Yellow Mama E zine

Fire Lighter

 

by Athos Kyriakides

 

 

 

        The Late Bar had Thursday night written all over it. A smoke‐stained club tucked into a dark corner of Ends Valley. Nothing had caught fire there for a long time, but tonight, at least—there was a spark.

        Jake Ryder blazed away on his Stratocaster guitar. The small crowd was on the hook, hanging on every phrase—but he was playing for an audience of one.

         She wore a pink dress and sat alone, coolly sipping from a Martini glass, seemingly unaware that there even was a band or stage—or a guitarist that couldn't tear his eyes away.             But she knew it. He knew she knew it.

        The final note from his guitar was practically still sustaining when he hopped down to the floor. He headed towards the bar, avoiding eye-contact with any punter who might want to blow smoke or ask what gauge strings he used—there was only one thing on his mind.

He pulled up next to her. She smoked a cigarette and stared straight ahead.

        The barman placed a napkin down. "Nice set, Jake. Usual?"

       He looked to the woman in pink.

       "Buy you a drink?"

        She almost looked back at him.

        "I have one, thanks."

        "Same again, H."

        He took a breath and then a second bite of the cherry.

        "So what d'you think?"

        "About what?"

        "My set." She rolled her eyes and sipped her drink. "You ain't making this easy."

        “Where’s the fun in that? Besides, it looked easy enough for you up there."

         "Everything's easy for me up there."

        She looked at him then. "How old are you?"

        "Old enough."

         She turned towards him. "Twenty-what?"

         "Twenty-three. Same age as the last time we were together,"

         She looked away.

         "Same age I've been all summer."

         "Summer comes and goes."

          She blew smoke into his face. He didn't blink.

          "I won't," his gaze held firm—eyes arrow-straight, "I can't quit you."

         He put a hand on her thigh—slowly running it up as far as she would let him.

         "Not here." she said, catching it.

         "Then where?"

         She looked over her shoulder. "I'm married, you know? You should find a girl your own age."
         He turned towards his drink.

         “Is that what you want?”

          She stared into her Martini—stabbing the olive with her toothpick.

          “No.”

          She put her cigarette down and opened her clutch bag. He watched her take a pen out and scribble on a cocktail napkin.

          "I've got to go—I'm meeting a friend in town."

          "Wait... Lucy, stay."
            She pressed her lips against the napkin and put it in his hand.

          "See you, Jake."

           He watched her leave—then unfolded the napkin.

 

          Can’t quit you, either.
          Tonight.
          Room 16, Griffin Hotel.
          Godfrey.
          Come after 10.

           Sealed with a pink lipstick kiss.

           He smiled slowly.

***

 

           10.03pm

 

           Jake hurried along the warmly-lit corridor of the Godfrey Hotel until he reached room sixteen. He ran a hand through his hair and took a breath. When he raised a hand to knock, he noticed the door was ajar.

           He crept into the room, placing his guitar case down and closing the door gently.

           The room was dark—save for a sliver of light that spilled from a partially open door across the room—the bathroom, he supposed.

          "Lucy?"

          He moved towards it, side-stepping a small table along the way—a bottle of drink and two glasses perched on top. He reached the open door—the final couple of floorboards loose and creaking beneath his feet, when something stirred.

         A shift in the dark behind him. The tingly feeling of eyes on his back.

         Then, a flick of a switch—a light came on. He turned sharply.

         It wasn't Lucy—not even close.

         Sat in a chair by the lamp was a man in a navy suit with a black shirt. He held Jake with eyes that brooded dark and still, like burnt charcoal. It occurred to Jake that he must have walked right past him. It was only when he went to speak, he realised he'd been holding his breath.

         "Sorry, I must have the wrong room."
         The man raised an eyebrow.

          "What room were you looking for?"
          His voice was deep and tinged with an accent Jake had never heard.

          "Room sixteen."

          "This is room sixteen."

          "Well, there's been a mistake."

          The man considered smiling but stopped halfway.

           "Want a drink?"
          He gestured towards the bottle on the table.

          "No thanks. I should go."

          Jake started back towards the door, feeling an uneasy tension when he passed by the man.

         He reached for the handle—then paused.

         "Where's my guitar?"
          A brief scan before he saw the case poking out behind the man's chair.

         "Can you pass me that?"

         "You're here for Lucinda, eh?"
           Jake shook his head, eyes still on his guitar. "No."

          "Lucy. You called for her."
           The man stood, unfurling to an imposing height.

          "Look, I just want my guitar."
          The man shrugged innocently. "Take it."

          Jake moved slowly towards it, the man stood by his chair, making its retrieval awkward. Jake leaned forward to pick it up—feeling the man's eyes narrow on him, a peculiar half-smile etched on his face.

         As soon as the handle was in his grip, Jake sprung back as if evading a trap, but the man didn't move.

        "You don't want to wait for Lucy? She'll be here any moment."

         Jake prepared to decline—before his desire for it to be true took over.

         "She will?"

         "Yeah."

         "Sorry, but... who are you?"

         "I'm a friend of hers. I'm heading off soon."

         "A friend? The one she met in town?"

         The man smiled. "The very same. She stepped out to the little store. Won't contemplate a Gin and tonic without a slice of lemon,"

          Jake glanced to the bottle of drink on the table—Gin.

          "That's why the door was open, I'm surprised you didn't see her on the way in."

          "Why were you in the dark?"

          "I can’t stand the glare."

           "Of the lights?"

           "Of creation."

           The man laughed, Jake followed suit—not really knowing why.

           "Relax, kid. Have a drink. I think you might need it for what she has in store for you, and I'm not talking about lemons."

           Jake smiled—genuinely, this time.

           "Alright," he said, placing his guitar down. "You want one for the road?"

          "Why not?" said the man, preparing to re-take his seat—or so Jake thought.

          He turned toward the table, picking up the bottle of Gin and reading the label—his eyes landing on the word slow.

           Then—a thud.

           He jolted forward—a sharp pain in the back of his head.

           His knees buckled. The room tilted.

           He hit the floor. The lights faded.

           Then.

           Black.

           Just the sound of sticky gaffer being pulled and torn.

***

          Jake's eyes fluttered open—still he saw black.

           He lifted his throbbing head, surprised at how heavy it felt. He sat slumped at the drinks table—his face buried between his two forearms. A nauseous feeling had settled in his stomach, but when he tried to put a hand to it, he couldn't. They were taped together at the wrists—palms down.

          An empty chair was pulled up across the table. Jake searched the room, and found the man kneeling near the hotel door—the guitar case open on the floor in front of him. Stroking his Strat as though it were a kitten.

        "Get your hands off it."
         The man smiled. "Welcome back. That's a beautiful instrument you have there. Is it valuable?"

          "No."

          The man stood, an exaggerated frown on his face.

          "Oh, come on. I know it means a lot to you."

          "That isn't what you asked me."

          "Yes it is."

          "Why are you doing this?"

           The man walked over, stopping by the TV stand to collect Jake's wallet, before taking a seat across from him.

           "Want to guess?"

          "You her husband?"

           The man nodded. He opened the wallet and took out Jake's driver’s licence.

           "Damon Spears, of—Damon and Lucy Spears, and you're Jake Ryder. A musician, this time, huh? Twenty-three. Good for her."

          "What do you mean this time?"

          "We'll get back to that."

          He reached inside his blazer pocket, producing a fold-up knife.

          "Relax, this is for the tape," he said, flipping it open, "although, I suppose, an eye for an eye?"

          He waved it close—Jake lurched back the moment the cold steel touched his cheek.

          "Why'd you come here?" Spears said.

          "You know why?"

          "Say it." Spears snapped—voice sharp, like a blade across a whetstone. "You're after a piece of my wife's ass, aren’t you?"

          "I'm after a piece of her heart."

          Spears laughed. "Stupid kid. You knew she was married the whole time?"

          "No."

          His face darkened. He stood up and marched over to the corner of the room, picking up a holdall and flinging it on to the bed. He dug around before returning to the table with the object of his desire: A hammer.

         "What's that for?" Jake said—his voice low and shaky.

         "It’s for liars. You noticed I've taped your hands with your palms flat on the table?"

          Jake looked down, breath held again. He didn't see Spears move. He felt it.

         By the time he reacted, Spears’ empty chair was shooting backwards. What followed seemed to unfold in a strange sort of silence. Jake looked up and was met by the crazed whites of Spears’ eyes—his gritted teeth, and the hammer—already on the way down. Jake’s hands tried to split, but the tape did its job.

         The crunch was loud and sickening. The pain—icy cold—then white hot. Jake's scream was breathless and silent—before his anguish thundered through like an over-revved engine. He slid off his chair, writhing in agony on the floor.
         Spears tossed the hammer on the table, and picked up the knife.

***

          They sat at the table. Spears smoked a cigarette, and Jake nursed his busted hand. The hammer, knife, and cut tape resided by Spears' ashtray.

          "Take a drink, Jake. You'll feel better."

          Jake scowled at him. Spears shook his head and reached for the bottle.

          “Now, honestly, this time—"

           "Yes. I knew she was married. But—”

          “What?”

          “But I've fallen for her."

          Spears chuckled. "You poor fool—"

          "She's fallen for me, too."

           Spears' smile dissolved. "You might be the dumbest one yet. Tell me—"

          "No, you tell me. A musician this time... dumbest one yet. You broke my hand, you sick bastard. If this is some kind of game to you—"

          "That's exactly what it is. It's some kind of game," he leaned in, "and I'm not the only one playing—Lucy is, too."

          Jake hardened.

          Spears stood up, started pacing the room.
         "She and I are the same. The stove can't just be on—it needs to run hot. You're not the love of her life, kid. You're a fire lighter.”

         Spears tapped the hammer, Jake watched him do it.

         “Yeah, well, looks like you fell short with that tool, too. At least I know how to make it count.”

          Spears stared—the effervescence gone without a trace. He leaned forward.

          “Let’s test that theory.”

          He held the hammer out and dropped it in front of Jake.

          “Pick up the hammer.”

          “What—”

          “Pick it up.”

         Jake snatched at it with his good hand.

          “That a boy. Stand up.”

         Spears’ voice was deep again—his gaze hollow. Jake stood. Spears dragged the table out of the way—stepped closer. His face was half lost in shadow, but it was the darkness in his heart that Jake was truly staring at now.

         Spears grinned.

         “Take a shot.”

         Jake bounced the hammer in his palm—feeling its weight, his bad hand raised up near his chest—his heart racing. He thought about the swing, and squeezed the handle of the hammer.  

          Spears’ lips moved—mouthing something silently to himself. The madness rising in him by the second.

           Jake held his gaze a moment longer, then...

           He lowered the hammer slowly, and threw it on the table.

          Spears laughed as Jake hung his head.

          “I thought you knew how to make it count?”

          “I do.”

           Spears didn’t hear him—and had no time to ask.

         The knife was raking across his cheek—long and hard, the swipe curling up and ending a centimetre below his eye.

         He fell down to one knee—howling. He looked up—blood leaking from his face like a busted pipe, and saw his knife gripped in Jake’s hand. He stuttered to his feet, and stalked towards Jake like a ghoul.

          Jake dropped the knife, and lunged across the table, clumsily grabbing the bottle of Gin. Spears closed the distance—Jake swung the bottle with everything he had.

         The shot—close to his temple—sent Spears crashing to the floor.

         Jake ran to the door, having to pass him on the way. Spears—dazed on his back, dangled his hands, trying to trap him.

         He almost got his wish—his hand brushing against Jake’s leg, but not enough to trip him.

          Jake reached the door—grabbed the handle, then looked down at Spears—rocked but fighting to come around.

          Then, Jake saw it.

          His guitar case, just out of reach—and Spears lying in the space between. Jake cursed. Sweat glistened on his brow. He weighed it up—then let go of the handle.

          Spears rolled onto his front—his face a crimson mask, and saw Jake’s guitar case rising off the hotel carpet.

          He threw his arms around it—clutching it as though it was a life float and he was drowning at sea.

          Jake tugged at it, but Spears held tight, clinging on like a pit-bull.

          Jake threw a kick at Spears’ defenceless face, but Spears read it, releasing the case in anticipation, and catching Jake’s leg coming in.

          Jake tried to shake it loose, but Spears’ hooks were in. He pulled Jake down.

Jake flailed a hand. It landed on the small lamp side table. He clutched at it— it tumbled down with him.

         The light went out.

         Jake landed in a heap—letting out a gutsy, raspy groan. His fractured hand broke his fall.

         A cold pain shot through him. Warm tears stung his eyes, and he realised—he’d wasted all the time he had.

         Spears was straight on top of him—smothering him.

         They scrambled in the dark. Spears steadied himself with a forearm across Jake’s throat, before unleashing a stiff club across his cheek, snapping his head to the side.

         He came again—shrieking like a wounded animal. Another shot. Jake was fading.

         A merciful moment—Spears’ weight was off him. Jake could hear the patting of Spears’ hand on the floor—fishing around for something, before the pressure returned—the hand on his throat again.

        The room spun, but Jake saw it.

        Spears’ hand rising toward the heavens. Slow and measured. He knew full well the hammer was back in it.

        He tried to muster some strength—all he managed was a limp, useless hand over his face, which Spears brushed aside with ease.

         He closed his eyes and waited for the shot.

         He waited...

        Then—a light.

        Not a heavenly light—the light of the hotel room.

       He opened his eyes. He saw Spears perched over him just like he expected—except his eyes were rolled all the way back in his head. He hovered there a moment, before crashing to the floor.

       Standing over his shoulder was Lucy—the hammer trembling in her hand and horror across her face.

       She dropped the weapon to the floor—gasping when she saw it in her hand. Jake sat up and looked at Spears’ unconscious body next to him, then at Lucy.

       "Jake..."

       She stepped towards him, but he shuffled back.

       "Don't."

        His voice was hoarse—his throat swollen from where Spears held him. He rose awkwardly to his feet.

       "Oh my God, your hand. What did he do... what happened?"

        Jake glared. "Funny—that's what I'd like to know."

       "He's my husband—"

       "Yeah, I got all that. I meant, what the hell was he doing here—waiting for me with a God damn hammer?"

       "I'm sorry—he must have followed me here—"

        "What kind of game are you playing?"

       "Game? You think I knew he was on to us?"

       "According to him it's the way you spice your marriage up."

       Her face contorted. "What? You believe that?"

        "I don't know. Look at me."

       He held his hand in front of her face. Her gaze dropped to the floor. "I'm sorry... I'd never let anyone hurt you. He's got problems, Jake. He gets these jealous rages—"

        "Yeah I wonder why."

        She looked up—slapped him hard and fast across the face.

        The room fell silent.

        "Whatever. I'm out of here."

        Jake picked up his guitar and turned towards the door.

        "Don't go. Jake... "

        He reached for the handle.

        "I love you."

         He paused—knocking his head against the door. He turned towards her.

        "I wish I could believe you."

         She walked towards him—picking the hammer up off the floor, holding it before him.

"Isn't this proof enough?"

         They looked into each others eyes, when a groan rumbled across the floor. Spears was stirring.

        "We have to get out of here," Lucy said, pulling at Jakes collar, "I have a friend—Sally— with a place by the shore in High Beach. She's away—we can stay there tonight. Will you come with me?”

        Jake considered—looked toward Spears.

         "What about him?"

         "Meet me by the car in the hotel car park. I'll be out in a five minutes."

***

          Spears lifted his head and rolled to his side—his vision blurry. He reached a hand clumsily to the back of his head where the pain was—wincing with the touch.

         He sat up, and it fell into his lap.

          A cocktail napkin.

          He held it close to his face.

           Sally Reynolds
           33 Hill Rise,
           High Beach

           Sealed with a pink lipstick kiss.

           Spears pressed it against his nose so he could inhale her perfume.

           He smiled slowly, as he reached for his keys.

​

          Athos Kyriakides writes noir fiction about mistakes, secrets, and the shadows people carry. His work favours sharp dialogue, slow tension, and characters who never fully escape themselves. He is currently expanding his catalogue of short, dark crime tales.

​

       Giggs Kyriakides is an illustrator and storyteller with a strong comic book sensibility. He is the writer and artist of the self-published graphic novel Omiron’s Curse and has contributed concept art and storyboards to independent films. His dynamic, narrative-driven style draws on the visual language of comics to bring characters and worlds vividly to life.