BURNED
by Lynda Clark
...BURNING...
Wood burns at around 190°C. Slow charring only takes around 150°C. Slow charring is a good way of describing what's happening to the floorboards. Blackness blossoms across them, turning them from oak to charcoal.
That magical charring point of 150° applies to paper too. The wallpaper blisters, its 1970s floral patterns bubbling like diseased pustules, brown-and-orange petals turning brown-and-oranger.
Cotton's robust nature requires a scorching 250° before it goes up. These curtains are obviously manmade crap because they're disintegrating like tissue in a tumble dryer.
Which begs the question, why are you standing here watching everything burn?
Chapter One - Existing
If that car's still there, I'm going to go down there and set it on fire.
Bernard clenched his eyes shut and then re-opened them. The ceiling swam above him in rippling patterns of darkness and light, like the shadows of flames.
Time to get up and check on the car.
He heaved his legs over the edge of the bed and found his slippers with his toes, hooking them into place and wriggling his feet inside without using his hands. Celeste scolded him for doing that, because it broke the backs down, but they were only slippers and what Celeste didn't know couldn't hurt her.
It wouldn't still be there. It was probably just some visitors for Mrs McKee. Or a hearse to cart the nosy old biddy away. Bernard smiled half-heartedly to himself at the thought. Better just check on it anyway. Just in case. He scratched his belly then forced himself to his feet. Started shuffling over to the window.
Downstairs letters dropped through the letterbox, thudding onto the mat.
Not again.
Bernard stood stock still and waited. Nothing. Just the one bundle. From the weighty slap of the envelopes, Bernard surmised that it was more than yesterday, but not as much as... Well, just not as much as it could have been. He waited some more. Perhaps for once the damn-
'Yipyipyipyipyipyipyip-yipyiypiypyipyiypyip!!!!'
Goddammnit. The neighbours would probably complain to the council again. Bernard hated that ruddy dog. Celeste had pestered and pestered for a cute fluffy puppy. Bernard didn't mind dogs, but he wanted something large and solid, the kind of dog he could prop his feet on when he was reading. But Celeste insisted on something tiny and adorable, because she'd be the one walking it anyway and didn't want her arm wrenched out the socket by some canine Goliath. So they got Muffy. The creepy, calculating mind of a tarantula in the body of a child's stuffed toy. Then her career skyrocketed and Bernard took early retirement and he was the one left at home with the venomous powder puff.
Muffy proved the existence of God. How could the noble wolf share its evolution with the Pomeranian? Then again, Muffy's ear-wasting yip made you pray for deafness, so perhaps he proved the existence of Satan.
The yipping continued, the same pitch, the same intensity, never letting up for a second.
Better go and shut him up. Car won't be there anyway, so I may as well just check.
He moved to the window and squinted through a crack in the curtains.
The long black car was still pulled up to the kerb in the street below. Across the tops of the lime trees lining the cul-de-sac, he saw Mrs McKee's net curtains twitch. At least the watchers were being watched.
Bernard swallowed.
It was nothing. Coincidence, nothing more. And anyway, even if it was something, it's not like they were doing anything. They just sat. It's not like they were going to see him do anything incriminating. As long as he could just stay calm, everything would be fine. Celeste would be home soon. Everything would be fine.
'YIPYIPYIPYIPYIPYIPYIP-YIPYIYPIYPYIPYIYPYIP!!!!'
Breathing as deeply as he could against the pinch in his chest, Bernard trudged to the landing. Muffy was in the hallway below, doing back flips off the front door, running up to the letter box then somersaulting over, running back and doing it again. The pile of letters lay on the doormat, a sheaf of unwanted reminders. Bernard tried not to look, but his brain counted envelopes regardless. Bernard wished his brain would take a holiday every now and then. Just give it a rest with all the thinking once in a while.
"MUFFY!" Bernard hollered. The evil little furball continued its circuit without ever breaking stride. Bloody creature only listened to Celeste.
"That's because he knows Mummy loves him," she'd coo into the tiny matted face, "and Daddy's a big ol' meanie!"
Maybe they should have kids. Maybe then that infernal hound would be relegated to the garden shed.
Bernard hurried downstairs as fast as his slouchy slippers would allow. Muffy came to an immediate stop and gazed up at Bernard adoringly, wagging his tail as if trying to shake the pompom off the end.
"Move," said Bernard. Muffy planted his feet and stood firmly on the pile of envelopes, the glint of a challenge in his round black eyes. Bernard pushed the dog easily aside with his foot, ignoring the squeaky growl of protest.
So many letters. He knelt on the floor and sifted through them. Forty eight. Twelve more than yesterday. Some of them were circulars, and a couple were bills, but the rest--
A knock at the door startled Bernard into paralysis, clenched fists crumpling the letters. A large navy blue shape loomed behind the frosted glass panel of the front door. Bernard held his breath as it moved closer, trying to see through. A forehead pressed against the glass, moved side to side, evidently trying to discern whether anyone was inside. Bernard remained perfectly still, armpits hot and damp, temples prickling with nervous perspiration.
What if it was them? The men from the car, whoever they were. Who could have sent them? Celeste thought Niall, but Bernard didn't think he had the money any more. Part of him thought Mr Richards, but he'd always seemed like such a nice man. Not one to resort to intimidation. And what did they want anyway? Why were they watching him? It wasn't like he'd ever go back.
Finally, the shape moved away. Bernard heard footsteps crunching down the gravel drive and exhaled. After a few minutes, he was calm enough to open the door. Crouching on the mat, he pushed with his shoulder, leaning out into the sunlight, trying to keep as much of his body inside as possible.
A parcel lay on the step wrapped in thick, dark green plastic. A refreshing breeze ruffled Bernard's hair and for half a second, he relaxed. But then the black car loomed huge in his mind, even though he could see little more than a dark shape through the privet hedge. In his mind's eye, he saw the tinted windows, making indistinct, inhuman shadows of its passengers. As Bernard daymared over the car, Muffy scrambled over his shoulder, slipped through the wrought iron fretwork of the gate and crossed the street to cock his leg on Mrs McKee's rhododendrons.
"Muffy!" Bernard hissed, barely daring to raise his voice. "Get back here! Muffy!"
As expected, Muffy continued snuffling through the undergrowth, unconcerned. Torn between the fear of the black car and fear of Celeste's wrath if said car ran over her beloved furbaby. Bernard made his way cautiously to the gate.
The paperboy swooped out of nowhere on his bike and pulled up with a screech of brakes that sent Muffy running back to Bernard for protection. Bernard scooped Muffy under one arm and ran for the lounge. He didn't care if the black car men saw that. Let them make of it what they would. The paperboy called: "Hey, Mister-" But Bernard ignored him, slammed the door shut, and dropped down on the floor behind the sofa with Muffy perched on his lap. Fortunately the front curtains were still drawn.
Muffy scrambled up against Bernard's chest, enjoying this newfound closeness. He placed tiny paws on Bernard's collarbone and strained to lick his face. Bernard held the flicking tongue at bay with an outstretched hand, realising he could have crushed the minute skull in his palm with hardly any effort at all. A stranger's thought, so totally unlike him it set his already frantic heart hammering even faster.
There was a brief knock at the door. The sound filled Bernard with despair. Was this what he'd been reduced to? Cowering behind the furniture in case the paperboy tried to talk to him?
The doorbell rang. Muffy leaned back on his haunches and licked the tear from Bernard's cheek. Taking a deep, shaking breath, Bernard held Muffy close for a moment and then released the little dog onto the floor. Muffy sprinted straight for the hallway and resumed his yipping and flipping routine. Bernard pressed his fingers to his eyes, hard.
There was a squeak as the paperboy lifted the letter box, no doubt trying to peer through. There was only an empty hallway for him to look at.
"I don't think it's him," he called to an unseen accomplice. "Just some crazy old hermit or something." There was a quiet discussion about whether this was or wasn't the right house, then retreating footsteps and bike tyres, and finally the creak of the gate as the pair left. Bernard had to strain his ears against Muffy's noise to make it all out, but he was fairly sure that was how it happened.
Receiving mail hadn't always been so stressful, had it? No. There was a time, a time when it was... nice.
Bernard suddenly smelled hot wool and he was ten years old again, standing in the hearth, warming his toes and looking at the Christmas cards dotting the mantelpiece. Back then when he heard the snap of the letterbox, and the thud of something dropping onto the hallway carpet, he skipped through to pick up the post. It was never for him, but that time, that one Christmas time, it was. Addressed 'To Bernard' in a flowing hand.
He'd opened it there and then. A picture of a robin with a flaming red breast greeted him. Smiling, he'd looked inside.
The silence suddenly pressed in on him from all sides, and the memory disappeared like tissue paper consumed by flame. The front garden had been silent long enough. Muffy had gone silent too. It was a while longer before Bernard remembered the package. His fingers had locked around the corner so tightly it took him a while to coax them into releasing the sweaty plastic. After massaging the life back into his hand, he punched through the wrapper with his fingertips.
Holding the cardboard packet at arm's length, he took a moment to enjoy the weight of it. Turned it over and cracked the glued spine. The packet opened and the contents slid into his lap. He leaned forward and inhaled the glorious smell, feeling calmed already. Just as he was about to get started, he heard a car purr onto the street. All thoughts of sinister thugs waiting for him in the black car were banished in an instant. Celeste was back and she was going to see what he'd bought and they'd had an agreement and she would be angry.
Oh god oh god oh god oh god. Bernard crammed his order back into the cardboard container and cast around frantically for somewhere to hide it. The bookcase? No, she'd run her eye along there as soon as she came in, just to make sure. Under the sofa was too obvious. Where then?
Bernard's gaze alighted on the coffee table. As he stuffed the package into the magazine rack, piling glossy women's weeklies on top, Muffy came to sniff the cardboard, small body twitching with interest. Bernard sent him to his pink fluffy dog bed and commanded him to stay. At the sound of Celeste's key in the door, the small dog tried to stand but Bernard pressed his rump firmly back down and said "Stay," with such menace that for once the animal complied.
Bernard leapt onto the sofa, and leaned hard on the remote control. The large mirror on the wall opposite clicked and became a television.
"Afternoon Bernard," Celeste beamed, face flushed. She set her gym bag down and crouched to make a fuss of Muffy, who had traitorously left his bed.
"You're back early, love," Bernard flicked through the channels, trying to look casual. Nonchalant. He stopped on a show with a cheering crowd. Maybe it was a rock concert. Maybe he'd see someone he knew.
"Yes, the shoot was a breeze," she flopped down next to him and plonked Muffy in her lap. "Everyone was very professional."
Celeste made fitness DVDs. Dancercise, Callisthenics, Tai Bo, Tai Chi - she'd done them all. Every one a bestseller. She had a slot on morning television charming the viewers and presenters into believing they could be as lithe and beautiful as her if they just did a few abdominal crunches before breakfast.
Bernard realised he was too cynical. Celeste was sincere in her teachings. She truly believed she could make anyone supple and attractive, no matter how chronically ugly and unconditioned they were. Her latest project was a DVD to teach people pole dancing. Bernard felt that for every one who appreciated this gesture, there'd be at least ten who wouldn't.
"Muffy, what's gotten into you?"
On the television, a celebrity Bernard had never heard of got out of a limo and raised his arms. The crowd screamed louder. He obviously thought he was really something, the way he was dressed. Bernard thought he looked like a great big idiot.
Bernard snapped his attention back into the room. Muffy had leapt down from the sofa and was savaging his dog bed.
"Muffy!" Bernard leaned forwards and raised a hand.
"Don't Bernard!" Celeste pulled on his arm, "He's only playing. He looks so funny!"
Bernard's heart was in his mouth. The dog was out to get him too, he was sure of it. As Celeste giggled and clapped, Muffy picked the dog bed up in his teeth and shook it. The corner swung into the coffee table, rattling the magazine rack. He sneaked a sidelong glance at Celeste, knowing those glowing brown eyes, now filled with laughter, would soon darken in disappointment.
Muffy dropped the bed and gave a little yip, before picking it up and whirling it around his head with all his might. Mid swing the tiny jaws released, and the bed flew into the rack, spilling the stack of magazines and revealing Bernard's hidden stash. Celeste saw it immediately.
"Bernard!" She moved to the parcel and snatched it up, lightning fast. "Is this what I think it is? I thought we'd agreed!" She threw aside the packaging and laid its contents out on the table.
"‛Advanced Carpentry, A Beginner's Guide' and 'My Travels with Zeb, the Life and Times of a One-Legged Cowboy'. Bernard!"
Bernard hung his head.
On the TV, the celebrity made his way through the crowd, people grabbing at him left and right as he approached the stairs up to the back entrance to the house. It wasn't even a rock concert. It was a reality show. A stupid, rubbish, reality show. Bernard couldn't believe they were still making that show.
Chapter 2 – Being
There were so many camera flashes going off, within seconds, he was blind. He continued shuffling forwards, making devil horns with both hands and pumping the air, even though he was in danger of tripping over his hooves and smashing his pointed teeth out on the concrete. The sound of the crowd was different to any he'd experienced at his gigs.
There the sound was focused, thousands of voices joining together to sing or scream, or howl, disjointed but united in purpose. Here it was wild and untamed, roaming loose, friendly for now, but poised to turn at any moment. It buffeted him gently for the moment, like a playful Doberman, but there was an undertone hinting that if he made one wrong move it would knock him to the ground and snap his knackers off.
A gust of wind reminded him of how perilously exposed his knackers actually were. He didn't bother trying to hold the loincloth down. If someone wanted to take a photo of the Son of Satan's posing pouch, that was fine. There were worse things on the internet.
Finally the presenter finished with the ageing glamour model she was interviewing and a lackey with an earpiece came to usher Lucien up the short staircase to the back door of the See See TV house. Stairs, the natural enemy of the hoof shoe and goat leg trouser combo. Lucien gritted his teeth and heaved the bison-hair monstrosities up the steps. It was like walking in hairy waders filled with rocks.
A fine mist of rain was falling, making the metal steps slick. Ideal when you had shiny metal horseshoes strapped to your feet. Lucien had the thighs of a Russian wrestler thanks to lugging his legs all over. Fortunately, by bracing those massive thighs, he could avoid slipping down the stairs and causing a scene that would cost him lens and tooth removal privileges for a month. Not that that'd be an issue if everything went according to plan, but it was always best to play it safe.
"Mr Death!" the presenter screeched, reaching to touch his forearm and then thinking better of it, "Or may I call you Lucien?" she gurned at the crowd comically, nodding in Lucien's direction, sharing a joke with them from which he was excluded. 'We're all normal, aren't we? Look at this big weirdo.' Lucien found he cared less about that in costume than he ever had as a mere mortal.
"You may call me Master," he replied loftily. He'd said this kind of crap so often, it just flowed out of him these days. He didn't need a script like when he was starting out. He didn't have to remember to drop his voice a few octaves and sneer, it just happened. Once he'd forgotten himself and done it at the supermarket. "Fetch me a dozen Free Range eggs, minion." Angel had been absolutely mortified. She ordered their food online after that.
Angel.
The presenter whittered on about his feelings about entering the house, whether he'd done any preparation for the challenges he might face, how much he knew about the housemates he'd potentially be spending a month of his life with. He hid inside himself and let Lucien answer all the questions, detached and aggravated by human concerns as usual. Until she said, in a mocking tone;
"And will you be leaving anyone on the outside? Is there a Mrs Death waiting for you in the depths of Hell?"
Angel. She'd been so furious to hear he was entering the house. She thought he was giving up on them, on their life. That wasn't it at all. He was giving up on himself, on his life.
He turned to the presenter, seeing her for the first time. She looked jaundiced and slightly indistinct, as everyone did through his yellow goat eye lenses. Being Lucien Death was like living in a cartoon in more ways than one. But it was also like living in a bleak, existential art house film that didn't make any sense and wasn't any fun for anyone except presumably its creators. He hardened his heart.
"No."
Angel, I'm sorry.