After the fire that took place in the building last year, there are smoke alarms in each of the six units. In the hallway there’s a heat sensor plus an automatic alert to the Fire Station. In the way of anything newly installed, the alarms bleat and flash like menopausal sheep whenever someone burns a toast. As a result, we have all learnt to ignore the racket.

But when I hear someone’s alarm go off at 2 am, I realise there might be a cause for concern this time. I am in the smaller of my two rooms, with the door closed. My headphones are on and I’m working on a new painting. Bins is asleep in the main room, impersonating a fog-horn. I can still hear the alarm, however. And it’s coming from the main hallway. Barely have I wiped off my brushes, removed my headphones and stepped out of my studio, when I hear the sound of approaching fire trucks.

Then I open my front door. Curling sheets of white smoke are seeping from under DingDong’s front door. Inside, I can hear furniture being overturned, glass smashing, incoherent shrieks. It’s as if a small-scale war is in progress within those walls. Yet the smoke is still pouring out, which means there’s a fire that needs putting out or else this elderly all-wood building will erupt in flames. Just as I’m wondering how to break down the door, two fire trucks arrive, hooting and parping like a pair of mobile circuses. I immediately slip back into my house. I know from last year’s drama that firemen don’t like bystanders.

From the peephole in my door I see four lumbering giants crash through the hallway in full fire-retardant gear. A moment later they burst into DingDong’s apartment. Apparently it wasn’t locked. Smoke pours into the hallway. DingDong is dragged out, wearing nothing but a dog-leash and leather gloves. She’s hopping like a kangaroo because her ankles are bound together. Following in her wake is a tall man, naked as a steamed lobster and trailing a chair to which he is attached with shiny steel chains. The tiny hallway is soon thick with firemen, smoke and DingDongs.

The whole story comes out the next morning, over coffee at Dunkin’ Donuts. Old Mrs Rose, the landlady, had told Rebecca from upstairs all the details. According to her, DingDong was enjoying a quiet evening of whips and chains with her boyfriend. Alas, consent soon morphed into assault, whereupon DingDong found herself too tied up to escape. So… she lit a fire! She thought the Fire Department would be her saviour. Not a great idea. “They saved her all right!” says Rebecca. “All the way to jail.” Arson is a serious crime, after all.

Bins is also with us. He slept through all the excitement. “Ohh. Such a sad thing,” he says. “She is a nice girl. Very kind.” I roll my eyes. “No, no you did not know her,” insists Bins. “Thank goodness,” I say. “A girl who wears dog leashes might have ticks.” “Oo,” says Rebecca. “Someone’s being bitchy!” “Arf-arf,” I say, nodding.

( Manjula Padmanabhan , author and artist, writes about her life in the fictional town of Elsewhere, in this weekly column )

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