Page 49 of A Slow Fire Burning

Irene tailed off. She did not have a good answer to this question. The short answer was she’d been nosing around next door. The longer version was that when she’d heard on the radio that Laura had been charged with Daniel’s murder, she knew at once that shemustspeak to Carla, because she was certain that a mistake had been made. She didn’t have contact details for Carla, but she felt sure that there must be something in Angela’s house with a number or an address on it. Only when she got there, she was disappointed, because the house was completely empty. She walked from room to dingy room, noticing for the first time what a desperate state the place was in, the wallpaper bubbling and peeling off, the damp around the kitchen window, the frames in the bedrooms upstairs succumbing to rot. At the bottom of a wardrobe in the upstairs bedroom—pretty much the only remaining piece of furniture in the house—Irene discovered a pile of papers. Three or four letters, alladdressed to Angela, and a notebook. Irene took them home with her. She didn’t find an address for Carla, but the notebook gave her something else. Not understanding—Irene wasn’t sure that was possible—but a glimpse of something else, a glimpse of the place where all this might have started, where the seed of destruction was first sown.

Theo leaned forward. “Well? What were you doing in Angela’s house?” His voice was brittle now, his expression quite menacing. “As far as I’m aware, you don’t have any business there; that’s Carla’s property, it’s—”

“Is it?” Irene asked. “Does the house belong to Carla?”

Myerson got to his feet abruptly. “Oh for God’s sake! It’s none of your business who owns the house. Carla is suffering through a terrible time at the moment; the last bloody thing she needs is some meddlesome woman bothering her, interfering in her affairs.” He crossed the room toward her, holding out his hand. “Give the notebook to me,” he demanded, “and I’ll hand it over to Carla. If she wishes to discuss it with you, she’ll get in touch. I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

Irene drew her handbag closer to her chest. “I’d like to give the book to Carla myself, if you don’t mind,” she said, her tightly prim tone disguising the fact that she was afraid now, of this large man towering over her, afraid of what he might do if he saw what Daniel had drawn.

“I do mind,” Theo snapped. “Give me the book,” he said, his hand held out in front of her face, “and I’ll call you a taxi.”

Irene pressed her lips together firmly, shaking her head. “I’m asking you not to read it, I don’t—”

“Carla can look at it, but I can’t?” he asked. “Why—”

“I’m certain Carla has already seen it,” Irene explained. “It wouldn’t come as a shock to her.”

“A shock?” His hands dropped to his sides. “Why would it be shocking to me?” He raised his eyes to the ceiling once more. “Oh, for God’s sake. It’s about Carla, isn’t it? Are there pictures of Carla in it? He was fixated on her, you know, in an unhealthy way. He was quite a disturbed young man, I’m afraid.” Irene said nothing, only looked down at the bag in her lap. “Is it not that?” Myerson asked. “Is it something about me? He has a pop at me, does he?”

“The thing is—” Irene started to speak but she was silenced by a sudden act of violence as Theo’s hand shot out, as roughly he grabbed her handbag from her lap. “No!” she cried. “Wait, please.”

“I’ve had about enough of this,” Theo snarled, snatching the book from the bag, which he then discarded, tossing it back toward her. It fell to the floor, spilling her possessions, her spare spectacles and her powder compact, her little tweed change purse, onto the carpet.

Taking great care, Irene knelt down to gather her things while above her, Myerson towered. Ignoring Irene, he opened the book and began to read. “The Origins of Ares!” he smirked. “God, he thought a lot of himself, didn’t he? Ares, god of war! That little shit....” His eyes skimmed the pages as he flicked quickly through the book until abruptly, and with an audible intake of breath, he stopped. The curl of his lip disappeared and his skin seemed to whiten before Irene’s eyes; his fingers began to curl into fists, crumpling the pages of the notebook as they did.

“Mr. Myerson,” Irene said, her heart sinking in her chest, “you shouldn’t be looking at it.” She pulled herself slowly to her feet. “You don’t want to see what he drew,” she said, although she could tell by the horrified expression on Theo’s face that it was too late. “It’s terribly upsetting, I know, I...”

Suddenly, Irene’s head was swimming, the carpet beneath her feet seeming to tilt and rock like a boat, the wood burner, thebeautiful oak shelves blurring before her. “Oh... I don’t feel very well,” she said, and she reached out her hand to where she expected the chair to be, but found that it wasn’t. She stumbled, righted herself, squeezing her eyes tightly shut and then opening them again. It was the sherry, the sherry and the heat from the fire, she felt quite odd, and there was Myerson, staring at her, his mouth red and open and his face darkening and his hands clenched to fists, oh God. She took a step backward, reaching for something to hold on to and finding nothing, what a fool she’d been, to bring the notebook with her! She thought she was being brave coming here, but she’d been a fool, an old fool, just as people thought she was.

THIRTY-TWO

Theo had killed with the stroke of a pen many times. Over the course of a few thousand pages of fiction, he had stabbed, shot, and eviscerated people, he had hanged them from makeshift gallows, he had battered them to death with a sharp rock held in the palm of a small hand. And he had contemplated worse (oh, the things he had considered!) as he wondered what we (he, anyone) might be capable of in extremis.

The notebook was gone, fed to the fire. The old woman was back on her feet but flustered and frightened; she’d not expected him to react so quickly, as strongly as he had. As he watched her, it occurred to him how little it would take: they were so fragile at that age, and she was already unsteady on her feet; she’d drunk that glass of sherry very fast. Now she swayed a little in front of him, her eyes full of tears. She stood on the edge of a rug whose corner had ruched up when she’d been scrabbling around on the floor, almost exactly midway between the sharp-cornered stone hearth and his clean-lined coffee table in glass and bronze.

Were he writing this scene, he’d be spoiled for choice.

The One Who Got Away

He can’t see anything except for red.

When he woke that morning he didn’t think he’d be the hero of the story. If he’d thought about it at all, he might have called himself the hunter.

When he woke that morning, he couldn’t imagine how it would be, how she would be, different than what he wanted, not the one he wanted at all. He couldn’t imagine how she’d lie and trick him.

When he woke that morning, he never thought he’d be the prey.

The unfairness of it, bitter in his mouth, trickles down the back of his throat as he succumbs to her, the one who got away, the girl with the ugly face, red-handed, rock-handed, vengeful. She’s all he can see, the last thing he’ll see.

The One Who Got Away

She knows, before she sees, that he has found her. She knows, before she sees, that it will be his face behind the wheel. She freezes. For a second she hesitates, and then she leaves the road, takes off running, into a ditch, over a wooden fence. She scrambles into the adjacent field and runs blind, falling, picking herself up, making no sound. What good would screaming do?

When he catches her, he takes handfuls of her hair, pulls her down. She can smell his breath. She knows what he is going to do to her. She knows what is coming because she has already seen him do it, she saw him do it to her friend, how savagely he pushed her face into the dirt, how he pawed at her.

She saw how hard her friend fought.

She saw how she lost.

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