‘’Time is the biggest thing you have taken from me: time and the permission to leave.’’ Imagine a city plagued by fires. Not the traditional bonfire (God knows these are a bad idea, too…) but fires. Destructive fires terrorising the population. Fires destroying libraries, shops, houses. Fires that cause deaths by treatable illnesses since those who are ill are too frightened to venture out. Death is less of a threat… Imagine young men dragging female police officers in the middle of the street, ready to set them on fire. Imagine driving down your street and being attacked - or shot - by said young men. Well, you know what? The citizens who have experienced the Troubles don’t need to imagine. They know. This is Jan Carson’s dystopic version of East Belfast where a series of fires begin in the heart of an extremely, hot, suffocating summer as the Twelfth approaches. (If you don’t know what the Twelfth is, there are excellent books for you to get familiar with the rubbish of the British occupation. In this household, we don’t sugar-coat tyranny.) ‘’This is Belfast. This is not Belfast. Better to avoid calling anything a spade in this city. Better to avoid names and places, dates and second names. In this city names are like points on a map or words worked in ink. They are trying too hard to pass for truth. In this city truth is a circle from one side and a square from the other. It is possible to go blind staring at the shape of it. Even now, sixteen years after the Troubles, it is much safer to stand back and say with conviction, ‘It all looks the same to me.’ Now, imagine the very same city populated by children with extraordinary gifts. A child who can see the future in liquid surfaces. A child who makes everything bloom, another who can bring small creatures back to life. A child who occasionally turns into a boat, a child who cannot stand darkness, like a day vampire. Imagine being paid a month’s wages to stop spreading happiness. These are the Unfortunate Children. In this city, anyone who is not miserable is unfortunate. ‘’And though I can’t admit it to myself, cannot even write the bad word down, I know exactly what she is, and there is no way to say this with science. Myth made flesh. Creature lifted from a storybook. Siren she is. Wicked, matchless Siren.’’ Imagine a young doctor who is always proper, always professional. He receives a call for aid. By a very special young woman. Dark-haired and unhinged and provocative. They become lovers. A child is born in a world where men and sirens unite if only for a little while. Imagine a father terrified of his own son, whose actions hold a mirror that reflects his own crimes of the past. It is a dark place. How can love and kindness and compassion and understanding survive in this hell where everyone turns against everyone and the shadows of the past are still haunting its alleys? Jan Carson is a writer - I dare say - unlike any other I’ve ever read. I read her story Settling in the collection The Glass Shore, and I fell in love with her voice and her elegantly sarcastic view on marriage. I devoured her collection Quickly, While They Still Have Horses, and a very good friend who is also a writer from Northern Ireland (and a truly amazing poet) mentioned that The Fire Starters is one of his favourite books. Well, she is truly unique. Without making any comment on political sides and denominations (although, naturally, you can tell which side I support), I can tell you that her writing is balanced and fair and haunting. Her acute sense of setting, her insights into the characters’ personalities, her explicitly honest take on the various ways the Troubles are still very much alive within Northern Ireland have created a masterpiece. It makes me want to visit Belfast even more strongly. Do yourselves a favour. Read this utterly magnificent, moving, outstanding novel. ‘’Now the Sirens have a still more fatal weapon than their song, namely their silence. And though admittedly such a thing never happened, it is still conceivable that someone might possibly have escaped their singing; but their silence certainly never.’’