Fire

In January, summer gathers below the balcony. In the garden, her arms, the trees. She sits by the window and listens to it whispering in the night.

One night there is a knocking. Clear. Insistent. Ominous. She picks up her garments, stands by the door. Listening. Scraping, shuffling, breathing sounding the darkness.

She waits.

‘Mrs Li, we know you are inside.’ The voice comes through the door and enters into thought.

She waits.

‘Please don’t make this any more difficult than it is.’

She moves closer to the door and presses her forehead to the glass. It is cool against her skin. Her breath fogs a circle.

‘Are you death?’ She asks.

‘Oh, for goodness sake! Just open the door. We’re here to help. Death doesn’t come knocking does it now?’

It is a different voice. Younger. Sharper. More certain. There are two of them, she thinks.

‘You might be surprised,’ she says. ‘I’m busy at the moment, and it is late. Come back in the morning. With a warrant.’

‘Please Mrs Li don’t do that,’ the first voice again. Calmer. Steadier. More pleading. ‘You know we don’t need a warrant in these kinds of situations. We have been through this before. Your daughter-in-law called again. Your son and she are very worried about you. So are your grandkids. They are all worried you are not answering your phone.’

She feels a tremor passing through her and moves away from the door. The fog-circle dissipates. She drags her feet and takes two pieces of metal from the shelf above the door.

‘They are not worried. Not about me. If they were, they would have come and knocked on my door themselves. But they sent you instead so that authorities could see how much they care. Also, it is a good cover. For when they finally murder me to get their hands on my house. Because that’s what it’s all about. I told you that already. Wrote letters. How she tried to poison me. And what did you do about it? Not a damn thing!’

Her face is red and glossy with sweat. She wipes it off with the back of her hand and presses it against her chest. Heaving for breath.

‘Mrs Li, you know that is not true. Your daughter-in-law didn’t try to poison you. She was making sure you take all your meds on time. Your son and his family care about you. You’ve done really well letting us know about your fears. You should be proud of yourself for that. It is brave to face our fears. But talking about setting your house on fire is not. It is scary. Now, open the door, please, so we don’t have to push it in. As I said before — we are here to help. The hospital and the social services know we are bringing you in.’

It was the younger voice again. Less certain, more impatient.

She scuffles her feet again and raps two pieces of metal against each other. They make a sharp, clicking sound.

‘I am not going to the hospital. Not with you or anyone else. But if you touch my door, I’ll shoot.’

She moves further from the door and makes the clicking sound again.

‘Social services are a joke, and you know it. Just don’t give a damn. No one does. You can say what you like but I know what happened. My daughter-in-law did try to poison me. She was surprised when it didn’t work! She never thought an old bat like me would see through her and hide the garbage she wanted me to swallow. That is why she wants me in the hospital. To make sure. She is a head nurse there. Can’t you see that it’s a trap? They haven’t stopped talking about the house and how much has risen in value in the last few years ever since my husband died, but …’ a burst of rasping cough cuts off her words.

‘Mrs … are you ok? Can you hear me? We’re coming in now.’

She spits on the floor and grips both pieces firmly. The sharp, metallic sound echoes through the darkness.

‘Listen …’

The younger voice started, but the other one cut in — ‘ok, ok, I can see you are upset Mrs Li, I can understand that. Have elderly parents myself. Can you just take a deep breath, please? Can you do that for me Mrs Li? Then we can continue chatting. Nobody is going to push your door in. I just need to know that you are ok. Mrs Li? Mrs Li can you hear me?’

She watches blood soak into the carpet where she had spat, turns around, and walks back.

She sits by the window and pushes the curtains deeper into the corner. They make a dry, papery sound. She takes an old-fashioned photo album from the windowsill and gently opens it. A tissue paper rustles under her touch. She traces her fingers over the yellowed edges of black-and-white photographs. Their zigzag borders chipped and stained. She listens for the voices and footsteps to ebb away from her door. When she is sure they’ve gone, she gets up, walks to the laundry, takes a petrol can from the shelf, and unscrews the lid.

Outside, a dog barks once then whines.

‘There was nothing but a cinder,’ the fire officer said.