Page 10 of A Slow Fire Burning

Infuriating.

But she wasn’t losing her marbles. It wasn’t dementia. That was the conclusion to which people jumped when you were old and forgot things, as though the young didn’t also misplace their keys or forget the odd thing off their shopping list. Irene was certain it wasn’t dementia. She did not, after all, say toaster when she meant tablecloth, she didn’t get lost on the way home from the supermarket. She didn’t (often) lose the thread of a conversation, she didn’t put the remote control in the fridge.

She did have turns. But itdefinitelywasn’t dementia; her doctor had told her so. It was just that if she let herself get run-down, if she forgot to drink enough water and eat regularly, she became tired and then she became confused and before she knew it, she’d quite lost herself. Your resources are depleted, Mrs. Barnes, the doctor told her the last time this had happened.Severely depleted.You have to take better care of yourself, you have to eat well, you have to stay hydrated. If you don’t, of course you will find yourself confused and dizzy! And you might have another fall. And we don’t want that, do we?

How to explain to him, this kind (if ever so slightly condescending) young man with his soft voice and his watery blue eyes, thatsometimes shewantedto lose herself in confusion? How on earth to make clear to him that while it was frightening, the feeling could also be, on occasion,thrilling? That she allowed herself, from time to time, to skip meals, hoping it would come back to her, that feeling that someone was missing, and that if she waited patiently, they’d come back?

Because in those moments she’d forget that William, the man she had loved, whose bed she’d shared for more than forty years, was dead. She could forget that he’d been gone for six years and she could lose herself in the fantasy that he’d just gone out to work, or to meet a friend at the pub. And eventually she’d again hear his familiar whistle out in the lane, and she’d straighten her dress and pat her hair down, and in a minute, just a minute, she’d hear his key in the door.

Irene had been waiting for William the first time she met Laura. The day they found Angela’s body.

It was terribly cold. Irene had been worried, because she’d woken up and William wasn’t there, and she couldn’t understand where he’d got to. Why hadn’t he come home? She took herself downstairs and put on her dressing gown, she went outside and oh, it wasfreezing, and there was no sign of him. No sign of anyone out in the lane. Wherewaseveryone? Irene turned to go back inside only to find that the door had swung shut, but that was all right because she knew better than to go out without a key in her pocket; she wouldn’t make that mistake again, not after last time. But then—and this was the ridiculous thing—she just couldn’t get the key into the lock. Her hands were frozen into claws, and she justcould notdo it, she kept dropping the key, and it was so silly, but she found herself in tears. It wasso cold, and she was alone, and she’d no idea where William was. She cried out, but nobody came, and then she remembered Angie! Angela would be next door, wouldn’t she? And if she knocked softly, she wouldn’t wake the boy up.

So she did, she opened the gate and she knocked softly on the front door, calling out, “Angela! It’s me. It’s Irene. I can’t get back in. I can’t open the door. Could you help me?”

There was no reply, and so she knocked again, and still no reply. She fumbled for her key again, but how her fingers ached! Her breath was white in front of her face, and her feet were numb, and as she turned she stumbled against the gate, banging her hip and crying out, tears coursing down her cheeks.

“Are you all right? God, you’re not all right, course you’re not. Here, here, it’s okay, let me help you.” There was a girl there. A strange girl wearing strange clothes, trousers with a flowery pattern, a bulky silver jacket. She was small and thin, with white-blond hair and a sprinkling of freckles over the bridge of her nose, and she had the most enormous blue eyes, her pupils like black holes. “Fucking hell, mate, you’refreezing.” She had both of Irene’s hands in her own; she was rubbing them gently. “Oh, you’re so cold, aren’t you? Is this your place? Have you locked yourself out?” Irene could smell alcohol on the girl’s breath; she wasn’t sure she looked old enough to drink, but you never knew these days. “Is there someone in? Oi!” she yelled, banging on Angela’s door. “Oi! Let us in!”

“Oh, not too loud,” Irene said. “It’s ever so late; I wouldn’t want to wake the little boy.”

The girl gave her an odd look. “It’s six thirty in the morning,” she said. “If they’ve got kids, they should be awake by now.”

“Oh...no,” Irene said. That couldn’t be right. It couldn’t be six thirty in the morning. That would mean William hadn’t come homeat all, that he’d been out all night. “Oh,” she said, her freezing fingers raised to her mouth. “Where is he? Where is William?”

The girl looked stricken. “I’m sorry, darling, I don’t know,” she said. She took a crumpled Kleenex from her pocket and dabbed at Irene’s face. “We’ll sort it out, all right? We will. But first I’ve got to get you inside; you’re ice cold, you are.”

The girl let go of Irene’s hands, turned back toward Angela’s front door and banged hard with the side of her fist, then she crouched down, picking up a pebble and hurling it against the window.

“Oh dear,” Irene said.

The girl ignored her. She was kneeling now, pressing her fingers against the flap of the letter slot, pushing it open. “Oi!” she yelled, and then all of a sudden she jumped backward, flailing in the air for a second before landing heavily on the flagstones on her bony bottom. “Oh, fucking hell,” she said, looking up at Irene, her eyes impossibly wide. “Jesus Christ, is this your house? How long...Jesus Christ. Who is that?” She was scrabbling to her feet, grabbing Irene’s hands again, roughly this time. “Who is that in there?”

“It’s not my house, it’s Angela’s,” Irene said, quite perturbed by the girl’s odd behavior.

“Where do you live?”

“Well,obviouslyI live next door,” Irene said, and she held out the key.

“Why the fuck would that be obvious?” the girl said, but she took the key anyway and unlocked the door without a problem. She put her arm around Irene’s shoulders and guided her inside. “Come on then, you go in, I’ll get you a cup of tea in a minute. Wrap yourself up in a blanket or something, yeah? You need to warm up.” Irene went into the living room, she sat down in her usual chair, she waited for the girl to bring her a cup of tea, like she said she would,but it didn’t come. Instead, she could hear sounds from the hall: the girl was making a call from her phone in the hallway.

“Are you calling William?” Irene asked her.

“I’m calling the police,” the girl said.

Irene sat in her favorite armchair, and she heard the girl saying, “Yeah, there’s someone in there,” and “No, no, no chance, it’s way beyond that, definitely, one hundred percent. You can smell it.”

Then she ran off. Not right away—first, she brought Irene a cup of tea with a couple of sugars in it. She knelt at Irene’s feet, took Irene’s hands in her own, and told her to sit tight until the police came. “When they get here, tell them to go next door, all right? Don’t you go yourself. Okay? And then they can help you find William, all right? Just... don’t go outside again, okay, you promise me?” She scrambled back to her feet. “I’ve gotta scarper, I’m sorry, but I’ll come back.” She crouched down again. “My name’s Laura. I’ll come see you later. Okay? You stay golden, yeah?”

•••

By the timethe police arrived, two young women in uniforms, Irene had forgotten the girl’s name. It didn’t seem to matter, terribly, because the police weren’t interested in her; all they were interested in was whatever was going on next door. Irene watched from her own doorway as they crouched down, calling out as the girl had done, and then starting back, just as she had done. They spoke into their little radios, they coaxed Irene back into her own home, one of them put the kettle on, fetched a blanket from upstairs. A while later, a young man appeared, wearing a brightly colored jacket. He took her temperature and gently pinched her skin, he asked her lots of questions, like when she’d last eaten and what day it was and who was prime minister.

She knew the last one. “Oh, that awful May woman,” she said tartly. “I’m not a fan. You’re not a fan either are you?” The mansmiled, shaking his head. “No, I’d imagine not, what with you being from India.”

“I’m from Woking,” the young man said.

“Ah, well.” Irene wasn’t sure what to say to that. She was feeling a bit flustered, and very confused, and it didn’t help that the young man was handsome, very handsome, with dark eyes and the longest lashes, and his hands were soft, and so gentle, and when he touched her wrist, she could feel herself blush. He had a beautiful smile and a kind manner, even when he admonished her gently for not taking care of herself, telling her she was very dehydrated and that she needed to drink lots of water with electrolytes in it, which was exactly what her GP had told her.

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