When I approach the house, Gran’s voice drifts through the open kitchen window. “Max! Somebody’s waiting for you in the living room! Comb your hair and wash your hands before you go in, will you?” I search for an excuse, any excuse, but nothing comes to mind.
Normally, Gran is my guardian angel, but at moments like this, one of her principles gets painfully in the way—the principle that you must be honest. Not just to a few close people, but to everybody... all the time. Secrecy hides in the long grass of treason, is one of her favorite proverbs. She’s convinced that honesty and integrity will set you free. Maybe not right away, but eventually. So talk I did when long lines of journalists showed up at the doorstep of our rickety home.
I couldn’t even get really angry at her, as it was abundantly clear that she herself suffered as much as I did. To see her granddaughter growing paler and paler with every interview because of her principles must have been extremely painful for her.
Without all the media attention, the news of the burned-down farmhouse in a small, insignificant village probably wouldn’t have reached beyond its borders. The fear of a 16-year-old pyromaniac girl would have faded within a few months, transforming into tales that grew taller each year and eventually claimed their place in local folklore as a cautionary tale warning children not to play with fire.
If only I had been that lucky. There must have been very little real news that summer, as journalists came back again and again, milking every drop of superstition, paranoia, and bad blood from the locals. Only after what seemed like forever did the stream of journalists dry up, making it possible to leave the house again. At first, I ventured out only for short walks, but I went a bit farther each day.
When I enter the kitchen, Gran is nowhere to be seen. I briefly hold my hands under the tap, then dry them by rubbing them over my hair in a feeble attempt to tame the jungle on my head into something presentable. I cross the hallway, open the door into the furniture graveyard we call our living room, and step inside.
On the sofa a big, no, enormous, man covers the full width of the couch like a marshmallow melting in the sun. Underneath his crumpled suit, his belly stretches the stained shirt to the breaking point. Even with the top two buttons undone, the collar cuts so deeply into the soft flesh of his neck that it all but disappears.
I need only one glance at him to know that he’s not a man to trifle with. He radiates the “I-don’t-give-a-shit-about-anything” mentality that makes him perfect for his job.
People somehow like to believe that big people are good-natured and friendly, gentle giants, but I think that’s just a comforting lie, no truer than the cliché that thin people are cold or mean.
He sizes me up with two tiny, maliciously glinting, pig-like eyes. Somewhere above his first of three chins, two little pouting lips make an effort to produce a convincing smile—a meticulous row of sharp little piranhas in an ocean of flesh. I don’t bother to smile back. I understand full well that it’s all part of the hollow interview ritual, meant only to put the interviewee at ease. I became immune to that ritual a long time ago.
What prevails is the sense of surprise. Not about who is here, but the fact that anyone is here at all. That fire happened far too long ago to be considered news anymore.
“Hello, my name is York, York Longshot. And you must be...” He casually glances at a smudgy piece of paper. “Maxime Kwintens.”
“Max.”
“Excuse me?”
“That’s my name. If you want to interview me, it might be a good idea to have your facts straight.” The smile on his face melts away as a snail in salt. Remarkably fast, his expression changes into something much more honest: that of a predator observing his prey. “Good. I see we can leave all the niceties behind us. That will make this quite a bit easier.”
“What paper do you write for anyway?” I ask, trying to gauge how serious this visit really is. “I’ve been interviewed countless times by now. I really don’t have anything new to add.”
“Well, it’s a good thing then that I don’t work for a newspaper anymore. I did until two years ago, as the star reporter of The News Chronicle, but you could say that I outgrew them and had to let them go. Now I run a juice channel with millions of followers, committed to exposing the truth behind the truth. I go where no newspaper dares to go. Catchy slogan, right?”
I try to play it cool, but I can’t deny I feel intimidated. I know his “juice” channel. It’s immensely popular, if only because it mixes just enough facts into its poisonous stew of lies, filth, paranoia, and xenophobia to fool impressionable followers into thinking it’s real news. But the only thing it truly satisfies is their insatiable curiosity about the private lives of the hottest celebrities of the moment and the drama surrounding them. Celebrities, they first place on a pedestal, only to knock them down later with slander, gossip, and lies. It makes sense in a cruel and cynical way. The only thing readers love more than seeing people rise to the top is seeing them crash down again. His channel is probably worse.
It's clear that this interview won’t be like any I have done before, so I resort to the contingency plan I developed for extreme situations like this: the innocent girl routine. A tactic I hoped I would never have to use, and one I hate to play.
“But... but... sir... why are you here? Being such a famous reporter and all?” I sound as naive as possible.
“What do you think, girly? That burned-down farmhouse alone would have been reason enough to pay you a visit. The followers of my channel love stories about pyromaniacs and homes going up in flames, as long as it's not their own, of course.” The jovial wink he gives me makes his face ripple as if a pebble has been thrown into a puddle of mud. “But... when they find a 16-year-old girl next to that farmhouse, a girl who was never meant to be there, well... that gets the juices flowing, right? The newspapers may have lost interest by now, but I feel there’s a much bigger story to tell, a scandal maybe. Time for a more human-interest approach. So... where shall we start?”
"Eh… maybe I should ask my father first, Mister… eh... Porkchops, was it? He has to give permission, you know. I’m still underage, and he’s very protective.” I even manage to blink innocently a few times. Sometimes it works, really, but this man doesn’t seem impressed at all. Smug and complacent, he leans back.
“Ah, yes, the man in the wheelchair. Well, I did a bit of research, and my sources assure me that you don’t give a shit about what he tells you. So, I suggest we stop fooling around.” His tiny eyes burn self-assuredly into mine, still I notice that the drops on his face are growing exponentially, and his breathing grows more labored. He’s sweating like... well... a pig. His hand, quite accurately resembling a meatball sprouting five mini-sausages, reaches for his handkerchief, with which he starts dabbing his forehead.
“No wisecracks? No sharp comeback?” he sneers. “Good! You must have realized by now that I always get what I want.” I don’t answer, it’s no use. Of course, he interprets my silence as encouragement, they all do. “Although the fire was spectacular enough,” he continues, “something felt off. Everyone was saved, even though everyone was unconscious, and you, who were not supposed to be there at all, was found among them. That brings me to my first question: why? Why were you there?”
My voice is only a whisper. "I don't know."
It's true. I really don't know how I ended up there. One moment I was in bed trying to find some sleep, and the next, I was staring at the upper window of the farmhouse.
"A bit louder, please. I can't hear you."
"I don't know."
"A sudden case of amnesia? How convenient. Let me help you. It was a slumber party thrown by your supposed best friend. So, I asked myself... if she's her best friend, why wasn't she invited? So, I had a little chat with her." No! He wouldn't! Panic claws at my stomach. "At first, she didn't want to talk to me, but I can be really persuasive, as you know by now. And do you know what she told me? That she was afraid of you. She thought you were a freak."
“That’s enough.” My mouth is so dry that my voice cracks, but I can’t keep quiet any longer. This is none of his business. This is personal.
Porkchops doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. He goes on, convinced his prey will not escape him now.
“She also told me strange things happened around you. Things she couldn’t explain.”
"Stop," I say, louder now.
Again, a smile ripples his face, while he dabs it vigorously with a handkerchief soaked with sweat.
“You are a smart girl. You know how this will go down. You can choose. Your story or the story of your so-called friend on my channel tomorrow.”
He’s convinced I will give in. His victims always do. The problem is that I don’t give in... ever, and the more he’s convinced that I will, the stronger my resilience grows. Who or what does he think he is? I look at his smug face, sweat streaming from it now.
Suddenly, his eyes wander to the window. “Warm in here... Do you mind if I open the...?”
“Really?” I answer, slipping seamlessly back into my innocent girl routine. “I actually think it’s rather chilly. Better keep the window shut. My Gran is always worried I’ll catch a cold.” “Not warm?” Porkchops stares at me in astonishment. “Actually, I think I will turn the heat up a bit. Better safe than sorry, I always say.” I cough demonstratively into my hand. Now he looks genuinely alarmed. “This is not right. What are you doing?” “Me? I’m not doing anything. We’re just talking.”
“No, you’re up to something.”
He gets up from the couch, and much faster than I would’ve expected from someone his size, dances between the damaged furniture to the door like an elephant-ballerina. “Need some fresh air. Back in a moment.” When he reaches the door, he turns to me one more time. “I don’t know what you’re trying to do here, but it will not succeed. I always get what I...”
He takes one step over the threshold, but notices too late that his foot is caught on something. He trips, tries to regain his balance, but with little success. First, slowly, but accelerating fast, his gigantic body tips over. Frantically swaying his arms, he lands backward in the enormous tub Gran uses to wash our clothes in. The gigantic explosion of foam and water is a sight to behold. Soaked to the bone, he wrestles himself out of it.
“Never... ever... really... always...” I can hardly contain my laughter.
“A lot cooler, right?”
“You... I... I’m not done with you. I will be back. I always get what I want. Always!”
Swearing and splashing, he leaves the house, wrestles himself behind the wheel of a car ridiculously small for a man his size, starts the engine, and turns unexpectedly fast onto the dirt road that leads away from our house.
Only then do I allow myself to wonder what happened. How did that tub end up right outside our living room? The voice coming from behind me has only a hint of laughter.
“Mmmmm... Not sure why, Tinderstick, but suddenly this seemed the perfect place to soak the wash.” I turn on the spot.
“Gran? But...”
“Principles are all good and well, Tinderstick, but you don’t have to feed yourself to the wolves out of courtesy. That’s another principle of mine.” Her wink makes the wrinkles around her left eye crinkle in an irresistibly charming way. “A bit of water and soap wouldn’t hurt him anyway, don’t you think? Although he might be allergic to it.”
I look at my grandmother with my mouth open and then fly around her neck to hug her.