Theo leaned forward. “Well? What were you doing in Angela’s house?” His voice was brittle now, his expression quite menacing. “As far as I’m aware, you don’t have any business there; that’s Carla’s property, it’s—”
“Is it?” Irene asked. “Does the house belong to Carla?”
Myerson got to his feet abruptly. “Oh for God’s sake! It’s none of your business who owns the house. Carla is suffering through a terrible time at the moment; the last bloody thing she needs is some meddlesome woman bothering her, interfering in her affairs.” He crossed the room toward her, holding out his hand. “Give the notebook to me,” he demanded, “and I’ll hand it over to Carla. If she wishes to discuss it with you, she’ll get in touch. I wouldn’t hold my breath.”
Irene drew her handbag closer to her chest. “I’d like to give the book to Carla myself, if you don’t mind,” she said, her tightly prim tone disguising the fact that she was afraid now, of this large man towering over her, afraid of what he might do if he saw what Daniel had drawn.
“I do mind,” Theo snapped. “Give me the book,” he said, his hand held out in front of her face, “and I’ll call you a taxi.”
Irene pressed her lips together firmly, shaking her head. “I’m asking you not to read it, I don’t—”
“Carla can look at it, but I can’t?” he asked. “Why—”
“I’m certain Carla has already seen it,” Irene explained. “It wouldn’t come as a shock to her.”
“A shock?” His hands dropped to his sides. “Why would it be shocking to me?” He raised his eyes to the ceiling once more. “Oh, for God’s sake. It’s about Carla, isn’t it? Are there pictures of Carla in it? He was fixated on her, you know, in an unhealthy way. He was quite a disturbed young man, I’m afraid.” Irene said nothing, only looked down at the bag in her lap. “Is it not that?” Myerson asked. “Is it something about me? He has a pop at me, does he?”
“The thing is—” Irene started to speak but she was silenced by a sudden act of violence as Theo’s hand shot out, as roughly he grabbed her handbag from her lap. “No!” she cried. “Wait, please.”
“I’ve had about enough of this,” Theo snarled, snatching the book from the bag, which he then discarded, tossing it back toward her. It fell to the floor, spilling her possessions, her spare spectacles and her powder compact, her little tweed change purse, onto the carpet.
Taking great care, Irene knelt down to gather her things while above her, Myerson towered. Ignoring Irene, he opened the book and began to read. “The Origins of Ares!” he smirked. “God, he thought a lot of himself, didn’t he? Ares, god of war! That little shit. . . .” His eyes skimmed the pages as he flicked quickly through the book until abruptly, and with an audible intake of breath, he stopped. The curl of his lip disappeared and his skin seemed to whiten before Irene’s eyes; his fingers began to curl into fists, crumpling the pages of the notebook as they did.
“Mr. Myerson,” Irene said, her heart sinking in her chest, “you shouldn’t be looking at it.” She pulled herself slowly to her feet. “You don’t want to see what he drew,” she said, although she could tell by the horrified expression on Theo’s face that it was too late. “It’s terribly upsetting, I know, I . . .”
Suddenly, Irene’s head was swimming, the carpet beneath her feet seeming to tilt and rock like a boat, the wood burner, the beautiful oak shelves blurring before her. “Oh . . . I don’t feel very well,” she said, and she reached out her hand to where she expected the chair to be, but found that it wasn’t. She stumbled, righted herself, squeezing her eyes tightly shut and then opening them again. It was the sherry, the sherry and the heat from the fire, she felt quite odd, and there was Myerson, staring at her, his mouth red and open and his face darkening and his hands clenched to fists, oh God. She took a step backward, reaching for something to hold on to and finding nothing, what a fool she’d been, to bring the notebook with her! She thought she was being brave coming here, but she’d been a fool, an old fool, just as people thought she was.
THIRTY-TWO
Theo had killed with the stroke of a pen many times. Over the course of a few thousand pages of fiction, he had stabbed, shot, and eviscerated people, he had hanged them from makeshift gallows, he had battered them to death with a sharp rock held in the palm of a small hand. And he had contemplated worse （oh, the things he had considered!） as he wondered what we （he, anyone） might be capable of in extremis.