A Match Struck: between memory and imagination truth lies

From the darkness of her bedroom, she watches the figure approach. She knows who it is. He opens the gate and slowly, stealthily, moves down the path to the front door. She feels a flutter of panic in her throat. She stops breathing and stands listening with every fibre of her body. Her every nerve-ending is on fire. Then she moves to the top of the stairs and begins a slow silent descent into the darkness that wraps itself around her. Half way down, with relief, she sees the chain is on - it is a black door closed on a phantom. She feels her heart beating against her ribs. She is breathing again, but shallowly, and stands unsteadily, as though the house is heaving itself through a dark ocean. Her right hand clasps the banister tightly: she is light-headed, afraid she might faint to the floor. Then, from the outside, black-gloved fingers are feeling for the flap, easing it open. It is a mouth grinning at her fear. There is the sound of liquid gurgling, pouring, soft splashing, and heady sweet fumes of petrol dizzy the world. Before her, a darker patch spreads wide in the darkness. She is rooted to the spot, watching. On the other side of the door, there is a dry rattle and a sound of fumbling, then a rasp of a match on a phosphorus strip. Her mouth is full to bursting with a silent scream that will not come. Within the open mouth of the letterbox a tiny tongue of flame curls and whispers to her. It dances before her, like a genie growing bold on the fumes. Then it drops itself into the dark puddle and springs to life.