Have Your Cake

by Elise K. Ackers

  She saw him lift a small grey blowtorch from the drawer and thought she might prefer the knives.

  He clicked it on and waved the flame beside her face. She cringed away from it and his grasp tightened.

  ‘I don’t like being powerless,’ he murmured.

  Had it been eight minutes? It didn’t even take eight seconds to crème brûlée something as flammable as a cheek.

  ‘Powerless?’ she said, startled into conversation. ‘You completely destroyed my reputation, and came out on top! You got a new wife out of it. People still love you.’

  He lowered the torch and risked bringing his face close again. ‘Ah, but you know what they say about the one who got away. This has all done a bit of a number on my pride.’ He said it like he was confessing a vulnerability.

  Before she could think how to respond, Mal shoved her bodily through the dividing door and she pinwheeled into the shop. She fell hard. Something popped. Rolling onto her back, she cradled her arm and gasped at the curtained ceiling. Her eyes bulged in pain and the air seemed thin in her labouring lungs.

  Mal stepped through the door, the small blowtorch still on. Eyes on her, he angled the tip of the flame towards the nearest silk curtain. Its hunger to burn appeared to take even Mal by surprise. He flinched away from it, then lit the next.

  Seconds later, there was a wall of fire.

  The flames licked up the material, climbing ever higher, then they jumped towards the lengths covering the ceiling, and the heat and the light seemed to triple in an instant.

  Mal had stepped around her as she’d been transfixed by the maw of heat. He was by the door now, and evidently still dissatisfied with his destruction. He reached for the door—the lovely orange door that had been her new start and her everyday cheer, and before he stepped through it, touched the blowtorch to the inside of it. And then that, too, was fire.

  (Before)

  Orange

  It was the most beautiful door Abigail had ever seen in her life. It was more beautiful than the taxi door that had leapt aside and allowed her to flee her old life. More beautiful, even, than the white-washed door of her new flat. That was the door to where she would live now, but this door—this beautiful orange door—was the door to where she was going to be alive.

  She trailed her fingers along the vibrant paint, then stepped back to regard her new business premises. There were flats above it and plants clinging to the brickwork. Her neighbours on the left had a blue door, and her neighbours on the right a green. At her back was a convenience store with a friendly man who’d gifted her an apple to welcome her to the neighbourhood. Adjacent to him was a bakery, run by an expressive, effusive man who had—not to be outdone—hastened to gift her a coffee.

  The shop window was wide and tall, and beyond the glass the walls were bare.

  She would put a really beautiful logo right in the centre of that glass, and a partition just behind it so as to create a window display. Whatever she put in there would rotate often. Commuters and locals, they’d never get the chance to take her for granted because she’d always be changing. Always delighting.

  The orange was so friendly. It was like a shot of warmth that she felt right through to her heart. It would be a delight to open this door every morning. Her new premise key in hand, she vowed to always keep its hinges oiled and its paint clean. She’d clean out the lock and buff up the mail slot. It would love her as much as she would love it.

  And Boucake? That would be the making of her.

  It had to be. Otherwise what had everything she’d endured been for?

  Her new life—her second life—began now. She was a phoenix, and her fears were the ashes from which she would rise.

  Chapter 29

  Burn

  Mal smirked. Actually smirked, the sociopathic piece of human trash, before he turned towards the Yard and made to step out of the shop. But he didn’t get far. He got half a step forward before he was intercepted by a cloud.

  Abigail, still on the floor where she’d fallen, started in surprise.

  The cloud absorbed his face and muffled his shout of anger, then there was a hand with dozens of black rubber bangles on its wrist, pushing against the board that the cloud was sitting on. Brittany. Charging into the room of fire, reaching high over her head because Mal was at least a foot taller than herself. She’d caught him off guard and blinded him.

  He stumbled backwards into the partition wall and it crashed to the floor, tripping him further.

  ‘A!’ Brittany’s voice was a scream. She changed the direction of her charge and collided with Abigail at the exact moment that Abigail stumbled to her feet. The two women clung to one another.

  Mal scraped the strange foam out of his eyes and snapped his hand towards the floor. The foam shot across the room, hit the burning wall, and was instantly incinerated. Abigail pulled Brittany closer to her chest when he staggered to his feet.

  He looked at the burning door, a prison of his own making, and made a split, deadly decision. He ran towards them. Abigail pushed Brittany, wanting to throw her clear, but Brittany didn’t let go, and the pair of them pitched wildly to the side.

  Mal ran straight past them. Back into the kitchen. Did he think there was another exit? Abigail wondered wildly. There wasn’t. There was only the front door.

  Brittany was still holding on, and now she was dragging. ‘A! Let’s go!’

  The door was too hot to approach. It was no longer their way out. Unless … Abigail shook Brittany’s hands free and reached for the fallen screen. ‘Help me!’

  Brittany realised at once what Abigail was intending to do, and as one, they hauled the screen up and thrust it between the door and the doorjamb. They pulled it towards themselves and it came, pulling the burning door with it. Creating a space.

  Without hesitation, Abigail pushed her friend, her colleague, her saviour towards it. There wasn’t time for Brittany to argue, so she went. She tried to hold Abigail’s hand and bring her with her, but the foam on her skin had become slick, and her grasp slipped.

  The moment she was outside, Abigail saw her turn and her eyes widen. She screamed as the screen collapsed backwards and slammed the door closed. It caught fire before Abigail could wrench it aside, and she was forced back, gasping and squinting. The room was filling with smoke, it was hard to see.

  The window. She needed something to throw through the window.

  There was nothing in the front room. All of the cake stands holding up what was left of the melting cake bouquets were too insubstantial, and everything else seemed too small. Her laptop was usually on the counter and that might have done the trick, but it was in the van which was parked haphazardly on the footpath nearby.

  She had to go into the kitchen. Where Mal was. There was plenty of heavy stuff in there.

  He would be too desperate to save his own life to worry too much about her, surely.

  She darted through the dividing door, throwing it open with a boom.

  He was there, hands gripping the doorframe of the store cupboard. His knuckles were white. He’d no doubt realised neither of the two doorways in here led outside. His face was as frightening as the fire at her back, but she couldn’t let that paralyse her. Time was everything right now.

  She turned away from his mad eyes. As her fingers clasped over her portable cake mixer stand, she felt something stretch and scream in her arm. Tears of pain spilled from her smoke-dry eyes, but she kept moving. She straightened, and despite everything that was going on, her body still had room for a little more fear.

  He was coming towards her. Fast.

  Something broke. Something big. The window. She’d just heard it shatter, it couldn’t have been anything else. And there were sirens—distant but growing closer.

  Her past opened it’s thin-lipped, down-turned mouth and screamed, ‘You ruin everything!’

  Abigail pivoted her body and raised her arms. The cake mixer stand crashed into the side of Mal’s contorted face just as he was descendin
g upon her, and the weight of it sent him staggering off course.

  She screamed when her body was jostled, but in an instant realised they were not Mal’s hands and arms that closed around her body. They were Dillon’s.

  For some strange reason this didn’t surprise her. Maybe it would later, when she survived all of this, but for now, her shock and awe was all tapped out. So, she turned into his chest and clung to him.

  ‘Abigail!’

  It was the longest, most desperate sound that was also her name. It scraped and clawed at things deep inside her body.

  She felt Dillon turn his head. ‘She’s okay! Stay outside!’

  Then there were more voices. Deep male voices, altered by adrenaline and fear. Something burst then whooshed. Fast-moving air, she realised. Fire extinguishers.

  Abigail pushed away from Dillon and seized the red canister by the stove. She pointed at Mal’s crumpled body. Even though it was unmoving, she said, ‘Don’t let him get up.’ She almost pushed past Dillon, but hesitated.

  She smiled.

  He smiled back. With top teeth.

  The moment over, Abigail raced to join the fire fight.

  Chapter 30

  Phoenix

  Abigail was having a pretty good day. And considering her shopfront had burned down yesterday and her arm was hurting like no-one’s business, she decided this was yet another demonstration of her indestructible spirit. She entered the parking lot and accelerated up the ramp that led to her first floor parking space. The van’s cargo bay was empty. She’d just completed the delivery of one five-tier unicorn cake and one hundred unicorn-dust cupcakes to Mr Joshuyo’s home, and the delighted screams of the children when they’d seen them were still ringing in her ears.

  The kitchen had been undamaged in the blaze. It had needed a good scrub, of course, but Abigail and Brittany had managed to complete their all-important custom order without a hitch, notwithstanding being chastised by the fire department for entering the building before it had been signed off.

  The shopfront was totalled, and that was a big loss. Thankfully, no-one’s home had been damaged and the building was still structurally sound. They’d built them good back in the day. Her beautiful orange door was gone and she’d probably never decorate with silk curtains again, but the kitchen was okay, so the business could continue.

  Mal wasn’t going to stop her from doing anything ever again. Particularly now, when he was in custody for assault and arson.

  She was going to keep on keeping on. Things were going to be okay.

  Great, even.

  It turned out that the cloud Brittany had thrust into Mal’s face had been marshmallow icing. Brittany had been walking a tray of it around to all the neighbours to get their take on it. They’d loved it, and because it deserved some of the credit for Abigail getting out of that fire alive, Abigail has said it could be the flavour of the month for the next six months.

  But then again, Brittany had said she’d be bored of it by then, so maybe not.

  When they had a shopfront again, they’d interview a new team member together. They’d probably get a lot of applicants too, because since yesterday Boucake had trended again for its part in a jealous ex’s slander, and eventual crazed break-and-entry. Brittany had contributed to the discourse by ‘leaking’ the video of Boucake’s flawless preparation of Mal and Isobelle’s engagement cakes, and the couple’s subsequent bad behaviour.

  Boucake’s reputation was going to recover. Those damning tweets and posts about out-of-date food stuff and harassing behaviour were still out there, but Abigail was determined to drown them into obscurity with good news stories.

  As for Dillon … Apparently he’d driven over to Boucake puffed up with indignation and hurt, determined to settle the car park costs immediately. Then he’d seen Brittany screaming at a burning doorway and promptly hauled a chair through the front window.

  As Brittany told it, he climbed in without hesitating, and went straight into the fire. For Abigail.

  Gregor and Arran had been hot on his heels with fire extinguishers from their shops, and then Abigail knew the rest, because she’d been amongst it.

  It was a pretty great story.

  And now she owed Dillon a hell of a lot more than an apology for her behaviour in the café.

  They hadn’t settled on the car park yet, so that was a ready excuse to see him again soon.

  Parked now, Abigail killed the engine and stepped from the van. She trailed her fingertips over the logo as she passed it, then bounded down the stairs, flipping through her keys. She’d installed a lock on what had once been the divider door between the shopfront and the kitchen. It was kind of the front door now but it had a nothing sort of key. She missed her old key—it had been a little bit glamorous. And her old orange door. Hopefully the building insurance covered that sort of thing.

  The Yard was a hive of activity when she stepped out of the narrow laneway which led to the car park. There were people milling about in the middle and sitting on the seats talking to one another, holding coffee cups from Beatha Bakery and eating.

  Cupcakes.

  They were eating unicorn-dust cupcakes.

  Abigail stopped, mid-stride, and stared.

  A woman in a bright blue jacket finished her cake and stepped over to the bin to dispose of the wrapper, and the space she left in the crowd gave Abigail a clear view of what was causing all the commotion. Gregor’s counter space had changed. All of the gourmet coffee bags and exotic chocolate bundles that he usually displayed on a staggered display were gone. In their place were dozens of colourful cupcakes. The very same that Abigail and Brittany had made this morning.

  She drifted closer, confused and slow. Someone seated at one of Gregor’s tables stood and bumped into her. He apologised then moved away, but Abigail barely heard him. She was staring at the iron table number holder, which usually held a non-descript black number on a white card. Today it held a small laminated sign.

  Abigail’s eyes flickered to the other tables. Between the many bodies she could just make out that each table carried the same change. She stepped closer and picked it up.

  Seating for Beatha Bakery and Boucake customers.

  Her body was suddenly overcome with warmth and pressure. The best kind; the squeezing, dizzying, life-affirming kind. A tear slipped from her eye.

  ‘The font’s not that bad,’ said a soft voice to her right.

  Abigail was smiling before she turned and found Brittany’s beaming face in the crowd.

  Brittany feigned regret. ‘It was the best I could do at short notice.’ She bared her teeth in mock embarrassment then laughed.

  ‘Short notice?’

  Brittany stepped around a couple tasting the unicorn-dust icing with their fingers, and reached Abigail’s side. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘You’d no sooner left to deliver those rainbow delights than a bunch of vans squealed into every opening of the Yard.’ She threw her arms over her head in an exaggerated re-enactment of fast work. ‘There was stuff going everywhere!’

  Abigail stretched up onto her toes to see for herself. ‘What kind of stuff?’

  Brittany began to list things off on her fingers. ‘Display cabinets made to measure for Gregor’s countertop. Signage for the board over the window, so our walk-in customers know where to look for our stuff. Crates of pretty little plates for Gregor to serve your cakes on, because Gregor’s sharing his seating area with us for as long as we need it. This awning.’ She pointed above their heads. ‘You noticed this awning thing, right?’

  She stared at Abigail. ‘Apparently pop-up shops need a lot of stuff.’

  Abigail whirled on the spot. ‘We have a pop-up shop? Who did all of this?’

  Brittany arched a brow. ‘You know. There’s no way you don’t know.’

  The women stared at each other.

  ‘Dillon.’

  ‘Of course Dillon. And Gregor and Arran. But mostly Dillon.’ She reached into her jacket pocket. When she’d balanced an unloc
ked phone in Abigail’s palm, she said, ‘Check this out.’

  Abigail narrowed her eyes and drew the phone closer to her face. It was an Instagram profile. There was one uploaded picture of a silver coin. She didn’t recognise the pattern. Until she did. It wasn’t a coin. It was a medallion. Printed around the outer curve were the words, to thine own self be true. Under that there was a triangle, with the words unity, service and recovery parallel with each side. In the middle of the triangle were two numbers and a word. 24 hours. The comment under the picture was by a user she didn’t recognise: Satisfied7.

  The seven noses of Soho. And that song he’d sung so absurdly to her that day.

  The comment read: 24 × 8.

  She lowered the phone and stared at the ground. It had been just over a week since the Lamborghini launch party. Today was the eighth day.

  ‘He …’

  Brittany didn’t let her finish. ‘It’s a private profile. He’s got two followers.’ She let this sink in then said, ‘The other account’s gone. Deleted.’ She lifted Abigail’s phone-holding hand higher and touched the screen. ‘You gotta refresh the feed.’

  A second image appeared on the humble profile page. She tapped it immediately to make it larger, then let out a wobbly laugh. It was a Space Invader. The comment read; location unknown.

  But there was something in the bottom corner that Abigail recognised, and her head shot up. She pushed the phone at Brittany, who laughed delightedly, then hurried through the crowd to the makeshift wooden screen blocking off the damaged shop. The chain was hanging loose from the entry point so she darted through.

  A black, quiet cube greeted her, and her spirits dipped a little. It was a sad sight. Nothing had survived, not even the display cabinet. Its glass had cracked and warped in the heat and everything wore a skin of smoke damage. Her boots crunched on the debris by the door.

  The kitchen light was on, and the divider door was unlocked.

  She eased it open, breath held. And saw it. Stuck on the white tiles above her industrial grade mixer was an orange and black Space Invader sticker. The apron hook that she’d recognised in the picture was empty, despite her having hung her apron from it before leaving for her recent delivery.