Liam stood frozen at the top of the stairs. He could not move, or think, or breathe. The scary men were inside the house now, even though Dad had locked and bolted the door and put lots of furniture in front of it to stop anyone getting in. There were no broken windows or anything.
They were just, suddenly, there.
It was like a nightmare had come to life. Like the monsters in the closet and the monsters that were on the news had teamed up. There was a fire burning inside Liam and he didn’t know how to put it out.
He heard Mum’s scream and the fire leapt up inside him, burning at the inside of his throat. One of the monsters held out a short stick in his hand and a green jet of light jumped out of it in a straight line, like a lightsaber, towards his mother’s chest. He stumbled forward and reached out with his hand.
Liam could feel the fire leaping out through his fingertips as his mother crumbled to the ground. The fire wrapped itself around the monster that had hurt her and licked at him, eating him alive. Liam did not want to put this fire out.
He ran down the stairs towards her, to pull her away from the dangerous flames, but one of them, a woman, was blocking his way. She was cackling like a witch. She pulled off her mask and stepped closer to Liam. She held her lightsaber out and pointed it at him. Liam was never going to be a firefighter. He saw a flash of green and then there was a blur, and then his father’s back was right in front of him.
His father crumbled in slow motion. He heard the thud echo in his head a hundred times and he was so close. Liam looked down at those open eyes and then he fell.
“Where is he!” the witch screamed.
Liam nudged his father. He shook him. He begged him to wake up. Father never ignored Liam. Sometimes when he was tired he told Liam off loudly, but he never ignored him.
Liam wished he could disappear. He wondered why the witch was still screaming. She still had her lightsaber. She could kill him at any time. He didn’t care. He didn’t even understand what she was saying anymore. All he knew was that the fire burning inside him was trying really hard to get out.
He crawled to his mother and held her, trying to pull her away from the flames all around her. She was too heavy and there was nowhere to go. The fire was everywhere now. It was blue and purple and deep red. It was all the colors that ever existed except for green.
Finally, Liam gave up and sat there, between his mother and father waiting to die. Burning didn’t even hurt. Not from the outside anyway. He sat there and watched the furniture crumble and turn to ash through a watery white haze.
Then the firefighters came. They were big and strong and alive. He looked up at them and noticed the green skull hanging in the sky. A gigantic snake slithered out of its mouth, reaching toward Liam. He cried out and covered his hand with his arm. He could see right through it. The firefighters walked around him and looked right through him and walked in loud voices about how no one was still alive.
Liam stood up in alarm and called to them. He pulled at their jackets and pushed at their stomachs to make them stop. They didn’t go right through him, so he couldn’t be a ghost. Besides, little kids went to heaven when they died and this was hell.
Liam began to kick their feet and step on their toes. He punched a short firefighter in the stomach and spilled a police officer’s coffee on him. The police officer said a very bad word, but he looked right through Liam’s head.
He understood now, he had disappeared. And he deserved it. He hadn’t been able to save Mum and Dad. Now there was no one left. Liam felt hot, burning tears make rivers down his cheeks. He fell down on the hard ground and looked down at the black street through his invisible hands.
…
The art teacher was starting to pack up her belongings in a very obvious fashion. Mat tore himself from the painting and went over to the sink to wash out the brushes. When he returned she was studying his painting.
“Very good,” she said, her voice showing how impressed she was.
“Thank you,” Mat replied, “for letting me stay and work on it.”
She tore her gaze from the paining and began to clear a place for it on the drying rack. Mat placed the painting gingerly in place and then picked up his bag. It was nearly an hour after school now, but he was in the habit of staying and finishing his artwork – or just working on other, unassigned projects. There were a couple of other students who often stayed, but they weren’t in his year and they usually only stayed for a half hour or so.
Waving goodbye one last time he let himself out the back door and began the short walk home, thinking about the shades he had used on the trees. Green seemed to have an endless number of very distinctive shades. This did not surprise him; it was, after all, the color of life.
He passed by the café and turned the corner, nodding to the familiar old man that always sat in the exact same place. This time, the man didn’t nod back. Mat followed his gaze and found that the man was staring at a very curious cloud formation.
It wasn’t the shape that made it strange, although seeing a skull-shaped cloud was unusual enough. It was the greenish tinge to the cloud that made Mat pause in his footsteps. He gazed at it for a while, wondering why a sense of foreboding had settled into his stomach.
Shaking himself, Mat continued on his way, dragging his tired feet now and wondering what Mama had cooked this time. His street was strangely silent when he stepped into it. No one was about. Even Liam, who played on the streets when he wasn’t playing with Mat’s sister, Jasmine, was not out here. A few doors had been quite uncharacteristically left ajar.
The only normal thing was that it smelled as if Mrs. Gray had burnt her dinner again. Turning into his own house, Mat thought, for a moment that he could see Liam’s bright green eyes shining out at him from thin air. He shook his head to shake the illusion.
Quickening his footsteps now, he stepped into the house and threw his belongings on the ground in the hallway, discarding his shoes and sinking his feet into the thick carpet. He did not announce his presence, although it was his habit to call out for his mother and tell her he was home. Something like fear was creeping up his spine as he poked his head into the living room. The TV was on, but no one was there. One of Jasmine’s photographs lay face down on the floor. He knelt to pick it up and place it back on the shelf, but his hand stopped abruptly, inches from the frame.
There was a large muddy boot-print on the carpet.
Mat swallowed back his rising fear and ran upstairs, looking in every single room. All empty.
“They must have gone to visit Granmother,” he said aloud, as if trying to convince himself. He stuck his head out the window. The car was there. Mat raced back down the steps. He needed to call someone… there was a logical explanation for this.
The sound of the TV floating out of the living room stopped him. He stepped into the room and walked a little closer to the screen. A hassled reporter – the same one that had covered the story of those dead soldiers – stared out at him.
“Yes Tracy, the police have not made a public statement yet on this tragedy. The brutal murders of twenty two families on James Avenue this afternoon have left the entire country in a state of shock. As we reported earlier the bodies have all been removed from the scene for identification and we are expecting a formal announcement of the names of the victims any minute now. Meanwhile, here are the pictures that reporters managed to take before the police and private investigators took control of the scene.”
Mat stood transfixed, his hand shaking, as pictures of his street, his neighbors, his friends, flashed across the screen one by one. He saw Mrs. Gray; the saucepan still gripped tightly in her hand, lying on the floor, her eyes completely lifeless. He saw the twins from down the street side by side, staring up at the ceiling. He saw his next door neighbors, every single one of them, even the tiny baby, being examined by police.
And then he was looking at a reflection. The same room that he was standing in looked back out at him from the television, but it was horribly, horribly different. Jasmine’s tiny, beautiful face stared lifelessly back at him. His father’s tired body now lay stiff and cold. His mother’s hands were still flecked with flour and dough.
And then they were gone. There was a white, hazy film between him and the world now. He saw everything as if from a great distance. He couldn’t move a fraction of a centimeter or it would be true. The raging fire that was in his heart was suddenly there before him. Strangely colored flames licked at Liam’s house and a small fire-truck moved onto the scene to put the fire out.
And then the reporter was there again, her shaking voice ringing in his ears. He had to listen to every word, because then it would make sense and he would understand what had really happened.
They couldn’t be dead.
“… the identified bodies. Among the bodies not recovered were the bodies of the Lewin family whose house was burnt down to ash before the firefighters could do anything. One firefighter lost his life trying to save the inhabitants and two more were severely injured. It is thought that the entire family, including the nine year old boy, died in the fire. The only other body not recovered is that of seventeen year old Mahmoud Tariq. The rest of his family all perished, but his whereabouts are unknown. Many now believe that he may be involved with the gang that brought about this brutal attack – that he may have helped them, because the police have urged anyone who sees him not to approach him and to call them immediately.”
A loud, shrill cry escaped Mat’s lips. He ran into the kitchen and found the upturned bowl of dough on the ground.
Setting it back on the table he sunk both hands into it, kneading and pounding, hot, bitter tears flowing down his face.
The words played over and over in his mind. Seventeen year old Mahmoud Tariq. The rest of his family all perished, but his whereabouts are unknown. Many now believe that he may be involved with the gang that brought about this brutal attack – that he may have helped them.
His entire family had been murdered and he was supposed to have helped the murderers? Mat closed his eyes, wondering how anyone, anyone could possibly think he would do such a thing. But no – they didn’t suspect Mat, they suspected Mahmoud and that, of course, made all the difference. He would never be able to cry over their bodies now, to see them and make absolutely certain that it was true.
His knees crumpled underneath him and his head came down. Wracking sobs shook his whole body now. He wondered how he could possibly still be alive.
Something icy suddenly pushed at his shoulder. A voice almost familiar was trying to call out to him from a great distance. He looked around wildly as more cold hands pushed at him, trying to pull him to his feet again. The police were out there, closing in, he knew they would be waiting for him. That was why they hadn’t closed off the area.
“Don’t let them get you!” a half-familiar, ghostly voice said to him. “Please, you have to help me; you can’t let them take you away!”
And he obeyed the voice, because it was the only thing he had left, because it reminded him of vibrant green, living eyes, because it had said he could help.
He ran out between living green trees and underneath the eerie green clouds of death. He did not see the ghostly transparent feet that were trying to keep up with his, or the ghostly green eyes that saw his pursuers and turned around to face them. He did not turn around so he did not see the blue and purple and red flames that stopped the police officers in their tracks and allowed for his escape.
