Before the Fire by Sarah Butler

Road, Stick and his mum let themselves into the communal entrance and walked up the shallow, carpeted stairs, Stick with the cake in
a cardboard box, his mum clutching a bottle of white wine. Two tree branches had been taped to the door frame to form an arch – the bottom half of each was criss-crossed with thick yellow
ribbon.
    ‘Lainey said if they haven’t caught anyone in the first twenty-four hours that means they’re, like, fifty per cent less likely to arrest someone,’ Stick said.
    His mum had been about to ring the doorbell. She lowered her hand. ‘They’ll catch him,’ she said and then turned to him and said it again, louder, like that might sound more
convincing. ‘They will. They’ve got forensics and all that clever stuff. They’re bound to.’
    Stick stared at the pale bark and the green leaves already curling in on themselves. ‘That’s just on telly, isn’t it?’
    ‘No, love. They’ll find him. They will.’ She put her hand on his cheek, where J had punched him. ‘Have you been fighting?’
    Stick twisted away from her.
    ‘Kieran?’
    ‘It’s fine.’ Stick rang the bell and they both listened to the electronic scale echoing into the flat.
    His nan answered the door wearing a long yellow skirt and an orange top with embroidery all over it. She was sixty-one but liked to tell Stick she still felt eighteen, and since she’d met
Alan she’d started wearing these weird, floaty things you could see her underwear through. Bracelets halfway to her elbows, and three or four necklaces at a time.
    ‘Cake.’ Stick held the box out towards her. She looked inside and pulled a face.
    ‘Oh, you are good, but today we eat only fresh fruit and vegetables.’ She glanced at Stick’s mum. ‘I did tell you.’
    Stick’s mum smiled thinly. ‘Shall I hold onto the wine then?’
    His nan made an apologetic face. ‘It’s all about new beginnings, you see.’
    Stick balanced the box on the white wooden chest in the hallway.
    ‘Careful.’ His nan sprang forwards, lowered the box onto the carpet and bent to rearrange some stones on the chest. ‘Amber and quartz,’ she said. ‘Healing,
purification, new energy.’ Then she turned and pulled Stick into a hug. She smelt of washing-up liquid and incense. He’d cleaned his teeth for ages but odds were she’d still smell
the vodka on him. She held on longer than usual, then gripped her hands around the tops of his arms and looked into his eyes.
    ‘But Iain. Poor Iain. I can hardly even think about it,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘And you. And your trip? All those plans. Oh, my sweet boy.’
    Stick looked down at the carpet.
    ‘Today is the solstice, the longest day. Your mum told you that?’
    Stick shook his head.
    ‘Alan does a ritual. That’s why we wanted you to come. It’s about joy and power and courage. We banish negativity.’ She flung her arm to one side.
    Stick looked at his mum. She opened her eyes wide and lifted her shoulders, and for a moment he wanted to laugh.
    ‘Fellow travellers.’ Alan appeared at the door to the kitchen. He was older than Stick’s nan, a small man with a tanned, wrinkled face. A long white top reached over his beer
belly and he had strings of beads and strips of leather around his neck and wrists. He held a glass bowl – the one Stick’s nan used for whisking eggs – filled with water, a
yoghurt pot floating on the surface. As he approached, he dunked the pot so it filled with water and before Stick could dodge, he had reached up and tipped it over Stick’s head.
    Stick reared back, hand to his scalp. The water splashed down onto his nose, into the crease behind his left ear, over the front of his T-shirt.
    ‘Sun water.’ Alan smiled. ‘Opens the crown chakra. Clears the aura. Amanda?’ He turned to Stick’s mum.
    ‘It’s Mandy,’ she said. ‘And you’re all right.’
    ‘We were up at sunrise to make it,’ Alan said. ‘Feels good, doesn’t it, Kieran?’
    ‘Alan, I’m