Echoes of Fire

I grew up here.  My family moved three times, but each time some circumstance drew us back.
 I escaped as far as I could to go to college, but found the love of my life here, and so she drew me back too.
 She also had escaped to the city, only to be drawn back years later after being left destitute by an errant husband.
 What is it that draws us back to the place of our birth?
 Like the silver cord that ties our mortal souls to our bodies, is there an earthly cord that ties us to our place of birth?
 But then there is the history of this wretched place.
 More murders per square mile in its history than any other place in the country, I was once told.
 Who would have guessed from a place of farms and villages dotted by the occasional industrial town?
 And yet here I am again.
I walk past the phone box in which a woman was raped and strangled late last year.
Past the entrance to the woods where by day, people walk their dogs.  Those not being assaulted or the two who had  been been buried to be found later by an over-zealous dog.  Poisoned, apparently.
And yet I have seen nothing of this.  To me, it is the home I know.  Full of the usual detritus of growing up - friends and romantic entanglements, gained and lost, neighbours about whom we ponder their source of income, but don't ask too many questions.
Children playing in the street, the younger brought up by the older ones as their parents go to work for a meagre subsistence, or who drink themselves to oblivion before daytime television.
I am not happy to be back.
Except for her.
On the day we returned to this damned town, I was out walking our dog amongst the trees in the twilight hours, the smell of nearby woodsmoke lulling me into a false demeanour of nostalgia.
There were three of women, sitting around a fire pit on felled logs, staring into flames that flickered glimpses of their faces
One face looked up, and in the orange flames, I recognised the face as one of those past entanglements.
She seemed to look through me.
Isla was her name, I remembered, but how did I know her?
Isla of the three days.  Of course.
On day one, I found her walking through these same woods alone, and had a conversation with her about our respective dogs.
On day two, I found her there again, and we sat and talked as our dogs tugged at our leads to continue their journies, but we denied them.
On day three, we met a twilight without our dogs, and denied no-one. We certainly did not deny each other.
On the fourth day, she was gone. And on the fifth day. And each day afterwards until I left that cursed place, the sting of her sweet memory dulling through the years.
"You look just the same," I said, looking into her eyes.
Still she seemed to look through me.
There was a sudden look of fear in her eyes, still focused behind me.
I turned to see a shadow masked by the dark backdrop of tree trunks and shrub.
Twilight was fast becoming night time.
"Hello?" I said, the warmth of the fire on my neck.
The shadow moved slightly, and came towards me.
I recognized the shadow - it was my wife.
"What are you doing here?" she asked.
As she approached, I could see she was shivering despite the warmth of the fire.  The dark pits of her eyes became glints, and in those glints I saw fear.
And then I too felt the cold - the warmth of the fire was gone.
Spinning around, I could see there was nothing but three tree trunks and a pit that perhaps once housed a fire, but was now overgrown with grass and weeds.

***

I heard some years later that they had found some bones in that old wood.
By then, my wife and I had drifted apart.
It seemed as though that night had somehow poisoned the lifeblood of our relationship.
I still walk through those woods at night, hoping that maybe, I'll be able to feel the warmth of the fire on my neck once more.