A Slow Fire Burning

by Paula Hawkins

  A few moments later, a girl emerged from the boat. Young, too young, surely, for Daniel, and disheveled. She stood for a moment, her back to Carla, looking this way and that, as though not sure which way to go. She glanced momentarily up at the bridge and then she spat on the ground and shuffled away in the opposite direction of the one Daniel had taken, laughing as she went.

  It was starting to get light. The first, most committed runners of the day had laced up their trainers and made their way to the water. One or two had already passed beneath Carla’s bridge, and soon there would be more. It was cold and she had no desire to wait. She wanted to go back—not home, but back to Theo’s warm bed, to coffee and comfort. There would be another day for this confrontation.

  And as she thought this, as she thought that very thing, she saw Daniel emerge from beneath the arch of the bridge, his head directly beneath her. She watched him stroll, cigarette held delicately between third and fourth fingers—in movement he was so much like his mother—she watched him climb back onto the back deck of the boat, and as he did she felt so sure that he would raise his eyes to hers, that he would see her. Instead, he ducked into the cabin and was gone.

  In either direction, Carla could see no one else on the path. She walked quickly back to the steps, took them two at a time, ran to the boat, stepped up onto the deck, and ducked down into the cabin—it must have taken her less than half a minute, and now she was alone with him. His back to her, he was in the process of taking off his sweatshirt as she arrived and he turned, alarmed by the noise or the movement of the boat. He dropped the sweatshirt at his feet. For a moment his expression was blank, and then he smiled.

  “Hello,” he said. “This is a surprise.”

  He spread his arms out wide, stepping toward her, reaching for an embrace. Carla’s hand, which at that moment was thrust deep into her bag, closed around the knife handle. With one movement she pulled it out and thrust it toward him, putting all of her strength, all of her weight behind it. She watched his smile falter. There was music on the radio, not very loud, but loud enough to cover the sound he made, not a scream or a shout but a muted cry. She withdrew the knife and stabbed him again, and then again, in the neck this time. She drew the blade across his throat to quiet him.

  She asked him, over and over, if he knew why she was doing this, but he was not able to answer her. She never got to hear him deny it.

  * * *

  • • •

  Afterward, she closed and locked the cabin doors, undressed, showered, washed her hair, and changed into the clothes that were in her overnight bag. The bloodied ones she put into a plastic bag she found on the sink. She placed that and the knife, which she wrapped in Theo’s scarf, into her overnight bag, and then she unlocked the doors and left, leaving the cabin door open, walking at a brisk pace along the path, back toward Theo’s house, a middle-aged white woman out for an early morning walk, attracting no attention whatsoever. She let herself back in through the back gate, into Theo’s garden, into the kitchen, where she left her overnight bag. She padded softly up the stairs, slipped through the bedroom, where Theo lay sleeping, and back into the bathroom. She took off her clean clothes and showered again, standing beneath the hot jet of water for a long time, exhausted, her hands aching, her jaw clenched tight, the muscles in her legs deadened, as though she’d run a marathon.

  * * *

  If she’d only wanted to hear him deny it, why didn’t she give him the chance to do so? Why take the knife? Why go back to Theo’s, instead of home, if not to give herself at least the chance of an alibi? She could lie to herself all she liked, but when she lay awake, as she did now, night after night, thinking about what she had done, she saw the truth. She’d known from the first moment she saw that drawing, of Daniel on the balcony, smiling down at her child, exactly what she was going to do to him. Everything else, all the rest, was a lie.

  THIRTY-SIX

  When the guard told her there was good news, the first thing Laura thought was that her mother had come to visit, and the second thing she thought was that she wished that her mother was not still the first person she thought of. Of course, it wasn’t that. Her mother had not come to visit, nor had she requested a visit. Her father had; he was due the next day, and that was nice, but she couldn’t help it, she couldn’t, she wanted her mum. Somehow, despite everything, in her darkest moments Laura still wanted her mum.

  The guard, who was probably about her mum’s age and, if she thought about it, actually had a mumsier demeanor than her own mum, smiled kindly and said, “It’s not a visitor, darling. Better than that.”

  “What?” Laura asked. “What is it?”

  The guard wasn’t at liberty to say, but she led Laura out of her room and down one corridor, through the doors, and then down another and another, and all the time Laura was asking, What, what is it, oh, come on. Tell me.

  Turned out it was Nervous Guy. “Him?” Laura couldn’t hide her disappointment. “Him?” The guard just laughed, indicated Laura should take a seat, and winked at her as she closed the door.

  “Fuck’s sake,” Laura muttered, sitting down at the table.

  Nervous Guy said a chirpy good morning. “Good news, Laura!” he announced, taking the seat opposite her.

  “Yeah, so everyone keeps telling me.”

  And then, would you believe it, it turned out that it was.

  Dropping the charges! Laura wanted to dance. She wanted to fling her arms around Nervous Guy, she wanted to kiss him on the mouth, she wanted to rip off all her clothes and run screaming around the remand center. They’re dropping the charges. They’re dropping the fucking charges!

  She managed to control herself, but she did scramble to her feet, yelping like a puppy, “I can go? I can just go?”

  “Yes!” Nervous Guy looked almost as relieved as she was. “Well, no. I mean, not right away. There’s paperwork. There will be some forms I’ll need you to sign and . . . Is there anyone you’d like me to call? Someone you’d like to come and pick you up?”

  Her mother. No, not her mother. Her father. But that would mean a confrontation with Deidre; that would kill her buzz stone dead. It was pathetic, really, when you thought about it; she’d no one, no one at all.

  “Could you call my friend Irene?” she heard herself ask.

  “Irene?” He readied his pen. “And she’s . . . a family member, is she? Or a friend?”

  “She’s my best mate,” Laura said.

  * * *

  It was like flying.

  No, it wasn’t like flying at all, actually, it was like her insides had been knotted up, for ages and ages, weeks and months and years, and then all of a sudden, someone had come along and unpicked the knots, and everything had been able to unravel, and the hardness in her belly was gone, the fire dampened down, the cramp and ache, the tortured, twisted feeling, it was gone, and finally—finally!—she could stand up straight! She could stand up straight, shoulders back, boobs out, she could breathe. She could fill her lungs. She could sing, if she wanted to, she could sing.

  There was Laura, singing, Well I told you I loved you, now what more can I do?

  The nice guard told her to go to her room and get her things together, then go up to the canteen and have some lunch because it would probably be a while before they had all the paperwork sorted and she was bound to be starving and she’d have nothing in when she got home, would she? The knots started to retie themselves, but Laura pulled herself up straighter still, she stretched her arms right up over her head, she quickened her pace.

  Told you I loved you, you beat my heart black and blue.

  There was Laura, smiling to herself, head buzzing and skin tingling, skipping along, tripping along toward her room when, from the opposite direction, came a big girl with a nose ring who, three days ago in the canteen, apropos of nothing, had called her a fucking ugly gimp cunt and told her she was going to cut her face next t
ime she saw her.

  Told you I loved you, now what more can I do?

  The big girl hadn’t seen Laura yet; she was talking to her friend, smaller but squat, powerful-looking, not one you’d mess with either.

  Do you want me to lay down and die for you?

  There was Laura, singing, but keeping her head down all the while, chin to chest, don’t look up, don’t catch her eye, whatever you do, don’t catch her eye. The big girl was getting closer, she was laughing at something her squat friend was saying, making a noise like a drain, exactly like a drain, and now there was Laura, laughing too, head still down but laughing, unable to stop herself because it was funny, it was just plain funny, undeniably funny, that drainlike sound coming from the girl’s wide ugly mouth.

  There was Laura, her head wasn’t down anymore, it was up, she saw the big girl’s smile turn into a snarl, heard her friend say what the fuck, and there was Laura, laughing like a loon, like a bell, like a swarm of flies.

  There was Laura, her head smacking the linoleum floor. There was Laura, screaming in agony as a boot slammed down on her hand, there was Laura, struggling for breath, as the big girl knelt on her chest.

  Here I am here I am here I am.

  There she was.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Three days it had been since Irene last left the house. Three days, or four? She wasn’t sure; she only knew that she felt terribly tired. There was nothing in the fridge and she couldn’t face going out, couldn’t face the supermarket, the noise, all those people. What she really wanted to do was sleep, but she didn’t even have the energy to rouse herself from her chair and take herself upstairs. So she sat instead in her chair by the window, her fingers working constantly around the edge of the blanket placed over her knees.

  She was thinking about William. She’d heard his voice not so long ago. She’d been looking for her cardigan, because the weather was still terrible, still very cold, and she’d walked from the living room to the kitchen to see if she’d left it, as she sometimes did, hanging on the back of the chair, and she heard him, clear as day. Fancy a cuppa, Reenie?

  Irene had left Theo Myerson’s terribly shaken. That was days ago now, but she remained shaken. There was a moment—brief but nonetheless terrifying—in which she’d really thought he was going to hurt her. As he advanced toward her with his hands outstretched, she had almost felt them around her neck; she had cowered, terrified, and he had seen her terror, she was sure. He put his arms around her, gentle as a mother, lifted her, and helped her across to the sofa. He was shaking all the time. He did not speak and did not look at her; he turned away and she watched as he knelt before the fireplace, as viciously he tore pages from Daniel’s notebook and tossed them one by one into the flames.

  A while later, she left in the taxi he had called for her, almost overcome with shame at the damage she’d done. If he had hurt her, she thought, she might just have deserved it.

  Terrible as the afternoon had been, that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst of it came later: a couple of days after the incident with Myerson, Irene received a phone call from a solicitor saying that Laura Kilbride was due to be released from remand prison, and was asking whether Irene might be able to come out to east London that afternoon and pick her up. Irene was elated; she’d been so excited, so relieved, only for there to be another call from the same solicitor, just moments after Irene had finished organizing a taxi to take her to the prison, saying that Laura would not be released after all, that she had been attacked and seriously injured, that they’d transferred her to the hospital right away. Irene was so upset that she’d taken down neither the solicitor’s name nor the name of the hospital, and when she phoned the remand center for more information, they were no help at all. They wouldn’t tell her how serious the injuries were or how, exactly, she’d come by them or where Laura was now, because Irene wasn’t family.

  Since then, Irene had not been able to eat a thing, she’d not slept a wink, she was beside herself. Strange expression, that, and yet it seemed apt, because she did feel as though she were hovering outside herself, living through events that barely seemed real, that felt as though she’d read about them or watched them unfold on a television screen, at once distant and yet oddly heightened. Irene could feel herself on the edge of something. She recognized this sensation; it was the start of a slide into a different state of consciousness, when the world as it really was faded away and she was left somewhere else, somewhere frightening and confusing and dangerous, but in which there was the possibility that she would see William again.

  Irene’s eyelids were growing heavy, her chin just starting to drop toward her chest, when she felt a shadow pass in front of the window and jerked awake. Carla was outside in the lane, riffling through her handbag, looking for something. Leaning forward, Irene tapped on the window. Carla started, looked up and saw Irene, and nodded, didn’t bother to smile. Irene motioned for her to wait a moment, but Carla had already turned away; she’d found whatever she was looking for in her handbag—the key to next door, presumably—and disappeared.

  Irene sank back into her chair. There was a part of her that wanted desperately to just leave it, to forget the whole thing—after all, Laura was no longer under suspicion for Daniel’s murder. The damage to the poor girl was already done. The police had a new suspect for their crime now; they had Theo Myerson. It was all over the papers: he hadn’t been charged, so the police hadn’t named him, but the secret was out; some sharp-eyed photographer had snapped Myerson exiting a police car at the station, and this, added to the news that “a 52-year-old Islington man” was “helping police with their inquiries” and the fact that charges against Laura Kilbride had been dropped, left little room for doubt.

  Poor Theo. Irene closed her eyes. She saw for a moment his stricken expression when he had seen the drawings in the notebook and felt a sharp pang of guilt. While her eyes were closed, Irene saw herself too. She imagined looking in on herself from outside this room, from out in the street, the way Carla Myerson had looked in on her a few moments before. What would Carla have seen? She would have seen a little old woman, bewildered and frightened and alone, staring into space, thinking about the past, if she were thinking about anything at all.

  There, in her imagination, was everything Irene feared—seeing herself reduced to a cliché of old age, a person without agency, without hope or future or intention, sitting by herself in a comfortable chair with a blanket over her knees, in the waiting room of death.

  Well, bollocks, as Laura might say, to that.

  Irene hauled herself out of her chair and tottered into the kitchen, where she forced herself to drink a glass of water while consuming two and a half rather stale chocolate digestives. Then she made herself a cup of tea, to which she added two heaped teaspoons of sugar, and drank that too. She waited a few minutes for the rush of sugar and carbohydrate to take effect, and thus fortified, she picked up her handbag and the keys to number three, opened her front door, walked a few paces round to the left, and knocked, as firmly as her small and arthritic hands would allow, on Angela’s front door.

  As she’d expected, there was no answer, so she slipped the key into the lock and opened the door.

  “Carla?” she called out as she stepped into the hall. “Carla, it’s Irene, I need to speak to you—”

  “I’m here.” Carla’s voice was loud and alarmingly close; it seemed to come out of the air, out of nowhere. Irene started back in fright, almost tripping over the threshold. “Up here,” Carla said, and Irene inched forward, raising her eyes toward the source of the voice. Carla sat at the top of the stairs like a child escaped from bed, picking fibers from the carpet. “When you’ve said whatever it is you want to say, you can just drop that key off in the kitchen,” she said, without looking at Irene. “You’ve no right to let yourself into this house whenever you feel like it.”

  Irene cleared her throat. “No,” she agreed, �
�I suppose I don’t.” She approached the staircase and, placing one hand on the banister, bent down to drop the keys onto the third step. “There you are,” she said.

  “Thank you.” Carla stopped plucking carpet fibers for a moment and raised her gaze to meet Irene’s. She looked awful, blighted, her skin gray and her eyes bloodshot. “There are journalists outside my house,” she said in a small, peevish voice, “and Theo’s place is being ripped apart by the police. That’s why I’m here. I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

  Irene opened her handbag, peered into it, fumbling about with its contents. “Do you have something else for me, Irene?” Carla asked. She sounded ragged, raw-throated. “Because if you don’t, I’d really rather—”

  Irene pulled from her bag the two little jewelry boxes, the one with the Saint Christopher’s medal and the one with the ring. “I thought you’d want these back,” she said quietly, placing them on the third stair next to the key.

  “Oh—” Carla’s mouth fell open. “His Saint Christopher!” She scrambled to her feet, almost tumbling down the stairs to fall upon the little box, picking it up and clutching it to her. “You found it,” she said, smiling at Irene through tears. “I can’t believe you found it.” She reached for Irene’s hand, but Irene stepped smartly away.

  “I didn’t find it,” Irene said in a measured tone. “It was given to me. By Laura. Laura Kilbride? Does that name mean anything to you?” But Carla was barely listening; she was sitting again, on the third step now, with the jewelry box open on her lap. She took the little gold token and turned it over in her fingers, pressed it to her lips. Irene watched her, grimly fascinated by the peculiar pantomime of devotion. She wondered if Carla had quite lost her mind.