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“Excuse me, Mr Watson.”
“It’s Wickham, ma’am.”
“Wickham. Mister. Are you saying that I made the whole thing up? Why on earth would I do that? Why would anyone do that?” My question is met with silence, so I go on. “Mr Wickham, I am a sane and intelligent person and do not make a habit of hallucinations or imaginings. Sir. The only fiction in my life comes in the form of literature. I have not made up a story of an imagined fire in a car yard as some sort of prank, I assure you.” I’m aware that I am breathing heavily into my handset. “Calling emergency services then running away? Ha. That is not my idea of a good time.”
“Now, Miss. Please, calm down.” There’s a moment’s pause before Cam Wickham continues. “Could you maybe come back and show me where you saw the alleged fire?”
I think for a minute then say, “Sure. Okay.” I huff. “I’m close by. See you soon.”
I hang up the call and retrace my steps back up the road, muttering to myself, to where the firetruck is parked, its emergency strobe lights still blazing. A group of firefighters is gathered on the sidewalk chatting together. I hear their quips of confusion and amusement. One of the men is holding a phone. Cam Wickham, I assume. He greets me as I approach.
“Molly Ryan?”
“Yep. That’s me.” The other firefighters nod and say hello then they climb back into the firetruck still laughing.
“Please indicate the location of the alleged fire that you claim to have seen.”
I think about getting into the semantics of his accusatory language, but I rise above the temptation and proceed with dignified calm as I look over at the cut-priced vehicles expecting to see the flickering flames of my previous visit. To my surprise, there is no fire.
“It was there.” I point to the back of the forecourt by the fence between the car and utility truck. Cam Wickham nods patiently as if I need careful handling.
“I’ll go and check it out.” Cam muses, scanning the area for signs of trouble. “Maybe it was a prank. Kids playing with fireworks, perhaps?”
Cam Wickham climbs nimbly over the padlocked gate and walks up to the rear of the yard. He turns on his flashlight. The beam illuminates the car yard forecourt in sweeping oval patches. Cam bends down to pick something up, but my attention is refocused on a car that has just arrived. It stops behind the firetruck and Mr Weston climbs out.
“Who’s in charge here?” he says, not masking his obvious alarm as he strides over towards me at the locked gate.
“I am,” says Cam Wickham with authority, walking slowly back down towards us, holding something in his hand. “Looks like there was a fire.”
“Ha! There. See.” I say triumphantly. “I am not an attention-seeking psychopath.”
Both men turn their attention to me, then Mr Weston unlocks the gate to allow Cam Wickham to walk through.
“Well thank you for looking into it, mister…?”
“Wickham. Cam Wickham. And you have Molly Ryan to thank for making the call.”
I don’t know why but the way he said my name makes me blush. I’m thankful the streetlights are dim.
“Oh, well, I was just passing,” I explain. “I sometimes walk home this way. Anyway, I saw the fire, but it seems to have burnt itself out, so, thank goodness everything is alright.”
Cam holds up shreds of blackened singed paper and charred remains of leaves.
“Looks like an accident. Some papers and dry leaves caught. Perhaps a discarded cigarette butt or match?”
“Oh darn.” Mr Weston looks sheepish. “That could, possibly, have been me.” He shrugs innocently. “I’ve been trying to quit. My wife thinks I have.” He looks down at the ground. “I have a couple of puffs and that’s all.”
“Okay. Mr Weston. If you’re happy not to proceed further with the investigation, we’ll call it a night. And please be more careful in disposing of lit cigarettes in future. This situation could have escalated quite quickly, which could have seen catastrophic consequences.”
“Sure will, sir.” Mr Weston bows his head and holds up his hands. “And I’ll make a special donation to the fire service as recompense for the inconvenience to you and the tax-paying citizens of this town. And if we could all keep this between us…” he whispers loudly. “…so my wife doesn’t hear about it, I’ll be extremely grateful.” Then his voice is back to full volume as if he’s on a television advertisement. “And please come see me any time if you’re in the market for a quality used vehicle. Here at WQM, we won’t be beaten on price or service. Plus, we offer a comprehensive payment plan for any budget.” He finishes off with a hearty chuckle.
After a beat, Cam Wickham smiles. “No problem, Mr Weston. As it was, the fire burned itself out soon after it was reported.” He looks directly at me as he says this, which causes heat to rise to my cheeks again, for the second time in as many minutes. “There’s no damage. So, we’re all good, I think.”
Mr Weston shakes Cam’s hand, says goodbye, and gets into his car. Cam and I watch him go and then face each other. I’m suddenly captivated by his caring eyes. In the dim streetlight, it’s hard to see what color they are. But they wrinkle at the corners and seem to be smiling. I am suddenly struck by this tall, handsome firefighter. In fact, Cam Wickham is about the most handsome man I have ever seen in my life. I know I’m staring, but I can’t seem to look away.
“Would you like a ride home, Miss Ryan?” Cam asks, snapping me out of the spell I am under. He indicates the firetruck. Looking up I see Cam’s colleagues smile and wave to me through the window.
Then the firetruck door opens and one of them calls out, “Hey Cam, I think we’ve room for a small one.”
