Page 20 of A Slow Fire Burning

All the while, Carla slipped away from him. She was there but not there, a wraith in the house, slipping out of rooms when he entered them, closing her eyes when he crossed her field of vision. She went to yoga classes and returned not at all Zen-like but unsettled, angry, crashing through the house and out into the garden, where she would sit, scratching at the skin on her forearms until it bled. His attempts to reach out to her were clumsy, he saw later, ill-judged. The idea they should try for another baby was met with cold fury.

Theo began to spend less and less time at home. He traveled to writers’ festivals, he gave lectures at far-flung universities. He had a brief and unsatisfying affair with his much younger publicist. Finally,Carla left him, although her desertion lacked conviction. She bought a house five minutes’ walk away.

Theo tried nonfiction; he tried to write about the low value assigned to fatherhood, he questioned the truths of female liberation, he pondered a return to more traditional (sexist) values. Hehatedhimself. And he could not begin to find the words for the scope of his loss, the depth of his anger.

Without his son, his wife, his work, Theo became desperate.

After the police had left, Theo went out for a walk. It was his habit to take a quick turn around the neighborhood about this time, just before lunch, to prevent himself from eating too early. He had a tendency toward gluttony. In the hallway, he reached for his coat and, instinctively, for the dog’s lead, only to withdraw his empty hand. The odd thing wasn’t that he reached for it—he still did that every other day; he wasn’t yet used to Dixon’s absence. No, the odd thing was that Dixon’s lead wasn’t there. He looked about but couldn’t see it anywhere. The cleaner must have moved it, he thought, though he couldn’t for a second think why.

Usually he’d head along the towpath, but given that it was still cordoned off by the police, he headed up over the bridge on Danbury Street instead. There was a man in uniform there too—a young man with a shaving rash, who grinned when he saw Theo, raising his hand in greeting before self-consciously pulling it away.

Theo saw an opening.

“Still searching, are you?” he said, walking off to talk to the young man. “Looking for clues?”

The officer’s face flushed. “Uh... yes, well. Looking for a weapon, actually.”

“Of course,” Theo said. “Of course. The weapon. Well... ,” he said, looking up and down the canal as though he might spot the knife from up there, “best let you get on with it. Good luck!”

“And to you, too!” the man said, and he blushed furiously.

“I’m sorry?”

“Oh, it’s just... your writing and that. Sorry. I—”

“No, that’s quite all right.”

“I’m a fan, that’s all. Yeah. I’m a big fan ofThe One Who Got Away. I thought it was so interesting, the way you turned the whole thing around, you know, telling the story backward in some parts and forward in others, letting us see inside the killer’s head—that was so brilliant! At first you, like, you don’t know what’s going on, but then it’s just like...whoa. So cool. I loved the way you turned everything on its head, playing with our sympathies and empathies and all that business.”

“Really?” Theo laughed, faking incredulity. “I thought everybody thought that was a terrible idea!”

“Well, I didn’t. I thought it was clever. A new way to tell a story like that, makes you think, doesn’t it? Will you be writing another one, do you think? Another crime novel, I mean, another”—he paused to air-quote—“Caroline MacFarlane?”

Theo shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m thinking about it, certainly.” He waved an arm vaguely in the direction of the water. “I could take inspiration from this mess, couldn’t I? I could call itThe Boy on the Boat.” They both laughed awkwardly.

“Is that where you get your ideas from, then?” the policeman asked. “From real life?”

“Well, now there’s a question... ,” Theo said, tailing off in hopes that the policeman didn’t really expect an answer to this.

There was a moment’s uncomfortable pause before the young man said: “Because, you see, if you ever wanted, you know, to discussideas for crime novels, like, maybe aspects of police work, or forensics, or anything like that...” The policeman was talking to him, Theo realized; he ought to be paying attention. “I might be able to help out with things like that, for example—”

“That’s very good of you,” Theo said, beaming at him. “Very kind indeed. I, uh, well, for now I suppose I was just wondering, you know, how much progress you’re making at the moment? On this case, my, uh, my nephew’s case?” The policeman pursed his lips. Theo stood back, spreading his fingers, palms upward. “Look,” he said, “I understand you can’t givedetails. I was just wondering, because, you know, this has been so upsetting for us—for my wife, for Carla; she’s been through an awful lot lately—and if an arrest were imminent, well it would be a huge relief for both of us, of course....”

The officer inhaled sharply through his teeth. “We-ell,” he said, ducking his head a little, “as you say, I can’t give details....” Theo nodded sympathetically, his expression rueful. He fished around in his jacket pocket and extracted a packet of cigarettes; he offered one to the policeman, who accepted. “Look, I can tell you,” the policeman said as he leaned closer to Theo to light his cigarette, “that there’s some forensic testing going on at the moment, and as I’m sure you know, these things take a little while—we don’t get the results overnight; it’s not likeCSIor any of that rubbish....”

“Forensic tests...?” Theo prompted.

“Clothing,” the young man said, his voice low. “Bloody clothing.”

“Ah.” That was reassuring. “Bloody clothing belonging to... that girl? The one you questioned? Because, you know, I saw her. Running from the scene. That morning, I saw her, and I didn’t do anything. So stupid. I just thought, you know, she was a drunk or something....”

“Mr. Myerson.” The policeman arranged his face into an expression of deep concern. “There was nothing you could have done. There was nothing anyone could have done for Mr. Sutherland; his injuries were much too severe.”

Theo nodded. “Yes, of course. Of course. But, to return to this girl, she’s the primary focus, is she, for the moment? There’s not... oh, I don’t know, a drugs connection, or theft, or...?”

The young man shook his head sadly. “I can’t tell you that as yet,” he said. “We’re pursuing a number of leads.”

“Of course,” Theo said, nodding vigorously, thinking about howpursuing a number of leadswas really code forWe haven’t the faintest idea what’s going on. He made to walk away but he could see as he did that this policeman, this spotty young man, was desperate to give himsomething, to prove his importance, his worth, and so Theo asked, “Can you tell me anything about her? The girl? Not her name, of course. I was just wondering, you know, because I assume she’s local, they said in the papers she was a resident of Islington, and now she’s out there, wandering around, and of course because of my... my public profile, it’s not difficult to find out who I am and who my wife is, and the thing is, well, perhaps I’m being paranoid, but what I want to know is, is she dangerous, this person? Well, evidently she’s dangerous, but is she a danger to me? To us?”

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