Spike

Inspired by Cowboy Bebop and Graham Greene's 'The Heart of the Matter'

I had only been a firefighter for two weeks. Getting the old-timers to take a woman 'newbie' seriously was going to be tough at first, but I knew I'd fit in. I cared little for pleasantries and neither did they. This suited me well; I was trying to get away from my life... not trying to humour it.

We would sit in the ‘rec’ room, each to their own. It felt like limbo; there was this stress of continuous anticipation tempered by a fog of silence. I didn’t mind, and would often waste away the day staring at the ceiling. Time lost its way there, and would only resume when the alarm rang. That only happened occasionally and it was never anything interesting.

Spike, the only other female firefighter, always occupied a bean bag in the corner. She would smoke, her brown eyes glazed over as she read her book. Smoking was prohibited in the station yet Spike seemed an exception to the rule. I had yet to speak to Spike and it seemed neither had the old-timers - but enough about her for now.

One afternoon I was on my back admiring the fraying plaster of the room. A deepening crack meandered its way down the wall, ending abruptly above Spike’s empty bean bag. It looked like a bolt of lightning had just given up. I was wondering where Spike was when the alarm suddenly rang and red lights switched on to bathe the room in crimson – the colour of a ‘significant incident’. My training kicked in, the shrill pulsing knell telling me to get ready for my first proper fire. I instinctively looked at the clock, only to remember it was wrong. It must have been the afternoon, maybe the evening I thought – not that it mattered. We piled into Engine 2, wearing our yellow suits. Ben was driving, and as he got into second gear we lurched into the night. Spike was still nowhere to be found. We could see the fire already in the distance; a silent, stuttering orange glow in the other side of town. Smoke rolled into the sky like a floating river of soot, camouflaged against the emptiness of the night sky.

The house on fire was an old-style bungalow. We were too late to save it; its windows and doors were breathing flames. A crowd had gathered outside, silent in awe of the destructive power in front of them. The crew got to work, setting up the firehoses and the hydrant. As the newbie I was supposed to keep the public safe and proceeded to guide the crowd away from the flames. It was then that I saw Spike.

I didn’t notice her at first. I had fogged up my mask already, and was already smothered by smoke and ash. The flames were hungry for air, sucking in a steady, strong gust. As the storm of smoke and ash dissipated for a moment, the unmistakeable figure of Spike emerged.

She was standing boldly in front of the burning bungalow in her suit. Her helmet and mask were tucked underneath her right arm, her left hand tense by her side in a clenched fist. She emanated this brilliant phosphorescence; her uniform reflecting the raging carnage around her. Her silhouette, although bulky from equipment, was crisp against the fiery backdrop. I remember her standing still like this for at least a minute. All that moved was her red hair, dancing in the wind like a flame. It was only after she turned to look at me that I realised, horrified, what was going on. Her eyes glared at me with a fire of their own, piercing through the ash. It was a look I was well acquainted with, one that I had lived myself- one of ultimate loss, failure and despair. This was her house, and in there, that monstrous inferno, she had a child.

Spike slipped on her mask and helmet. I knew what she was going to do, and I didn’t stop her. Who was I to take away the only thing she had left in this world; that one last ounce of hope? I felt it too, stirring up inside me like it did that day years ago. I didn’t care for the others and their shouting at me to come back. I followed Spike into the heart of darkness, through the wall of fire and ash.

I’d lost sight of Spike immediately and was surrounded by overwhelming orange, its heat palpable through the suit, its roar unrelenting. Smoke boiled around me, mercilessly toying with its prey. I didn’t have long before I would suffocate or burn. I crouched, peering ahead for Spike, holding onto the last embers of hope.

I am told I was in there only a couple of minutes, but it felt like hours. Time had abandoned me once more. My life had lost meaning, and here I was desperate to find it again. I saw in Spike’s despair my own search for being. I coughed, each successive breath harder to tolerate. ‘C’mon Spike’, I thought, my eyes fixed on the doorway ahead.

The flames ahead were suddenly obscured. It was Spike. She stood tall, defiant. The surrounding smoke and flames yielded to her presence. Her helmet was gone, her hair singed and matted to her forehead with ash. She had removed her mask, her face blackened by soot. Her eyes shone cool in the darkness of her face, and tear tracks had painted their way down her cheeks, now dried. In her arms was a bundle, her gas mask held tightly against it.

Our eyes met, and I felt hope searing through my body once again. Spike stumbled towards me, I got up to catch her, and I supported her out of the house. I looked at the bundle; a small baby carefully wrapped in a towel. I smiled as I saw it crying underneath the mask, hungry for life. 

We stepped out into the cold together, watching silently as the flames died under the hoses, knowing that more than one life was saved that day.

"We burned to the ground, left a view to admire

With buildings inside, church of white.

We burned to the ground, left a grave to admire.

And as we reach for the sky, reach the church of white"

('Sunday Smile' - Beirut)