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THE CAN – big, dirty, white – was almost too heavy for him. The police never found out where he got it. He couldn’t remember anyway. One thing he did remember later was his social worker telling him that fire was his way of expressing his anger about the death of his mum. He said the fire was his anger. She’d looked a bit surprised.

The floodlights were off. The kids played there all day and would have played all night, but the rec closed at seven. He kicked his way in where the wire netting was loose, hauling the can after him. He got past the swings and climbed the walkway, spilling petrol, shaking it round the red cabin. The can was easier to handle as it got lighter. The smell stuck in his throat and made him want to throw up. He liked it all the same.

He jumped down and rolled like parachutists do when they land. Then he lit the rag and threw it. Flames rippled along the walkway with a soft moan, and the heat began to push him back towards the fence.

He watched, loving the flames, their wildness and their strength. Then he realized what was happening.

He couldn’t get out. The fire was too fierce and he couldn’t find the hole in the fence …