Page 37 of A Slow Fire Burning

He wouldn’t care about the neighbors, didn’t give a damn about disturbing them, only he had to be cautious: he was a (semi) public figure; there were consequences these days, to everything you did. Everything was recorded and committed to cyberspace for eternity—if you stepped out of line you’d be shamed on the internet, pilloried on Twitter, “canceled.” It was mob rule, not that you were allowed to say it. Saying it would get you canceled too.

Theo was certain now that the old woman, the nosy neighbor, must have spoken to Carla, must have told her that he’d met with Angela. And so, Carla was angry because he hadn’t told her. He wasn’t surprised, but he was annoyed. She’d lied to him dozens of times over the years. He wasn’t a complete fool; he knew that she used to see Angela occasionally. He hadn’t known about the relationship with Daniel—that had come as a shock, and he was upset, not least because of the nature of its revelation. But he’d not frozen her out, had he? He hadn’t ignored her calls or barred his door. He’d done as he always did, as he always would: he had stood by her. He had directed his anger elsewhere.

The last time he’d seen Angela—the very last time—Theo had raised his hand to her. He’d never struck a woman, never in his life, but he had thought about it with her, for a second, two. Then the moment passed, and instead of hitting her, he told her what he thought of her, and that was worse.

She had called him, left a message saying there was something she needed to tell him, and that she’d prefer to do it face-to-face. No tears this time, not at first, anyway. She invited him in, and this time he accepted. He had things to say to her, and he didn’t want to say them in the street.

The previous time he’d seen her he’d been thrown by her appearance; this time, he was taken aback by the state of her home, its carpet stained and windows filthy, the surfaces thick with dust, the pervading air of neglect made somehow worse by the fact that there were prints on the walls, carefully framed, as though Angela must once have made an effort to make her home look nice.

“Love what you’ve done with the place,” Theo said, and Angela laughed, a throaty rumble that tore at his heart. He turned away from her, running his eyes over the books on the shelf next to the fireplace, his eyes coming to rest onThe One Who Got Away. “I hear this one’s good,” he said, waving it over his head. She laughed again, half-heartedly. He tossed the book onto the coffee table, collapsing heavily into a dark leather armchair. He took out his cigarettes. “I take it you don’t mind?” he asked, without looking at her.

“No, I don’t mind.”

“You want one?”

She shook her head. “I’m trying to give up.” She smiled at him, glassy-eyed at eleven-thirty in the morning. “You want a coffee?”

“Is that what you’re having?” he replied, and she shook her head.

She sat down in the chair facing his. “This is hard for me, you know,” she said, and Theo barked a loud, mirthless laugh. Angela passed her hand over her eyes. Her smile had become fixed, her expression strained. She was trying not to cry. “I spoke to him,” she said eventually. “To Daniel. I finally got him on the phone. Most of the time he just ignores my calls.” Theo said nothing. “I asked him to leave you alone. I told him that you wouldn’t be giving him any more money.”

“When was this?” Theo asked. He leaned forward to flick his ash into the ashtray, missed.

“A few days ago,” Angela said. “He didn’t say much, but he listened, and I think he...”

Slowly, Theo got to his feet. He removed from his inside jacket pocket an envelope, which he handed to Angela. She opened it, extracting the single piece of paper within, took one look at it, and blanched. She closed her eyes, folded the paper, put it back into the envelope. She offered it back to Theo.

“No, that’s all right,” he said coldly. “You keep it.” He didn’t want to see it again, the pencil drawing of his wife, so finely made, perfectly capturing her oddly rapturous expression in sleep. Daniel had sketched her lying on her side, the covers thrown back, her body exposed. “I received that in the post this morning,” Theo said, “so I’m not convinced your little chat did much good.” Angela bent forward, her head in her hands, muttering something under her breath. “What was that?” Theo snapped. “I didn’t hear you.”

“It’s monstrous,” she said, looking up at him, her eyes swimming with tears. “I said it’s monstrous.” She bit her lip, looked away. “Do you think,” she asked, her words catching in her throat. “Do you really think they’ve—”

“Theyhaven’t done anything!” Theo snapped, viciously grinding his cigarette into the ashtray. “This is not aboutthem, it’s about him. It’s all him, it’s his perverted little fantasy. And do you know what?” He was towering over her now, and she was so small, so fragile, like a child. “I can’t even blame him. I mean, you can’t, can you? Look at the life he’s had! Look at the place he grew up! Look at the state of his mother!”

“Theo, please.” She was looking up at him through huge eyes, she was begging, and he raised his hand to strike her, to wipe the self-pity off her face.

He watched her cower, terrified, and then he stepped back, appalled at what Angela provoked in him. “I feel sorry for him,” he said. “I do. Look at the life you made for him. He has no idea of what love is supposed to be, no idea of what a mother’s love is. How could he?”

“I tried,” she sobbed. “I tried...”

“You tried!” he roared at her. “Your laziness, your neglect cost my child his life. And then you neglected your own, too, sent him away because he got in the way of your drinking. Is it any wonder he ended up a sociopath?”

“He didn’t end up a—”

“He did, Angela. That’s what he is. He is grasping, calculating, and manipulative. That’s what you’ve done to him.”

She fell silent for a few moments, and then, unsteadily, rose to her feet. Hands trembling, she picked up the copy of Theo’s book and tucked the envelope he had given her inside it, before replacing it on the bookshelf. She turned to face him again, drawing in her breath, as though summoning her energy for some onerous task. “I need... ,” she said, wringing her hands together in front of her chest. “I want to tell you something.”

Theo spread his hands, eyebrows raised. “I’m listening.” Angela swallowed hard; she seemed to be wrestling with something. “Well?” He’d no patience for this, for her amateur dramatics.

“I think it’s best if I show you,” she said quietly. “Would you... would you just come upstairs?”

TWENTY-THREE

Laura found herself fixating on all the things she’d done wrong, but not necessarily the obvious things. She didn’t wake up in a cold sweat thinking about Daniel Sutherland lying dead on his boat, she didn’t fixate on the guy with the fork sticking out of his hand. No, the thing that kept coming to her, the thing that made her cringe, made all the blood rush to her face, made her insides squeeze up like a fist, was the incident on the bus, that time she’d shouted at that woman, calling her a stupid fat cow. She couldn’t stop seeing the expression on the woman’s face, her hurt and her embarrassment; every time Laura thought of it, it brought tears to her eyes.

She’d thought of going back and riding the same bus on the same route in the hopes of finding her, so she could apologize and explain that she had this problem, that when she was stressed or tired or angry she said things she didn’t mean (which of course wasn’t true; the problem was that she said things shedidmean, but the woman didn’t have to know that). The thing was, she couldn’t remember what bus it was.

Still, thinking about the woman on the bus made her think aboutMiriam, about the look onherface, how shocked and hurt she had seemed when Laura taunted her, when she had laughed at her. Miriam was strange and off-putting and Laura didn’t feel bad about what she’d done in the same way she did about the woman on the bus, she certainly wasn’t crying over it, but still. It had been pretty fucking uncalled for. There had been no need to be cruel. She hadn’t really meant to be; she’d just got carried away. And since she couldn’t apologize to the person she wanted to apologize to, she may as well apologize to Miriam. She knew, at least, where Miriam lived.

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