Charlie and Zach were both seventeen with the world at their feet. University and successful lives beckoned. Now, they trembled before the judge.
It started with cheap cider, illegally bought at the corner shop (they were obviously underaged and no ID was demanded) which they greedily drank in the park.
The lady at the next shop they visited ignored their giggling, seduced by the fistful of banknotes Charlie waved unsteadily. To Hell with the law. Without questioning the purpose, she supplied the most powerful fireworks she had.
It was not yet Guy Fawkes Night, but after it turned dark a cacophony of whizzes and bangs shook the streets. Two academically smart, but emotionally immature, boys, pumped with adrenalin.
Later, they could not explain why they chose Nelson Mandela Road. It was on the other side of town, among the poorer terraced streets, far away from the wide avenues and detached houses where they lived.
Zach egged Charlie on (or was it the other way round?) Soon a front door, paint peeling with neglect attracted them. Unaware they were watched, one lifted the flap on the letterbox, the other pushed a Megaburst through it. Who struck the match was disputed. The firework with the power to travel to the clouds thundered inside the house.
Within seconds a ragged rug smouldered. With adrenalin pumping, the boys ran whooping. Two hours later, after the firefighters had the mayhem under control, they found widowed 87-year-old Mary McCloughan dead in an armchair, choked by smoke.
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 