Tinderbox

By Sasha McCallum

Michelle is an MP living in London. She considers herself successful and has a plan mapped out for her future. That all changes when she meets Esme, a dark bohemian who ventures to point out Michelle's faults. Her world is turned upside down by an obsessive love that spans a lifetime. And beyond.
Tinderbox is set in the future and narrated in dual timelines as Michelle languishes in a hospital bed and tries to piece together her past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sasha McCallum
• Release date: May 8, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463328323

Sasha McCallum

"Talent and success are perpendicular to each other." Sergei Dovlatov

Book preview

Tinderbox

By Sasha McCallum

Copyright © 2020 Sasha McCallum

Smashwords Edition

License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment alone, it may not be re-sold or given away to others. If you would like to share this book, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, please return to your dealer and buy a copy. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

Contents

Part One: Hospital

Part Two: The Search

Part Three: Dream Within

Part Four: A Pale Horse

Part Five: Tinderbox

One: Hospital

There is no describing nothingness. The word itself is something. So we have only space to describe loss of self, a gaping absence of past, realised only upon waking. And thence, the search to fill the void.

A woman lies on a bed in a seventh floor room.

She wakes, eyelids snapping open to reveal large, hazel windows to confusion. She can feel her limbs, see a hand as she lifts it in front of her. Her body is heavy and prostrated, her mind an empty cavern. She can smell disinfectant and hear the dim sound of footsteps and voices beyond the four walls surrounding her.

She's alone in the room, a thin blanket spread over her lower half. The fog in her head matches that drifting beyond the windows to her left. Then a name appears, persistent; Michelle Coderre. Her name. She runs her eyes carefully over her surroundings. The paint on the walls, an egg-shell colour that might have been white once, is cracked and peeling in some spots, the floor has dust building outside the well-trodden areas around the bed. Yellowing curtains hang listlessly at the windows, undrawn on the dreary half-light beyond. Two doors lie in front of her, one from the right wall which doesn't have a handle, the other perpendicular and not fully closed, revealing a sliver of darkness on the other side. She guesses the ajar door is a bathroom and the handle-less door, the way out. She's locked in here, but it's the stubborn emptiness of her mind which causes more discomfort.

A stainless steel sink protrudes from the opposite wall, antibacterial soap dispenser suspended above it, small shelf flanking its right. A cheap, plastic clock hangs beside the bathroom door, hands pointing to 12 and 5.

She lifts her hands again and studies them. They feel stuffed with stones at every extremity, but look undamaged, ligaments strong under clear if sun-starved skin. A cannula sticks from a vein at the back of her left hand, unattached, lonely; clinging to her flesh with medical tape. She can see the bright red of her blood leaking into its tubing. She's wearing a hospital smock, she feels the knot pressing against her back and the gape of cool skin where it's failed to stay in place. If she were to get up, her ass would hang out for all the world to see. But there is no one on the other side of the windows and the room is empty.

She's grimy, a scent of unwashed sweat below the neckline of her gown.

The room is unlike any hospital she has in her mind's eye. Spartan, uncluttered with bandages and sodium chloride syringes. It's a third-world hospital room. Had she been hurt on a trip to the Philippines or Mexico? Except it's more basic than third-world, almost otherworldly. The cracks in the paint taunt her with their history; we can tell you things, they say, we know!

A nurse's call button faces her from the stand beside the bed but she won't press it. Not until she's planned some line of questioning; for now, her mind remains clouded.

Michelle Coderre. Michelle. Coderre.

She remembers a presence in the room with her before she slept. A comforting presence sitting quietly in the modest, battered chair closest to her. If she closes her eyes she can almost still feel it. A night nurse. Or suicide watch, the thought occurs unbidden. Had she tried to kill herself? It's a possibility, an explanation for why she's here, locked away. If she'd overdosed, maybe amnesia was normal. Amnesia, that's what it was when you couldn't remember anything. The word gives her confidence, to name what she's suffering from, so does the memory of someone being here with her. She can figure this out without making a fool of herself.

She pulls her body up to a better position and leans across to pull the top drawer in the nightstand open. She realises she's expecting to find a phone only upon not finding it. The drawer contains a small, double-sided mirror and a plain schoolroom exercise book with a blue pen latched over its cardboard cover. The notebook is marked with a large, black number 3 and when she opens it, a list sits inside the front cover.

Her vision swims but the words are printed in Sharpie, they're readable but provide little help.

Michelle Coderre

9th August, 1990

Leah Sherwood

Declan Kerr

Zach Whitby

Esme Baskov.

Her name and birthdate. Her sister, Leah. The names Declan and Zach mean nothing to her but the final entry, set further apart and pressed thicker than the others, sends a shiver down her spine. She doesn't know why. It seems an awfully small list.

She replaces the notebook, takes the mirror and holds it before her. The woman who looks back is pale, auburn hair lank, hazel eyes ringed with sallow circles. She's unwashed, unpreened and tired. She feels she should be shocked by what she sees but can't muster the energy. A sharp ache latches its teeth into her temples as she stares, but she can detect no visible injuries. She wants to get up and go to the bathroom to splash some water on her face and get a clearer look. She's pushing the sheet and blanket from her legs when a clang outside the door freezes her in place and it opens. She hasn't had time to grasp the situation but it's too late now. She pulls the blankets up and adopts an expression of nonchalance.

Hello, the man who swishes in says with a Scottish accent and bright smile. Good to see you awake, how're you feeling?

Her response is an undeniable twinge of gratitude; to hear a human voice, to be smiled at, to know she is real and there. Empty vessel that she is. At least she isn't out of place, she's supposed to be here.

Hello, she responds flatly. It's the voice she adopts when she doesn't know what to expect, when she can't be certain what comes next.

You should have rung for me. The man approaches the bed and pulls syringes from his blazer pocket. Been waiting for you to wake from the dead.

Have I been dead? the words slip out too quickly and she regrets them, but the pale eyes crinkle in amusement.

Not yet! he snorts.

He looks impossibly young, a teenager. He wears plain clothes and has a simple lanyard around his neck which displays nothing but a barcode. His face is kind and patient.

She reaches and comes out with, My name is Michelle Coderre, trying to put some tone in her voice.

I know who you are, he says. Everyone knows who you are, Miss Coderre. I'm Owen, your nurse today.

Just Michelle is fine. Where am I?

You're in All... He stops and corrects himself. Aberdeen Mercy Health. You're safe. He inserts the smaller of his needles into her cannula.

What is she doing in Scotland? More worrying, she knows Aberdeen, she's spent of time here, but this particular hospital is unfamiliar.

What are you giving me?

Pain relief. How's your head?

It hurts but I'm more confused than anything. Can you tell me how I got here?

We had to switch rooms, you had a rough night last night and we need to keep a better eye on you.

It doesn't answer the question but she isn't sure how to rephrase to get a better one. She struggles, unwilling to reveal how blank she is. She needs more time to think, to remember.

There is a hint of cattiness when she says, You seem rather young to be a nurse.

He chuckles. I'm qualified, don't worry. He hesitates with curiosity. How old are you...Michelle?

There is a sadness to his face, a world-weariness that shouldn't be present in someone of his age. Yet a spark when he meets Michelle's eyes and says her name in that halting, unsure manner.

Thirty one. The answer comes without thought and she knows it to be true.

That's only six years older than me, he says with a grin and she looks him up and down while he flushes the cannula.

She asks, Is that clock correct? Is it five at night or in the morning?

It's five pm, he answers. You've been asleep all day.

Will the nurse from last night be back?

He feigns hurt, I'm not good enough?

She's not sure how to respond to his familiar character, none of this feels like a joke to her.

She... Yes, it was a woman. Though a face remains out of reach, she can remember Christmas songs in the room last night. She was nice. I think she played music.

I'm not sure which one you mean. I'll take a look and see who's rostered on. Dinner will be here soon, are you hungry?

She slides her tongue around her mouth. No. Really. No. What date is it?

Twenty first of December.

That makes sense. It accounted for the carols anyway.

He carries the jug to the sink, fills it along with the plastic cup beside her.

If you can force yourself to eat a little, it would be good. Dr Bernard will be by shortly too for her rounds. A doctor. Soon. A doctor might answer her questions more methodically. Do you need anything else?

No. She wants him to leave so she can think.

He gives her a sweet smile and sweeps from the room. She sees him press a small button beside the