Before the Fire by Sarah Butler

find whoever did it,’ he said, looking her straight in the eyes. ‘You have to.’
    She nodded. ‘Patience and hard work, that’s what my boss always says, patience and hard work.’
    ‘Stick!’ Lainey was standing at the top of the caravan steps, a shiny black bag hugged to her chest like a teddy bear. She wore a dress the same colour as the daffodils, tight and
low cut. There were big smudges of mascara around her eyes.
    ‘Stick!’ she shouted again, and waved, then half stumbled down the stairs and pulled him into a hug, her breasts pressed against his chest. She smelt of sherbet and strawberry lip
gloss, and she was crying – he could feel it shaking through her, hear her sniff into his T-shirt.
    ‘I came down cos I didn’t believe it.’ She pulled back and gestured towards the caravan, shaking her head, her breath coming in short gasps.
‘Mac’s—’
    ‘I know.’
    ‘He can’t be—’ She twisted a yellow plastic ring around and around her finger and stared at Stick. ‘He was there.’
    ‘Where?’
    ‘Yesterday. In the bar. He was there.’ She held her hands out as if she could see Mac and was touching him on both shoulders. ‘I kissed him.’ She started crying
again.
    Stick stood with his arms against his sides, looking at Lainey’s bag so he didn’t have to look at her face all screwed up and wet.
    She took a big, shaky breath in. ‘It’s my fault,’ she declared.
    Stick shook his head but didn’t say anything.
    ‘I – I wouldn’t go back with him. And then we started fighting about Spain and Spanish girls, and I don’t even know, I was that pissed. And he went. And so it’s my
fault.’ She started crying again.
    The policewoman had moved away and was looking towards the backs of the row of houses like she wasn’t really listening, though he’d bet she was.
    ‘It’s not your fault,’ Stick said. He sounded like a robot. Lainey just kept on crying.
    The tortoiseshell cat had settled itself in the middle of the blue-and-white police tape rectangle, stuck its leg in the air and started licking at its fur. Stick bent down, picked up a stone
and threw it. He missed and the cat took no notice.
    ‘What are you doing?’ Lainey was staring at him, her breath still coming in little hiccuping sobs, like she was trying not to drown.
    ‘I don’t want it licking its arse there.’
    ‘You can’t throw stones at cats.’
    ‘Shoo,’ Stick shouted at the cat. ‘Fuck off.’ It looked at him for a brief moment, then went back to its cleaning. ‘I said fuck off,’ he shouted, louder. He
could see the policewoman at the edge of his vision, hand on her radio.
    ‘Stick.’ Lainey touched his arm.
    ‘I told him to wait,’ Stick said and then walked up to the caravan and punched it, hard, with his right fist. Hurt like fuck. Ridged metal against his knuckles. If Mac wasn’t
such a stubborn bastard he wouldn’t be dead. They’d be past Birmingham now, halfway to Kent.
    ‘It’s not your fault either,’ Lainey said.
    Stick punched the caravan again.
    ‘Will you knock that off?’ A different policewoman stood at the top of the steps. Stick glowered at her. ‘You’ve got something to tell us, come on in,’ she said.
‘Otherwise, scoot.’
    ‘I’m not a dog,’ he snapped.
    ‘And this isn’t a punchbag.’
    Stick slammed his foot into the ground.
    ‘He’s upset, Miss,’ Lainey said, sniffing.
    ‘I still don’t need him here kicking off.’
    ‘I wouldn’t be here if you’d tell me what fucking happened,’ Stick said.
    ‘You need to leave.’ The policewoman walked down the steps and stood in front of Stick.
    ‘Fucking pigs,’ Lainey snapped.
    ‘Now,’ said the woman, quietly.
    ‘We were leaving anyway. Come on, Stick.’ Lainey tugged at his arm.
    He followed her, away from where Mac had died, and the whole way back home he kept thinking, did it hurt? Did he struggle? Did he shit himself? Did he cry? Was there a point when he knew that
that was it? What