I entered the cavernous interior of the wooden building. My eyes adjusted to the dimming of the light as I looked along the main hallway. Leaves had blown inside, forming small piles along the hallway as the world outside bled within through a hole in the roof above my head. The hole was small, looking like it had been punched in the roof by some unseen hand, yet it afforded a shaft of light to enable me to look about the gloom. There were pictures on the walls, one could see that they were depicted landscapes. I did not recognize any of the places that were contained within the frames, but it was evident that their purpose was to instill a sense of calm in this place. This reinforced my view that this building served, in the past, some role as a place of sanctuary.
I had penetrated the interior on previous occasions, intrigued by what lay within as I searched amongst its derelict rooms. I walked past beds, cupboards and drawers, flicking through the personal effects that had been left there. Pictures of people who I would never meet, who I would never know. Books read by eyes that would never feel my steely gaze. Spectacles placed on a night stand, no longer required. Small bottles that contained medicine and tablets. Histories of the occupants marked out by personal possessions, a cohort of residents who had gone. They had not packed up and left this place an empty shell awaiting some alternative repurpose following negotiation and bargain. No, this place had been fled. There had been a marked exodus and its trappings which had been left behind were to be looked on by me and whoever else happened to come here. Judging by the way that so much had been left in situ, it was evident that few people had entered this place.
It bore no warning, no injunction to stay away, no threat that “trespassers would be prosecuted” but instead had been left as a silent testimony to a purpose that I had yet to unfathom. Wardrobes containing clothes had been left, a large kitchen with its appliances, the stains of rotted food discernible in the Stygian gloom, an administrative room, a day room with more books, jigsaws, art and craft materials, a television set which no longer broadcast.
I had no longer any need to walk this place and consider its purpose. It had a new purpose now. It would serve me.
I removed the cap on the jerry can and began to spill the petrol that I had taken from my grandfather´s garage onto the floor. The smell of the fuel mixed with the mustiness and damp of this place, a heady anticipatory brew as systematically I walked backwards casting the accelerant on the floor, over tables, over chairs and over beds, the arsonist creating his artwork before the final reveal. I did not have enough petrol to soak each room so instead I commenced the pouring of the petrol at the furthest northern end of the property and then carefully wove my way through the centre of the building, moving in and out of various rooms and along corridors maintaining a central route until the petrol slowed from a flow to a trickle and then became mere drops. I turned the jerry can upside down, coaxing the last of the fuel to fall onto the wooden floor and then I cast the can to one side, it clanged as it hit the metallic frame of a bed. I turned and could see the southern wall about twenty feet away from me through another room. I had not been able to lace the entire centre of the building from north to south, but it would not matter. This place would soon become a subject of the kingdom of flame. I walked back to the main hallway where the darkened line of petrol could still be seen as it penetrated the wooden floor. The floor must once have been stained and polished but the effluxion of time had put paid to that and instead it peeled and cracked, looking like an old woman´s skin after ninety winters.
I was slightly disappointed that I had not come upon a sleeping vagrant seeking shelter amidst the building. That would have been a bonus to observe as the degenerate sought to escape my inferno. Perhaps he would not even realise that the world around him was ablaze, wrapped deep in the embrace of an alcohol-infused sleep, mistaking the warmth of the flames for the comfort of spirits, only to awaken confused and in pain as he found himself suddenly on fire. Would serve him right for not trying harder at school. Work hard, be better, rise above them HG. That is what she said. To be sleeping in a place like this meant failure, someone who had not worked hard, someone who did not strive each and every day with every fibre of his being to be better, someone who did not have the talent and the drive to rise high. Unfortunate things happen to unfortunate people, they bring it on themselves, that was what she would remind me. I nodded, knowing compliance was expected of me, even though it was completely unnecessary. I already subscribed. Victoria aut morte.
I pulled the match box free from my coat pocket. England´s Glory made by Bryant and May. My favourite matches because the box had an image of MHS Devastation on it. What a glorious name. HMS Devastation was the first of two Devastation-class mastless turret ships built for the Royal Navy. This was the first class of ocean-going capital ship that did not carry sails, and the first whose entire main armament was mounted on top of the hull rather than inside it. Its name was entirely apt for the purpose that came within the small box. I slid the box open and lifted it to my nose, enjoying the smell of the match heads. I selected one and pushed the box closed.
I took a step back and then took the match and held it against the striking strip of the match box.
“Victoria aut morte” I declared in the gloom as I struck the match and it instantly lit with that familiar fizzing sound. I felt the surge of anticipation, the firing of the chaos engine as the sensory stimulation teetered on the edge of commencement.
I threw the match towards the line of petrol that soaked into the floor and watched as the match dropped towards its target, the flame trailing from the match stick. It hit the floor and then came that sound that was the soundtrack to my childhood, that wumf of ignition and the flames caught, surging to the left and the right racing away from the main hallway.
My face was lit up by the orange flames, the darkness of the interior driven back by the sharp arrival of the fire. I could hear the flames racing through the building, their roaring distinctive above the otherwise silence of this place.
It had begun.