Chapter Twenty-Two

TWENTY-TWO

Sorting through his mail, Theo discovered another letter from his fan Mr. Carter, who, Theo could tell, not just from the somewhat peevish tone but from the force with which the writer’s pen had been pressed into the paper, was irritated not to have received a reply.

I did leave my e-mail address, because I thought that meant you might respond to me quickly.

I understand that your probably busy.

In my last letter I talked about the fact that people said it was sexist that you put the point of view of the man forward and what would you say about that? I think its sexist when you only see the female point of view. Lots of crime books now are written by females so you often have only their point of view. I read in lots of amazon reviews that your book is “victim blaming” but isn’t the point that “he” has also been treated badly by many people in his life, including “the friend” and “the girl” so in some ways he is a victim too so he can’t be blamed one hundred percent? I think that maybe you made him too weak though by end. Do you sometimes wish you had written a story a different way?

Please could you reply to my questions by e-mail. Thank you, kind regards, Henry Carter.

Theo tossed the letter onto the to-do pile with the others; he considered, briefly, what the most polite way might be to tell Mr. Carter that, while he agreed that many, many Amazon reviewers had misunderstood his intentions in telling his story the way he had, it looked very much as though Mr. Carter himself hadn’t a clue what Theo was trying to do either. He considered this, and then he forgot about it: he was, as Mr. Carter pointed out, very busy.

Not with work—he’d not done any proper work for days; he was too busy worrying about life. Eleven days had passed since Daniel died, five since he’d last spoken to Carla. She hadn’t been in police custody—he’d spoken to DI Barker on the phone; the detective told him that they were “pursuing a number of leads” (that again), but he also said they’d had no one new in for questioning, not since the girl they’d picked up and then released; they had made no arrests.

Theo was at once relieved and disappointed—what about the girl, he’d wanted to ask. What about the bloody girl? Relieved, though, that Carla did not appear to have fallen under suspicion.

And he knew that she was all right, that she was up and about, moving around the top floor of her home—he’d glanced her through the window when he had been round, that morning, to knock once more on her door. He’d knocked and waited and then stepped quickly back, looking up, to catch her slipping back behind the curtains. He was furious then; he wanted to scream at her, to beat his fists against the door. He couldn’t, obviously. There had been an incident, last year, when the neighbors complained about him making a racket outside. They’d had a row; he couldn’t remember what it was about now.

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.

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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 on The 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—”

“They haven’t done anything!” Theo snapped, viciously grinding his cigarette into the ashtray. “This is not about them, 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?”