When She Was Good

by Robotham, Michael

  ‘I lost a friend.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘He took his own life.’ His voice sounds distant. ‘He helped me once, when I needed someone.’

  ‘When your family were killed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is that why you were crying in the shower?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I want to ask him if he would cry over me, but that sounds needy and pathetic. Me. Me. Me.

  ‘His name was Jimmy Verbic,’ says Cyrus, glancing at me, as though it should mean something. ‘I’ll show you his photograph when we get to Badger’s place. I have other pictures to show you and other names.’

  I don’t reply.

  ‘It’s time we told each other everything. This has gone too far.’

  ‘Too far,’ I say, repeating his words. Is he talking distances? Miles. Light years. I seem to be doing all the travelling. Nobody ever comes to me. Either that, or they are barging in to my life uninvited, telling me how they can fix things that aren’t broken, but only if I make the sacrifices.

  ‘I know you think you’re protecting me by keeping quiet,’ says Cyrus, ‘but that’s not true any more.’

  Annoyed at him, I say, ‘You shouldn’t have gone digging. I warned you. Now Ruby is dead.’

  Cyrus doesn’t try to defend himself, which makes me angry because I’m spoiling for an argument. I want to hit something, or to hurt somebody. I want to feel like I’m fighting back.

  ‘If you tell me everything, Evie, if you tell me the truth, we can stop these people. We can take away their power.’

  Cyrus believes what he’s saying and I want to believe it too. I want to wake up tomorrow and not be scared, or lonely, or looking over my shoulder. But Terry couldn’t keep me safe. The High Court became my guardian, but couldn’t keep me safe. Langford Hall couldn’t keep me safe. People have been making me promises ever since I can remember and none of them are ever kept.

  By the time we reach the far side of the park, the gates have been unlocked and the first joggers have appeared. We cross Derby Road to the university where a van is waiting in the parking area. The driver looks like a Viking with a shaved head and a wild beard and tattoos on his neck and arms. The van has similar drawings on the side panels – brightly coloured dragons, birds and tigers. The word ‘Maverink’ is painted on the doors.

  ‘Badger, this is Evie,’ says Cyrus. ‘Evie, this is Badger.’

  The Viking holds up his hand for a high-five. I don’t move.

  ‘Evie doesn’t like being touched,’ Cyrus explains. ‘Or being stared at.’

  ‘Or being patronised,’ I add.

  ‘Do you know what that word means?’ asks Badger.

  ‘Why? Don’t you?’

  Badger grins. ‘I like you.’

  I screw up my face, but I’m happy on the inside because he’s telling the truth.

  Badger slides open the door of the van and moves ring-binder folders aside to make room for me. The books are full of tattoo designs in clear plastic sheaths; pages and pages of hand-drawn and coloured images. This is how he must know Cyrus. He’s the artist. Maybe he can tattoo me.

  We drive into the centre of Nottingham where Badger parks the van in an alley behind an old warehouse where wheelie bins are guarding his parking spot. We follow him up a set of metal fire stairs that lead us to a flat that smells of toast and coffee and incense.

  Badger’s wife, Tilda, begins fussing over me. She has rainbow-dyed dreadlocks, threaded with beads, and is wearing a cheesecloth kaftan embroidered with flowers around the sleeves and collar.

  ‘Is she a gypsy?’ I whisper to Cyrus.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ he replies, laughing.

  Tilda talks to me like we’re sisters or best friends, offering to lend me some clothes, saying ‘we’re roughly the same size’, which isn’t true, but I don’t say anything.

  After breakfast, Badger has a client waiting in the studio downstairs. Tilda also leaves, saying she has to ‘open up’. She gives me a brochure for the Happy Herb Shop, which is ‘just around the corner’, and says I should drop by to see her. The pamphlet advertises herbs for ‘energy, relaxation, romance and smoking alternatives’.

  Soon I’m alone in the kitchen with Cyrus, sitting at the table, picking up toast crumbs with my wet forefinger. Cyrus pours another coffee and takes a white envelope from his jacket pocket. He puts it on the table. Unopened.

  ‘I understand why you’ve kept quiet, Evie,’ he says. ‘To protect people. To protect yourself. I know you’ve tried to forget some things, or to block them out. I did the same when my family died. But you haven’t suppressed your memories and you haven’t forgotten.’

  ‘Adina,’ I whisper.

  He doesn’t hear me. I say it again.

  ‘My real name is Adina.’

  I feel a rush of emotion, mainly fear, but swallow hard.

  ‘What about your last name?’ he asks.

  ‘Osmani.’

  ‘Where were you born?’

  ‘Albania.’

  ‘Where in Albania?’

  ‘A village in the mountains. It’s not even a speck on the map. I looked at an atlas in your library – the big one with a map of the world on the front – but I couldn’t find my village. Maybe it doesn’t exist any more. Maybe it vanished.’

  ‘You don’t have an accent.’

  ‘I came here when I was nine.’

  ‘With your parents?’

  ‘My mother and my sister.’

  ‘What happened to them?’

  ‘They’re dead.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  He wants to push me on the point, but I interrupt him. ‘Not everything matters,’ I say. ‘Ask about me, ask me about Terry, ask me about Ruby, but don’t ask me about that.’

  ‘You promised me everything.’

  ‘I promised you nothing.’

  Cyrus narrows his eyes but he’s not angry. It’s more disappointment.

  ‘The men who killed Ruby, did you see their faces?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you recognised one of them.’

  ‘His voice,’ I say. ‘It was the same man who killed Terry and who came to Langford Hall looking for me.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Are you going to question everything I say?’

  ‘I didn’t mean …’

  ‘They tortured Terry to death. They burned him. They beat him. They kept asking him the same questions, “Where is she? What have you done with her?” But Terry wouldn’t tell them

  … he wouldn’t betray me … he died saving me …’

  I can’t finish what I meant to say. The words have dried up.

  Cyrus is right. I haven’t forgotten anything. The opposite is true. These are memories that I bring out regularly and handle carefully, examining every bump and scratch and sharp edge. That’s why I can bring to mind the voices and the faces and the screams.

  There is no such thing as forgetting.

  55

  Cyrus

  Opening the envelope, I take out a photograph and slide it across the kitchen table towards Evie. It’s a copy of the driver’s licence used by the man who visited Elias at Rampton Hospital.

  ‘Do you recognise him?’

  Evie shakes her head.

  The next photograph is of Eugene Green.

  ‘You’ve showed me this before,’ she says, after a cursory glance.

  I put a new image in front of her. It’s a picture of Jimmy Verbic dressed in his mayoral robes. He is standing behind a large oak desk with a framed photograph of Queen Elizabeth on the wall behind him.

  ‘This is the friend I mentioned – the one who killed himself.’

  Evie runs her forefinger over his face as though she might recognise him using the tip of her finger.

  ‘I don’t think he’s one of them,’ she says, and I feel a surge of relief, although it doesn’t explain what Jimmy was doing at Dalgety Lodge; or why he committed suicide
.

  I take out two more photographs and place them side by side on the table. Evie glances down and back up again immediately. Terror fills her eyes and tightens her fists. I tap my finger on the picture, asking her to look. She steels herself and glances down at the group of men standing in front of a fountain.

  ‘That’s Terry,’ she says, pointing to him.

  ‘And this is Eugene Green,’ I say. ‘They knew each other.’

  Evie’s hands are trembling, but it’s not the men that frighten her. It’s the house behind them.

  ‘Do you remember this place?’ I ask.

  Her chin barely moves as she nods.

  ‘Did Terry take you there?’

  Another nod.

  I slide the last photograph across the table. It’s a picture of Patrick Comber, aged twelve. He’s standing with one foot on a skateboard. A fringe of brown hair has fallen across his right eye and a half-smile shows the gap in his front teeth.

  Evie glances at the image and her eyes swim. She whispers, ‘He was at the house.’

  ‘This house?’ I point to the photograph of Dalgety Lodge.

  A nod.

  ‘You talked to him.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘I don’t remember. It was before I ran away with Terry.’

  ‘How long before?’

  ‘A few weeks. It was before Christmas.’

  ‘What happened at this house?’

  Evie shakes her head. I notice her hands. She is pinching the skin on her arm, digging her fingernails into the soft flesh with such force that she draws blood. A single drop runs across the curve of her wrist and falls to the table.

  I have to stop myself from moving too quickly and pushing her too hard. My sense of urgency will only increase her anxiety. At the same time, I need this information. Who did she meet? What were their names?

  ‘Do you think they told me their names?’ Evie answers, looking at me defiantly. ‘I was locked in a room. They came and took me. There were no names.’

  ‘Would you recognise their faces?’

  Her eyes widen, more frightened now.

  ‘If I could get their photographs, or CCTV footage, would you recognise them?’

  Evie’s whole body seems to be vibrating. Her eyes jink to the door and window, as though looking for some escape. I pull back, and get her a glass of water. She needs both hands to hold it steady. Her wrist is still bleeding.

  ‘Where did you normally live?’ I ask, changing the subject.

  ‘In a big house.’

  ‘Did you ever see a signpost, or the name of a village?’

  I can see her straining to remember.

  ‘Who did the house belong to?’

  ‘Uncle.’

  ‘Was he your uncle?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who else lived in the house?’

  ‘Mrs Quinn. She was the housekeeper.’

  ‘The man you call “Uncle” – is he the one who took you from your family?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How did that happen?’

  ‘They promised Mama a job in England. They said that one of the big hotel chains would give her work because her English was so good. Agnesa could work as a chambermaid. I would go to school and we’d save money and take a trip to America. I wanted to visit Graceland. That’s where Elvis lived.’

  ‘How did you get to England?’ I ask.

  Evie ignores the question and begins talking about her best friend Mina, who lived with other Roma families near the old railway yards. Mina’s father had a bow-backed horse he called Mother Teresa because ‘she was the most famous Albanian’ and he drove a cart through the streets collecting scrap metal from people who had copper, zinc or lead to sell.

  I try again to interrupt her, but Evie’s mind has split off.

  ‘Mina sat next to me in school, but I wasn’t allowed to sleep over at her house because Mama said I’d get nits and fleas.’

  She’s not exactly rambling incoherently, but she’s also not here with me. She has disappeared to her safe place; perhaps to some memory from her childhood when she felt protected and loved.

  If I break down her psychological defences I could damage her permanently, which is why I pull back and lead Evie to the spare bedroom where she curls up under the duvet, making herself small. I leave the door open in case she needs me.

  When I’m sure she’s asleep, I call Dr Baillie at Rampton and ask about Elias.

  ‘He had a better night,’ he says, sounding relieved. ‘His kidneys are functioning at fifty per cent and improving. The doctors are monitoring the potassium levels in his blood and checking for fluid in his lungs, but he should make a full recovery.’

  ‘Did you identify the toxin?’

  ‘Not yet. What about the visitor, Thomas Sakr?’

  ‘He used a fake driver’s licence. That’s not his real name.’

  ‘Why would he want to poison Elias?’

  ‘It’s a long story and it’s still being unravelled,’ I say, ‘but Elias didn’t deserve to be part of it.’

  ‘Is he still in danger?’

  ‘He’s safer in Rampton than anywhere else.’

  ‘Not on this evidence,’ he says tiredly. ‘There will have to be an internal investigation. New rules put in place.’

  ‘Tell Elias I’ll come and visit him soon.’

  ‘I will.’

  An hour later, I check on Evie, but the bed is empty. I panic and think she’s run again, until I hear her crying and find her squatting in the corner between the bed and the wall, hunched over, as though protecting herself from unseen blows that are raining down upon her body.

  I say Evie’s name, and she clenches her teeth against the sobbing. It’s only the second time I’ve seen her cry properly, with real tears, and I fight the urge to pull back and escape her pain, which is so raw and absolute it’s like listening to her heart breaking.

  I wrap her in my arms and stroke her hair, but my touch makes her cry even harder, shaking her body and mine, making everything move, the floor, the ground, the earth …

  Evie talks between her broken sobs.

  ‘Mama said I was born with wise eyes. She said I could walk before I could crawl. She said I sang before I spoke. She said I was a tomboy, always climbing trees and turning sticks into swords and every game into a contest. She said I slept with my finger against my cheek like I was solving problems in my dreams.’ A choking sound. ‘She’s never going to hold me. She’s never going to say my name, or brush my hair, or wipe dirt from my face, or pull splinters from my finger, or read my stories, or tell me she loves me.’

  There is nothing I can say. No words that can take away her hurt. All I can do is hold her in my arms, letting her tears wet my shirt, and silently vow that I will find the person who did this – every person – and make them pay.

  56

  Evie

  ‘Where are we going?’ I asked Terry.

  ‘On a plane.’

  ‘In the sky?’

  ‘Where else?’ He looked at me strangely. ‘Have you ever flown before?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You needn’t be scared.’

  ‘I’m not scared.’

  Terry had come to the kitchen to collect me. Mrs Quinn had packed a small suitcase, making sure I had enough socks and knickers and other clothes.

  ‘You’re going on a holiday,’ she said.

  ‘To the beach?’

  ‘Don’t be silly. It’s too cold for the beach. You’re going to Scotland. You might see Nessie.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The Loch Ness Monster.’

  ‘I don’t want to see any monsters.’

  She laughed and said it was make-believe, but if you really wanted to see it, sometimes it appeared.

  ‘Will Uncle be there?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course.’

  Terry drove the Merc to an airport, where he turned through metal gates covered with wire and drove across the tarmac
to a plane that was long and sleek and white like it was made from folded paper.

  ‘What holds it up in the sky?’ I asked.

  ‘The engines.’

  ‘Are they like rockets?’

  ‘Not quite the same.’

  Papa used to say that God lifted planes into the sky and held them there, but I don’t believe in God any more.

  Nobody else was on board the flight except for two pilots who wore white shirts with wings on the sleeves. Terry held my hand as we took off, because the engines were so loud, but I think he was more nervous than me. The buildings outside the window were rushing past and I felt the wheels leave the ground.

  ‘You can see the whole world,’ I said to Terry, as I looked out the window. ‘You want to look?’

  ‘No thank you.’

  From up above we hardly seemed to be moving at all, as if we were hanging in the sky and the Earth was spinning slowly below us. Everything speeded up as we dropped from the clouds and the ground got nearer, the patchwork fields and rocky headlands and lights from fishing boats.

  The plane stopped rolling and we walked down the steps on to the tarmac. Terry made a phone call and a car flashed its lights from the parking area. It was an old four-wheel drive with mud on the wheels and dirty windows. Terry put our bags in the back and held the door open for me. He sat up front next to the driver, who had a funny accent, and they talked about hunting and fishing. It grew dark on the drive and I was getting sleepy by the time we turned on to a narrow road that twisted and turned, over humps and dips. We crossed a bridge and passed a farmhouse with one light burning downstairs. The high-beam headlights formed a tunnel in the darkness and sometimes a set of eyes glowed back from the edge of the road – a fox or a cat or a deer.

  Eventually, we swung through a gate between matching stone pillars that had carved lions on the top. The driveway curved between trees and across a lawn to a house that had every window lit up. The grey building was made of stone with turrets and steeples etched against the stars. It looked like it had grown up from the ground, one rock at a time.

  We parked at a garage behind the house and Terry took me inside to a kitchen that was warmed by twin ovens that never went cold. Uncle was waiting. He kissed the top of my head and ran his hand down my back, tugging at my dress where it clung to my woollen tights.