The Fire Starters

by Jan Carson

  I lift Sophie from the bath, towel her dry and fasten her into a clean nappy. She curls into the space between my neck and shoulder, like a cat nuzzling my heat. This is when I almost stop myself. This is when my will begins to sap. I hold her out at arms’ length, fully lit beneath the bathroom light, and force myself to see the Siren in her.

  The glossy black hair, dry now, but never without the look of wetness.

  The unbroken skin on her heels and palms, smooth as a sea-buffed pebble.

  The love of water.

  The closeness of her eyes. The way they dance around beneath their lids, never for a moment resting, as her mother’s eyes once danced up at me from the bathtub.

  The beauty of her, which is like a fire I cannot look away from.

  I wish for the false courage of prayer. I wish once again for whiskey. There is nothing for me to lean upon but the overplayed notion that this, even this, is in the child’s best interest. I carry her into the spare room where everything is sterile and covered with freshly laundered white towels. I’ve rigged a series of desk lamps to hang over my operating space, illuminating every inch of Sophie’s head. There is so much light in the room it feels like the future.

  I place my daughter on the bed, directly beneath the lamps. She begins to squirm away from their brightness. Her eyes are furious and blinking. I block her in with pillows so there’s no place for her to roll. When she is fully under, I will pin her head down with surgical tape so she’s perfectly still throughout. I turn away from her to prepare the anaesthetic, pausing at the mirror to fix my bandanna and mouth mask. Only my eyes are visible now. I don’t recognize myself in the mirror and this is a kind of comfort. Another man will do this horrible thing to Sophie, and when she sees me next there will be no association. Nothing to link me to the pain and the taste of blood pooling at the back of her throat. Nothing she can hold against me when she’s fully grown.

  I lift the first needle of the evening. I hold it to the light and ease the plunger upwards until a tiny bead of liquid appears on the nib. I flick it twice with my fingernail, allowing myself to hide behind the routine of it all. How many injections have I given in the last twelve years? How many times have I said, ‘Sharp scratch, that’s all,’ and watched the patient wince their shoulders away from me? Dozens. Hundreds. Thousands. But none of those injections have mattered like this injection. None of them cost me anything at all.

  I turn back to the bed. I stand over my beautiful daughter as she blinks up at me, almost naked and terrified. I reach for her wrist and the place where the needle will go sliding into her tiny vein. She looks up and she does not see me. She sees a monster man in my place. A hooded, half-masked creature with his arm raised over her. She opens her mouth and roars. The sound that comes out almost kills me with its intensity.

  One syllable.

  ‘Da.’

  The possibility of an infinite number of syllables to come.

  For now, just one syllable, like a snub-nosed bullet piercing my ribcage and moving upwards. Lungs. Heart. Head. Every part of me succumbs. I feel the same familiar knot of thrill and fear coil and uncoil, like clenching fists inside my belly. This is exactly the same way her mother made me smart and soar. This is the way I will be ruined. And it is godawful raw to know myself so helpless. And it is also glorious. It’s impossible to stop it now. Like holding back the Lagan with one hand. I should have covered my ears but it’s too late. I’ve already heard her and nothing now can ever be simple again. Everything will be on Sophie’s terms. There isn’t anything I won’t do for her. No reasonable limit to what she can ask. I drop the needle. It rolls away from me and comes to rest beneath the bed. I pull the mask away from my left ear so it hangs like a hinged door from one side of my face. Every part of me is liquid and rushing towards my child.

  ‘Sophie,’ I say, lifting her from the bed, pressing her close to my face, ‘talk to me, Sophie. Daddy’s here.’

  I know she will destroy me. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

  Acknowledgements

  It is a very fortunate thing to find yourself with far too many people to thank.

  Thank you to everyone who made this book possible in little ways and big. Thank you to the trio of wonderful women who saw its potential and encouraged me every step along the way: Fiona Murphy at Doubleday, Alice Youell (the world’s kindest editor), and my amazing agent, Kate Johnson, who has been an absolute joy to know and work with since the very first day our paths crossed. Thank you also to Brian Langan for early encouragement and kind words.

  Thank you to those incredible individuals who have offered friendship, encouragement and support for years now: Sinead Morrissey, Damian Smyth, Peggy Hughes, Michael Nolan, Paul Maddern, Jean Bleakney, Bernie McGill, Nate Grubbs, David Torrans, Andrew Eaton, Emma Wright and many others. Every wise word has been thoroughly appreciated.

  Thank you to all the hundreds of artists and arts organizations who make Belfast the absolute best place to practise art in community. It’s always a comfort to know I have good people to come home to. I am particularly grateful for the ongoing friendship and support of Eastside Arts, No Alibis, the Lifeboat, the Queen’s Film Theatre, the Crescent Arts Centre and the John Hewitt Society.

  A huge thank-you to the power women who keep me sane on a daily basis: Emma Must, Hilary Copeland, Orla McAdam, Emily DeDakis, Cailin Lynn, Kelly McCaughrain, Hannah McPhillimy, Kristen Kernaghan, Olwyn Dowling. This place would fall apart without you.

  Thank you to the Arts Council NI and Seedbed NI for financial support and guidance over the last number of years.

  Thank you to my family for putting up with an awful lot and always coming back for more.

  And a final heartfelt thank-you to the two unnamed baristas in Costa, Waverley Station, Edinburgh, who found the laptop containing this manuscript three days after it went missing. This book, quite literally, wouldn’t have happened without you.

  TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS

  61–63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA

  penguin.co.uk

  Transworld is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.

  First published in the UK and Ireland in 2019 by Doubleday Ireland

  an imprint of Transworld Publishers

  Copyright © Jan Carson 2019

  Cover design and typography by Jo Thomson/TW

  Lighter © Getty Images/Marco Siori/EyeEm

  Matchbox © Getty Images/Hanis

  Matches © Getty Images/Tino Schning/EyeEm

  Jan Carson has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Every effort has been made to obtain the necessary permissions with reference to copyright material, both illustrative and quoted. We apologize for any omissions in this respect and will be pleased to make the appropriate acknowledgements in any future edition.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN 9781473558014

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

 

 

 
rayscale(100%); -o-filter: grayscale(100%); -ms-filter: grayscale(100%); filter: grayscale(100%); " class="sharethis-inline-share-buttons">share