Intimate Fires

          Today burnt the uncertain fires of lust and car bombs.

I was representing a man accused of arson. When I say ‘car bomb’ I mean an attempt by my client (allegedly) to set fire to the petrol tanks of the car belonging to his arch enemy next door neighbour. Stupid? You bet.

Sadly for him, the neighbour in question, fearing such an attack from this man, had set up a home video camera in the window of his house that caught the whole thing. Admittedly the video was poor quality and blurred, but the Magistrates had little difficulty in determining my client’s guilt once they heard about his previous record for similar attacks. He’ll be sent to the Crown Court for sentencing now, far too serious for mere Magistrates!

Towards the end of the case, when the Magistrates were busy deliberating, I noticed a quiet and deceptively anonymous looking girl sitting in the public gallery. There were a few others about whom I recognised as connected to someone in the case but she didn’t immediately fit in. I strolled over towards her out of curiosity. She wore black square rimmed glasses and had allowed her plain brown hair to tumble naturally about in an un-styled fashion. She had on a tight trouser suit that revealed a thin frame: no fat, but no curves. I sat down by her side and she looked up at me. I decided that there was beauty, though perhaps too much humility, behind those glasses.

“Mind if I inquire as to your connection to this case?”

“I’m a reporter from the [Local] News Weekly.” She smiled shyly.

“I thought reporters were meant to be aggressive and demanding of attention.” Clearly this was a foreign concept to the girl.

“Not always.” She demurred, without expanding further.

“Well… it’s a pleasure to meet the alternative.” I put on my best grin and held out my hand. She took it and shook prettily, finally glancing away timidly.

I stood and returned to my seat in time for the return of the Magistrates with their pronouncement of Guilt. My client was remanded in custody, considered a danger to society. Everyone began to pack up and leave and eventually I found myself outside, on my way home.

The reporter came rushing out of the building behind me and tagged to my side.

“I wonder… Might I get a quote from you? Can I ask a question or two?” She sounded apologetic, as though I had every right to crush her beneath my feet for the intrusion. Something about her appealed to me. I thought about the barmaid from last night. I’d been such a coward; Ed was right in that respect, though his offensive words didn’t quite express it so precisely.

“Actually, I have a question for you. Would you let me take you to dinner?” The words came from nowhere. Suddenly I was embarrassed. “That is,” I added, “if you’re not busy.”

Delighted but bashful she agreed and suddenly I found myself in her car driving to dinner. On the way I texted Ed to let him know. He swiftly replied with round congratulations. I smiled. It wasn’t so hard, this single life.

We started with a drink and I enquired after her proposed questions on the case. I answered a few and then paused to look at her.

“So what will you write about me?” I asked.

“That depends.” She replied, and winked. Immediately she was ashamed of this display of intimacy and blushed, taking her drink to her lips for something to do. On another day the moment might have enchanted me but something in it freaked me out in a way I can’t quite explain. It was as if the shame of intimacy was itself so intimate to me. I felt great empathy for her at that moment but saw in her some element I had long despised in myself.

The evening never quite recovered. The storm of hope I suppose I whipped up in her quiet inhibited heart was met with equal and opposite disinterest from my own. Eventually I made my excuses and caught the train back to London, somehow unsettled by the whole thing.

I left with her number, my only memento. I doubt I’ll see her again.