Phoenix is self-harming, suicidal and sectioned. She has visions, in which Sherlock Holmes tells her she can be a great detective. Hers is a story of murder, detection, and hope, in a seemingly hopeless world. When else has a group of people, considered the dregs of society, become superheroes? This is the first chapter of the, as yet, unpublished Up Lit crime novel Phoenix: The Delusional Detective.
Prologue
Phoenix stands facing me in the centre of the bathtub. Her alabaster face is harshly framed by bobbed hair, and she wears a faded black tracksuit. Scrunched, soggy newspaper sheets are piled high around her. There’s a stench that brings to mind petrol stations, and her skin is oily and gleaming. Paraffin.
The rasp that comes from her mouth is as dark as hell, “Get on with it.” It’s only when she strikes the match that I take in, with horror, the matchbox in her left hand and the sliver of wood in her right. It doesn’t catch, thank God. If she gets a flame it will ignite her wrists. The resulting fireball might be confined to the bath, or it might take me with it too. Despite that, for once, I don’t want to run away; I want to stay.
“You’re not going anywhere–not until you’ve sorted out the mess you’ve made. You were right when you said that all our lives are at stake.” I racket out the words, my head aching from the smell of the fuel.
Her head twitches and–paraffin glistening on her wrists–she’s clumsy getting another match out. “Give them to me, and let’s get back to what Sherlock told you you’re good at–solving crimes,” my mouth scrabbles for the words. “He told you, didn’t he, that you’re a great detective.”
“I solved it,” she nods, confusion overcoming her. Her voice is quite different now; it’s her own. She pushes the head doggedly along the phosphorous strip. This time, to my dismay, it catches. “Why hasn’t it been enough to keep me ali–?” The sentence is replaced by a soundless dispute: the war within her. The wavering reflection of the flame in her pupils.
I’m not giving up. “We can still get him back.”
“Finish it,” the hellish voice again. “Now,” it rattles like the end of life. The flame has burnt to its base and is caressing her skin. Fuel sparkles.
My lungs draw hard–any oxygen seems to have been replaced by fumes.
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