The Memory of Water

⁴⁵ HEADFIRST INTO BLACK DEW

I am lost, but then I hear the siren again and that wakes me up, tells me I am in this place with a job to do. I crumple up the letterhead and add it to what will be the bonfire. I almost give up on the lighter but then I think: incense and candlelit baths. I walk to the bathroom and find a box of matches in the first cupboard I open. There are only a few in the box but they will do. I reach around to make sure that I have my bag on my back. The fumes are making me unsteady on my feet. I hear the wailing of the police car as if it is in the next room. I pour the last of the fuel down the entrance hall and up to the front door. I stumble around, my fingers are thick. I drop the matches, pick them up again. There are bright lights blocking out my vision. I need to get to fresh air or I will pass out. I don’t even bother to turn the handle, I just kick it open. Once outside I take a few clear breaths to make the stars recede. I see parts of the floor, parts of bricks on the wall. I put an arm out to steady myself. The siren arrives downstairs. The car brakes with a scream and crunch and the siren quits half-shriek. Doors open and boots hit gravel. Terse words are exchanged. It will take them less than a minute to get up here. I peer through the stars into the matchbox. I grab one but drop it on the floor. Another one. Then I take two and hold them steady against the flint-side and as it sparks, the wind is knocked out of me and I am pitched forward, teeth-to-tiles. The matchbox skitters across the floor. I forget about breathing and start crawling towards the box, but Edgar gets there first and picks them up in a neat collect. He glances backwards at me, white grimace in black hood, and takes off. Next thing I know I am up on my feet and chasing him. He darts down the narrow emergency steps and I follow. As we descend I can hear the cops ricocheting off the main stairway, in the opposite direction. Despite the assault, despite the blurred vision and bubbling lungs, I keep on going. We hit the basement floor and run through the parking lot. Edgar bounces off a station wagon, bounds up some concrete planters, rushes through a garden and out of the pedestrian gate. He is fast and putting extra distance between us. He is hard to spot in his dark clothes, and he runs like a pro. Trust me to get the athlete stalker. We corner the block, hitting a straight road and he picks up speed. I can feel my legs disappearing under me. I am just about to stop running when he makes a sound: a yelp. He has tripped over something, some sweet thing, and sprawls headfirst into black dew.

He ploughs into the lawn on all fours and scrambles to get up. I reach him just as he manages to lift his knees off the ground and I land a clumsy drop kick into the washboard of his stomach. He lets out a howl like a wounded animal and I kick him again, this time in the ribs. He tries to get away, clawing at the ground and trying to get a footing but the grass is slippery and I have my foot on his back. He doesn’t fight back. Acid loathing makes me kick him once more: a heavy jump on his spine and he is flattened. I grab his shoulder to roll him over and rip off his black hood so that I can see his face. I recoil at the sight: shiny pale plastic glinting in the streetlight. A mask. I dig my fingers underneath it and peel it off. The face I see topples me. He may as well have punched me in the face. I let go of him with an exclamation.