When Fire left the room, Ian went to his desk, sat in his chair, and swiveled in front of his typewriter, continuing the quiet sobbing he’d begun in the shower. He imagined himself having Fire’s life—being confident, and kind, and forgiving, to naturally love himself and others. Ian felt the room begin to spin. He hadn’t slept all night and he’d had six stouts on an empty stomach. As he closed his eyes to regain his balance, he began to feel that he was shrinking, that his skin was tightening on his bones. He stumbled toward the bed. Lying there on his back in the hard stone tower, naked except for off-white boxers, feeling small and useless, Ian began to imagine himself as a denatured sperm, a dot being carried in another man’s stream. Fire was taking care of his mother. Fire had taken care of the police. Fire. Fire. Fire. What the fuck would he do without him? Apparently nothing. He’d depended on him for something or other all his life, it seemed.

If it hadn’t been for Fire’s father he would’ve never been an artist. But Humphrey Heath saw in him the talent he had hoped to see in his son and nurtured it … took him away from his mother and moved him from the ghetto to a Jack’s Hill villa with a tennis court and a pool, and pulled strings to get him transferred from a trade school to Wolmers Boys, the most prestigious school on the island. There he worked twice as hard to prove himself worthy; there he lied, saying that Humphrey was his father to gain respect and acceptance; there he battered a curious boy who began to whisper that he wasn’t Humphrey’s son, and that Humphrey had left his wife because he was a beeps. Ian knew this was true but forced himself to disbelieve it, for he didn’t want fear and pride to make him lose his focus. He could never go back to where he came from.

The voice in his head, the same one that kept urging him to murder Phil and Margaret and kill himself, grew more demanding. What kind of man needs so many people to prop him up? it challenged. A man who isn’t a man, said his demon.

Across the room, on a scullery table, was an electric kettle, and utensils for making coffee and tea. From the fridge he got a piece of ginger, peeled it, mashed it with the back of a spoon, and steeped it in hot water to make some tea. Retracing his steps on shaky legs, the voice aglow in his head, he tripped over Fire’s knapsack, which, the voice explained, had been placed there for that purpose. Sucking his teeth, he threw a T-shirt on the spreading spill and as he replaced the things that had fallen out of the bag he saw a folded sheet of lilac paper—which he recognized from the night before.

His first response was to put it away, but the voice in his head was insistent. Don’t be a fool, it said. Didn’t you hear him whispering to his father last night? Who do you think they were talking about? What do you think he was saying? Read the letter and you’ll know. They’re hatching a plot against you, man. Don’t know why or for what but Fire was acting too strange last night … too secretive. How does he really feel about you? You’ll know if you read this. He’s always been jealous of you … of your talent … because his father spent more time with you.