‘We couldn’t be more different,’ she says. ‘I’m an extrovert. He’s an introvert. My family has money, while Badger was raised by a single mum and went out to work at sixteen to support his younger brother. He’s tidy. I’m messy. He’s a planner. I’m a pantser.’
‘What’s a pantser?’
‘I do things by the seat of my pants.’
I don’t understand but I let her go on.
‘He’s the sun to my moon. The yin to my yang. The cheese to my macaroni.’
We are sitting in her small living room, which is full of home-made craft projects, like wonky hand-painted pottery, beaded wall hangings and a polished piece of driftwood that she found on a beach in Norfolk.
‘Cyrus says you’re a flower child,’ I say.
‘I’m a spiritualist,’ says Tilda.
‘You talk to ghosts?’
She laughs. I try not to get angry.
‘What about God?’ I ask.
Tilda makes a gentle mmmmm sound. ‘I think we get born with God inside us, but as we grow up, we lose bits of him. That’s why people go looking for him, but they can’t find him because they don’t know what he looks like.’
‘What do you think he looks like?’
‘Well, he’s definitely not an old white guy – we have too many of them running the show. I don’t think God is a man or woman. He isn’t black or white or any race at all. He doesn’t have straight hair or curly hair.’
‘Maybe God is a dog,’ I say.
Tilda claps her hands. ‘That’s brilliant!’
This time when she laughs, we do it together.
‘Do you want me to call you Adina?’ she asks.
‘No. I’m Evie now.’
She shrugs and starts talking about Japanese healing techniques and how reiki massage channels negative energy away and releases emotional stress. ‘I could give you one, if you’d like.’
‘I don’t like people touching me.’
‘It’s only gentle. You barely know it’s happening. Lie down.’
‘I’m not taking my clothes off.’
‘Keep them on.’
I’m lying face-down on the rug, stiff as a board. I sense Tilda lean over me, but I barely feel her hands on me. Her voice is calm and kind.
‘I once had a woman orgasm when I touched her earlobes,’ she says.
‘That must have been embarrassing.’
‘No. It’s natural.’
‘For you, maybe.’
There are footsteps on the stairs outside. I scramble to my knees and look around for somewhere to hide. A gentle knock.
‘It’s only me,’ says Cyrus.
He locks the door behind him.
Tilda kisses his cheek. Am I expected to do the same? I don’t move.
‘I went to the police,’ say Cyrus. ‘Lenny Parvel is guaranteeing your safety.’
‘You promised me,’ I say accusingly.
‘I didn’t tell her where you are.’
I relax. Tilda fills the kettle and makes tea. Why do people think everything will be better if they pour boiling water on dried leaves?
‘I have another photograph for you,’ says Cyrus, reaching into his jacket pocket.
I glance down. My heart lurches.
‘Have you seen him before?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know his name?’
‘No.’
‘Where did you see him?’
My head rocks from side to side. Holding my arms across my chest.
‘Is he the man you called Uncle?’
I nod.
‘Did he …? Is he the one …?’ Cyrus stops and starts again. He is more nervous than I am. ‘Did he rape you?’
The word ‘rape’ sounds strange in the context. I didn’t fight back. I didn’t say no. Does that make it rape, or something else? Not consent, exactly, but some sort of silent acceptance.
‘I need more from you, Evie. I need evidence to stop these men.’
‘What sort of evidence?’
‘Physical proof. Fingerprints. DNA. Corroboration.’
How would I get these things? I didn’t keep a diary or a scrapbook, or take down names. I survived, that’s enough. I’m the proof.
Then the answer comes to me. A tiny window opens in my mind and a memory escapes, crossing the years between then and now; something I left behind in Scotland when I was just a girl, becoming a woman.
‘Take me back there,’ I say. ‘It will help me remember.’
60
Cyrus
We leave before dawn and drive through steady rain for the first three hours, heading north along the M1 before skirting the southern edge of the Pennines. Badger has lent me his van, which is full of his tattooing gear, and attracts the stares of other motorists because of the artwork on the side panels.
Lenny gave me twenty-four hours, which is more than I deserved. I was too harsh when I spoke to her, saying things I regret. The thought of this sparks a memory of Jimmy Verbic tumbling through the air like a puppet whose strings had been cut. My fingers grasp the steering wheel, as though I’m reaching out, trying to pull him to safety, but he keeps falling away from me, floor after floor, until his body breaks on the muddy ground. I blink away tears before Evie can see them.
Most people think I became a forensic psychologist to understand why my family was murdered; and why my brother listened to the voices in his head instead of the words in his heart. I don’t know if that’s the reason, because I’m not sure if we learn anything from history. Every generation makes the same mistakes and offers the same excuses.
I am thirty-one years old and I have never been in love. I have had flings, one-night stands and short, intense infatuations, but no grand passions, never the real thing. Why is that? I wonder. Why don’t I wake every morning excited by the possibilities? Why don’t I seize the day or tempt fate or suck the marrow out of life and toss the bones aside? If I was to hazard a reason it would be this: I have never met anyone who is so central to my existence that life without her seems incomprehensible, who I care more about than I do myself. When I’m with Evie, I stop thinking about what happened to my family and how I endured. I have a new focus, something that looks forwards instead of backwards. Saving her would be enough.
Evie has been quiet on the drive, sitting with her knees drawn up to her chest, staring through the windscreen as the wipers sweep the glass like a metronome.
‘Are you cold?’
‘No.’
‘Hungry?’
‘No.’
I ask her more about her childhood, but her answers are stilted and the corners of her mouth turn down.
‘What happened to your father?’
‘He died at work.’
‘What did he do?’
‘He was a butcher at an abattoir. He used to smuggle out cuts of meat in the lining of his coat and bring them home, dropping them on the kitchen table like he was Babagjyshi i Vitit te Ri.’
‘Who?’
‘Our Santa Claus, but he comes on New Year’s Eve.’
For the first time I hear the faintest trace of her former accent. I know little about Albania; enough to find it on a map, just north of Greece and east of Italy, but I couldn’t name the capital or a single famous Albanian. I know it was a communist state, isolated from the world for half a century until 1990, when it finally opened up. The first journalists discovered a nation that was still twisting to Chubby Checker and rocking around the clock to Bill Haley and his Comets.
‘How did your father die?’ I ask.
‘They said it was an accident. He got his arm caught in one of the machines.’
‘How old were you?’
‘Eight.’
‘The button you carry around. You said it came from your mother’s coat.’
‘It was her favourite one.’
‘What happened to her?’
‘I told you.’
‘How did she die?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ There
is a hard edge to Evie’s voice and I know she’s warning me to back off.
Silence fills another dozen miles.
Evie breaks the quiet.
‘Are you in love with her?’
‘Who?’
‘Sacha. Who else are you fucking?’
‘I don’t think that’s any of your business,’ I say.
‘Ditto.’
It’s my turn to be quiet. Evie is doing this on purpose. She wants me to lie to her, so I’ll be like all the other men she’s known, the users and abusers and deceivers.
By midday we have passed through the outskirts of Glasgow and along the western edge of Loch Lomond. My pager beeps. Two words from Lenny: Call me.
I pull over at a roadside pub with tourist coaches in the car park. The main bar has low ceilings and twin fireplaces at either end.
Evie uses the bathroom while I call Lenny.
‘Are you with Evie?’ she asks.
‘Are you going to trace this call?’ I reply.
There is a beat of silence.
‘The man who calls himself Thomas Sakr. He’s ex-military. Two tours in Afghanistan and another in Iraq. His real name is Jean Paul Berendt.’
Lenny pauses to see if the name means anything to me.
She continues. ‘I’ve shown his photograph to Eileen Whitmore. He’s the man who told her that Hamish had committed suicide.’
‘What about the receptionist at Langford Hall?’
‘She’s coming to the station.’ Lenny is reading off her notes. ‘Berendt was an army captain when he was court-martialled in 2008 after he shot two Afghani women at a checkpoint in Helmand Province. He claimed they were Taliban sympathisers smuggling explosives under their burkas, but he shot them without warning. He served two years in a military prison in Germany, before being transferred to the UK for the rest of his sentence. He was released in 2011 but missed his first meeting with his parole officer. After that he went AWOL and washed up in the Middle East, working as a security consultant for an oil company.’ She means a mercenary. ‘Later, he was employed as a bodyguard for the Saudi royal family in Riyadh.’
‘Does anything link him to Fraser Manning or the charity?’
‘Berendt spent a year in prison in Birmingham. The charity has a halfway house there.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘In the wind. According to immigration records, Berendt has a Saudi and a Swiss passport. The last records show him entering the UK on a flight from Geneva six weeks ago.’ Lenny drops her voice further. ‘He’s a professional killer, Cyrus. You have to bring Evie in. We can keep her safe.’
‘You gave me twenty-four hours.’
‘That was before. I can send a car.’
‘Give me another few hours. She’s remembering.’
Lenny tries to argue, but I hang up and turn off my phone as Evie emerges from the bathroom. She searches the bar looking for me. I wave. She waves back, looking relieved.
‘Are you hungry?’ I ask.
‘A little.’
I order toasted sandwiches and a bowl of chips to share. Evie has a lemon squash and I stick to water. The girl behind the bar tries to engage Evie in conversation because they’re about the same age. Evie doesn’t seem to know how to react. Later, I see her watching the barmaid make small talk with other customers, as though mentally taking notes on how to engage with people.
I sometimes forget how naïve and unworldly Evie is, despite her ordeals. She has experienced more tragedy than most of us endure in a lifetime, yet we expect her to be grateful for our help, or to have higher ideals. Where would she have learned those?
We’re driving again, heading north across Rannoch Moor, a wide, windswept expanse of boulders and heather and pools of water that look blacker than oil. The clouds break, creating shafts of sunlight that angle to the earth like ramps to the heavens.
Evie is quiet again, watching how the landscape changes, becoming more beautiful and hostile.
Ten miles before Glencoe, I turn off the main road and we follow a single-lane ribbon of asphalt that twists and turns over humpback bridges and culverts. Mountains tower over us on every side, some streaked with silver waterfalls that cascade down cliffs.
‘Do you remember this drive?’ I ask.
‘It was dark.’
Every few hundred yards, the road widens into a passing bay. We pull over to let a campervan go by and a car towing kayaks on a trailer. I reach into my jacket pocket and turn on my phone, wondering if Sacha might have sent a message, but there’s no reception out here. We’re caught between the mountains.
Occasionally we come across thick forest where pine trees have been planted for timber. We enter another thicket and I almost miss the sign for Dalgety Lodge. The gates are open and the driveway curves through a stand of pine trees before emerging in front of the house.
I hear Evie’s sharp intake of breath and I know we’ve arrived.
The circular drive takes us past a stone fountain with a Greek goddess rising from the water. It’s the fountain from the photographs on Eugene Green’s phone.
Turning off the engine, I glance at Evie. Her face has gone pale. Even her freckles have faded. A fringe of hair falls across her eyes. She brushes it away with her left hand.
‘You can do this,’ I say.
She swallows and shakes her head.
I tell her to breathe. Relax. It’s OK to be scared. The most powerful memories are the ones that recreate reality and make us relive it over and over again. I need Evie to go back … to remember.
‘What can you tell me about Patrick Comber?’
61
Evie
The boy. We spoke only once. I woke during the night, thinking someone had knocked on the door or called out to me. I was back in my room above the kitchen, wrapped in the duvet filled with duck feathers, appalled by the thought but needing the warmth.
I heard the sound again. It was coming from the corner of the room. At first I thought an animal might be trapped inside with me. I crawled out of bed and squeezed between the wardrobe and the wall, where I found a small square panel made of moulded metal and painted white, covered in roses and vines. Wedging my body close to the wall, I put my face next to the plate and felt a puff of air against my cheeks. There was a light on the other side. Another room.
I tapped my finger against the wall. The crying stopped.
I tapped again and waited.
A tap came back.
‘It’s only me,’ I said. ‘Are you all right?’
A moment later the boy’s face appeared on the other side of the panel. I could only see his eyes and nose.
‘Who are you?’ he asked.
‘Adina.’
‘Can you help me?’
‘I don’t think I can.’
‘I want to go home.’
He began crying again. I tried to say the right things, but I didn’t have the words to comfort him or answers to his questions.
‘What’s your name?’ I asked.
‘Paddy.’
‘Like where they grow rice?’
‘Nooo.’ He sniffled. ‘It’s short for Patrick, but my family call me Nemo.’
‘Like the fish?’
‘Yeah. It’s sort of my nickname. My folks gave it to me before I was born.’
‘Why?’
‘One of my arms is shorter than the other, not by much. I can still do all the stuff that other people do. Better than most of them.’
He wiped his nose on his sleeve and I noticed his wristwatch. I remember because you don’t see kids wearing them any more. It had seahorses on the band.
‘I’m scared,’ he said.
‘I know, but we have to be quiet,’ I whispered. ‘We can’t let them hear us.’
I thought he might cry again, so I began asking questions. He told me he lived with his mum and dad, and that his granddad had a house just around the corner and had been in the merchant navy, sailing all over the world, meeting kings and maharajas.
> ‘What’s a maharaja?’ I asked.
‘Some sort of Indian prince. When Granddad was in South America, he met a tribe of head-hunters. He said they don’t actually hunt for heads. They shrink them.’
‘Why?’
‘He wasn’t sure.’
Nemo wasn’t crying any more. I told him things would be better in the morning, because Papa always told me that – even if it wasn’t true. ‘Every day may not be good,’ he said, ‘but there is something good in every day.’
I heard footsteps outside and scrambled back to my bed. A door opened, but it wasn’t my room. I didn’t see Nemo again – not until Cyrus showed me his photograph.
The front door of the lodge opens and a woman emerges, shielding her eyes as though the sun is shining in them, even though it’s cloudy. She’s in her mid-twenties, maybe older, dressed in an A-line skirt, a blouse and a short navy jacket, which could be a uniform. Hair is bundled on top of her head, held in place by two plastic sticks that look like knitting needles.
She waves. Cyrus responds.
‘Do you recognise her?’ he whispers.
‘No.’
He gets out of the van and greets her. ‘I’m Cyrus Haven.’
‘Amanda,’ she says cheerily, before commenting on the van. ‘Unusual wheels.’
‘It belongs to a friend of mine.’
‘Is that your line of work?’
‘No. I’m a psychologist.’
Why is he telling her so much?
Amanda notices me. ‘And this is your …?’
‘Sister. Evie.’
His sister!
Cyrus motions for me to get out of the van. I open the door reluctantly.
For a moment I think Amanda might want to shake hands, but I don’t want to touch her.
‘Come and look around the place,’ she says breezily. ‘Most of the staff are off today. Our next guests arrive tomorrow. You mentioned staying here before.’
‘Seven years ago. I was a guest of Fraser Manning.’
He’s a lousy liar. Surely she can see that.
‘The staff were wonderful. Are any of them still here?’ he asks.
‘Mr Manning brought in his own people,’ she replies.
When She Was Good Page 30
