After The Fire

Prometheus was punished by the gods for giving humans the gift of fire. He was shackled on a rough mountainside, harsh flint at his back, carrion at his front, tearing the entrails out of him. Because he was a god himself he was immortal and, therefore, his torture eternal. They cursed him well. They curse us well. “As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods, - They kill us for their sport.”

After the fire the local council, because they owned the building that had burned down, placed us in a hotel. It was a nice hotel, with clean spartan rooms, checked bedding, tea and coffee making facilities. I flicked around the television channels. Clean people, whose coiffured hair finished off their well fitting clothing, talked at me. I watched the news footage of the biggest tower block disaster Britain had ever seen. I saw the newspaper with pictures of me, taken on a long lens, being pulled into the hydraulic lift.

We only had what we stood up in. We were given vouchers and driven to a superstore. I bought some knickers. socks, a bathing suit, trainers, a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. We were driven back to the hotel. We went swimming. The cold, clear water washed my body. We were driven to the doctors. He prescribed Tamazepam. The little tablets looked appropriately innocuous. He mentioned something about post traumatic stress disorder. I did not understand what he was talking about. We were driven back to the hotel. I went swimming again. Under the water the sounds in my head were muffled. The density of the day and situation was replaced with fluidity.

At dinner, also provided courtesy of the local council, we had wine. It was a carvery meal. Joints of meat rested under vaguely yellow lights. A man with a big knife cut whatever you wanted. For the first few days this felt like a treat. After a week it felt like an imposition. I longed for ravioli or beans on toast.

I telephoned mother and explained what had happened. She was not in the least concerned. I asked if I could borrow some money. I needed a toothbrush, toothpaste, some personal toiletries. She said that I might, providing I came home to collect it. I asked to talk to father. He was busy. I screamed down the phone “I've nearly been burned fucking alive. Why can't you drive five fucking miles to lend me a tenner? What the fuck is the matter with you?” She told me to watch my language.

They turned up later that night, at about 8.00pm. We had just finished dinner. They did not know about Matt, that I was living with him, loving with him, and they were entirely unaware that we had decided to get married. In the lobby of the hotel I found mother, in her mink coat, and father, in his camel coat. Their shoes were immaculately shiny. Mother's mouth was pinched. All the skin around her lips was puckered into sharp, ugly lines. I wanted her to run towards me and gather me in her arms. I wanted her to be pleased that I was alive, grateful that I had not been snatched from her. She sat, primly, on the edge of her seat, looking at me over the top of her glasses.

There was a rage inside me, furious, boiling, licking and growling like the fire had been. I knew I wanted to punch through her windows and send smashing glass flying about. She looked so judgemental, in her American tan tights and perfect peach lipstick. But it was not bloody perfect. It was too orange for a woman her age. And she should not have been bothered about her lipstick, or her fucking fur coat, she should have been worried for me. I had nearly died, and all she could do was sit there smirking.

“This is Matt,” I said, introducing him, “We're getting married”. That wiped the supercilious smile of her face. She looked to my father. He rose and strode out of the lobby, the automatic doors swishing aside. Mother followed him. “Just sit down,” I said to Matt, “They'll be back”. But they were not, only her.
“Why do you do this?” she said.
I wanted to reply 'because I can, because you make me, because it doesn't matter what I do, or how I do it, you'll always think it's wrong,' but I did not. Instead, I looked her straight in the eye and said “You can't stop me”.
“Do you know your father's just been sick in the car park?”
“I don't care.”
“No, I don't expect you do.”
Father re-entered the lobby. “We're going,” he said to mother in a gruff voice, and turning to face me “We'll talk about this another time”.
“Can I have that tenner,” I said, holding out my hand.
“No you fucking can't,” and with that they left.

For the next few days Matt and me swilled about, eating and fucking, being not entirely sure what we were doing. Life seemed to have somehow become suspended in willing disbelief. We had no home, no money and no idea what was going to happen next.

We went to the registry office and booked the wedding. Walking through the underpass afterwards, the cars trundling over our heads, I wondered if every day was going to smell of piss and exhaust fumes.

The council offered us somewhere else to live. Within two days of moving in one of the walls collapsed. We were put back into the hotel. He had nightmares. He used to wake up screaming. I did not know which day of the week it was. Tamazepam made me feel ill, dozy and dazy.

They took us back to the flat. The burned out shell stunk. All the animals that had been trapped inside had been left to rot on the stairs for a couple of weeks. Death and decay hung heavy in the air. There was no electricity. The stairwells were pitch black, except for torch lit illumination. It was like being in a movie. Eleven floors up meant 22 flights. By the time I reached our landing I had almost been overcome by the stench.

Our front door had been kicked off its hinges. It lolled about, utterly defeated in its purpose. The carpets were sodden. As we walked through the hallway our shoes made squelching noises. “We had to pump water from the canal,” the fire safety officer said.
“From the canal?” Matt asked.
“Because the hydrants weren't working, they'd been vandalised. That's why it smells so much.”

Looking up at the walls I could see the tide marks. At a certain point the flat must have been filled with water. It had left a brown, ragged stain just above head height. Matt went into the spare room and I followed him. Scattered all over the floor were his precious books, soaking wet, pages welded together. Hundreds and hundreds of books, totally ruined. They would never be able to be opened and read again. He knelt down and picked one up.

“Take anything you want,” said the council official, whose discomfort was all too visible in his sweating brow.
Matt turned on him. “You fucking let this happen. We told you months ago, after the first fire ...” his voice trailed off. He turned the book over in his hand. He picked up another one. The council official scuttled away into another room. The fire safety officer followed him. I could hear them mumbling.

Matt crouched down onto his haunches. “Look at my fucking books.” He put his head in his hands and started to cry. I had never seen him cry before. I did not know what to do. I touched his shoulder. He took off his glasses and wiped his eyes.
“Let's go and look at the rest of the flat,” I said. He rose and threw down the two books he was holding.

The bed, in our bedroom, was drenched. A large puddle of water sat in the middle of the mattress, causing it to sag. The red duvet looked like an enormous, skinned animal, soggily dead.

It was better in the lounge. Everything was still soaking wet, but the books in the bookcase had somehow escape major damage. The fetid reek, however, was unbearable. Mould had already started to grow up the walls, in dark green-black smears. The posters hung their heads in some sort of shame that I could not understand. The council official and fire safety officer were standing on the balcony smoking.

And then I heard it, a feint miaow. Surely the cat could not have survived this? I ran in the kitchen, where the plates from our last meal were still festering. The liver and onions had taken on a terrible tone after two weeks. The peas looked wrinkled. I picked one up. It was bullet hard. I listened. No other sound. Walking over to the window I took a look at the city spread out in front of me. I remembered the first night I had done this. There were times, when I was bored, that I used to throw water out of this window. I would see it hit the floor, exploding dark grey patterns across the concrete, and then I would hear the noise. That is how I learned that light travels faster than sound. I repeated the experiment over and over again. I excitedly showed Matt when he came in from work. He laughed and hugged me and put his face in my neck.

Again, that miaow, louder this time. Part of the ceiling had fallen in. Could it be? “Matt, Matt, come here.” He wandered into the kitchen, pushing his hair back, shaking his head. “I can hear Kaya.” I stood very still, listening with every inch of my being. There it was again. He rushed over to where ceiling rubble decorated the top of the fridge and began to move it aside. Nestled, scared and shaking, right in the centre of this unmarked grave, was my cat, Kaya.

“Oh my god, oh my god.” She was so skinny and frightened. My natural instinct was to shove her inside my sweatshirt, to warm her up a little. She clawed at my chest. I pulled her head up so it poked out of the V neck. She was still wet. She shivered so much that I thought her bones were going to break. “Kaya, Kaya, Kaya.” Her little, bald face, from where her previous owners had burned off her fur with cigarettes, pushed itself into mine. She tried to purr, but her voice came out all cracked up.

“Are we all finished here?” the council official asked, strolling through the lounge.
“Yep,” Matt replied through gritted teeth, “For now”.
The official flapped around some papers on his clipboard and refused to make eye contact. Matt put his arm around my shoulders and guided me out of the flat. Kaya struggled slightly. The fire safety officer led us back out of the building. We were leaving as the dead woman's family were arriving.
“Could you not reach her in time?” I asked the fire officer.
He shook his head. “She wouldn't leave her cats.”
“Did any of them survive.”
“No.”

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