‘You bastard!’ I hollered, and I ran towards the front door, stopping just a moment to pick up my old hockey stick. Yelling and shrieking like a banshee, I opened the door and ran out into the street. The icy-cold cobbles on my feet meant nothing to me as I ran towards the squarely built man. He stood his ground, not running as I charged towards him. He was huge and I recognized him as Ma Boyle’s eldest son Billy. It crossed my mind as the distance between us narrowed that I didn’t have the faintest idea what I would do when I reached him. Billy Boyle was a street fighter of some renown; the damage I could inflict upon him was minimal compared to what he could do to me. Fuck it, I thought, he’d taken my bike from me. At least I could get in a few good whacks before he rendered me unconscious. I was close enough to smell his aftershave when he flipped me the finger, turned on his heels and ran. I continued to give chase, shouting after him, ‘Come back and face me, you bastard!’ But Billy Boyle’s head was down and he was running home to his ma.

I could feel the heat from the flames on my back. I turned round. By the light of the fire that engulfed the bike, I saw Joe, wearing nothing but a towel, leaning against the doorjamb. The mystery of Billy Boyle was solved. He wasn’t scared of me after all, but of Joe, who had the fire-extinguisher from the kitchen in his hand. He turned it on the bike and, within minutes, the blaze was under control. I was glad it was dark, I couldn’t see how bad the damage was, but, from the heat of the flames I had felt, I was pretty sure the bike couldn’t be saved. A stupid tear ran down my face. Over Joe’s shoulder, I saw that arson wasn’t the only thing that had kept Billy Boyle busy that night. Written in red spray paint across my front door was the memorial: Senga Boyle RIP