Free The Burning Air by Erin Kelly

she was eager, impatient, as if on the way to reclaim something much missed.

9
    B Y THE TIME their two-car convoy reached the steep roads around Ottery, the festival was well under way, and the streets had long been closed to traffic. Stewards in orange tabards directed them into a makeshift carpark in a bumpy field. Jake had a parallel social circle in the town, boys and girls whose parents also had second homes in the area. They were in year-round touch on Facebook, and he had been in constant contact with them since coming within range of a mobile phone signal. By the time they parked the car, he had a gang of friends waiting for him at the edge of the field. Sophie gave an internal stutter at the realization that the last time she had seen these teenagers, who all seemed to have cans in their hands, they had been children not much older than Toby was now.
    “Don’t forget, we’re all meeting back here at
eleven,
” said Tara, tapping the hood of the car. “If you’re late, I’ll get them to put out a lost-child announcement.”
    “You wouldn’t.” Jake scowled.
    “El-ev-en.”
    They watched his back until he and his friends were blobs in the crowd.
    The streets leading down into the town were steep. Smoke rose up to mingle with the mist so that the acrid, mineral vapor smelled damp. The first time Sophie had inhaled that smell had been more than thirty years ago, her hand in Lydia’s. Then, they would have to stop every few paces to catch up with someone Lydia knew from her own childhood. Tonight, many of those old faces, and those of their children and grandchildren, would still be present. Then, the crowd would have been a tenth of this size. Tonight, the place was overrun with people from all over the county, students from Exeter and foreign tourists. Then, you were lucky to see more than one police officer all night. Tonight, they lined the route in groups of two and three, and she wondered what percentage of the county’s constabulary was deployed here.
    Matt and Tara walked ahead with Felix, who had thrown on the hoodie he always wore in crowds. Toby and Leo were circling each other with excitement, and Sophie was relieved to see that Charlie took his cue from his brothers, smiling and clapping when they did. As the streets narrowed and the crowd thickened, she made sure that each of her sons was attached to an adult. Matt kept his promise to carry Charlie on his shoulders, while Will took Leo’s hand and Rowan took Toby’s.
    In the square, a woman wearing huge mittens made of sacking hefted a barrel of burning tar onto her shoulders to the whoops and catcalls of the crowd. When Sophie was a girl, the festival had been menfolk-only and the women were there to dress their wounds afterward.
    Felix shrugged off his hood. A voice from somewhere in the throng said, “Halloween was last week, mate,” to a ripple of laughter, but it was impossible to tell who the culprits were. Felix’s exposed face fell, and Sophie experienced the same surge of protective anger she felt when one of her sons came home from school with tales of a big boy picking on him.
    “Fuck this shit, I’m going to the pub,” said Felix.
    “Oh,
Fee
 . . .” said Tara, but he had gone, shouldering his way toward the Lamb and Flag. The queue to the entrance was six deep but Felix parted it like Moses.
    “I’ll go and make sure he’s all right,” said Matt, hoisting Charlie off his shoulders and placing him in Will’s arms.
    With the ratio of adults to children in their party diminished but still over the crucial one-to-one, the remainder of the family made their way to the funfair, where it was easier to see: the heat, the lights, and even the sounds conspired to clear the mist. They bought the boys hot dogs and candy floss then gave them money to go on enough rides to make them throw it all up again. Toby and Leo came to blows over a pound coin.
    “It’s mine, you asshole!” said Leo.
    “Leo!”
said Sophie. “You are