When She Was Good

by Robotham, Michael

  ‘When I move my right foot forward, you move your left foot back,’ he says.

  We start moving, shuffling rather than dancing because I’m staring at his feet, trying not to step on his loafers. I’m wearing my knock-off Doc Martens and I could snap his leg if I kicked him in the shins.

  ‘A bit quicker now,’ says Duncan.

  He puts a little pressure on my wrist and I automatically turn, like he’s steering me. Next second, he lets go of my waist and I’m spinning under his arm. How did he do that?

  ‘You’re good at this,’ I say.

  ‘Been doing it a long time.’

  He keeps looking over my shoulder and smiling. Next time I turn I see an old woman in a wheelchair, who has tears in her eyes.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘My wife, June.’

  ‘Why don’t you dance with her?’

  ‘She can’t. Not any more.’ He waves to her. She waves back.

  ‘We used to go dancing all the time. Oh, she was a mover. That’s how we met – at the Barrowland Ballroom in Glasgow. It was a Saturday night. I’d downed a few pints of Tennent’s across the road to give myself the courage to ask someone to dance with me. The girls wore pretty dresses and seamed stockings. The bigger the hairdo the better back in those days. We guys had “moonie” haircuts or shaggy fringes. I wore this three-button mohair jacket and a shirt with a button-down collar. And my shoes were so brightly polished I was afraid girls would think I was trying to look up their skirts.’ He looks at me bashfully. ‘In Glasgow, even if you couldn’t afford to eat, you always wore the right clothes.’

  Duncan could have been talking a foreign language, but I’m getting most of his story.

  ‘The boys stood against one wall and the girls against the other. In between was this no man’s land where you could perish if you asked the wrong lass to dance because it was a long, lonely walk back to our side.’

  ‘I’d seen June before, but had never plucked up the courage to ask her to dance. She was the prettiest girl in the place. Stunning. Still is, if you ask me.’

  I glance at June and find it hard to imagine.

  ‘All of her friends were dancing, but June was on her own, leaning against the wall, one leg bent. She was looking at her make-up mirror and I said to myself, “It’s now or never.” So I crossed that floor and walked right up to her.

  ‘“Are ye dancin’?” I asked.

  ‘“Are ye askin’?” she replied.

  ‘“Aye, I’m askin’.”

  ‘“Aye, well, I’m dancin’.”

  ‘That’s when it happened.’

  ‘What did?’

  ‘We fell in love.’

  I want to make a scoffing sound, but I don’t.

  ‘We danced all night and two months later I asked for her hand. That’s what you did in those days – you asked permission from the lass’s father before you proposed. He said it was OK, so I went to June and said, “Are ye for marrying me?”

  ‘“Are ye askin’?” she said.

  ‘“Aye, I’m askin’.”

  ‘“Aye, well, I’m acceptin’.”

  ‘We’ve been married fifty-eight years in September.’

  The song has stopped playing. Duncan releases me and bows, putting one hand across his stomach and the other behind his back.

  ‘Come and meet June,’ he says. ‘She’ll like you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You look a lot like she did when she was your age.’

  He steps back and lets me go first. I approach the old woman in the wheelchair. She smiles and holds out her left hand, which feels like crumpled paper. She doesn’t let me go.

  ‘This is Evie,’ says Duncan. ‘I was telling her how much you love dancing.’

  June doesn’t answer.

  ‘What’s wrong with her?’ I whisper.

  ‘She had a stroke last year. She’s paralysed down one side and can’t really talk. I understand her, but nobody else does.’

  June turns my hand, as though reading my palm. She runs her fingers over my smooth skin until something distracts her. She is studying her own left hand. Tears fill her eyes.

  ‘Have I done something wrong?’

  ‘It’s not you,’ Duncan says. ‘She can’t find her engagement ring. We’ve looked everywhere.’

  ‘How did she lose it?’

  ‘That’s just it. She never takes it off.’

  ‘Maybe it slipped off.’

  ‘No, it’s all red and puffy. See?’

  I look more closely at June’s finger. One of her tears fall on the back of my hand. I fight the urge to wipe it away.

  ‘I could help you look,’ I say.

  The words come out of my mouth before I can stop them. Why am I volunteering? I look across the room at Nathan and Ruby and Davina, who have found a table set out with afternoon tea. They’re scoffing food like fat kids at a cake convention.

  Next minute, I’m in the corridor, following Duncan as he wheels June back to her room. He talks to her like they’re having a conversation, but it’s all one-way.

  ‘Ever since June had her stroke, she’s been in the high dependency ward,’ he explains. ‘We used to share a room, but now she’s on her own.’

  June’s room has a single bed, a wardrobe and a chest of drawers with nothing on the walls except a TV and an emergency panel.

  I start checking the obvious places, crawling under the bed, collecting fluff on my sweatshirt. I shake her shoes and squeeze the pillows and run my fingers along the edge of the mattress where it meets the wall.

  ‘What did you do to get community service?’ Duncan asks.

  ‘This isn’t supposed to be a punishment,’ I say. ‘We’re giving something back.’

  ‘You must have done something.’

  I called my social worker a fat fuckwit, but I’m not going to tell you that.

  ‘How long have you been in foster care?’ he asks.

  ‘Seven years.’

  ‘Where are your parents?’

  ‘Dead.’

  ‘Why didn’t someone adopt you?’

  ‘What is this – twenty questions?’

  A member of staff appears in the doorway and demands to know what I’m doing. His name is Lyle and he has a face like a ball of pizza dough with olives for eyes and anchovies for eyebrows.

  ‘June lost her engagement ring,’ explains Duncan. ‘She never takes it off. Evie is helping us look for it.’

  ‘She shouldn’t be here,’ says Lyle.

  ‘She’s only trying to help,’ says Duncan.

  ‘I think it was stolen,’ I say. ‘Look at her finger. It’s bruised.’

  ‘Maybe you stole it,’ says Lyle, stepping into the room, blocking the doorway. He wants to make me scared. ‘Maybe that’s why you came here – to rob old people.’

  There’s something about the way he uses his size to intimidate me that makes me think he’s trying too hard to blame someone else.

  ‘Did you take her engagement ring?’ I ask, making it sound like an innocent question about the weather or the price of eggs.

  Does anyone ever talk about the price of eggs?

  Lyle explodes. ‘How dare you! I should call the police and have you arrested.’

  That’s when I see something in his face – the shadow, the shade, the tell, the sign … Sometimes I get a metallic taste in my mouth, like when I suck on a teaspoon or accidentally bite my tongue. But usually, I see a twitch in one corner of a mouth, or a vein pulsing in a forehead, or a flicker around the eyes.

  ‘You’re lying,’ I say. ‘Did you pawn it?’

  ‘Fuck off !’

  ‘Or do you still have it?’

  ‘Get out of here.’

  Lyle pushes a thumb into my chest, making me take a step away. I move forward and raise my chin defiantly, ready for the blow. Duncan is stuttering and pleading with everyone to calm down. June has a snot bubble hanging from her nose.

  Lyle grabs my forearm, digging his fingers into my skin. He
puts his head close to my right ear, whispering, ‘Shut your hole.’

  A red mist descends, narrowing my field of vision, staining the world. I grab Lyle’s wrist and twist it backwards. He doubles over, grunting in surprise, as my right knee rises up and meets his face. Cartilage crunches and he cups his nose, blood spills through his fingers.

  Stepping around him, I walk along the corridor to the lounge where Davina has a slice of fruitcake halfway to her mouth. Crumbs on her tits.

  ‘You might want to call the police,’ I say.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We should do it first.’

  3

  Cyrus

  Breakfast has been cleared away and customers have come and gone; the early risers, dog-walkers, shopkeepers, school mums, mothers’ groups, knitting circles and retired gents in tweed jackets.

  Sacha Hopewell leans back on the padded bench and rolls her shoulders before glancing at a clock on the wall.

  ‘What is Evie like?’

  ‘A force of nature. Damaged. Brilliant. Angry. Lonely.’

  ‘You like her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is she happy?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ I say, taken aback by the question. Happiness is not an emotion I equate with Evie because she treats life like a contest and each morning that she wakes is like a small victory.

  Sacha has more questions, but we have different agendas. I want to know about Angel Face, the feral child with nits in her hair and cigarette burns on her skin. Sacha wants to hear about Evie now, what she’s become and who she wants to be.

  I explain about the search for her family, the DNA testing, the radio isotope bone scans to determine her age, the worldwide publicity campaign and countless interviews with social workers and psychologists.

  ‘Angel Face didn’t match any known missing person and she refused to tell anyone her real name or age. That’s why the courts became involved.’

  ‘I remember how she got the name Angel Face,’ says Sacha. ‘One of the nurses at the hospital was wiping muck off her face and said, “You have the face of an angel.” It stuck. All the nurses fell in love with her, even though she hardly said a word. She’d talk if she wanted something – food, or water, or to use the bathroom. Or she’d ask about the dogs.’

  ‘She kept them alive.’

  ‘It’s a wonder they didn’t rip her apart.’

  ‘They knew her.’

  Sacha is toying with a loose thread on her jumper.

  ‘What else did she talk about?’ I ask.

  ‘Nothing important. I kept making up new games, trying to guess her real name or trick her into telling me. She taught me her own games. One of them she called “Fire and Water” which was like our “Hot and Cold”.’

  ‘I didn’t see that mentioned in her files.’

  ‘I guess it wasn’t important.’

  Sacha laughs at another memory. ‘She made us do a dance – the nurses and me. We had to stand front to back, holding the hips of the person ahead. We shook our right legs to the side, then our left legs, before hopping backwards and then forwards. She called it the penguin dance. It was hilarious.’

  ‘Did the psychologists ever see this?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Why?’

  I’m about to answer when my pager goes off with a cheeping sound.

  ‘How very old school,’ says Sacha, as I pull the small black box from my hip and read the message spelled out on a liquid display screen.

  You’re needed.

  Moments later, a second message arrives.

  It’s urgent.

  Sacha has been watching me curiously. ‘You don’t carry a phone.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can I ask why?’

  ‘As a psychologist, my job is to listen to people and learn things from them. I can’t do that by reading a text message or a tweet. It has to be face to face.’

  ‘It doesn’t seem very professional.’

  ‘I have a pager. People contact me. I call them back.’

  Sacha makes a humming sound and I’m not sure if she believes me.

  I glance again at my pager. ‘I have to make a call.’

  ‘The tide will be turning.’

  ‘I’ll be two minutes. Please wait.’

  The nearest pay phone is outside the post office. Detective Lenny Parvel answers. She’s out of doors. I hear diesel engines and a truck reversing.

  ‘Where are you?’ she asks.

  ‘Cornwall.’

  ‘The holiday is over.’

  ‘It’s not a holiday,’ I say, annoyed, which Lenny finds grimly amusing.

  ‘He’s one of ours,’ she explains. ‘An ex-detective. Looks like a suicide. I want to be sure.’

  ‘Where?’

  She rattles off an address in Tameside.

  ‘That’s not your patch.’

  ‘I’ve been posted to the East Midlands Special Operations Unit.’

  ‘Full time?’

  ‘For the foreseeable.’

  ‘I’m five hours away.’

  ‘I’ll wait.’

  My attendance is not up for discussion. That’s what I do these days; I chase death like an undertaker, or a blue-bottle fly. When I chose to be a forensic psychologist, I thought I’d spend my career studying killers rather than trying to catch them.

  Across the road, a greengrocer is setting out boxes of fruit and veg on the footpath. Carrots. Potatoes. Courgettes. Sacha has left the café and is putting apples into a brown paper bag. I meet her as she pays.

  ‘Would you like to meet Evie?’ I ask.

  She raises an eyebrow. ‘Is that allowed?’

  ‘She can have visitors.’

  The offer is being considered. Sacha’s natural curiosity wants to say yes, but she’s cautious.

  ‘Why are you here?’ she asks, fixing me with a stare that would frighten off the keenest of suitors. ‘You’ve read Evie’s files. She was interviewed by doctors, counsellors, therapists and psychologists. She didn’t talk to any of them. Why would she talk to me?’

  ‘You rescued her.’

  Sacha waves her hand dismissively.

  ‘This is what I do. I help people recover from trauma,’ I explain.

  ‘Is she traumatised?’

  ‘Yes. The question is: are you?’

  Her face hardens. ‘I don’t need your help.’

  ‘You’re running away from something.’

  ‘People like you!’ she mutters angrily, spinning away from me and crossing the promenade. I run to catch up.

  ‘My offer is genuine. I’m driving back to Nottingham. You’re welcome to come with me.’

  Sacha doesn’t answer, but for a fleeting moment, I glimpse her vulnerability. The joy that once resided inside her has gone, and she has cut herself off from her family, trying to forget what happened, but I have brought the memories flooding back.

  Returning to the pub, I pack my things, and settle the bill. The front bar is already populated by a handful of hardened, all-day drinkers, imbibing with quiet determination, each adding a small, sullen silence to the larger whole. I cross the parking area and unlock my faded red Fiat, slinging my bag on to the back seat. The engine won’t start the first time. I pump the accelerator a few times, and try again, listening as the starting motor whirs, fires, splutters, and whirs again, before finally sparking the engine.

  Wrestling the Fiat into gear, I reverse out of the space and turn towards the entrance. I’m almost at the boom gate when I see Sacha. She’s in the rowing boat, bending forward over the oars and back again, following the edge of the breakwater. Her supplies are covered by a tarpaulin, and her hair is corralled under the hood of her anorak.

  I’m not disappointed. I’m relieved. She’s safe for now and I know where to find her.

  4

  Evie

  ‘You have to put on some clothes, Evie. They can’t interview you if you’re half naked.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Caroline Fairfax is my lawyer and sh
e’s not comfortable with my nudity. I don’t think she’s prudish, or gay, but she’s one of those straighty-one-eighty types, who hasn’t done a single rebellious thing in her life. At school, I bet she sat in the front row of every classroom, knees together, uniform perfect, hand poised to shoot up. Now she’s in her early thirties, newly married, wearing dark trousers and a matching jacket. Sensible. No nonsense. Boring.

  The police took away my shoelaces and my leather belt, so I went a step further and took off everything except my knickers (which are clean). I’m sitting on a concrete bench in a holding cell, freezing my arse off, but I won’t tell her that.

  ‘They can force you to put on clothes,’ she warns.

  ‘Let them try.’

  ‘They could have you charged with public indecency.’

  ‘I’m not in public.’

  ‘You attacked someone.’

  ‘He started it.’

  ‘Now you’re being petulant.’

  ‘Fuck you!’

  Her eyes widen for a moment. Then narrow to a squint. I want to apologise but ‘sorry’ isn’t a word that trips easily off my tongue. It gets caught in my head and never makes it as far as my mouth.

  ‘Where’s Cyrus?’ I ask.

  ‘You asked me not to call him.’

  ‘I thought you’d do it anyway.’

  ‘No.’

  I look at her face. She’s telling me the truth. I don’t want Cyrus knowing I’m in trouble again. He’ll look at me with his sad droopy eyes, like a puppy begging for food.

  ‘Please, get dressed,’ she says again.

  ‘This is bullshit,’ I say, pulling on my jeans and hoodie. I tell her I need the bathroom. A female officer escorts me along the corridor and watches me fix up my clump of lawless brown hair, this month’s colour. I wish I had my make-up. It’s weird, but I feel more naked without mascara than I do without clothes.

  Ten minutes later we’re in the interview room with a table and four chairs and no window. Caroline sits next to me. Opposite are two uniformed officers who might be auditioning for a TV cop show. Most of their questions are statements, trying to put words into my mouth.

  One of them has an undertaker’s face and dandruff on his shoulders. His partner is younger and has a smug look, like a dog scratching for fleas. I recognise him from earlier. He was one of the officers who came down to the cells when I was naked, perving at me through the observation window. Every so often, he smirks, as though he’s got something over me because he’s seen my tits.