“For Christ’s sake BURN!”
A weak column of white smoke spiralled up from the four-foot-high pile of soggy garden detritus, that flanked a small pond, in the folds of our Victorian country home.
“Couldn’t light a fire in a haystack” riffed Grandad as he trooped by, his latest cigar in the greenhouse further stunting the growth of that year’s tomatoes.
“Come. On!”
The next ball of paper burst into life optimistically, only to flicker and die just as quickly, joining the feeble plume of gas heading skywards.
“Argh!”
My sweatshirt and jeans clung to me, steaming my pale, skinny, thirteen-year-old body in a smoky jus of sweat and rainwater. I really needed a shower.
Looking around for inspiration, my eyes fell on the battered red petrol can set against the wall of the brick and timber double garage.
Maybe I just need a little help. I’ll be careful.
The fuel sloshed and slurped, as I staggered back to the fire.
Soon it would be a glorious, towering inferno, garnering admiration not only from Grandad, but from passengers on the jets screaming over our house in the Surrey Hills, on their way to Gatwick Airport.
The can opened with a strong, sweet sigh. It was nearly full. Gingerly I tipped a few exploratory drops of the bluey-green fluid onto the base of one side of the stack. Then, stepping back, I struck a match and threw it on.
Nothing.
I followed the same routine, twice more, each time adding more of the pungent liquid. And although now getting more “woosh”, more flame, and even the odd crackle, the damp foliage just wasn’t taking.
The headlights of a car threaded along the country lane to the east of the house. My stomach growled, as I twitched and grimaced in the diminishing light.
“Fucking HELL!”
Scrunching up my nose, I grabbed the can and shook the petrol more liberally over the top of the pile. On went another match. This time there was a bigger “WOOSH”, taller flames and significantly more snaps and pops. But as I looked on hopefully, the flames again began to recede and the crackles to quieten.
I am not giving up.
Reaching for the now-half-empty can once more I shook it incautiously over the dying flames.
“Woosh, Woosh, Woosh”.
Without warning a sliver of flame shot up the arc of petrol and into the can. Its tongue popped out of the spout, as I stumbled back from the fire, flaming can in hand.
It was going to blow!
For what seemed like minutes, but was just seconds, I stood there, still, the bluish flame silently licking the top of the rusty can.
Was this it? Was this all the time I was getting? I needed more time. I would do something in business. I’d already informed far too many people of this, for it not to happen. But what else? A musician, a writer? A father?
I wasn’t even close to a first girlfriend, spending term-time at an all-boys public school, the holidays one-bus-a-week from the nearest town, and my heavily plagiarised romantic poetry not yet cutting through.
Of most importance to me: would the unconscious physical urges, the prickles and charges, the scalds and blisters of tension in my ankles, legs, wrists, arms, pelvis, stomach, shoulders and neck, the blinks and rolls, scrunches and pouts, the sighs, sniffs, hums and coughs, everything that I did my best to suppress in company, but set free in a decompressing cascade when alone, would these flickering humiliations ease, or even go away altogether?
I was brought back round by the heat coming from my right arm. The sleeve of my sweatshirt was alight, and the flames were reaching out and up towards my shoulder and across my chest.
No!
Hurling the can in the direction of the fire, I took four or five quick paces and launched myself towards the dark stillness of the pond.
Hanging in the air like a Chinese lantern, there was a giant “WOOF” from behind me, and the low trees that marked the far perimeter of the pond lit up spectacularly, before I crashed, blazing arms-outstretched, into the bitterly cold water.
Widespread Disruption 