When I See Fire Read online

  I get great pleasure from attending funerals, particularly those which I have created. I have a special black suit just for the occasion. Hitler felt such pleasure watching the smoke rise from concentration camps. Time and time again I've been told that funerals are a 'celebration of life', it looks to me more like a comer of tears.

  Remembering all the tiny details you will never experience again. Those imperfect mannerisms that make us unique. That make you weak! Every teardrop is a round of applause.

  I'm always in the same spot, a faint shadow underneath a tree on the outskirts of the grounds. Technically on church property, but far enough away that through your watery eyes you're not even sure if my outline is human. Of course it isn't human you cretins! I passed humanity a long time ago. You still don't know what is happening do you? No one appreciated the genius of da Vinci either. No one could raise themselves high enough to see over the mountains like we can. Very few dare to try.

  The graveyard was directly next to the old stone church, the bell tower looking down onto the tombs. Trees growing between the widely spread grave-stones, feeding of the decaying bodies. Leaves swaying naively in the light breeze, as fine rain patted onto the black umbrellas. Have you ever seen old war films? I don't mean old as in produced in 1970, I mean old as in set in the great Greek time of the Spartans and Leonidas. They held shields up as one, almost making a turtle shell, preventing arrows from entering. That's what all these people looked like with their umbrellas raised. United to hide from the rain. Nothing will save you now.

  Thirteen parents stood next to thirteen six foot deep holes. A shovel in each hand to bury their children. What's this? My eyes appear to be leaking! Oh that pathetic man Leonidas, how long must I put up with his fleshy body? I forced a smile onto my face as the soil hit the wood on the coffins. He didn't like that. He didn't like that at all.

  It has been written that there are six reasons for funerals taking place. 1. Transcendence - what a load of waffle, transcendence to what? A blubbering pathetic pile of cells. It's almost an improvement to your natural state; at least you stand for something, even if that thing is now dead. 2. Meaning - it means someone you cared about died. End of. 3. Expression - don't you love this one! Sobbing uncontrollably, streams flowing down the valley between your nose and cheek. You just want the world to know how sad you are. How sad you are. I almost pity you animals. 4. Support - from each other? From the whole experience? Yet another meaningless word, fashioned to make you feel safe. Fabricated to save you from the words you don't want to hear. They are gone. 5. Recall - like you can ever forget them, you are scarred now. Some scars will never fade away. 6. Reality! - I saved my favourite while last, the one thing you all came here hoping to escape. The reality is that a ceremony and a few words won't change a damn thing. I attended my Parents cremation and I feel no joy or sorrow from it anymore.

  I'm evil? You are the ones flooding the world, the ones incapable of providing cures for terminal illnesses, letting animals die out, shooting each other like barbarians. You are the ones letting children live on the streets, allowing third world citizens to starve and perish. Vultures waiting over frail bodies. I am evil. I can accept my reality. Can you?

  Chapter 10

  No More

  The sweet scent of sweat floated around the room like an unwanted dinner guest. Black and white canvases on the wall; so old that there image was fading, like a tattoo from many years ago that cannot be parted with. Marilyn Monroe, Charlie Chaplin, Elvis Presley. All the traditional Indian icons. Every tiny detail shouts 'commercialised', cutting down their authentic roots for an extra couple of pound coins.

  Amy had chosen the restaurant, so I could not possibly complain. I should be happy a woman such as Amy would even look in my direction twice. I should be seeing her face alone, but I can't take my eyes of the specks of dust on the bright white torus skirting board. Marilyn looking down on me in disgust.

  This is what life is like for Leo I guess, struggling to concentrate with all my thoughts tormenting him. I keep hopeful that he will leave; in my heart I begin to know. He will never leave.

  I've been worn down by his persistent murders, I feel like an elastic band; stretched to the limit, ready to explode. Exploding is not in my nature. I'm calm and collected. I leave Leo to do the exploding.

  "Leo...Leo?" Amy spoke softly, yet with the natural sternness that creeps into your tone when trying to gain someone's attention. She smiled warmly, "It feels strange, doesn't it? Having met only twice, both because of our, misfortune."

  She only took a split second to take in a mini breath before continuing. I was staring deep into those dark eyes she has, in many ways they reminded me of the vast darkness that floats around our atmosphere. Stars glistening mysteriously. The great unknown. Yuri Alekseyevich Gagarin must have had so many doubts, so many unknown factors that could blast him into oblivion. The 12th of April 1961, he became the first man in space. I have the same feeling now. Preparing for the journey into unknown territory, never before explored. Launching in T minus...

  "Is it too soon? Do you need more t-" she was interrupted by my hand holding her face, as my lips met hers; my grey covered elbow landing perfectly in the centre of a tikka masala dish.

  I could bite her tongue off you know. Move my hand to her throat and strangle her in front of all these people, and watch you weep. What's the fun in that? Where's the art in killing someone in broad daylight? I'll kill her Leonidas. You think she is beautiful now, but just wait. Very soon she will be the most beautiful piece of art this world has ever seen.

  I recoiled at the sound of his voice in my head, it was not his voice at all. It was my voice. A little bit grittier, and with a hell of a lot of bitterness; still my voice. It's too soon. It's too dangerous. I need to get out of here. If not Amy, then there are so many pathetic animals in here that Leo will catch one on his murderous safari.

  "It is too soon Amy, I'm sorry, perhaps next week?" I stood up and placed my white leather bound chair under the glass table. To my surprise she was not angry at all, before I knew it my legs had walked to stand behind her, arms stretching to help her out of her chair. I don't even know if it was me or Leo at this stage. It's the same electrical signals being sent to my muscles, but who's sending them?

  I am you fool.

  My mind seemed my own as my body walked Amy home. Some twisted notion of chivalry. Still trying to keep up my appearance of being a gentleman.

  We talked a little at first, more none consequential chit chat than anything with any real presence. Preoccupied isn't a strong enough verb to entirely convey my state of mind; the term bombarded is more accurate. The term bombarded is accurate to an infinite degree.

  Spray-paint comes in many colours, they come in colours to match cars and bathrooms and all manner of dull items. I bet you could even get paint cans custom made to any colour you want. You could have enough to coat a picture frame or a house end. There will be enough paint within a five mile radius of your house, just wasted paint glued to hundreds of walls, enough paint to cover your body a hundred times. Dead or alive. Weighing two stone or fifty.

  Graffiti done well I can appreciate, given the right idea and skill, I can even admire it as art. Eighty percent of Banksy's pieces I crave to own. Look a little deeper and all graffiti is, all graffiti really is, is a veil.

  The not so subtle messaging, it's not the art that gets your true interest. The image may grab your attention. Colours so bright they make you squint. It's the mystery that absorbs you. It's the sense of secret rebellion.

  Is that what I am Leonidas? A secret rebel? No more than a common street artist, spraying my name on every empty brick in a desperate scream for attention? An unskilled con-artist, only good for pressing a trigger and making a mess. You have chosen how this brutishly unsophisticated woman will die. You like graffiti do you? I will cut her throat and write your name in blood on the walls.

  No. You can have anyone, anyone but her, you monster. This is m
y body and I will do what I want with it. Kill who you like, kill them all. You are not laying a finger on Amy. You are not laying my finger on Amy. I know exactly what you are Leo, you’re a figment of my imagination, killing anybody in a horrific attempt to gain control of my body.

  No more Leo. No more shall innocent souls be sacrificed to your tyranny. No more blood will flow across the creases in the palm of my hands. No more fear. No more death. No more Leo.

  "So, this is me... sorry about the restaurant, and the silence, and my terrible neighbourhood. Have you ever seen so much graffiti?" glancing at the graffiti on the wall she smiled, blushing at the floor, "'No More' what does that mean anyway?" On her tip-toes she kissed me on the cheek, "Goodnight Leo".

  Willpower is an extraordinary attribute. A great power that no one will ever understand except yourself. The greatest battle a human can have, without ever leaving your own skull. Willpower fundamentally is no more than decisive decision making. I know my desires, and I have acted upon them.

  Will; I control the will of this organism. Leonidas can handle the breathing and digesting. The basic respiratory requirements that our sacks of flesh desire. I am your will Leonidas, I am your only decision manager. I am not cruel. You can have an opinion, you can even voice it from time to time, but not without me filtering it first. Willpower? I have the will and the power here, boy. I laugh at will. I mock at will. I kill at will. The only real power is having the desire to disinfect this planet and acting upon it. The only power I know in this world is to control peoples will, that little piece of paper that only appears at your disappearance. Your last will and testimony -

  That will be Leo's last testimony. You want to know what willpower is? You’re looking at it.

  A man with very little willpower at this present moment is Jack Spencer. He should be at work, he saw the murder on the screen as clearly as all of us. He recognised the characteristics. He knew it was his case. His boy.

  Knowing what you should do, and acting upon this knowledge, are at times vastly opposing forces. Detective Spencer senses that he is close. This is not his first serial killer.

  However with his own two eyes he can see an empty living room. An empty bedroom. An empty home, if it can still be categorised as such a thing.

  If only he knew what Leo had planned, such a horror that will go down in history. Remembered as fondly as Hitler's victory.

  Chapter 11

  Up In Flames

  Today, 20th April 2015, is Hitler's birthday. That means it’s book burning day. A million minds up in flames, lighting up the dark night sky. The red flags swaying outside every building; every house, church and day-care centre. Outside Jack Spencer's flat. Black poles, strictly black poles, holding the swastika up in surrender. The blood coloured sheets harsh against the grey monotony called life. The swastika floating like a swear word. A taboo subject that no one, not even the emperor himself, dared address.

  Screw Hitler. Screw his birthday. Only one reason caused Jack to struggle putting his pristine flag up, and it sure wasn't his love for Hitler. It was his fear of the consequences of not loving Hitler.

  Fliss hadn't returned last night, neither had the children. How are you to display any affection when you feel so hollow? If you are a book with no words, how are you to tell your tale? Empty pages ready to be turned to ash.

  The Nazi book burning campaign (NBBC) was founded by the German student union. If children are taught nonsense, then nonsense they will cause. Books selected were of the variety that undermined the ideologies of the Führer: anarchist, socialist, pacifist, communist, Jewish. You can have an opinion, and you may even voice it from time to time, but not without me filtering it first.

  Books can do amazing things. They can grab a generation by the scruff of the neck, shake them about, and shout what are you doing? Some ideas only certain minds can have. You need a combination of perception, genius, madness and pure writing talent, to create the perfect blend of messages and entertainment. To crack a mind wide open and pour in as many of your opinions as possible. To alter the personality of a nation. To change the world.

  All these ideas turned to black specks blowing away in the wind. That revoltingly sweet scent of smoke from a flame. The smell of birthday candles being blown out. The smell from these book filled candles must still reach the Führer deep in his pit of nobody knows. Ideas destroyed because of a twisted idea he had.

  D.H. Lawrence,

  H.G. Wells,

  Alfred Döblin,

  Albert Einstein,

  Rosa Luxemburg,

  Heinrich Mann,

  Yan Martel,

  J.R.R. Tolkein,

  M.R. Holme,

  Thomas Harris,

  It reads as badly as the names on WWII monuments. Ideas and opinions are designed to be spread. Why else would we all think so differently to begin with? How are you to judge someone without knowing any of their opinions? If we could all perceive, how we all perceive, how I perceive this lump of rock would be transformed into the personification of perfection.

  There is no doubt that this book would be burnt if the German Empire was as powerful as it thinks it is. Omniscient. Idiot.

  All things dear to you burnt to ashes; lead down the wrong path by promises of the impossible. To secure what by rights was his to begin with - screw Hitler.

  Jack hated Hitler's birthday celebrations. Ranting and cursing at the flag, as he untangled it from the wide open window he dangled so precariously from. Of course he was really ranting at himself. What had he done that pushed Fliss away?

  Niggling away, the back of his mind prodded and twisted his brain, until it felt like the many wires behind the back of a television stand. If I pull this through here, and that through there, I should get it free. Back to square one.

  Sitting alone in his dark living room as the book bonfires blazed below, Jack prayed his family were safe. Prayed they would return unharmed. Imagining them far below on the streets, stood around the flames with roast chestnuts and black peas. The smell forcing them to close their eyes in appreciation. Songs sung merrily. The inspirational speech from the mayor at the town hall. The only way to describe this event is to envisage bonfire night holding hands with Christmas, and setting it all up in flames.

  Rufus's scruffy hand writing lay before him on the coffee table, as the light from the large TV screen lit up Jack's forehead. Static ringing in his ears as the LCD flickered black and white flakes.

  Most people would be feeling unnerved sat in Jack's position. The lighting and noise programmed into their minds to cause fear. Jack had seen much worse. He had heard much worse. Perhaps there was a time when this German supporting scum had fear like me and you. Since then he has learned to turn off such silly feelings as fear. You need a clear mind to concentrate on a dead body.

  Jack's mind was as clustered as a swarm of krill. All the thoughts floating along peacefully enough, but at such a vast quantity they began to merge into one lump of blurred murder Fliss birthday. How he prayed his murderer hadn't targeted them. You’re so close Jackie.

  The Last Supper, 15th-century mural painting by Leonardo da Vinci, Santa Maria delle Grazie, Milan, produced around 1495. The painting represents the scene of The Last Supper of Jesus with his disciples, as it is told in the Gospel of John, 13:21. Leonardo has recreated the gathering of the Twelve Disciples, seconds before Jesus announced that one amongst them was to become a traitor. The Last Fliss measures about 460cm x 880cm. Part of a scheme of regeneration by Leonardo's patron: the Duke of Milan.

  Where is Fliss? Where are my children? Knowing that a killer such as Leo is out in the wilderness, already stalking his next prey as he devours the last, Jack realised something we all realise at some point in our insignificant lives. There are far more important tasks than the one I am doing right now.

  Jack catapulted his notes off the table and on to the cushioned carpet, as he stood up purposefully. The silhouette of a leader before us once more. Shoes already on, he p
ulled a cigar from his case, lit it with a simple gold flicker lighter, and grabbed his coat ready for his adventure.

  Of course as with 5/7 of important moments in your life, his turn of goodwill was never recognised, as Fliss burst through the door. Floating along in her wake amongst her children, a smell of chestnuts, fresh air and smoke, spiralled out of the hall way and in to Jack's nostrils.

  His two daughters so sweet, hugged him at waist and belly button height. He held them like he would never see them again, wiping away their smooth fringes and kissing their foreheads with more passion than I have the talent to convey with words alone. You will have to delve in to your own experiences to understand such passion. He knew Fliss was leaving. Yet he knew nothing. Leo was right about the two sides of love, but out of desperation Jack held onto the idealistic painless love he had experienced so far. He had seen terrible things happen to others. Never had such terrors been directed at him. Staring down love’s barrel with cupid's silver arrow shining in the darkness.

  The boy again ignored Jack and went directly to bed.

  Fliss could not bring herself to look Jack in the eye, she scurried her two beautiful daughters to bed; Jack hanging up his coat in disbelief. Several minutes later Fliss emerged, sheepishly walking towards their shared bedroom. She did not know if she wanted Jack to talk or not. Silence can bite harder than rage ever could.

  Jack stared at her long blonde hair slowly walking away, opening his mouth once or twice; trying to summon the words to say, before surrendering to the never ending silence. Her looks may not have been spectacular, but when you love someone like Jack loves Fliss, you can overlook such insignificant shallowness. In these situations there is only one solution, a can of larger, and a freshly cut Cuban cigar.