Liar Liar

23

He recognized her immediately. As she put on her protective suit, mask and goggles, he took in her trim figure. She was pretty and well groomed, her glossy chestnut hair always secure in a very professional-looking bun. He had observed her at a number of burnt-out properties over the past year, diligently carrying out her work, and had even looked her up on Facebook. Her name was Deborah Parks and he always felt a little charge when looking at her.

She had been working at Travell’s Timber Yard since lunchtime. The massive site looked like a war zone – the main warehouse had burnt to the ground, as had most of the stock, temporarily turning the skies over this part of town black. It’d been an amazing thing to witness and had drawn big crowds, but now they had all disappeared. Back to X Factor and Celebrity BB. They thought the show was over. They didn’t value what was right in front of them. They couldn’t see what he could see.

Deborah Parks was on the move now, entering the shell of the warehouse and temporarily out of view. A couple of uniformed officers guarded the main gate, but the site was huge and the chain link fence had not been well maintained – they obviously didn’t get too many timber thieves round here. It was a matter of a few seconds to haul up the bottom of the fence and roll underneath.

Dusting himself down, he surveyed the scene, pausing for a moment to breathe in the strong aroma of carbonized wood that rose from the ashes of this once-vibrant business. Moving out of sight, he began filming. A slow panorama at first, taking in the full devastation of the scene, then a series of zoomed-in close-ups. The devil is in the detail at fire sites – the small remnants of the conflagration, the things that survived, tell the story best. A successful family business that had taken years to build – destroyed in less than an hour. Such was the power of fire.

The sound of a voice nearby made him look up from his recording. He had been so wrapped up in his work that he’d failed to notice Deborah Parks leaving the warehouse to make a phone call. Berating himself for his carelessness, he ducked behind the remnants of a timber stack and scuttled along the perimeter fence away from danger.

Finding a new place of safety towards the back of the site, he rested for a minute – to catch his breath and reassure himself that he hadn’t been spotted – putting his camera back in his rucksack. Now he got on with the real business. Crawling on his hands and knees, his eyes darting this way and that, searching, searching, searching. You never knew what you were going to find in these situations – sometimes it took ages to find anything decent – but today fate was smiling on him. Near the fence edge was a fire-damaged sign. As soon as he picked it up and turned it over, he broke into a broad smile. ‘Travell’s Timber Yard’, it proudly announced, but this boastful sign was now smeared with soot and violated by fire. It was ideal. The perfect souvenir of a memorable night.

It was too big to fit in his rucksack, but if he held it to him with the writing facing inwards he would be ok. He didn’t have far to go. Lifting the fence, he slipped it under, then followed himself. Picking it up, he got to his feet and, having checked that there were no police officers about, hurried off down the street.

As he went, he chuckled to himself. It had been a very satisfactory day’s work.