Mrs. Dewhurst quirked a disbelieving eyebrow. 'I'm not sure how to take that. At one time, if you were to look up the definition of "road-rage" in the encyclopædia you'd be sure to find Theo's picture underneath. Come, let me show you something.' Leading Pamela to the library, she went to a locked bookcase that was filled with pictures and old family albums. After producing a key she opened it, rummaged through, selected one, handed it to Pamela and waited for the girl's reaction.
'Who is this?'
'That,' said Mrs. Dewhurst, 'is your future husband, when he was nineteen.'
Pamela gaped in disbelief at the portrait of a man who appeared to be at least twenty-eight. He had long dishevelled hair, a thick moustache and sideburns, was wearing leathers, as was the insolent and slatternly-looking blonde who clung possessively to his arm, mugging for the camera. In the background was a gang of similarly dressed bikers with their sinister-looking machines arrayed behind them. She could tell without being told that Theo was the leader.
There was the man she truly feared, the man behind the cold eyes, at least when they infrequently were kindled to life. He was an imposing, uncompromising, rock-hard figure, about whom there was an unmistakable licence of casual violence.
'I don't get it . . . what could possibly have happened to change him so much?'
'You have to understand,' his mother said, taking the picture and replacing it, 'that he became that way because of his relationship with his father.' She handed Pamela another portrait, that of a good-looking middle-aged man who looked every bit as robust and daunting as Theo. No . . . Pamela took a closer look . . . there was something different about his father . . . something refined . . . and those eyes! They appeared at once unfeeling, cold, dangerous.
'Henry Dewhurst was not a good father,' Mrs. Dewhurst admitted, looking at once tired and obviously feeling something akin to remorse. 'In the end he wasn't a good husband, either, though he tried very hard in the beginning.
'When Theo was a little boy, he was in every way my son, due to the fact that Henry spent so much time away from home, on business. Unlike me, however, Theo could never seem to learn the right way to circumvent his father's will where Henry's emotions were concerned. To get his father's attention Theo would . . . and this is just between you and me . . . he would get into trouble, and he tried his level best to become everything his father hated, out of a misguided notion that any attention was good attention. Oh, it's an old story, and a mistake that is repeated ad nauseam by children vying for the attention of parents who either withhold their affection, don't have it, or can't show it if they do.'