Fire Colour One. Jenny Valentine

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       Copyright

      First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2015

      HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd,

      1 London Bridge Street

      London, SE1 9GF

       www.harpercollins.co.uk

      Text copyright © Jenny Valentine 2015

      Jenny Valentine asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of the work.

      A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

      All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

      Source ISBN: 9780007512362

      Ebook Edition © 2015 ISBN: 9780008126230

      Version: 2015-06-23

       For my Dad.

      Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

       Dedication

       Chapter Seven

       Chapter Eight

       Chapter Nine

       Chapter Ten

       Chapter Eleven

       Chapter Twelve

       Chapter Thirteen

       Chapter Fourteen

       Chapter Fifteen

       Chapter Sixteen

       Chapter Seventeen

       Chapter Eighteen

       Chapter Nineteen

       Chapter Twenty

       Chapter Twenty-one

       Chapter Twenty-two

       Chapter Twenty-three

       Chapter Twenty-four

       Chapter Twenty-five

       Chapter Twenty-six

       Chapter Twenty-seven

       Acknowledgments

       About the Author

       Also by Jenny Valentine

       About the Publisher

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      At my father’s funeral, after everything, I lit a great big fire in his honour, built from stacked apple crates and broken furniture and pieces of a fallen-down tree. It towered over the scrubby piece of land I call the bonfire garden, and blazed, too far gone to fight, against the fading afternoon. On the lawn below me, my family gulped for air like landed fish. They clawed at their own faces like Edvard Munch’s Screamers, like meth-heads. His mourners poured from the house, designer-clad and howling, lit up like spectres by the flames.

      My

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