Memory an Inferno Ian C Smith

Memory an Inferno

He logs on to find their once familiar street, properties for sale, recently sold, can’t remember the number. They thought they had survived hard slog days, no more landlords. Clicking, he sees it, yes, there, many small changes, no sign of damage done, the sense of an ending, a hose, the irony of this, coiled on the lawn. She took advantage of the car to shop, leaving him stuck inside instead of at work due to a power shutdown, rain incessant, soaking, silencing, bone-cold. He tried lighting their open fire, had not thought to stockpile firewood under cover, his paltry efforts squibs.

Another of many mistakes of youth was his decision to spark up that flimsy fire with two-stroke mower fuel. Yet another was choosing, albeit in panic, the narrowest window pane, a bed his trampoline, to smash through after being unable to open their front door he inadvertently locked, jerking at it ajitter.

With his neighbour’s calm help they had controlled the blaze using a hose by the time the brigade arrived, its bell piercing that day’s silence, the neighbour’s door bloodsplattered, black billowing smoke from the oil merging with louring cloud, firemen’s feet sinking intothe front yard.

Fingering a puckered scar, he thinks of that girl he married, the blaze lighting that dark day of his stupid stunt swept away now, remembers her braking outside their smoking house behind the fire truck, shopping forgotten, car door left ajar, her rush towards him. What have you done? she cried, before he was driven to be stitched up, pain, shock, beginning to set in that freezing, sodden, nothing left to cling to morning. What have you done to my house?

Alive in the labyrinthine plot of the past, he tries comparing the prices they paid, sold the house for, with its value now, allowing for life’s inevitable inflation, but the soaring cost proves incalculable.

Ian C Smith

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