City in Flames

By Tomas Hachard

Exit West meets Normal People in this moving dystopian love story eerily in tune with our times.

At once evocative and propulsive, City in Flames is a love story about two isolated people with a deep yet fragile bond trying to find their way to each other while political disorder engulfs the world around them.

Sara is a graduate student living away from home and struggling to finish her degree. When she kindles a long-distance relationship with Kevin, a disillusioned and apathetic IT worker, the two watch as the city that Kevin lives in, and Sara grew up in, slowly rises up against P., a recently elected populist leader. As protests escalate to a night of devastating fires, the impending political breakdown pushes Sara and Kevin’s relationship to the brink and leaves them torn between the turmoil of the present and a hope for the future, between their longing for connection and their terror of commitment.

City in Flames offers a timely, intimate examination of our political moment, mixing the edge of Exit West and the modern romance of Normal People. It is a story that illuminates how people can grow separated from each other, the ways that these bonds can be healed and re-established, and how humans define themselves through their relationships with others.

• Language: English
• Publisher: ECW Press
• Release date: May 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9781989919101

Book preview

One

1

Hillside, the day of the fires

The message began in silence, as if Sara’s lungs and mouth hadn’t processed her decision to press record. When a sound finally came, it was barely audible over the sirens and explosions surrounding Kevin. Sitting in the bushes of Malcolm Park, he was afraid to turn up the volume to hear Sara’s voice better. He coughed and covered his eyes as smoke wafted in from the fires. Through the leaves and branches, Hillside shone bright from the flames.

With one hand, Kevin pressed the phone closer to his ear. With the other, he rummaged in vain through his backpack, looking for headphones. For a second, the crackle of Sara’s laugh lifted over the street’s cacophony. Then silence again. The message ended, and Sara’s voice stopped for good.

Kevin wiped his phone with the bottom of his shirt. Sweat smudged the screen, causing the keyboard to malfunction as he tried to get a message out through the few waves of service still pulsing out of the city. The failed attempts piled up:

KVN_07: I’m alive

KVN_07: I’m OK

KVN_07: I hope you get this

KVN_07: Please don’t worry.

He shifted in his hiding spot. Past the bushes, he could faintly see the lake. The smoke was now swelling across it, making its own escape from the city.

Two hours earlier, Kevin had watched the smoke shroud the view from his apartment. Piece by piece, it had obscured the pizza spot across the street, the post office on the corner, the skyscrapers in the background, and the lake beyond. Eventually all he’d been able to see were thick black clouds rising from the ground floor, clinging to the walls, and permeating through the brick and drywall into the floorboards, the bedding, and the rugs.

By then, screams had been soaring up from the street, pushing against Kevin’s window, trying to break in. Listening to the chaos, Kevin’s mind had emptied, and his vision went blurry. He had started to gather himself when an explosion rattled the floor and jarred him loose from shock. He’d grabbed his bag meant for the protest and bolted out the door, down the stairs, and into the street. Several blocks later, a rumble grew behind him. The top of Kevin’s building dropped first and a blast of dust surged through the air.

From the lobby of a condo building, Kevin had watched debris cover the pavement like shag carpet. When he could see the street in front of him again, he’d fled toward the water. All around him, flames shot from windows and gunshots blended with shattering glass. Crowds moved on police stations, banks, university buildings, consulates, and the shimmering office towers downtown. They tore through city hall, where P. had first burst into public life three years earlier, igniting the fear and fury now engulfing the city.

Kevin had stayed focused on his destination. When he reached it, he stood at the water’s edge and thought of jumping in. A sticky mixture of dirt and ash and sweat had collected on his face and arms. He imagined the feeling of washing it off, of dunking his head into the water and passing his fingers through his tangled hair, until the pop of a gunshot brought him back to reality and sent him into the bushes.

Now birds and squirrels jostled around Kevin as he refreshed the Perfect Match app, trying to will his messages through. Connection failed. He opened every app that might link him to Sara. Connection failed. The power bar continued its decline. A combination of adrenaline and exhaustion pressed down on his eyelids and fogged his brain. The feeling spread farther down to his abdomen, hips, shoulders, and the tips of his fingers. Kevin went soft. He felt ready to faint.

2

London, fourteen months before the fires

The tree outside the window was spotted with expectant green buds. They had popped up overnight, as if in a rush to catch up with the unseasonably hot March weather. Sara sat on her wide windowsill in the living room of her flat. With an outstretched hand, she could reach the tree’s branches. Past the tree, in the park across the street, children swirled across the playground, down the slide, and through the sandbox. The parents stood a few steps away, their gazes moving every few seconds from their phones to the kids and back.

For a glorious second, the sight of the kids helped Sara forget herself. Her days always went the same way: Wake up. Hide from the light coming in through the window. Grasp for her duvet and tuck it between her legs. Chase after an abandoned dream, reach for her phone, prop up her pillow. Let the glow of the screen bring her to wakefulness. Shower, make coffee. Hold off reality for as long as possible. Then, a steady descent into tedium and procrastination. Into unopened messages from the professor with more research to be done. Into a wait for the end to come. All in expectation of this moment at the living-room window, this feeling of forgetting, with a second glass of wine in her hand.

Sara smelled the wine’s cheap aroma and took a sip. She tried to keep the feeling in her grasp, but it had evaporated. In the park, the parents were warning their kids it was time to go home before the sun set. Sara stood up and held the empty glass by the stem, letting it wobble between her fingers. She should take a break before the third one, she thought.

In the kitchen, a half-eaten sandwich from the library cafeteria sat lonely on the middle shelf of the fridge. Sara pulled it out of its plastic wrapping and took a bite. There was nothing on it except slices of ham and cheese. The stale bread crumbled in her mouth.

She looked back at the living room. It was getting dark in the flat now. Sara usually turned on all the lights around this time. She put on music with sharp guitars and angry singers, loud enough to hear in every room. She knew that if she wasn’t careful, she’d end up on her couch, lights off, looking at her phone until two in the morning. She’d find herself picturing the room fading to black, imagining that when the sun came up, the flat would light up, and she would be gone.

But it was too early for the sun to be setting. How long had she been at the window? She pulled her phone from her back pocket. Three missed calls from her mom. She switched the phone off silent. On cue, the screen lit up: Dad.

Hi, Mom, Sara said, walking back to the window. She couldn’t talk to her parents without pacing.

She answered! Sara heard her mom yell away from the phone.

Sara waited. After a second, her mom continued.

Hi, honey, she said loudly and directly into Sara’s ear. I’ve been trying to reach you.

Sorry, Mom, I’ve been busy. I had my phone on silent so I could concentrate.

It’s so hot over there. Are you enjoying it?

It’s weird. It’s like spring doesn’t exist anymore.

There was rustling on the other end of the line.

Okay, your dad is here now too. Can you turn the video on, honey? Sara’s mom said.

No, Mom.

Come on, we want to see your face.

Mom, this is a regular call. I can’t just turn the video on. That’s not how it works with my phone.

What do you mean?

Can we just talk? Sara pleaded.

How’s the apartment? her dad interjected. Sara was on speaker now. In her bedroom, a pile of laundry had toppled over, partially blocking the entrance from the kitchen.

The flat’s fine, Dad, Sara said.

Did the landlord fix the window?

No, it’s not a big deal. I’m not going to bother her.

Well, it’s her responsibility—

Leave it alone, Sara’s mom cut in. She doesn’t want to talk about it.

Sara stepped over the laundry and sat on her bed. Did you see the email I sent you? she asked.

The day before, she had shared a newsletter called the P. Chronicles. It was published by an anonymous journalist exposing the corruption and inaction of P.’s government back home.

I saw the email, honey, Sara’s mom said. But it’s nothing, just a mix-up.

The issue Sara had sent was about a recent protest in the Capital. The turnout hadn’t been that big. A few dozen people. But when one of the demonstrators had tried to move out of the designated protest zone, police used tear gas to break up the crowd.

The P. Chronicles was the only outlet that reported on the event. They published a picture of a mother kneeling on the pavement, rinsing out her ten-year-old’s eyes. P.’s spokesperson had been unapologetic. Next time, she said, just showing up would lead to arrests. P. had walked the comment back shortly afterwards, but now the memory of the story and the photo made Sara reconsider whether she wanted to discuss the subject with her parents after all. She didn’t have the energy. She took a breath, waiting for another topic to come to mind.

Really, don’t worry about us, honey, Sara’s mom said, breaking the silence. That stuff was in the Capital, not here. There was the slightest pause. Anyway, when are you going to visit?

Sara chafed at the change in direction. I don’t know, Mom, I’m busy writing the thesis.

Well then you can visit anytime.

Not exactly. I’m still working as a research assistant.

You can’t do that from here?

Sara sighed more audibly than she intended. It’s complicated.

Okay. Well, the door’s always open.

I know. Sara paused. Thanks.

What are you making for dinner? her mom asked.

I’m not sure.

Do you have fresh vegetables?

Yes, of course I do.

Deb, let her go, her dad said.

I’m just making sure she’s eating healthy! Sara’s mom pelted back. All right, we love you, Sara. Call us soon. And next time, turn your camera on.

Okay, Mom. Love you too.

Sara walked back to the kitchen and gulped a fresh glass of wine. In the bedroom, her computer was still open to the blank Word document from four hours earlier, its cursor blinking a steady rhythm. The professor’s words from their last meeting ran through Sara’s head. You’re lucky, he had said. There’s no such thing as last place in academia.

* * *

Inside the café, the professor had his nose in a book. Sara watched him through the window for a few seconds, wondering how long it would take him to lift his head and notice her. He squinted when she walked in.

I forgot my glasses, he said.

I can tell, Sara replied.

The professor waited for a moment.

Are you going to get anything?

No, Sara said. This will be quick. She pulled the folder of research out of her bag. "There weren’t any surprises. There was a lot on Journey to Italy."

The professor started going through the papers. Sara stared at the top of his head. After more than a year, she thought, this was probably her main view of him. If police ever asked for a description, this would be her reply: ruffled salt-and-pepper hair, emerging bald spot, Neanderthal forehead and eyes.

That makes sense, the professor said, seemingly unaware of how much time had passed since Sara had spoken. The so-called classic.

Sara didn’t respond. She waited for the professor to start flicking again through the articles. The two of them had been introduced by her thesis adviser, Dr. Barber, after Sara had been late to apply for research-assistant positions. The professor and Dr. Barber had been friends since high school, and the professor had agreed to take Sara on even though he taught in a different department. He was writing a book about Italian neorealism. Something about the shift from the social to the personal in Roberto Rossellini. Sara’s job was to receive a list of movies—always in emails without a hello or a signature—and to deliver a package of essays, reviews, and interviews from the library. Everything had to be on paper. The professor refused to read off computers or phones.

Sara watched the professor now. She wondered if she could get up without saying a word. Maybe he would forget she had ever been there. The research would be a gift from the heavens. A free delivery from on high.

Things are pretty bad back home, she said instead. She resisted the urge to reach out and tap the professor on the shoulder, but he looked up anyway, apparently confused that she had stayed.

Hillside, Sara clarified. Well, the whole country really.

Right, the professor said. I was reading about that the other day. I still can’t get a handle on the guy.

You mean P.? Sara asked.

Yeah. Most people, after doing what he did at that council meeting, they’d run for councillor, maybe mayor. It takes some— The professor looked at Sara. "You need real confidence to decide you want to run the country. Although he was a corporate lawyer before, right? So maybe it’s not that surprising."

The two sat quietly for several moments before the professor returned to his reading. Sara waited to see if he would come back to her.

It’s pretty sad, actually, she said eventually. When you think about it.

She lowered her head slightly to try to make eye contact. Two-thirds of the country voted for him, you know. That’s a lot.

The professor shifted some of his papers to the side and picked up a new article.

Well, not really, he said without raising his eyes from the page. That’s why populists are a farce. Most people don’t vote.

I guess, Sara said. I guess that’s what a lot of people are saying. That he’s not that serious. That things will calm down soon.

The professor finally looked up.

They’re probably right, Sara said, staring straight at him. Right?

The professor sat still. He placed the article he had been reading back on the table.

Maybe, he said. He seemed to deliberate for a second over whether to continue. But nothing is inevitable.

What do you mean? Sara asked.

Just that you shouldn’t take it for granted. It’s worth asking: What if people are wrong? What are you going to do about it?

Huh?

You read the same things I do. You know things could get worse, not better. You wouldn’t have brought it up if you didn’t. So. Isn’t there something you can do?

Sara tried to collect her thoughts. Right before coming to the café, she’d watched a video of a pregnant woman speaking at a protest in Hillside. The woman had been holding a framed photo in her hand. My mom didn’t die from the tornado that hit her town, she’d said. My mom didn’t die from the floods a month after. My mom died from the contaminated water, because there was no money to rebuild.

The woman’s pain had seemed inescapable to Sara. Like a cycle of anguish that carried on without end.

I don’t know, Sara said, returning to the professor. I’m on the other side of the ocean.

The professor smiled. That’s easily fixed.

Sara was flailing.

I know what you’re going to say, the professor continued. You have this job, you have your thesis. But sometimes more important things come up.

He sat back. Sara looked away.

Have you heard of the Battle of Seattle? the professor asked. It took Sara a second to place the reference.

I remember it, she said, although that wasn’t exactly true. She was ten years old at the time, but it felt somehow like she’d known about it.

I’ve read stories, she clarified.

I was a bit older than you at the time, the professor continued.

Sara cut him off before he could get going. So you weren’t here yet? You were still finishing your PhD?

That’s right.

You flew out to Seattle?

No, the professor replied with no hint of shame or self-awareness. But there were marches on campus. We made our support known.

Sara nodded.

Of course, your problem is that no one’s taking what’s happening back home seriously. It’s the last place anyone would imagine seeing the end of civilization.

I’m not sure that’s—

What I’m getting at is that back in my day, we went out into the streets. People got hurt. It was painful, but we came together. We supported each other. We fought for what was right.

The professor looked away from Sara.

That’s still happening, Sara replied, trying again to stop the conversation for good. In Hillside. Even in the Capital. People still do that.

Exactly, the professor said, and he smiled again. So maybe that’s your answer.

The two of them glanced out the window. After a few seconds the professor checked his watch.

Shit.

He started stuffing the papers and his book into his side bag.

I have class in ten minutes. I’ll email you more stuff later this week.

He stood up straight and gave a sly, self-satisfied smile. If you’re still on this side of the ocean, that is.

In three stumbles, he exited the café. For a second, he seemed to forget which way he needed to go. Once he was out of sight, Sara grabbed his half-drunk coffee and left through the other door.

* * *