A Slow Fire Burning

by Paula Hawkins

  It left her angry.

  TWENTY

  Miriam could recognize damaged goods when she saw them. People always went on about the eyes, about guarded expressions, haunted looks, that sort of thing. Possibly, Miriam thought, but it was more about movement, about the way you carried yourself. She couldn’t see it in herself, of course, but she could feel it—she might be old and heavy and slow now, but she was still on the balls of her feet. Still wary. Ready for that rush of blood to the head.

  Miriam saw Laura creating havoc outside the launderette and seized her opportunity. She stepped in quickly, picked up Laura’s rucksack, apologized to the exasperated owner, and escorted the girl smartly away. She offered her a cup of tea on the boat, but Laura turned her down. Understandable, under the circumstances. When you considered the mess she got herself into last time she went down there.

  They went to Laura’s place instead. An ordeal, to put it mildly. Laura lived in a council flat in a tower block over by Spa Fields, up on the seventh floor and the lift was out. Miriam was unsure she’d make it all the way up; she had to stop several times, her breath short and the sweat pouring off her. Little toerags in the stairwell laughing, making jokes. Shit bruv, your nan’s having a heart attack.

  When she got up there, though, the climb felt almost worth it. A stiff breeze, none of the stink of the canal, and a view—a glorious view! The spire of Saint James in the foreground, behind that the hulking brutalist towers of the Barbican, the quiet splendor of St. Paul’s, and farther still, the city’s shining glass facades. London, in all its glory, the one you forgot about when you lived with your nose so close to the ground.

  Laura hardly seemed to notice. Used to it, Miriam supposed, and clearly in pain—the limp seemed to get worse with every floor they climbed. When finally they reached Laura’s front door, Miriam asked about it, politely, as a simple expression of concern, fully expecting a banal response—a twisted ankle, a drunken fall—and instead received a tale of woe she could scarcely believe. Awful parents, a terrible accident, virtual abandonment to her fate. Miriam’s heart went out to her. A start like that in life? No wonder she was such an odd fish.

  Her sympathy for the girl swelled when she saw her pitiful little flat. Cheap, ugly furniture on a gray acrylic carpet, walls the yellow of nicotine. This was the home of a child without: no colorful throws or cushions, no ornaments or trophies, no books on the shelves, no posters on the walls—nothing whatsoever save for a single framed photograph, of a child with its parents. A relief from the bleakness until you got closer, as Miriam did, stepping over a pile of clothes lying in the middle of the living room floor, to see that the picture had been defaced, the child’s eyes crossed out, its mouth bloodied. Miriam peered at it and flinched. When she turned around, Laura was looking at her, a strange expression on her face. Miriam’s skin goose-fleshed. “Shall we have that cup of tea, then?” she asked, with forced jollity.

  (Damaged goods, odd fish—who knew what was going on behind those pretty eyes?)

  In the kitchen, tea drunk and an uncomfortable silence hanging over them, Miriam decided to take a risk, to speak up. “I know you, you know,” she said. In her pocket, she fiddled with the key, the one she’d taken from the floor of the boat, with the key ring attached.

  Laura gave her a look. “Yeah. From the launderette. Duh.”

  Miriam shook her head, a small smile on her lips. “It’s not just that. I know why you didn’t want to go down to the canal.” She saw the girl’s expression change, from boredom to consternation. “It’s nothing to worry about,” Miriam said. “I’m on your side. I know it’s you the police are talking to about him. About Daniel Sutherland.”

  “How did you know that?” There it was, the girl’s body tensed, ready for the off. Fight or flight.

  “I was the one who found him,” Miriam said. “My boat—the pretty green one, with the red trim, the Lorraine, you’ve probably seen it—it’s moored just a few yards from where his was.” She smiled at Laura, letting this information sink in. “I was the one who found him. Who found his body. I was the one who called the police.”

  Laura’s eyes widened. “Are you serious? Fuck. That must have been grim,” she said. “Seeing him . . . all . . . bloody like that.”

  “It was,” Miriam said. She thought of the gash in his neck, the whiteness of his teeth. She wondered whether, at that moment, Laura held the same image in her mind, whether for a moment or two they found themselves in alignment. She tried to meet the young woman’s eye, but Laura was in the process of pushing her chair from the table, getting to her feet, reaching over Miriam’s shoulder to pick up her empty mug.

  “Have you . . . have you been in touch with the police since?” Laura asked her, her voice strangely high. “Since you found him, I mean. Are they, like, giving you updates or anything? Because I keep looking at the news and nothing really seems to be happening and it’s been more than a week, now, hasn’t it, since he . . . well, since he was found, so . . .” She tailed off. She was standing with her back to Miriam, placing the mugs in the sink.

  Miriam didn’t answer the question, but waited until Laura had turned back before she spoke. “I saw you leaving,” she said. “The day before I found him. I saw you leaving the boat.”

  Laura’s eyes widened. “And?” Her expression was defiant. “It’s not a secret I was there. I told the police I was there. Everyone knows I was there. I didn’t lie.”

  “I know you didn’t,” Miriam said. “Why would you? You did nothing wrong.” Laura turned away again. She turned on the tap, rinsing the mugs under the stream of water, her actions jerky, a little frantic. Miriam’s heart went out to her; she could see her victimhood written all over her, in every flinch and every twist. “Do you want to tell me what happened?” Miriam asked gently. “Do you want to tell me what he did?” Breath held, blood singing, Miriam felt herself teetering on the edge of something important: a confidence. An allegiance. A friendship? “I’m on your side,” she said.

  “My side?” Laura laughed, a scornful, brittle sound. “I don’t have a side.”

  But you could have, Miriam wanted to say. You could have an ally. It could be us against them! Those people who think they have all the power, who think that we have none, we could prove them wrong. We could show them that we can be powerful too. You up here in your shabby tower, me down there on the water, we may not live in elegant homes, we might not have expensive haircuts and foreign holidays and good art on the walls, but that doesn’t make us nothing. So many things Miriam wanted to say, but she had to be careful, she had to approach this thing slowly, she couldn’t rush it.

  A slight change of tack, to test the ground. “Do you happen to know anything about his family? Daniel Sutherland’s family?”

  Laura shrugged. “His mum’s dead. She died quite recently. She was an alkie, he said. He has an aunt. I met her at Irene’s.”

  “Irene’s?”

  “My friend.”

  “Who’s your friend?” Miriam asked.

  “Just a friend. None of your beeswax.” Laura laughed. “Look, it was nice to have a chat and everything, but I think—”

  “Oh, well,” Miriam cut her off. “I know quite a bit about Sutherland’s family, and I think you might find what I know quite interesting.” Laura was leaning against the counter now, picking at her nails; she wasn’t even paying attention. “The thing is, you see, I think it might have been her,” Miriam said.

  “Her?” Laura looked up.

  “I think his aunt might have had something to do with it.”

  Laura’s brow crinkled. “With what?”

  “With his death!”

  Laura gave an abrupt bark of laughter. “His aunt?”

  Miriam felt her face redden. “This isn’t a joke!” she snapped, indignant. “I saw her there, I saw her visiting him, just like you visited him, and I believe that something happened between
them.” Laura was watching her, a crease at the top of her nose. “I think,” Miriam went on, “and this is the important thing: I think that her husband—her ex-husband, I mean, Theo Myerson—I think he might be trying to cover the whole thing up, because . . .” Miriam kept talking, but as she did, she could see the girl’s expression change, from skepticism to disbelief to suspicion; she could see that she was losing her trust. How could this girl be so obtuse? Couldn’t she see, at the very least, that it was in her own best interest to point the finger at someone else? Wasn’t it obvious that Miriam’s theory was beneficial to her? “It may sound far-fetched,” Miriam said at last, “but I think you’ll find—”

  Laura smiled at her, not unkindly. “You’re one of those people, aren’t you?” she said. “You like to get involved in things. You’re lonely, and you’re bored, and you don’t have any friends, and you want someone to pay attention to you. And you think I’m like you! Well, I’m not. Sorry, but I’m not.”

  “Laura,” Miriam said, her voice rising in desperation, “you’re not listening to me! I believe—”

  “I don’t care what you believe! Sorry, but I think you’re a nutter. How do I even know that you’re telling the truth? How do I even know that you saw me at the boat? How do I even know that you’re telling the truth about finding him? Maybe you didn’t find him at all. Maybe he was alive and well when you went down there! Maybe it was you stuck a knife in him!” Laura sprang toward Miriam, her mouth wide open and red. “Hey,” she laughed, prancing around the table, “maybe I should be calling the police right now?” She mimed making a call. “Come quick! Come quick, there’s a madwoman in my house! There’s some psycho hobbit woman in my house!” She threw her head back and cackled like an insane person, she danced about, she was up in Miriam’s face, invading her space. Miriam struggled to her feet and lurched away from Laura.

  “What is wrong with you?” But the girl was laughing, manic, lost in her own world, her eyes glistening, sharp little teeth shining white in her red mouth. Miriam felt tears stinging her eyes. She had to get away, had to get out of there. Horrible laughter ringing in her ears, she walked, with as much dignity as she could muster, from the flat. She shuffled exhaustedly down the walkway and down all those stairs, legs heavy as her heart.

  * * *

  Miriam was tearful by the time she arrived home, which was a dramatic overreaction to unkindness from a stranger but not unusual. She overreacted to slights, that’s how she was, and knowing a thing about yourself didn’t stop it from happening. Miriam had lost the talent for friendship when she was young, and once gone, it was a difficult thing to recover. Like loneliness, the absence of friendship was self-perpetuating: the harder you tried to make people like you, the less likely they were to do so; most people recognized right away that something was off, and they shied away.

  The worst part of it wasn’t the end, it wasn’t the jeering and the mockery, the insulting her appearance, it was what Laura had said earlier. You’re lonely and you’re bored and you think I’m like you. And Miriam did, she did think Laura was like her. That was the worst part of it, being seen for what she was, what she felt. Being read and being rejected.

  In the cabin of her boat, in her sleeping quarters, Miriam had an annotated copy of The One Who Got Away, a copy on which she’d marked up relevant sections, on which she’d noted key similarities to her own memoir. The pages toward the back of the book were thick with her scrawl, blue ink soaking through the pages where she had pressed her pen against them, her notes all but unreadable to anyone but her, where she railed against Myerson’s twisting of her tale, against all the things he’d got wrong, all the things he’d got right.

  * * *

  Small things throw your life off course. What happened to Miriam wasn’t a small thing. It was a very big thing, but it started with a small thing. It started when Lorraine said she couldn’t stand two hours of Mr. Picton’s coffee breath, and biology was so boring anyway, and there was a sale at Miss Selfridge. Miriam didn’t even want to bunk off; she thought they’d get into trouble. Don’t be such a wuss, Lorraine said.

  Miriam didn’t want to argue—they’d only just made up from the last fight, over a boy called Ian Gladstone whom Miriam had liked for ages and with whom Lorrie got off at a party. Miriam found out about it later. I’m sorry, Lorrie said, but he’s not interested in you. I asked if he liked you and he said no. It’s not my fault he chose me.

  They’d not spoken for a week after that, but neither of them really had any other friends, and it wasn’t like Ian Gladstone was even worth it. He kisses like a washing machine, Lorrie said, laughing, making circles in the air with her tongue.

  A small thing, then.

  At the farmhouse, Jez rolled a joint. He was sitting on a legless sofa in the main room of the house, his long legs bent, knees up by his ears. He licked the paper, running his fat tongue along the glue-tipped edge, rolling the cigarette gently between forefinger and thumb. He lit it, took a hit, and handed it to Lorraine, who was standing awkwardly to one side of the sofa. Miriam loitered near the door. Lorraine took a toke, two, then waved it at Miriam, who shook her head. Lorraine widened her eyes—Come on—but Miriam shook her head again. Jez hauled himself up to his feet, took the joint from Lorraine, and wandered slowly out of the room, heading deeper into the house, away from the front door. “Anyone want a beer?” he called out over his shoulder.

  “Let’s go,” Miriam hissed to Lorraine. “I want to get out of here.” Lorraine nodded okay. She looked out the dirty window, toward the car, and then back at Miriam.

  “Maybe I should say we need to go back to school?” she said.

  “No, let’s just—”

  Jez came back, too quickly, holding two beers. “I think,” he said, not looking at either of them, “Lorraine and I are going to spend a bit of time on our own.”

  Lorraine laughed and said, “Nah, that’s all right, I think we actually have to get going now,” and Jez put the bottles down on the floor, stepped quickly over to Lorraine, and punched her in the throat.

  Miriam’s legs were jelly; they wouldn’t work properly. She tried to run but she kept stumbling over things, and he caught her before she reached the front door, grabbing hold of her ponytail and pulling her back, ripping the hair out of her head. She fell to the ground. He dragged her back into the heart of the house, through the filth on the floor, the cigarette packets and the mouse shit. Lorraine was lying on her side, her eyes were open, wide and wild, she was making a weird, rasping sound when she breathed. Miriam called out to her and Jez told her if she opened her fucking mouth one more time he was going to kill her.

  He took her into another room, an empty one, at the back of the house, and shoved her to the ground. “Just wait here,” he said to her. “It won’t be long now.” He closed the door and locked it.

  (What won’t be long?)

  She tried the doorknob, pulling at the door, then pushing it, running at it, crashing against it.

  (What won’t be long?)

  She couldn’t be certain, but she thought she could hear Lorraine crying.

  (What won’t be long?)

  Behind her, there was a sash window, big enough for her to climb through. It was locked, but the thin pane of glass was old and cracked. It wasn’t double-glazed. Miriam took off her T-shirt and wrapped it around her hand. She tried to punch through the glass but she was too tentative. She didn’t want to make too much noise. She didn’t want to hurt herself.

  She told herself that whatever was coming, it was going to be worse than a cut hand. She told herself that she didn’t have a lot of time. She had only as long as he took with Lorraine.

  She hit the window again, harder this time, and then she really went for it and her hand went smashing through, one jagged peak tearing into her forearm, causing her to cry out in shock and pain. Desperate, she stuffed the bloody T-shirt into her mouth to stifle her own cries
. She stood stock-still, listening. Somewhere in the house, she could hear someone moving around, a creaking, a heavy tread on the floorboards.

  Miriam held her breath. Listening, praying. She prayed he hadn’t heard her, that he wouldn’t come downstairs. She prayed and prayed, tears seeping from her eyes, the smell of her own blood in her nostrils; she prayed that he would not come for her.

  It was still light out. Miriam ran to the car first, but he’d taken the key from the ignition. She ran on. She ran along the winding dirt road, blood dripping from the cuts to her arm and her torso where she’d scraped herself climbing through the window. Blood ran down her neck and her face; it oozed from the wound on her scalp where he’d pulled out her hair.

  After a while, she was too tired to run, so she walked instead. She still seemed a long way from the main road; she hadn’t remembered the drive to the farmhouse being this long. She wondered if she might have taken a wrong turn. But she couldn’t remember a turn, couldn’t remember any junction at all; there was this road and only this road and it seemed to go on and on, and no one would come.

  It was dark by the time she heard thunder. She looked up, at the cloudless sky, at the bright stars above, and realized it wasn’t thunder at all, it was a car. Her knees buckled with the relief. Someone was coming! Someone was coming! Joy clouded her mind, only for a brief moment before a howling gale of cold fear blasted the clouds away. The car was coming from behind her, not from the main road but from the farm, and she started to run, blindly, off the road. She scrambled over a barbed wire fence, cutting herself again in the process, and flung herself down into a ditch. She heard the car’s gears grind as it slowed, its lights illuminating the space above her. It passed.