arrive home until well past eight o’clock. He stood in the kitchen doorway with a frown on his face, as if he wasn’t at all sure that he was in the right house.

  Ruth was wiping the place mats. ‘You want pizza?’ she asked him. ‘Ammy and I, we’ve had ours. God knows what time Jeff’s going to be home.’

  ‘I, ah – I’m not too hungry at the moment. I’ll wait for Jeff.’

  He dragged out a chair from under the kitchen table and sat down heavily.

  ‘You’ve been drinking,’ said Ruth.

  ‘You think? Oh – I forgot. You’re an arson investigator. You have a nose for flammable liquids. Gasoline, methanol, vodka Martinis, you name it.’

  ‘And what good will drinking do, exactly?’

  He raised one finger, as if he were about to impart the greatest gem of wisdom since Moses. ‘Drinking stops you thinking. That’s what good it does.’

  ‘I see. Drinking stops you thinking. Well, I’m not drinking because I still have a full-time job to do and a house to run and two teenage kids and a husband to look after. A drunken husband, as it happens.’

  ‘You’re a saint, Ruth. I always said that. That’s why I married you. Saint Ruth of the Smoothly Running Household.’

  ‘So,’ she asked him, ‘how did it go with the Kraussmans?’

  ‘The Kraussmans?’ he grimaced. ‘Not exactly great, to tell you the truth.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ asked Ruth.

  ‘It means that the Kraussman Brothers have been pretty badly hit by the credit crunch, like everybody else. They’re drawing in their horns, that’s the way they put it.’

  ‘And what does that mean – “drawing in their horns”?’

  ‘In a nutshell, it means they’re putting a temporary hold on any future housing development.’

  ‘So they won’t be giving you any more contracts?’

  ‘Not for the foreseeable future, no.’

  ‘But the Kraussmans – they supply you with more than half of your gross income.’

  Craig nodded. ‘Correct. They do. But right now it looks like we’ll just have to find somebody else to fit kitchens for.’

  ‘Like who, for instance? If the Kraussmans are drawing in their horns, then everybody else will be drawing in their horns, too.’

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ said Craig. ‘I’m working on it.’

  There was a long silence between them. Then Craig said, ‘Ammy . . . she was pretty upset about that breakfast she cooked for you.’

  ‘I know. But we’ve made up now. Where are you going to find more contracts?’

  Craig looked up, and for the first time ever his gray eyes looked hooded and defensive. ‘I don’t know, sweetheart,’ he told her. ‘I truly and honestly don’t know.’

  ‘But you have about three months’ grace, don’t you? They’re still going to finish the Mayfield Drive development?’

  ‘I don’t think so. In fact I very much doubt it.’

  ‘What?’

  Craig took a deep breath. ‘That’s what this morning’s meeting was all about, honey. The Kraussmans have run out of credit at the bank and they’ve had to stop all building work at Mayfield Drive and Wildcat Creek West, and lay everybody off. They didn’t want to, but they didn’t have the choice.’

  ‘So where does that leave you? Where does that leave us?’

  ‘Struggling for survival, I guess.’

  ‘But they will pay you for the work you’ve done already? Come on, Craig, you’ve laid out thousands of dollars for worktops and sinks and floor tiles and God knows what else.’

  Craig shook his head. ‘They’re flat-busted. Eugene Kraussman said he was very sorry, he’s been doing everything he can to keep the company’s head above water, but even if he manages to finish the development, he won’t be able to sell any of the houses at a profit, not at today’s prices, if at all.’

  ‘But they have to pay you! You have a contract!’

  Craig reached across the table and held her hands. ‘If they don’t have the money, sweetheart, they don’t have the money, contract or not. You can’t get blood out of a cinder block.’

  Ruth didn’t know what to say. She had been conscious for the past few months that Craig was growing increasingly worried about cash flow, and that new orders for fitted kitchens had been few and far between. He had not only been sleeping badly, he had been drinking much more than usual, and his elbows were reddened with eczema.

  ‘How are you going to pay any wages?’ she asked.

  ‘I can pay Randy and Carlos for this week, and Cora, too. But after that – well, I have five working days to find next week’s pay.’

  ‘And if you can’t?’

  Craig gripped her hands tight. ‘No such word as “can’t”, sweetheart. One way or another, Cutter’s Kitchens is going to stay in business. Even if I have to rob a bank.’

  Ruth took off her red checkered apron and hung it up. ‘Why don’t you go upstairs and take a very cold shower? I can make you some coffee if you like.’

  Craig shook his head. ‘Cold showers and coffee, they won’t help. Nothing’s going to help. It’s finally arrived, the end of the world. Armageddon, just like it says in the Bible.’

  At that moment, Ruth heard the burble of a car engine outside. It stopped abruptly, and then the front door opened. Jeff came into the kitchen, his black hair all spiked up, wearing his black leather jacket and his black jeans.

  ‘That crappy car, I swear to God.’

  ‘Good evening, Jeff,’ said Ruth. ‘Nice to see you, too.’

  ‘Yeah, whatever. I’m driving along West Sycamore, right, and this dork’s right in front of me driving real slow, but when I pull out to overtake, he puts his foot down and he’s going faster and faster and I can’t get past him and he’s only driving a frigging Taurus, right, but even when I put my foot flat down on the floor I still can’t get past him and then I see this semi coming the other way toward me and I have to drop back or else it’s going to be a head-on collision, right, and do you know what he does, this dork in the Taurus? He’s about a hundred years old, right, but he gives me the finger. Can you believe that?’

  Craig looked across at Ruth as if Jeff had been speaking a foreign language. Ruth said, ‘Did you get his license number, this hundred-year-old dork in the Taurus?’

  ‘What do you think? I was too busy trying not to get killed.’

  ‘Well, you didn’t get killed, and I have to say that I’m pleased about that.’

  ‘Yeah, but if I had a decent car, instead of that junker . . .’

  ‘I told you to get a job.’

  ‘Yeah, like what job? Stacking shelves or something? Flipping burgers?’

  ‘Nothing wrong with either of those. It’s all money, after all. I think Dean Huntley at the Red Lobster is looking for a dishwasher.’

  ‘Oh, great. How come Dan Collins’ parents have just bought him a brand-new Honda, and they don’t expect him to wash dishes?’

  ‘Because the Collins are rolling in it,’ Craig retorted. ‘And right now, this family is very much not rolling in it. It’s called a recession.’

  ‘Oh, great. Thanks a lot. Trust me to get born into the wrong frigging family.’

  ‘Wash your mouth out,’ said Craig.

  Jeff said, ‘I’m out of here. I
’m going to Lennie’s.’

  ‘Back by eleven!’ Ruth called after him as he slammed the front door.

  Craig sat at the table with his head bowed and his eyes closed. At last, he looked up and said, ‘He’s right, of course. We should be able to buy him a new car. I really don’t like him driving around in that beaten-up Pinto.’

  ‘Your parents never bought you a new car,’ said Ruth. ‘You had to work for it. So should he.’

  ‘But that was the whole point, wasn’t it? We were always going to be better off than our parents. We were always going to give our kids everything.’

  ‘Yes, we were. Maybe that’s where we went wrong.’

  Craig looked around the kitchen and frowned. ‘Did you say pizza?’

  ‘Yes. Do you want it?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know what I want. I’m sorry. I’ve let you down, haven’t I? I never thought that it would ever come to this.’

  Ruth sat down beside him and took hold of his hand. ‘It’s not your fault, Craig. Everybody’s suffering, just the same. We’ll get through it. We have to.’

  Craig nodded. ‘Do you know what Ammy said to me today, when I was taking her to school? I was trying to explain to her that business wasn’t going too well, and she said, “Whatever you’ve done, no matter how long ago it was, even if you’ve forgotten all about it, in the end you always have to pay for it.”’

  ‘Ammy said that? That was very deep. For Ammy, anyhow.’

  ‘I don’t know. It was the way she was looking at me when she said it. I really got the feeling that she wasn’t talking about the credit crunch at all. It was like she was talking about something else altogether, but I’m damned if I know what.’

  Ruth stroked his cheek. ‘Craig,’ she said, ‘the only thing that you have ever done is try to take care of us. You can’t blame yourself for a worldwide recession.’

  He stared at her, and his eyes were glistening with tears. ‘I love you, Ruth. You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I know that. I love you, too. Now how about that pizza?’

  As Ruth came upstairs, she could hear Amelia singing in her bedroom. Her voice was high and very clear, and she had almost faultless pitch. It was one of the peculiarities of William’s Syndrome that she had highly sensitive hearing and had only to listen to a piece of music once and she could sing it or hum it note-perfect.

  Ruth stopped outside Amelia’s bedroom door. It was about a half-inch open, and she could see one corner of Amelia’s desk, with her homework spread out on it, and a collection of family photographs, and three toy frogs sitting on top of her PC.

  ‘I wonder where he’s going

  With that smile upon his face.

  I wonder if he knows it’s going to rain.

  I wonder if he knows she doesn’t live there, any more

  And he’ll never see or hear from her again.’

  Ruth knocked and opened the door wider. Amelia was sitting cross-legged on the end of her bed, wearing her pajamas with the big pink flowers on them.

  ‘Hi. I heard you singing. That was a very sad song.’

  ‘I made it up myself.’

  ‘It’s sad, but it’s very good, too.’ She nodded toward Amelia’s desk. ‘Did you finish your homework?’

  ‘Most of it.’

  Ruth looked at the photographs. There was a picture of Amelia sitting in her playpen, hugging a tatty pink rabbit; and a picture of Amelia walking hand-in-hand with her father, on the shores of Lake Michigan; and another picture of a blonde woman with curly hair and a pearl necklace, smiling vaguely at the camera as if she wasn’t enjoying having her photograph taken. This woman looked remarkably like Ruth. She could have been Ruth’s mother or her sister. But Amelia had found the picture in the bottom of her closet when they first moved into this house, and she could only guess that the woman was the wife of the previous owner.

  ‘I don’t know why you keep this picture,’ said Ruth. ‘You don’t even know who she is.’

  ‘I like her. She’s you, if you were my friend, instead of my mother.’

  ‘I hope that I am your friend.’

  Amelia smiled, and then stopped smiling abruptly. ‘There was something I wanted to ask you.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  She looked uncomfortable. ‘I’m glad I didn’t go to Sandra’s. I’m sorry about being so sulky. I knew all the time I was cooking your breakfast that you wouldn’t like it.’

  Ruth sat down next to her. ‘Hey . . . you don’t have to be sorry. I thought it was a lovely idea. You can’t blame yourself because you don’t think the same way as most other people. Blame me, if you’re going to blame anybody.’

  Amelia laid her head in Ruth’s lap. ‘But I’m always saying things and doing things even when I know that people aren’t going to like them.’

  ‘We all do that, sweetheart. It’s called being human.’ She stroked Amelia’s hair and they were silent together for a moment.

  Then Amelia said, ‘You will be careful, won’t you?’

  ‘Hey, I’m always careful. I have people who depend on me. Whenever I have to go into a burned-out building, I always make all of the safety checks first. I don’t want any floors collapsing or ceilings falling on top of me.’

  Amelia raised her head and looked at her seriously. ‘I don’t mean that. I mean those people I was talking about. Now that they’ve found out how to come through, they’re going to keep on coming.’

  ‘Do you know who they are?’

  ‘I’m not sure. They’re not all the same. Like I said, some of them are very faint but some of them have white faces. I can sort of hear them talking but I don’t know what they’re talking about.’

  ‘Where do they come from? I mean, when you say that they’ve found a way to get through – through from where?’

  Amelia closed her eyes and repeated the door-opening gesture she had made in the kitchen, only more slowly. ‘I don’t know. There’s a whole crowd of them in the doorway and there’s too many of them and I can’t see past them.’

  ‘Do you have any idea what they want?’

  Amelia shook her head.

  Ruth gave her a kiss. ‘You know what I think? I think you need to stop worrying about these people. They’re all up here, inside of your mind, that’s all. Just like those imaginary pets you used to tell me about when you were little. You remember Puffy, your imaginary poodle? Just like him. Just like the man in your song.’

  ‘He’s real, but he’s not a man. He’s only a boy.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Who is he? Somebody from school?’

  ‘No,’ said Amelia. ‘I don’t know his name. But I saw him in the street.’

  ‘Which street?’

  ‘This street, of course! He was standing right outside.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘This evening,’ said Amelia. She was beginning to grow impatient. ‘That’s why I made up the song.’

  ‘The boy in your song was standing outside our house this evening?’

  ‘Yes. He was there for ages.’

  Ruth took hold of Amelia’s hands. ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘He looked sad.’

  ‘You should have told me. Maybe he was looking for a lost dog or something.’

  ‘He was just standing there, staring. He had black hair and a black T-shirt and red jeans.’

  Ruth stared at her. She felt a tingling sensation in her wrists. ‘Are you sure? A black T-shirt and red jeans?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Ruth stood up and went over to the window. She drew back the flowery cotton drapes and looked down into the street. Her view of the sidewalk was mostly obscured by the huge old basswood tree beside the driveway, but she couldn’t see any boy standing out there.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Amelia asked her, after a while.

  Ruth pulled the drapes together, making sure that she closed them tight. ‘Nothing, sweetheart. There’s nobody there now. It’s time you thought about washing your teeth and going to bed,
isn’t it? It’s school again tomorrow. By the way, what were you going to ask me?’

  Amelia said, ‘If I write a song on a piece of paper, but then I burn it, what happens to the song?’

  ‘I’m not sure. So long as you can remember it, it won’t be gone for ever, will it? And even when you’ve forgotten it, maybe the smoke will go on singing it.’

  FIVE

  Tilda was just about to climb into the bathtub when the doorbell rang. She stopped, one heavy leg still raised. Who was calling on her at this time of the evening? More to the point, who was calling on her at all? She had only one really close friend – Rosemary Shulman at the office – and Rosemary wouldn’t come around to her apartment to see her, quite apart from the fact that she didn’t drive.

  She waited. Maybe somebody had made a mistake and pressed the wrong button. It happened now and again, especially at night, because the neighborhood kids were continually breaking the light over the porch. Once she had opened the door to be confronted by a handsome black man holding out a huge bouquet of yellow roses, but it had turned out that he was looking for Etta, the skinny black salesgirl who lived next door.

  She dipped her toes into the foam to check how hot the water was. She had been paid on Friday, so she had indulged herself this evening with a chicken-dinner-for-two which she had preprepared at the Dream Dining franchise down on East Markland Avenue. She always made a dinner-for-two because it filled her up and stopped her snacking so much during the evening, and so that the kitchen helpers at Dream Dining wouldn’t realize that she always ate alone, on her lap, in front of the TV.

  The doorbell rang again, twice, as if the caller was growing impatient. She took her foot out of the water and bent over to dry between her toes, the way that her mother had always told her. She tugged at her straggly brown curls to make sure that she looked presentable, and then she took down the pink candlewick robe that was hanging on the back of the bathroom door, and put it on, grunting with the effort.

  She crossed the living-room and went to the intercom beside the front door.

  ‘Who is it?’ she asked.

  ‘Pizza guy.’

  ‘You have the wrong apartment. I didn’t order pizza.’