Burn Baby Burn

Burn baby, burn! Three small words from the past. They were etched
firmly in his mind. The three words he had repeatedly chanted in his
moment of glory. With a small pile of paper, a box of matches. He had
circled like a sorcerer casting spells over a cauldron. Flames
illuminating the steely whites of his eyes, while he chanted "burn baby
burn, burn baby burn." 'Only a warped mind could be capable of such a
despicable act' the local paper had reported. "Give me credit" he
snarled. "Weeks of planning, intelligence to infiltrate the property
and what about sheer guts to see it through to the end."
He was dressed in grey sweat top, pants and trainers, allowing him to
move at speed if needed. A gangly six foot twenty something with an
unusual face that jumped out at you and ingrained itself in your
memory. Gaunt, pale, high cheekbones with a pointed nose and chin. His
ears were hidden by a thick mop of frizzy brown hair. Attempting not to
draw attention to himself he lit a cigarette, stuffed hands in his
pockets and turned onto the driveway as if it was an everyday chore. At
a brisk pace he followed the path as it snaked towards the house.
He was surprised the stench was so strong, even after so many months.
His nostrils felt physically attacked by an odour similar to burning
rubber. With little effort the door, charred and blackened, creaked
open clinging to rustic weathered hinges. Stepping through the opening
he entered a thick fog of darkness. He withdrew a small aluminium hand
torch and with cool, distant eyes scanned his surroundings. Vacant
eyes, silent and emotionally detached. He was all to familiar with the
exterior. At first spying from distance, then as his bravery increased,
up close. As with the outside the interior was scorched and bare.
Contrasting shades of greys and purples, a singed patchwork of wood,
paint and plaster. Exposed floor boards, cinders masking the wood
grain, creaked and gave under foot as he explored his handiwork. In
certain rooms were the joists were burnt through, random gaps in the
ceiling reminded him of war-torn structures he had witnessed on the
news. Pencil thin lips slowly lifted at the edges, revealing a sinister
grin as he reflected on his achievement. He had proved he could make a
difference. Proved to the fat cats who drove passed with their
expensive flash cars while he waited at bus stops. To those who refused
him employment. They looked down on him as they passed. As if he was
less than nothing, a nobody. Now the wealth they cleaved to was
fallible. Needle like fingers closed tightly and with a show of
defiance he shook a clenched fist. Next time he would make the front
page headlines, that, he was sure of. Ducking under a web of loose
cables he creeped through the hallway arriving at the stairwell.
Despite missing a few risers a firm shake confirmed its stability. His
doubts grew as it wobbled under his weight but against his own
judgement he continued. The first floor damage mirrored the ground
floor. Wide eyed and exhilarated the sinister grin returned. Like
machine gun fire his heart pounded against his chest. Reminiscent of
the adrenaline rush he had experienced that fateful eve. The day he
blended into the night shadows, while behind him, the inferno lighting
the horizon like a scene from a war film. Leaning against the banister
he slipped his last cigarette into the corner of his mouth, scrunched
the empty packet and dropped it at his feet. He was unaware of it
landing on the small rubbish pile his focus directed elsewhere. He was
sure he heard a vehicle stop outside, the slamming of car doors and the
sounds of voices. After a few minute's silence he relaxed and reached
for a match. It was as he lit the cigarette he froze, the door slamming
open against the wall as footsteps paced into the building. He dropped
the match as the cigarette fell from his mouth. Sweat streaming from
his forehead his attention was now drawn to the smoke gripping his
ankles. Lashing out with a foot he sent the smouldering rubbish
tumbling and turned to search for a means of escape. The walls were
solid and plywood sealed the windows, impregnable against his attempts
to force them open. Realising his only exit was the stairs he raced
towards the stairwell. To his horror a wall of fire barred his route.
The flames spitting and cackling. Forcing him back, mocking him "burn
baby burn" they hissed. As he retreated the floor disintegrated beneath
him and helplessly he plummeted into the furnace below. His screams
muffled by crashing bricks and timber.

The local paper reported that for the second time in several months the
same property had suffered an arson attack. This time there was one
casualty. The Police investigation had not identified the body but the
article did make the front page headlines.