Zach Jones - Growing Up in Flames

Ive heard of Noah the way you hear about car accidents. A series of whispers, theories and rumours

Kennas mother Ava was killed in a bushfire not long ago. Now Kennas living with her uncle and his young family in the small town where Ava grew up, and she feels like an intruder.

Noahs mother has a mental illness that makes him both carer and jailerconstantly watchful, keeping things on an even keel.

One night Kenna sees the general store on fire, and a boy standing watching as it burns. It takes her a while to notice hes holding a petrol can, but then things move fast. Shes tackled him and run off with his bag before she even knows whats happened.

The bag belongs to Noah, and he really wants it back. Kenna wants something too. To make someone else burn the way her mum did. And theres something she doesnt know: how Noah can help her find out the truth about her family.

To the brave ones

Ive been thinking a lot about fire. Dr Kahn says thats normal, everything considered. I havent told him what Ive been thinking, though. Not yet.

I thumb the wheel of my lighter and the flame jumps to life, making shadows dance along the walls. Deformed ballerinas peep from the corners, contortionists unravel in the broken light.

In my bedroom at home I knew every ridge and bump in the plasterboard. Its different here. The shadows are unpredictable.

So much about this place is still so strange to me. Its like waking up at school camp when the other girls in the cabin had already begun whispering from their bunks. Weeks have passed and nothing feels any more like home yet.

Home is ten hours south. Home is Mum and me painting our toenails on the lounge on a Friday night.

Thats all ash now.

When I flick the lighter shut, Im plunged back into darkness, but the colours of the flame are imprinted on my eyelids. I blink and stamp the blues and reds onto the blackalong the walls, over the ceiling.

This is how it must have looked when Mum died; fire eating through the walls and the roof, clawing its way inside. They never told me where they found her so I imagine it in every room of the house, one after another. In my mind, the fire is a roaring animal howling at the door. The air is clogged with smoke. I can almost smell it

I can smell it.

I flap at the blankets, but no, I havent set fire to my bed. The smell of burnt lighter fluid is still on my fingers, but thats not what Im smelling. Something dark and toxic creeps in from outside, wraps its fingers over the windowsill and cups my face. Smothering me.

I slide out of bed as ashen fingers pull me by my nose to the window. Light flickers somewhere up the street but I cant see where its coming from. The smell is everywhere. I smack my tongue, tasting the bushfires of my childhood and my heart shudders.

The back door is only a few steps from my bedroom, but the hall floorboards creak, and Rob and Abbey dont like me wandering at night. I lift the flyscreen from the window and lower it onto the back deck, carefully leaning it against the wall under the window. I follow the smell past Iggys bedroom, down into the yard and out. Up the street, my legs gooseflesh below my nightie. I should have grabbed a jumper.

I stick to the road to avoid the dewy grass and shove my hands in my armpits. I dont stop until I see whats happening.

Hudsons General Store is burning.

I know I should scream, wake someone up, but I dont. A hand of smoke presses against my mouth until I choke. I put an armpit across my face and blink back tears; retreat until I can breathe a little. The hand releases, satisfied I wont say a word, and evaporates into the blaze.

The fire is mostly outside the store, on and under the boards of the verandah, poking long tongues through crevices. Licks of flame cling to the walls in a way I know they shouldnt, and there are scorch marks where some thread of fire has burnt and then run out of fuel.

I know what that means: accelerant. The lower flames are already claiming this blackened territory, eating the evidence.

Theres something hypnotic about fire. Ive always thought so, even before. I used to go into the bush to smoke so Mum wouldnt know. Id light a cigarette and sit on a rock looking over the green. Watch as a thin red line worked its way towards me, marking the transition from white paper to powdery grey ash. Id place my fingers at the filter line and challenge myself to hold it for as long as I could. Sooner or later my fingers would burn, and Id drop the butt and stomp it out.

The sound of the fire increases like someone is turning a knob. The snap and crackle of timber up front; a great roar pushing from behind. It wont be long before lights come on and people turn up to splash water uselessly on the blaze. A building fire can reach up to six hundred degrees Celsius within a few minutes. I know that because I looked it up. What good is a garden hose?

I catch a shape from the corner of my eye. I turn and blink into the darkness. A figure camouflaged by the flickering shadows. A manno, a boy. Too slim for a man. Black hoodie pulled over his head, shading his eyes. I can only see the back of himhis head is fixed firmly towards the store. Hes only a few paces in front of me, but I dont think hes seen me.

I almost leave. I figure, hes here nowhell wake everyone up.

He doesnt, though. Hes just staring at it, drawn in like a moth. I wonder if hes been here longer than me, just as captivated by the flames.

I stop wondering when I see whats in his hands.

A red jerrycan.

Hes not some moth drawn to the light, and hes not going to call people to stop the fire.

They told me there was nothing the firemen could do but watch as the fire took my home. They couldnt put it out. They couldnt get inside. They couldnt get to Mum.

The hooded boy turns away from the flames. I still havent got a look at his face. Hell disappear into the night. The people who own this store wont ever know who took it from them.

I understand what thats like.

Ive tried, but I cant remember my last day with Mum, not completely. Just flashesher in her pyjamas making breakfast, me heading down to the bush for a smoke. No matter how hard I try, I cant remember it all. Ive played it over so many times that I dont even know if what I do remember is real. Was I upset when I went out? What time did I come back? What was the last thing I said to her?

Ill never know.

Hey! I yell, and even over the growing roar, the boy hears it. Im on him before I know what Im doing. I scratch him as I shove my fingers inside his hood, trying to push it off his face. Trying to see who he is.

He shoves me away and turns, and his backpack nearly knocks me over. I grab it and hold on. The jerrycan is somewhere under our feet. Im clutching at his bag, his neck. At some point I bite him. Something connects with my jaw and I taste bloodwhose?and Im dizzy, but I keep my grip. He tries to shrug me off. When that doesnt work he grabs at my hands. I tighten my fingers. Hes not hitting me. Hes not trying to hurt me at all, actually. I feel like he could if he wanted to.

Windows snap from black to yellow in the surrounding houses. His hands pause on mine. The dark space inside his hood casts around frantically, then hes gone, running. Im left with the weight of his pack in my hands, alone with an overturned jerrycan in front of the burning store.