“I’m sorry you had to listen to that,” he says gently. “It can’t be easy hearing yourself described in such a way.”
Evie doesn’t answer.
“I have read your application and I think I understand how you feel. Children are taken into care for many reasons, but primarily due to parental abuse or neglect, but also because there is nobody else to look after them. Your case was considered to be so serious that you were made a ward of this court and we are your guardians.”
Sitting with her back straight and knees together, Evie listens with a disquieting intensity.
“Do you know how old you are?” he asks.
“Eighteen.”
“When were you born?”
“I can’t tell you the exact date.”
“You look small for your age.”
“You look young to be a judge.”
He smiles at that.
“I have at least eight statements here from child-care experts who say you’re a danger to yourself and a risk to the community.”
“I’m not.”
“In fact, the only submission that supports your application was delivered to me yesterday.” Judge Sayle searches his folder and fumbles to put his glasses on his nose. “The one person who thinks you are mature and stable enough to be released is a psychologist, a Dr. Haven.”
Evie turns her head to look at me. Caroline does the same. For the briefest of moments, I’m the subject of everyone’s attention, until Judge Sayle reclaims their focus.
“What will you do, Evie? Where will you live?”
“I want to go to London and get a job.”
“You have no qualifications or record of employment. You don’t have a National Insurance number or a bank account, or any savings. Mr. Hodge may be right—you could be sixteen.”
“People get married at sixteen.”
“With parental consent.”
“They join the army.”
“If their parents approve.”
Evie stops. She’s not winning the argument.
Judge Sayle continues. “I could order you emancipated, but only if you could prove that you are economically self-sufficient and emotionally capable of living alone or going to a home environment that is entirely suitable for a minor.”
“I’m eighteen.”
“But you can’t prove it.”
“Neither can anyone else.”
“Exactly. That’s the rub, isn’t it?”
Judge Sayle takes off his glasses and pulls a cloth from his pocket, breathing on each lens before polishing them.
“I don’t want to see you remain in care, Evie, but I don’t have any alternative unless you can find the means to support yourself or can prove your real age.”
Evie is shaking her head from side to side. I expect anger or an explosion. Instead I see tears prickle at the corners of her eyes, but she refuses to let them fall. Hodge grins triumphantly.
Judge Sayle hooks the glasses over his ears, jotting notes as he talks.
“I have decided to nominate a birth date for the appellant, Evie Cormac. According to the records, she was found on September sixth, six years ago. For that reason, I’m going to nominate September sixth, next year, as the date that she turns eighteen. In the meantime, she will remain in council care.” He addresses Evie. “Use that time well, young lady. Listen to your counselors, study hard, and sort through your issues.”
Evie is staring right through Judge Sayle, as if unable or unwilling to believe how quickly her fate has been decided. The speed of the decision. The complete reversal.
Instinctively, I realize this isn’t over; some unseen part of Evie’s personality is stirring, uncoiling, waiting for the right moment to vent her fury upon the world.
21
* * *
ANGEL FACE
* * *
The hate climbs inside me. It rises from my stomach into my throat, up my neck to my cheeks. In the near silence of the courtroom, I want to scream. I want to hurt someone. I want blood and carnage and destruction.
Willing myself to stand, I make my way back to the bar table. Caroline touches my arm. I pull away as if scalded. Instantly, I loathe this woman with her blemish-free skin and her expensive clothes and her lovely straight hair that smells of coconut; who has had everything handed to her by an accident of birth, born into the right family, sent to the best schools, taken on holidays abroad, given ballet and violin lessons. Everything has come easily to her—university, a career, and a fiancé; I bet Mummy and Daddy helped her buy a flat. Even her name, Caroline Fairfax, sounds like it belongs to a film star or a fashion designer.
I hate her. I hate all of them—the judge and Guthrie and the braying lawyers. Fuckwits! Dickheads! Scumbags! I will not look at them. I will not show my disgust. Why did they raise my hopes and then tear me down? Why not just beat me up, break a few bones, and dump my body in a ditch? Why not swing a fist into my stomach or boot me in the groin?
That’s what it feels like. I know because I’ve been here before. I’m the problem. I’m worthless, detestable, a receptacle for refuse, a sewer, a punching bag, a piñata, a cunt, an ignorant, stinking slit.
I cannot escape my past. I’m a child again, sullen and whining, being passed from person to person, greeted like a special delivery. Dressed up. Painted. Pampered. Playing a role.
“Call me Daddy.”
“Call me Uncle Jimmy.”
“Call me Aunt Mary.”
“Yes, Daddy. Please, Daddy. Don’t hurt me, Daddy. No more. We’ll be good next time.”
In the background, I can hear voices. Cyrus is talking. The judge. Caroline. I’m not listening. Nothing is worth hearing, anyway. The cardigan is tight around my neck. The boots are hurting my feet.
Suddenly, I picture myself in the same courtroom, this time with a machine gun. I press the trigger and bullets rattle through the air, punching holes in stomachs and chests and eye sockets, painting the walls with blood and gore.
When they’re dead. When their bodies are strewn around me, I walk out the door into the corridor, down the stairs, across the foyer, into the street, yelling to the armed guards. “Come and get me. Shoot!”
Caroline shakes my shoulder. “Evie, can you hear me?”
My heart creaks. Cyrus Haven is in the witness box. Why? When did he—?
“Dr. Haven wants to know if you’d agree to live with him?”
“What?”
“As a foster child.”
“I don’t understand.”
Judge Sayle speaks: “Dr. Haven would become your foster carer. Of course, he has to pass the necessary local authority and police checks, but he wants to know if such an arrangement might work for you.”
“We haven’t talked about it,” says Cyrus, addressing me directly. “I appreciate that this offer is quite spur-of-the-moment and you don’t know me well, but I’m serious. I have a big house in Nottingham. It’s old and pretty run-down, but comfortable. You’d have your own room and bathroom.”
“And you’d have to continue your studies,” says the judge, “or undertake training or get a job. You will remain a ward of the court until next September and your foster arrangements will be monitored regularly by the local authority.”
I still haven’t responded. Where’s the catch? I think. Why would he do this? I’m not going to sleep with him. If he lays one finger on me . . .
“You can’t keep running away, Evie,” says Judge Sayle. “You have to behave yourself until next September.”
I look from face to face and back down to the boots that are hurting my feet. I won’t talk to him. I’ll never tell.
22
* * *
CYRUS
* * *
“What in God’s name were you thinking!” mutters Guthrie in a stage whisper. He has marched to the back of the courtroom, where he wrestles with the door, pushing instead of pulling. Evie and Caroline are still at the bar table. They look like they’re arguing. Evie is probably saying the
same things as Guthrie.
“I asked you to help her, not foster her. You have no idea how dangerous she is.”
Evie is glancing in our direction, her eyes full of suspicion or murder.
“Look at her,” says Guthrie, following my gaze. “She’s already working out how to destroy you.”
“It won’t be like that.”
“She broke someone’s jaw with a brick. For all we know she killed Terry Boland.”
“Now you’re being ridiculous.”
“Within a week you’ll send her back.”
“No.”
“Either that or you’ll throttle her.”
“Rubbish.”
“She’ll find your weaknesses, Cyrus. She’ll make you question yourself.”
Would that be such a bad thing?
Guthrie runs his fingers through his hair and makes soft noises by opening and closing his lips. “You can still back out. Tell them you made a mistake.”
“It’s done. Leave Evie alone.”
“Christ!” he mutters.
“I thought you’d be pleased. She’s not your problem anymore.”
Then it dawns on me that it was Guthrie who had his jaw broken. He stole the money from Evie and lied about taking it to the police, but she saw through him.
“You’re going to publish, aren’t you?” he says, with a new look in his eyes.
“What?”
“You’re going to write about Evie Cormac like you’re some sort of Oliver Sacks. She’ll be your Solomon Shereshevsky.”
He’s talking about the famous Russian mnemonist who could remember astonishing lists of random numbers or words in order, forwards or backwards, even in languages he didn’t speak. He was discovered in the 1920s by a neuropsychologist called Alexander Luria, who published a famous book.
Guthrie is on a roll. “I thought you were one of the good guys, Cyrus, but you’re just another hypocrite. You’re going to use Evie like everybody else.”
I feel the blood warming in my cheeks and want to throw a quick rabbit punch into Guthrie’s soft belly, sending him down winded and sucking at air. I want to call him a self-deceiving, time-serving public servant, who looks for the worst in people unless someone forces him to see the good. Evie isn’t a prize that people should be fighting over.
Caroline Fairfax is approaching us. Guthrie gives me a look of pity and pushes open the door with a grunt.
“What was that all about?” asks Caroline.
“Nothing,” I reply, glancing at Evie, who is sitting alone in the courtroom.
“She wants to talk to you,” says Caroline.
I nod and suggest we go somewhere for lunch. Caroline offers to pay, calling it a celebration, although Evie doesn’t look convinced. We opt for a restaurant around the corner because it’s too cold outside to walk far.
Evie sits opposite me. I’m waiting for her to say something, but she stares at her fingernails, which have been picked clean of nail polish. She’s not hungry. Caroline orders for her anyway: a hamburger.
“I’m a vegetarian,” says Evie, as though it should be obvious.
“They have sweet corn fritters.”
Evie shrugs. Caroline excuses herself and goes to the ladies’—or perhaps she’s giving us some privacy.
“I don’t need a foster carer,” says Evie, sounding out each word like I’m dim-witted.
“The judge thought otherwise.”
“Are you a pervert?”
“No.”
“I’m not going to fuck you.”
“Good!”
“I wouldn’t fuck you for a million pounds.”
“Wow! You are expensive.”
I’m coming across as being equally childish, which annoys me.
“I’m trying to help you,” I say, but my voice sounds like I’m an exasperated father talking to his daughter. I see her face go fixed and hard, like the bricks of a wall going up.
“At least come and have a look,” I say.
“I won’t talk about what happened to me.”
“Understood.”
“And I won’t play happy families.”
“I don’t know that game.”
Evie seems to be evaluating me, chewing at her bottom lip. “So how would this work?”
“You’ll live with me. You’ll have your own room and bathroom. It’s nothing fancy, but I’m sure you’ll cope. We’ll share the chores.”
Her top lip curls. “I’m not your slave.”
I ignore her. “I’ll pay the bills. You’ll study or get a job—in which case I’ll charge you board.”
“Don’t you get paid for being a foster carer?”
“I’m going to save that money for you. You’ll get it when you turn eighteen—as long as you don’t steal from me, lie to me, or run away.”
Caroline returns, taking a seat between us.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a case turn around like that,” she says brightly. “I don’t have a lot to compare it with, of course. Was any of that planned?”
“No.”
“But your letter to the judge . . . ?”
“I wrote it two nights ago.”
Evie has unzipped her boots and is rubbing her heels. I see the blue veins beneath her pale skin on her ankles. She interrupts.
“Do you have a dog?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I’m away a lot.”
“I could look after a dog.”
“You’re not with me for long enough.”
“Two hundred and ninety-eight days,” she says, having done the maths. “If you get a dog, I could take it with me.”
“We’re not getting a dog.”
“And the bossing starts,” she mutters, but doesn’t fixate on the rejection. I haven’t seen Evie this animated before. Normally our conversations have been stilted and defensive, where each question is treated like a land mine to be avoided or disarmed. I could be winning her trust. I could be deluding myself.
“When can I see the house?” she asks.
“Why not today?” asks Caroline.
“I need to get it ready. Clean it up.”
“Prepare the dungeon in the basement,” says Evie.
“Very funny.”
“You said I could see it before I decided.”
“OK.”
We eat lunch. Caroline chats about the case, wanting to replay every highlight, wishing her immediate boss had been there to see it.
Evie watches us, as though trying to read something between the words. Occasionally she wrinkles her nose or makes a spitty sound in her throat or blows air across the top of her soft drink bottle, making a tooting sound.
Caroline disappears to pay the bill.
“Is everything OK?” I ask.
Evie leans closer. “You’re flirting.”
“I’m not flirting.”
“Yes you are. And she’s engaged.”
“How do you know?”
“I’m not blind.” Evie holds up her left hand and wiggles her wedding ring finger. “You said you had a girlfriend.”
“I do.”
“But you’re not sure.”
“Please don’t do that.”
I look away, which Evie finds amusing.
Caroline returns. “What are you two whispering about?”
“Nothing,” I say too sharply.
“Cyrus has a thing for lawyers,” says Evie with a glint in her eye.
Caroline pauses, clearly uncomfortable, and I feel myself shrink in her estimation. I want to shove a serviette in Evie’s gob, but I know this is what she does. I can’t say that I wasn’t warned.
Moments later, we’re outside on the footpath, buttoning coats, wrapping scarves, and flagging down a cab. I try to remember what state I left the house in this morning. I hope the central heating has stayed on.
We retrace the route of my earlier cab ride, past the university and Wollaton Park. As we reach my road, I picture Parkside Avenue through Evie
’s eyes. It must look like I’m rich, almost posh, until the cab slows and stops. The house appears instantly shabbier than I remember, set amid a dense throng of rambling roses and clematis.
“It’s huge,” says Caroline, being polite.
“It’s falling down,” says Evie.
“It belonged to my grandparents.”
“Are they dead?” asks Evie.
“They’ve retired to Weymouth.”
“Can I live with them?”
Junk mail tumbles from the mesh basket beneath the mail slot as I open the door.
“How long have you lived here?” asks Caroline, ever the optimist.
“A little while,” I say.
Seventeen years.
I give them a tour of the ground floor—the parlor, the study, the library, the drawing room, the kitchen. Evie opens the fridge.
“You have no food.”
“I buy when I’m hungry.”
“You order takeaway.”
“No. I can cook.”
Evie has moved on. “Do you have a computer?”
“Yes.”
“Wi-Fi?”
“Of course.”
“Can I get a phone?”
“I don’t have one.”
“What?”
“I don’t like phones.”
Evie looks at Caroline as though they’ve stumbled upon the missing link. I try to explain but sound like a Luddite.
“I’ll need a mobile phone,” she says adamantly.
I don’t say yes or no, but a part of me is pleased that she’s making plans. This might work.
Caroline has returned to the drawing room, where the rugs are worn and old furniture gleams with polish. She pulls open the curtains and dust motes dance in the shaft of light. The large fireplace has decorative tiles around the edges of the hearth and family photographs arranged on the mantelpiece. Most are casual snapshots, random moments captured when the subjects were unaware of the camera. I’m feeding ducks with my mother at Henley or riding on my father’s shoulders or eating an ice cream on Brighton Pier. My favorite is a black-and-white portrait of my parents on their wedding day in 1975. My father was twenty-nine and my mother twenty-six. They are doubled over laughing; my mother holds the train of her dress, trying not to drop her bridal bouquet. The only official family portrait was taken in a studio and looks so staged and unnaturally bright that I wonder if the colors were painted in afterwards.
Good Girl, Bad Girl Page 13
