He nods, removes a matchstick, holds it in front of his face, stops breathing.
He strikes, his cheeks flush, his pupils dilate. He inhales deeply, we both do. A rush.
I hold a sparkler in front of him. We move our hands towards each other and touch the match to the sparkler, which ignites, sparks. And another one.
‘Into the yard, quick.’
We are both jazzed by the crackle, the sizzle, the sheer beauty of the things as they dance in the air, arcing and weaving, seemingly of their own volition, our own hands chasing them, the sparklers’ light reflected in his eyes. We dance to a soundtrack of the animals’ barking and mewling. My imp is desperately trying to make an appearance. You are not fucking invited, not welcome here anymore, love!
‘The other one, Yaya.’
‘The wheel?’
He nods, his eyes glassy.
‘Ok, darling, and then bed, ok?’
I offer him the package, all bright and gaudy-coloured, which he takes as if it contains something precious, alive. He slowly removes the outer wrapping, the colour of see-through, and hands the box to me. A whistling wheel of fortune, cheap and tacky. I rip it open, try to read the instructions, my eyesight blurring. I didn’t realise it was so complicated, requiring hammers and nails and practical skills I don’t possess. I go into the shed, rummage and find an old hammer, covered in cobwebs, which I gently disentangle, leaving as much of the spider’s delicate weave intact as possible.
There’s a nail and a wooden stick in the bottom of the box, which I presume is meant to be used as a stake. I hammer the stick into the ground and attach the wheel with the nail. The hammer slips, or my hand slips, resulting in a jangling nerve pain shooting through my thumb and forefinger. Bring my finger to my mouth and suck, a splinter lodged underneath my nailbed. The wheel is hanging off its perch precariously. Tommy goes to it and rights it.
‘You need to move away, Tommy, while I secure this thing.’
He gives me that look, which is enough to spur me on. Tap, tap, tap. Now: Straighten fuse, light tip of free end at arm’s length and retreat immediately. I pull the fuse through the centre, watch Tommy watching me.
‘Want to light this with me, Tommy?’
He runs back into the kitchen, returns with the box of matches and this time strikes with intent, the flame flickering in his shining eyes. ‘Arm’s length, Tommy.’
I guide his lit match-tip to the fuse, both hands holding, mine encircling his. We connect, and the Catherine wheel is set alight, blazing. The two of us run to the farthest edge of the yard, cheeks pulsing with heat and excitement. The wheel turns, a whirling dervish casting its hypnotic spell, and I’m there, in the happy scene I’ve been chasing. I am eight, held high on my father’s shoulders. The fireworks display burned so brightly and boomed so loudly, the sound momentarily drowned out my internal hissing and cackling, which I hadn’t known had been a constant until that moment. My father pointed at a huge circling wheel of fire. ‘A Catherine wheel.’ He tilted his head back towards me. ‘Named in memory of a beautiful young woman called Catherine, who was condemned to die for her beliefs on the wheel, a medieval instrument of torture.’
I remember the delicious thrill of shivers in my body, as if my father had just shared an illicit secret with me. There’s no memory of Lara in the picture. ‘But when she touched the wheel, so the story goes, it burst into flames. A miracle, Sonya.’ Although I didn’t know what the word meant exactly, I knew it had magic attached to it.
I look at Tommy, who seems mesmerised, the spinning an antidote to mine, to his.
‘Beeootiful, slinky, sunshiny, lickety-spit, wheee, Yaya, wheee!’
I squeeze his hand as the wheel propels itself faster and faster and with a mighty whoosh lifts into the air and soars above our heads, a silver spinning kaleidoscope of sparkles. Is this meant to happen? I don’t think the instructions said anything about it being airborne. The animals howl. A sound of sirens far off in the distance. ‘Fireman Sam,’ Tommy says, two bright spots of colour on his cheeks, his body thrumming with excitement, speed taking hold of him until he has wrestled free of me and is running to a soundtrack of whistles and flickers, crackles and spits, of engines shrieking rescue.
Suddenly, the wheel explodes, like a fireball, and hurtles directly at him. A noise rips out of me, a gargantuan sound I’ve never heard before. Tommy stops in his tracks; the animals are hushed. Please help, and this feels embodied, a current coursing. Is this it, Sister Anne? Energy pulses through me as I launch myself at him, push him behind me, my body a human shield. I stretch my hands upwards and manage to hit out at the burning wheel, connecting with my right palm, deflecting its path. It throws out sparks.