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.
* * *
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?”