Heartbeat. Heartbeat. Heartbeat. Each one thudded loudly against the walls of his chest. It was as if his sternum was a fading drum, and the drummer did not care if it burst. Stress never did treat him well, and he knew that once worry had latched onto his mind, it would refuse to relinquish its grasp.
He put the pen down and massaged his neck. It was aching more than usual. He realised that he must have been tense for hours. He had to try to relax, but his attempts proved unsuccessful.
His name was Thomas Fulton. He was a rather unremarkable man, in that he possessed no obvious qualities, physical or otherwise, that would have made him stand out from any crowd. He was not noticeably tall, nor was he abnormally short, portly, lean or strong. His face had no defining features save a healthy length of chestnut hair, and eyes of the same colour. He always wore an immaculately kept business suit to work. It was not expensive or rare, or anything significant enough to warrant such care, but he did like to keep it in the best condition possible out of pride for his own appearance. For whatever relevance it may serve, he was a chartered accountant, which did little to challenge his lack of remarkability.
There are those among us who would be incredibly displeased with such mediocrity, but Thomas was not that type of person. At work he was known for a cheery disposition, and he always maintained a belief that, no matter the circumstances, there was everything to be happy about in his life. He had a stable job, and therefore neatly avoided the angst that comes with irregular income. He was married to his sweetheart from university, a lovely, gentle woman named Sarah, with whom he had a beautiful daughter of the same name.
He returned his attention to the computer on his desk, upon which he sought to finish his current set of books by deadline. The maze of accounting tables on the monitor has always been a source of calm for him. Every border-line on his screen was clearly defined and un-breachable, and that was a comfort to him. In his world, order and neatness was control. Structure was safety.
Outside, the sky had closed up with thick, ashen clouds and light drops began to patter against the window.
He glared out at the inclement blanket and willed it to dissipate immediately, but, as if to mock him, the rain fell down harder. Typical, he thought. The rain hated him. Just as well he hated it, too.
Rain makes everything wet, and he hated the wet. Not to mention the cold; he hated being cold. From it comes nothing but disaster and tragedy; a miserable mood at best. “For goodness sake,” he cursed at the window, “it’s not even supposed to be this dark during the day, anyway.” He lay back in his office chair and sighed, unable to reconcile any concerns he had with his true feelings.
This form of compulsory rationalisation was something that he did often. There always had to be a rational explanation for anything that he felt or did. That was the rule. In his world things always balanced out and made sense, and when there was no rational explanation, there was an imbalance and therefore a problem. He stared out of the window, watching the pavements deflect the earthbound drops into small rivulets that ran into the gutters along the roadside. He doesn’t want to believe it, but he knows instinctively that something was going to go wrong that day.
The last time that it rained, he had skidded while turning off the highway and done hundreds of dollars’ worth of damage to his car. A few weeks before that, a leak in the roof of his house ruined some very important work documents, setting him back weeks’ worth of books that needed balancing. He could remember unfortunate incidents on rainy days going back years, right into his childhood. If he’d learned anything, it was that nothing good ever happened on a rainy day.
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The time for him to pack his things and leave for home had arrived, and he hurried himself to his car, leaving sooner being better than later. As he sped down the highway, he noted that the gloom was thickening steadily, and the grey was quietly being overrun by a deep black. A sizeable storm was building. He leaned his foot against the accelerator a touch more, hoping to outrun the threatening tempest and reach his home, where his wife and his daughter awaited him.
The phone rang. It was his wife. Nervously, he picked it up, expecting bad news. Unpleasant scenarios ran through his mind: Was his daughter missing? Was his daughter sick? Did his daughter have an accident? Perhaps his wife was sick…
When he did hear Sarah’s voice, it asked worriedly, “When are you coming home? The little one’s getting anxious.”
Sighing, relieved, he told her he’d be not more than ten minutes; he wanted to avoid the storm. She told him not to speed or he’d have an accident. Storm or not, he just had to get home. He grinned at this but did not give an answer to it, instead offering an echoed “I love you,” hanging up and surreptitiously easing his hold on the accelerator.
He arrived home at about the same time that the sky reached that signature throbbing, bruised-black colour which tells the onlooker that it is now better to be inside than out. He hurried across the driveway and garden, both soaked in a blanket of deluge, and into the amber glow of his doorway.
“DADDY!”
A tiny body flew into his arms, rocking him from the impact. He hoisted his daughter into the air and squeezed her with a loving hug.
“How’s my little Sarah today?” he coos, giving her a little peck on the cheek.
Sarah started bouncing in his arms like a miniature beach-ball.
“Miss Reddy said we’re going to learn to count to ten tomorrow! It’s going to be fun!”
“Oh that’s lovely, my girl. But you already know how, don’t you? Mummy taught you.”
“YES!” she announced triumphantly. “I can't wait! I hope Miss Reddy Picks me First!”
“I’m sure they will, my darling. Come now. Uppie-time over. Mummy’s calling us.”
He let her plop onto the floor and made his way over to his wife, who by that time was feeling playfully jilted at not having yet received her kiss.
Perhaps it was unfortunate that Thomas forgot about his superstition so quickly, because had he been typically wary of circumstances around him he would have noticed a shadow pass his window on the way to the back of his garden. This shady character, despite the pelting rain, ferreted about feverishly, impatiently searching for something of apparent significance.
Eventually the intruder ceased its searching, the object of its search found: A gas canister feeding the gas stove that the Fultons use to save electricity. The prowler dextrously unscrewed the hose attached to the canister head and dropped a small, elongated object into the canister before swiftly re-attaching the head. Satisfied that this was not witnessed, the trespasser silently slunk into the bushes that sat along the fence.
Several seconds later sparks burst out of the head of the canister, followed by an explosion of a very different kind: Blue and white flames erupted from the canister with a sinister hiss and crawled up the walls of the wooden house like a chemical creeper. Having found a suitable fuel, the flames accelerated up the side of the house and, despite the rain, soon a deep orange tinge joined the blue, engulfing the house effortlessly.
It seemed that all was going to plan but for the trespasser’s next actions: a panicked flicking of the eyes from one end of the scene to the other, and a violent cuss, after which the figure disappeared into the shadows.
As a backdrop, the fire grew ever stronger, and half the house was already in flames. The wooden frame warped and cracked as its structure was eaten away by the fire. Bits of roof buckled and collapsed as sparks flew into the turbulent sky with each sickening slip. From inside the house, if one strained one’s ears enough, the faint screams of the ambushed family could be heard just before they were smothered by the roar of the flames and the thrashing flashes of the storm as it hailed down all around them.