A Slow Fire Burning Page 17

  She found the Lorraine moored exactly where Miriam had said it would be, just a few yards farther along from where Daniel’s boat had been. That boat was gone now; there was another in its place, a much smarter, tidier one with an expensive-looking bike attached to the roof. It was strange, going back down there. It was like he’d been erased, every trace of him. Strange in a good way: it was like that thing had never happened, like it had been a dream—look, there’s no dirty blue boat here! That thing you thought happened? It didn’t. It was a nightmare. You can wake up now.

  The Lorraine wasn’t like the dirty blue boat at all; it was long and sleek, painted green with a red trim. There were well-tended potted plants on the roof, solar panels at one end; it looked tidy and clean and lived-in. It looked like somebody’s home.

  Laura stood outside it, on the towpath, wondering where exactly it was that one knocked when one wanted to attract the attention of whoever lived in a boat (on the window? That seemed intrusive), when Miriam emerged, stepping through the cabin doors onto the back deck. Her frizzy hair was down; it hung limp on her shoulders, echoing the shape of a tentlike linen dress. Miriam’s legs and feet were bare and startlingly white, as though they’d not seen the sun in a very long time. Her toenails were long, yellowing slightly. Laura wrinkled her nose, stepping back a little. The movement caught Miriam’s attention.

  “What the hell do you want?” she snarled.

  “Your home is really lovely,” Laura said, staring dumbly at the boat before her. “It’s really pretty.” Miriam said nothing. She folded her arms across her chest, glowering at Laura from beneath her lank hair. Laura bit a nail. “The reason I came is that I wanted to say sorry for how rude I was. I wanted to explain—”

  “I’m not interested,” Miriam said, but she didn’t move or turn away; she remained on the back deck, looking Laura directly in the eye.

  “I say stupid things. I do it all the time, it’s not even . . . I mean it is my fault but it’s not always something I can control.” Miriam cocked her head to one side. She was listening. “It’s a thing I have, a condition. It’s called disinhibition. It’s from the accident. You know I told you about the accident I had when I was younger? Please,” Laura said, taking a step toward the boat. She hung her head. “I only wanted to say I was sorry. I was horrible to you, and you were only trying to help me, I see that now. I’m really sorry.”

  Miriam glowered a little longer. She turned away, as if to go back into the boat, then turned back to face Laura again. At last, she relented. “Come on, then,” she snapped. “You’d better come in.”

  * * *

  “This is nice, isn’t it?” Laura walked up and down the cabin space. “It’s so . . . homey, isn’t it? I didn’t think these boats could be so cozy.” Miriam nodded, her mouth a firm line, but Laura could tell, from the glow in her cheeks, the expression in her eyes, she was pleased. Miriam offered tea; she put the kettle on and collected mugs from a cupboard. Laura continued to look around, running her fingers over book spines, picking up the framed photograph of Miriam with her parents. “This is you! You can see it’s you, can’t you? You haven’t changed that much,” she said, thinking, you were ugly then and all. “Your mum and dad look like nice people.”

  “They were,” Miriam said. She’d hoisted herself up onto the bench opposite where Laura stood.

  “Oh”—Laura turned to look at her—“they not around anymore? Sorry. My parents are a dead loss. I told you that, didn’t I? My dad means well but my mum’s a nightmare, and the thing with her is, no matter how shit she is, right, I always end up forgiving her, don’t know why. I can’t help myself.”

  The kettle whistled; Miriam got up and removed it from the hob. She folded her arms once more across her chest, watching Laura with a thoughtful expression on her face. “You’re damaged, that’s why,” she said at last. “I don’t mean that as a criticism; it’s an observation. Things were done to you when you were younger that left you with scars, inside and out. Isn’t that right?” Laura nodded. She backed away a little, so that she was leaning right up against the bookshelf. “When I came to your home and you laughed at me and mocked me—no, no, don’t say anything, just listen—when that happened, I told you that we were similar, and you said that we weren’t, but you were wrong. I recognize the damage in you, because I’ve been damaged too, you see. Something happened to me when I was a girl, something that marked me.”

  Laura sidled along the back of the cabin, toward the bench that ran along one of its sides. She hopped up onto it, crossing her legs as she did, leaning forward, her curiosity piqued. “How do you mean?” she asked. “What happened?”

  Miriam reached for the kettle, picked it up, and then put it down again. She turned to face Laura. “When I was fifteen years old,” she said quietly, her expression grave, “I was abducted.”

  Laura was so surprised, she almost laughed. She covered her mouth with her hand just in time. “You . . . you were abducted? Are you being serious?”

  Miriam nodded. “I was with a friend. We bunked off school one day, we were hitchhiking. A man picked us up and he . . . he took us to a house. A farm. He locked me in a room.” She turned away again, her fat little fingers holding on to the edge of the counter. “He locked me in, but I managed to break a window; I managed to escape.”

  “Jesus. That is, like, unbelievable.” Laura meant it, literally; she couldn’t be sure whether to believe Miriam. “That’s really horrible. Were you hurt?” Miriam nodded. “Fuck. Man, I’m sorry, that is . . . that is properly scary. Was your friend hurt too?” Miriam said nothing. She didn’t move but Laura could see her knuckles whitening. “Miriam?”

  “I couldn’t help her,” Miriam said quietly. “I ran away.”

  “Oh, God. Oh my God.” Laura, for once, was lost for words. She shook her head, her hand covering her mouth, tears springing to her eyes. “But then . . . ?” Miriam gave a cursory nod. “Oh, God,” Laura said again. “When was this? I mean, you were fifteen so this was like . . . the seventies?”

  “Eighties,” Miriam said.

  “And . . . what happened, I mean, afterward, Jesus. I can’t even imagine this; I can’t even begin to imagine what it must have been like for you.”

  For a long moment Miriam stood and looked at her, and then, without speaking, she turned away, squeezing through the door from the main cabin into what Laura assumed must be the sleeping area at the end of the boat; when she returned, she had in her hands a sheaf of papers. “If you’re really interested,” she said, “you could read this. It’s the book I wrote about it. What happened, how it affected me.” Miriam held out the papers, which had been bound into a hefty manuscript. “You could . . .” Miriam’s face was flushed, her eyes shining. “I suppose you could read it if you want.”

  Without thinking, Laura shook her head. “I’m not much of a reader,” she said, and watched Miriam snatch the manuscript back to her chest, all the warmth disappearing from her eyes, her mouth turning down, expression souring. “I mean . . . I really would like to read it,” Laura said, holding out her hand. Miriam pulled away. “Only, it might take me a while, because, like, I’m really, really slow. I mean, not like I’m slow in the head, though some people might say that too, although actually when I was little they said I was gifted and I used to read, like, all the time, but then after the accident I just couldn’t concentrate on anything and I kind of lost the habit, do you know what I mean?” Laura bit her lip. “I would really like to read it, it sounds like—” What did it sound like? It sounded awful, devastating. “It sounds like such an interesting story.”

  Warily, Miriam handed over the manuscript. “You can take your time. But please be careful with it,” she said.

  Laura nodded vigorously. “I won’t let it out of my sight,” she said, and she shoved the manuscript into her backpack. They slipped back into awkward silence. Laura gazed hopefully at the kettle.

 
“Have the police been in touch with you?” Miriam asked her. Laura shook her head. “Good. That’s good, isn’t it?”

  Laura chewed her lip. “I suppose. I don’t really know. I keep looking on the news to see if there’s been any . . . progress, but there doesn’t seem to be.”

  “No, there doesn’t, does there?”

  And the silence descended again.

  “I could murder a cup of tea,” Laura said.

  “Oh, yes!” Miriam looked relieved to have something to do. She resumed tea-making duties, only to quickly discover that she had no sugar (Laura took two and a half spoons), so she said she’d nip along to the café on the towpath to borrow some.

  Laura slipped off the bench and started, once more, to inspect Miriam’s accommodation. It was a lot nicer than what she’d been expecting. Then again, what had she been expecting? Something sad and dirty and dreary like Daniel’s place? This wasn’t that; this was a lot nicer than Laura’s flat. Here there were plants and pictures and cookbooks, there were blankets, old and threadbare but colorful still, folded neatly in the corner. It smelled lovely, of woodsmoke and lemon. All the surfaces were spotless.

  On the bookcase next to the wood burner sat a little gold carriage clock. Laura picked it up, felt its pleasing weight in her hand. Above the bookcase, there was a shelf on which sat a wooden box. Laura tried the lid and was surprised to find it unlocked. She took the box from the shelf and placed it in front of her on the bench. Inside, she found a pair of earrings, hooped, also in gold, which didn’t look like Miriam’s taste at all. She slipped them into her pocket and continued to sift through the box. There was a silver cross with a tiny crucified Jesus, a dog ID tag, a smooth gray pebble, a letter addressed to Miriam, a key attached to a key ring.

  Laura was so surprised to see it that at first she didn’t recognize it for what it was. Not a key, her key! Her front door key, attached to the wooden key ring with a bird on it. She picked it up, holding it up to the light. Behind her, she heard a creak, she felt the boat rock gently beneath her. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a shadow move and a voice said, “What do you think you’re doing?”

  * * *

  • • •

  Laura jerked around so quickly, she almost fell off the bench. Miriam stood in the doorway, a jar of sugar in one hand, her face thunderous. “What in God’s name do you think you’re doing going through my things?”

  “Your things?” Laura recovered quickly, squaring herself, ready to go on the offensive. “This is mine!” she said. “What the fuck are you doing with my front door key?”

  Miriam took a step forward and placed the jar of sugar on the counter. “I found it,” she said, pursing her lips, as though she were offended that Laura should question her in this way. “I meant to give it back to you, only I forgot, I—”

  “You forgot? You were in my flat the other day, and you didn’t think to tell me you had my key? Where did you find it? Where . . . this is blood, isn’t it?” Laura said, turning the key over in her hand. “This had . . . Jesus, this is covered in blood.” She dropped the key as though it were red-hot, wiping her fingers on her jeans. “Why would you take it?” she asked Miriam, her eyes wide, uncomprehending. “You were there, you said, you were there after I left, but why would you . . . why would you take it?” Laura was starting to get a bad feeling about this, a very bad feeling, not helped by Miriam, standing squarely in front of her, blocking the entrance to the cabin, a stout, squat block of flesh, arms across her chest, shaking her head but saying nothing, as though she were thinking, as though she were trying to come up with an excuse for her behavior. Laura’s stomach flipped. Before, back at Laura’s flat, she’d been joking when she’d said that maybe Miriam killed Daniel, but now, now she was thinking maybe she’d been right; now she was thinking all kinds of things. This woman was damaged, this woman was a victim, this woman was fucking crazy.

  “I saw it.” Miriam spoke at last, her expression blank and her voice even, the anger gone. “I saw the key, lying there, it was next to him. He was pale, and he looked . . . oh.” She sighed, a long sigh, as though all the breath were leaving her body. “He looked desperate, didn’t he?” She closed her eyes, shaking her head again. “I saw the key, I picked it up . . .” As she said this she half-mimed the action, bending down, picking up the key, her eyes tightly shut until she said: “I was protecting you, Laura. I’ve been protecting you all along, and I may have my own reasons for that, but that doesn’t change anything. . . .”

  Fucking crazy.

  “I don’t want your protection!” Laura could hear the fear in her own voice and it made her feel panicky. “I don’t need anything from you, I just need to get out, I need to—” She grabbed her backpack and tried to maneuver her way through the tight space of the boat cabin past Miriam’s considerable bulk. “Let me get out, please . . .” But Miriam was solid, she wouldn’t move, she pushed back, throwing Laura off balance. “Don’t you touch me! Don’t touch me!”

  Laura needed to get out, she needed to get off this boat, she felt as though she were choking, as though she couldn’t breathe. She felt as though she had been plunged back into the nightmare from before, the one where she was on Daniel’s dirty little boat and he was laughing at her, and she could taste his flesh in her mouth. She was spitting now, screaming, Get out of my way get out of my way get out of my way, she was wrestling with someone, some other body, grabbing fistfuls of greasy hair, pushing against her, get out of my way, she could smell sweat and bad breath, she bared her teeth, please, she was crying out, and Miriam was crying too. Don’t touch me don’t touch me don’t touch me.

  The One Who Got Away

  Arms linked, they are on their way home from the horrible pub in the middle of town, the girl and her friend, weaving a little, along the side of the road. The girl is buoyed by gin and happy, comforted by the warm press of her friend’s skinny arm against the roll of flesh at her waist.

  A car approaches, and her friend sticks out a thumb, half-heartedly. A battered yellow Golf, its go-faster stripe peeling away from the paintwork, cruises past, slowing. They look at each other, laugh. They run toward the car and as its door swings open, the girl hears a snatch of sound, of music, someone singing, a man’s voice, gravelly and low. She catches sight of the driver’s neck, red raw.

  Don’t, she says to her friend. Don’t.

  But her friend is already getting into the car, sliding in next to him, saying, “Where are we off to, then?”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  There were dandelions and daisies around his headstone, sunny yellow and soft cream amid the grass, which was overgrown but gave the impression of lushness rather than untidiness. Carla longed to lie down on the grass, to lie down right there, to sleep and not wake up. She had brought with her a red cashmere blanket, which she laid out, and instead of lying, she knelt, leaning forward, as though in prayer. She touched with the tops of her fingers the top of the black granite headstone, still shockingly new among the grayer, mossier graves, and said, “Happy birthday, sweetheart.” She leaned back on her haunches and allowed herself to cry for a little while, in small, hiccupping sobs. Then, she wiped her eyes and blew her nose and sat down, cross-legged, her back straight, to wait. Before long, she saw Theo, as she’d known she would, making his way toward her along the path. He raised a hand in greeting. She felt her heart beat feebly in the base of her throat.

  He stopped a few paces away from her. “I’ve been worried, you know,” he said, but she could tell from the tone of his voice and the cast of his face that he wasn’t angry with her. He had a chastened look, the same one he’d worn when she found out about the publicist. So, he knew. He knew that she knew about Angela, that there was something to know about Angela.

  “I lost Ben’s Saint Christopher,” Carla said, moving a little to one side, to make space for him on the blanket. He sat down heavily, leaned in to kiss her, but she shrank back, saying, “N
o.” He frowned at her.

  “Where did you lose it? What were you doing with it?”

  “I . . . I don’t know. If I knew where I’d lost it, I wouldn’t really have lost it, would I? I had it out, because . . . just because I wanted to look at it. I’ve looked everywhere.”

  He nodded, his gaze moving over her, taking her in. “You look awful, Carla,” he said.

  “Yeah, thanks. I’ve not had a great couple of weeks,” she said, and she started to laugh, just a giggle at first and then a full-throated cackle. She laughed until tears ran down her face, until Theo lifted his hand to brush them away. She flinched away from him, again. “Don’t touch me,” she said. “Not until you tell me the truth. I don’t want you to touch me until you tell me what you did.” Part of her wanted to run away from him, part of her ached to hear him deny it.

  Theo rubbed the top of his head with his forefinger, his chin dropping to his chest. “I saw Angela. I went to see her, because Daniel had come to me asking for money, and I’d given him some but then he wanted more. That’s it. That’s the whole story.”

  Carla twisted her fingers into the grass, pulled a clump up with her hands, pushed it back into the soil. “Why didn’t you tell me, Theo? Why wouldn’t you tell me that Daniel had come to you, of all people . . . ?”

  Theo threw up his hands. “I don’t know! I don’t know. I didn’t know what was going on and frankly”—he looked her dead in the eye—“I wasn’t sure I wanted to.”

  Carla felt her skin flush from the base of her neck to her cheekbones. “So you saw her . . . once? Just that one time? Theo?”