Burning Secret

The card with the flowers scared Phoenix, how did somebody know about Martha?

Content warning : story contains scenes of violence

Phoenix held a match to the card which had come with the flowers — those gaudy blooms she’d already consigned to the dustbin under the stairwell. Her hand trembled as bright yellow flames ate away the words scrawled by an unfamiliar hand.

I know what you did Martha

Phoenix shuddered when she remembered running away from the maisonette, wearing Scott’s oversized jacket atop her thin pajamas. She’d worn shoes without socks or hose in her haste to escape before the police or a fire engine arrived.

With a yelp she dropped the last scrap of the burning note, her fingers smarting from the lick of flames. Phoenix ran a stream of cold water on her burned skin, watched the last trace of black ash swirl down the plug. With the note gone, she could tell herself it never existed; like she’d flushed Martha and her past down the drain.

The jacket had been a lucky grab. Scott’s paypacket was still in the pocket, enough for a bus ticket to a distant town and new threads to wear. She’d found herself a job easy enough, working as a chambermaid at a hotel.

Over two years she rose to receptionist, a position of respect. Phoenix wore clothes that were simple but smart and she had her own flat.

Now it comes crashing down, because someone knows her secret.

Who could’ve found her? Who cared about Scott? Phoenix gnawed at her thumbnail, pulling until a ragged strip tore away. Martha had bitten her nails down to the quick, she was nervy and jumpy, never knowing what Scott would find fault with. The bed wasn’t made right, the meat was too tough, she’d bought the wrong shaving soap, his shirt wasn’t ironed.

Martha had walked on eggshells trying everything to avoid her husband’s ire, but it just wasn’t possible. When he’d had a bad day, he came home mean. If he went to the pub with his mates, he staggered in drunk and ugly. She was a lazy slattern, she was up-tight and prissy, she was a greedy whore. Martha had wished she was small as a mouse or maybe invisible, but Scott’s fists and his knees always found her, delivering punches and blows she could not dodge.

Neighbors must have heard him roaring like a wild animal. Martha had cried in the early months, begging him to stop, to spare her. Later she learned that it was over quicker if she stayed silent. She heard the sound of TVs through the thin walls of the maisonette. Those living nearby surely heard her taking Scott’s batterings, but nobody intervened. Nor did they call on her afterwards, to see if she was ok.

Who was interested now?

Phoenix lit a cigarette, the flame on the match seemed tiny, easily controlled. One puff from her mouth blows it out.

Flames had licked curtains and feasted on the dry sticks of their cheap furniture, consuming the kitchen like a hungry tiger, with Scott lying unconscious on the linoleum. The flat iron fell, discarded, Martha had dropped it and fled. She was stunned she’d stood up to him, defended herself, but terrified he’d get up and chase after her.

Two streets away, Martha had stopped to lean against a brick wall, ragged breathing tore at her lungs. The pubs had closed, the streets were dark and nearly deserted, but she didn’t dare sleep, so she kept walking. She kept her eyes peeled for coppers walking the beat but when fingers of yellow morning light streaked the sky, she was on the first bus to leave the garage. Did the driver remember her? He seemed blase at the time, not even an eyebrow raised at how oddly she was dressed.

Phoenix pulled a suitcase down from the wardrobe, then snatched her clothes from it’s brass rail. She scooped underwear and a nightgown from the shallow drawers, shoes from under the bed and threw her wash bag and hair brush on top. It was a struggle to fasten the case, the catch had always been temperamental, that’s why she’d got it cheap, but she had the knack.

Soon she was leaving the flat, in her coat and hat, hurrying to the bus garage. This time she would go further away, perhaps a town by the sea. Somewhere with lots of tourists makes it easier to disappear, she reasoned. She could find herself a job at another hotel.

Phoenix would rise from the flames again.

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