EVIDENCE  FOR  BURNING

The final rays of the sun dipped below the tree-lined horizon, just as Charlie Banbury left his old, dilapidated house, Piddlewick Hollow, to walk to the village of Little Piddlewick.

Half an hour later Charlie trudged up the steep lane leading to the village green. Nowadays his legs were reluctant to work at speed. He was 65, but looked and felt at least ten years older. His hair, a dirty grey colour, hung around his shoulders in tatty strands. Charlie’s old raincoat was full of holes and hid a suit which had seen better days. Dirty down-at-heel shoes with split sides could be seen peeping out from the thread-bare turn-ups of once elegant trousers and his feet squelched as he walked along. He lived alone and seldom took the trouble to bathe or even shave.

Charlie’s family had always been quiet and respectable. His father, had been a leading member of the community, and had owned a thriving antiques business. But after the deaths of both his parents, and being an only child, Charlie decided to continue running the company. But he soon found that it wasn’t easy, especially as he couldn’t be bothered to put much effort into it, and gradually the business failed. Charlie lived friendless and alone in the old family home, seldom venturing far and existing on hand-outs and the state pension, when he remembered to collect it, of course.

It was the 4^th of November and Charlie loved bonfires.  He felt excited as he walked on to the green.  Why should he wait until tomorrow, when everyone would be celebrating the centuries old tradition of Bonfire, Treason and Plot? The bonfire will look just as good tonight. His eyes glistened as he anticipated the enjoyment to come. The matches in his pocket were his liberation, his means of fun, and his power over the inhabitants of Little Piddlewick. It would serve them right to miss their treat.

The wooden struts holding the bonfire together reached into the darkened sky. The annual funeral pyre was ready, and the effigy of Guy Fawkes sat forlornly on an old chair at the top. Charlie chuckled. Guy Fawkes wouldn’t have to wait much longer. The inhabitants of Little Piddlewick could always be relied upon to clear their gardens, garages and sheds for their annual November 5^th bonfire and firework display:  but this year they will all be disappointed.

Charlie heard a noise.  A shadowy figure was walking away from the bonfire. He recognised the tall slim form of The Reverend Henry Cornforth. Now what was he doing lurking around in the dark? Charlie’s excitement heightened, but he kept still and quiet until Cornforth was out of earshot. The moon appeared from behind a veil of clouds and Charlie walked round the bonfire to see what the vicar had been doing.

Charlie’s eyesight was still good, so it wasn’t long before he saw some magazines partially hidden behind an old battered standard-lamp. He picked one up and read the title. ‘Why the randy old…,’ Charlie exclaimed. ‘And from someone who preaches the threat of hell and damnation to anyone straying from the chosen paths of righteousness.’ He lit another match and examined the other magazines. They were definitely not the sort one would expect a man of the cloth to be reading. What would his parishioners think if they found out?

Charlie felt something fall on to his foot. It was a letter!

His eyes lit up as he read the first few lines. It was a love letter from Lisa Alderton, who, along with her husband Peter, ran the Old Oak pub on the other side of the green and… it was addressed to The Rev. Henry Cornforth!

Charlie had little experience with women and the contents of the letter made him blush. Suddenly an idea began to form in his mind, as he put the letter in his pocket. He would telephone Cornforth and ask him how important it was to him. As for Lisa Alderton, I’ll teach her to bar me from the pub. Charlie quickly fashioned a make-shift torch out of twigs, poured some lighter fuel over them, and laughing loudly held it against the magazines.

At first they just smouldered. Then a puff of wind ignited some debris and soon they were blazing merrily. With a speed which belied his age, Charlie began to prance around the bonfire, poking the torch in between the gaps with great relish. His breath came out in short bursts and his eyes glittered happily as he emitted little “oohs” and “aahs” as tendrils of smoke spiralled into the night sky.

Charlie began to sing. ‘Please to remember the 5^th of November, gunpowder, treason and plot…’ but there was nobody there to hear these traditional words. But, the deed was done and he’d spoiled the villagers’ fun. Charlie’s eyes danced as the flames took control. The sound of cracking timbers and the smell of burning wood, rubber, old carpets, and rotting vegetation swiftly wafted upwards. Charlie was in his element: his soul was on fire and he felt alive with every conceivable emotion.

A few minutes later, Charlie heard the sound of angry voices and lights from torches as people hurried to the scene. He couldn’t bear to leave, but he raced towards some trees and watched as more and more people arrived. The flames were reaching hungrily for the sky, like golden fingers searching for food, and Charlie laughed.

Lisa Alderton was preparing the bar for the evening and held up the beer glass she was polishing, to see it sparkle. Lisa was proud of the way everything in the pub gleamed. The flames of the log fire burning merrily in the old Inglenook fireplace, reflected and enhanced themselves throughout the room, and paid homage to her hard work. She was straightening the bottles on the shelf behind the bar, when she heard frantic knocking on the door. Lisa ran her hands over her short skirt and plumped up her dark curly hair before unlocking the door and peering out.

Her neighbour, Jim Iverson, stood in the doorway looking anxious and out of breath.

‘Yes, everyone’s rallying round, but I feel it’ll be too late.’

‘Oh Jim, who on earth would do such a thing?’ Lisa could clearly see the silhouette of the bonfire as the hungry flames leapt into the sky. ‘What are we going to do now?’

‘I suppose we could build another one, but it won’t be much good,’ Jim replied.

Lisa raced upstairs. Peter was coming out of the bedroom. ‘Lisa have you seen the bonfire? I told the Village Hall Committee that something like this would happen sooner or later.’

‘If I catch whoever’s done this, they’ll wish they’d never been born,’ Peter cursed whilst slipping into an old anorak. ‘You’d best stay here and open up. There could be a few thirsty people drowning their sorrows later.’

‘Don’t you worry. It’ll be some young hooligans I expect. They’ll run away when confronted by real men.’ Peter turned up his collar and ran out of the pub.

Lisa smiled. Peter was at last treating her normally again after the rows of the previous few days.  She put all the lights on and almost immediately, Henry Cornforth walked in. Lisa’s heart gave its customary lurch.

‘Yes.  He became suspicious about the phone calls,’ Lisa added. ‘So now, we can’t possibly continue seeing one another.’

‘And I love you too, Henry. If things were different, I…’

Henry stared down at his feet. ‘Lisa, I’ve lost the letter you sent me and if it fell into the wrong hands…’ He looked dreadful.

His face looked hollow and ashen. ‘I’ve searched everywhere for it.’

‘Now Henry listen, someone has lit the bonfire. I’m surprised you didn’t notice.’

‘Right. I must go too and give everyone some moral support.’

‘Moral support?’ Lisa added with a hint of coquettishness.

‘Well, you know,’ Henry said staring at her longingly, as he disappeared into the night.

Charlie stood amongst the trees as everyone frantically tried to save the bonfire. He was still laughing. He would have loved to be near the bonfire, to feel its welcoming warmth and the noise of crackling wood. It was a living, breathing monster that craved for more food, and he couldn’t be there to feed it. An intense longing swept throughout his body.

A sudden noise behind him made Charlie turn round. The Reverend Henry Cornforth was scurrying along the pathway leading from the pub. Charlie’s eyes gleamed. Now was his chance to get even.

Just as Henry Cornforth reached the spot where he was hiding, Charlie stepped out in front of him.

Henry was clearly shaken. ‘What…what on earth are you doing hiding in there, man?’ he said, his voice quavering in fear.

Henry’s eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t suppose you had anything to do with it?’

‘You idiot. You’ve completely ruined the Guy Fawkes celebrations ,’ Henry sneered. ‘Your actions are beyond contempt.’

Charlie peered into Henry’s bewildered eyes. ‘What, like the actions of a man of God who has carnal knowledge of another man’s wife, perhaps?’

‘I…I don’t know what you’re ta…talking about,’ Henry stuttered. ‘Please stand aside. I’ve come to help.’

‘There’s the little matter of an incriminating love letter. I found it in a naughty magazine hidden in the bonfire.’ Charlie moved nearer. ‘And I’ve been wondering how much you might wish to pay to get it back?’

A cloud momentarily covered the face of the moon, almost as if she was embarrassed by the unfolding drama. Silence ensued. Then, Henry Cornforth appeared to choke, staggered slightly, and clutched at his chest.

‘Cornforth, tell me how much this letter is worth to you?  It must be quite a tidy sum. Otherwise, I could…erhm… send a copy to your Bishop and…’

‘For God’s sake man.’ Henry staggered, fell to the ground moaning, and eventually gave a shuddering sigh. Charlie knelt beside the man’s prostrate form and quickly realised that The Reverend Henry Cornforth was dead.

Charlie’s compassion for his fellow man had long since disappeared. Because of Henry’s death, he knew that the letter was worth a lot less. He stood up and glanced longingly in the direction of the bonfire, and knew he had to get back to Piddlewick Hollow.

On the day of Henry Cornforth’s funeral, St. Saviour’s church bells pealed with a mournful, sonorous sound as people walked out into the brilliant November sunshine. It seemed obscene that the weather should be so beautiful on such a sad occasion. Having said their last goodbyes to Henry Cornforth - a man they had all had reason to believe was a god-fearing, upright, and moral man - each member of the congregation shook hands with his replacement, and walked sadly into the cemetery.

Lisa Alderton was the last to leave the church: a fact which Charlie Banbury couldn’t fail to notice.  He was standing behind some old and crumbling gravestones which were dappled in the afternoon sunshine, and looking like so many elongated irregular teeth. Charlie watched Lisa as she walked slowly to the graveside. He had no interest in watching the burial ritual: instead he let his mind wander. Even though Henry Cornforth was now dead, Lisa needed to know that he had her letter to Henry in his possession. She might like to help him out financially, just to make sure that he didn’t shame her by revealing its contents.

‘Dust to dust, ashes to ashes…’ the Bishop’s voice floated away on the breeze rustling the leaves on a nearby tree. From his hiding place, Charlie looked at Lisa. Her face was completely hidden under an enormous black hat. Yes, she might well wish to help me out. He laughed:  it was a shrill, unworldly sound which was immediately cut short in case one of the mourners heard him.

Charlie waited patiently until all the mourners had begun to drift away, until only Lisa was left standing at the graveside with tears of anguish flowing down her cheeks. He left the cover of the gravestones and walked towards her. Lisa didn’t notice him at first, but when a twig snapped under his foot, she turned round in alarm.

‘We’re not in the pub now. You don’t have any jurisdiction over me here, Mrs. Alderton. I’m here because there’s a little matter that I’d like to discuss with you.’

‘I can’t possibly think that we would have anything to say to one another.’ Lisa started to walk away.

‘Er, Mrs. Alderton.’ She stopped. ‘A letter written by you and addressed to a certain clerical gentleman now regrettably deceased, has come into my possession. I was wondering…’

A look of sheer horror passed over Lisa’s face. ‘What letter?  I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘But you must. Don’t you think your husband might be interested in reading it?’

‘Why you…’ Lisa’s face twisted in anger. ‘How did you get hold of it?’

‘That’s for me to know. I’m…I’m a little strapped for cash and I was wondering…’

‘You’re despicable. You’re nothing but a common blackmailer. I’m sorry to spoil things, but Peter knows all about it.’

‘Yes, I told him the affair was over and that I loved him deeply.’ Lisa smiled. ‘He accepted my explanation without question. So where does that leave you?’ Lisa strode away with her head in the air.

Charlie was devastated. Revenge would have been so sweet, he thought as he walked home and let himself into the house. He needed to lick his wounds and forget the inhabitants of Little Piddlewick, but first he lit a fire in the old fireplace. The village bonfire would stay in his memory for ever, and he threw more and more logs on to the fire, closed his eyes, and danced around the room.

Charlie imagined he was back on the green. He could feel the heat of the hungry flames and heard the crackle of the wood as he danced a macabre jig.

He laughed with joy, and… just like the flames, his spirit soared upwards.

 A fire-fighter found the pathetic remains of Charlie’s body the following morning. But Piddlewick Hollow - and the incriminating letter - was lost for ever.

***   ***   ***