A thin sliver of moonlight poked through the blackout curtains I had hanging in my bedroom. I found it hard to sleep most nights. Once upon a time, long ago, Duncan Bancho had said it was my conscience that made me an insomniac. Then I had dismissed him with a derisive laugh. Now, in the dark hours of the early morning, his words seemed quite accurate to me. Joe lay beside me. His breath was even and deep, every muscle in his body was relaxed and, as I stared into his sleeping face, the years rolled back. His heavy fringed eyelids were closed and he looked divine. I couldn’t resist reaching out to touch his cheek; he wrinkled his face and moved away. A vague noise outside my window made the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Cumberland Street isn’t frequented by vandals, louts, or drunks–unless you count the retired advocate who lives across from me, and he’s usually staggered back from the pub before midnight.

I threw my legs over the side of the bed. The soles of my feet hit the carpet and it still surprised me that the floor wasn’t littered with dirty clothes and half-eaten pizzas. I was naked, so I grabbed his T-shirt and threw it on. The soft blue shirt smelled of fresh air and motorbikes. It reached my knees and my modesty and backside were preserved. I blinked several times to get my eyes used to the darkness; they were sore and gritty from lack of sleep and wearing contact lenses too long. I didn’t know if what I saw was actually happening. I pulled the curtain back just in time to see a large man pour a can of petrol over the Fat Boy. With great care he stepped back and threw a lit match onto the seat. I rocked backwards as the bike went up in a whoosh of flames. I heard a scream–it took a second to realize I was making the noise and that what I was watching was real.