Toby looks at me blankly. “Just because I finger-bang a girl at a party doesn’t mean we’re engaged.”
The others laugh. Toby runs his hand through his hair, pushing it behind his ears. Grinning.
“You’re talking about a girl who was murdered,” I say, and I see his bravado fade away. “She was also only fifteen. A minor.”
“She was sixteen.”
“Afraid not.”
Toby shrugs, less certain than before.
Rocking onto the pedals, he balances the bike on two wheels and leans his weight forward, dropping into the void, aiming his body at where I’m standing. Exploding off the edge, he catches the bike in midair, only inches from my face.
He’s testing me. I don’t flinch.
“What’s this really about?” he mutters.
“You saw Jodie at the fireworks.”
“So?”
“You were teasing her. She slapped your face.”
“Whoa! Whoever told you that is lying.”
“Did you arrange to meet her later?”
“No.”
“Did you send her a text?”
“No.”
“Did you pick her up in your car?”
“Are you deaf or something?”
“There are witnesses, Toby. You were seen with Jodie. You took her bag. She hit you.”
“OK, I saw her, so what?”
“I think you bumped into her again outside the fish-and-chip shop on Southchurch Drive. She knocked a can of beer from your hands.”
He doesn’t respond.
“What did you say to Jodie that made her so angry?”
Toby leans hard on the handlebars, as though trying to crush the bike or push it into the ground.
“I was drunk. I invited her back to my place. I guess I was a little crude.” He blinks at me sadly. “I didn’t mean any of it, you know. I wish I could take it back.”
32
* * *
ANGEL FACE
* * *
I’m standing at the bay window, peering through the curtains. People are coming and going along the road. Children being walked to school. A street sweeper with a barrow and a broom. A postman with a trolley.
I’m on my third can of lemonade since breakfast and the sugar rush feels good. Why so many? Because I can. I could have had a beer if I wanted. I could pour myself a Scotch. I thought about it but gagged when I cracked the lid and took a sniff.
When Cyrus left this morning, I opened the front door and stepped outside. Twice.
Outside.
Inside.
Outside.
Inside.
Then I immediately locked the door, latched the chain, and went through the rest of the house, securing every window. I drew the curtains and closed the blinds. I studied the eaves and cornices, making sure that Cyrus hadn’t been lying when he told me there weren’t any cameras.
Opening a packet of chocolate biscuits, I start exploring the house properly, starting in the basement, where Cyrus has his weight room. His towel is still damp from last night. I run my fingers along the bar and try to lift it from the cradle, using both hands, but it won’t budge. I try raising one side. It doesn’t move.
In the sitting room, I turn on the TV and pick up the remote. Where are all the channels? Doesn’t he have satellite or cable? The next room is the library. Why does anybody need so many books? Has he read them all? I pick out a heavy volume bound in brown leather, spelling out the word Britannica on the spine. It has columns and drawings—like a dictionary with pictures.
I open a page and read, sounding out the words.
Annie Oakley, original name Phoebe Ann Mosey, (born Aug. 13, 1860, Darke county, Ohio, U.S.—died Nov. 3, 1926, Greenville, Ohio), American markswoman who starred in Buffalo Bill’s Wild West show, where she was often called “Little Sure Shot.”
I turn to another page.
George M. Pullman, in full George Mortimer Pullman, (born March 3, 1831, Brocton, New York, U.S.—died October 19, 1897, Chicago), American industrialist and inventor of the Pullman sleeping car, a luxurious railroad coach designed for overnight travel.
There are so many volumes of the Britannica that I wonder if everybody has something written about them. I look up other names: Cyrus Haven, Adam Guthrie, Terry Boland, but none of them are mentioned.
The library has a polished wooden desk with drawers on either side and a lamp that curls over the top. The leather chair creaks under my weight. Picking up a pen, I click it open and closed with my thumb. There is a pile of invoices awaiting payment. Electricity. Gas. Internet. According to a bank statement, Cyrus has £1,262 in his current account. He also has a double-barreled surname, Haven-Sykes, but only uses one of his names.
I pick up a padded envelope and shake the contents onto the desk. There are six DVDs in plastic cases, each of them stamped with the words Nottinghamshire Police. Opening one of them, I read the label. It has a number, a date, and a name: Craig Farley. I glance at the DVD player in the corner before putting everything back where I found it.
Having searched the ground floor, I climb the stairs and go to the main bedroom, where the bedclothes are rumpled and thrown haphazardly back into place. I imagine Cyrus lying in the bed with one hand resting on his chest and the other shielding his eyes. I want to ask him about each of his tattoos. What they mean—did they hurt—does he like pain?
I open his wardrobe. He has four pairs of jeans, half a dozen shirts, two sweaters, a vest, a blue blazer, and a black suit in dry-cleaning plastic. One of the shirts is denim with studs for buttons. I put it on and roll up the sleeves. It looks good on me—almost like a jacket.
Cyrus has a drawer for his socks and another for T-shirts and running shorts. He has four pairs of shoes, including hiking boots. I put them on, feeling like a child wearing my father’s shoes, although I can’t remember if I ever did that. I have almost no memories of my father—a man in an armchair by the fire. Sitting on his knee. Listening to him read. “Have you brushed your hair and combed your teeth?” he’d ask, making the same joke every night, rubbing his stubbly jaw against my cheek. My mother is clearer, but even those memories are beginning to fade, or fray at the edges, losing color and detail like the old rug on Cyrus’s floor.
I have one memento—a tortoiseshell button. It came from her favorite coat, which was bright red with a fur-lined collar and she wore it on special occasions. She was wearing it when I last saw her. I wouldn’t let go. I clung to her and the button came away in my hand. I screamed for her then. I wish for her now. I hold that button in my fist, believing it might bring her back if I have enough faith.
Putting the room back in order, I go to the bathroom and search the cabinet above the sink. Opening jars and bottles, I sniff at the contents. There are no pills or medications, but Cyrus has condoms—a whole box, unopened. I close the cabinet and look in the mirror. I hate what I see. I hate my lank hair. I hate my downturned mouth. I hate my fat bottom lip. I hate the freckles on my nose. I hate my sticky-out ears. I hate my skinny legs.
The doorbell rings. My heart jumps.
I go downstairs and wait in the hallway. The bell rings again. I look through the spyhole. There are two young men in cheap suits. They look no older than me. I open the door a few inches.
“Hello, how are you today?” one of them says brightly. “What a lovely old house.” There’s no hint of sarcasm. “Do you believe in God?”
“No.”
“What do you believe in?”
“Nothing.”
“Do you know much about Jesus Christ?”
“Who are you?”
“We’re from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and we’re here to share the message of Jesus Christ. My name is Elder Grimshaw and this is Elder Green.”
“Doesn’t that get confusing?” I ask. “Both being called Elder.”
“We’re missionaries.”
“I thought missionaries were supposed to work in poor countries.”
“No, we’re everywhere. We share our experiences because we believe in helping others to find peace and fulfillment in the love of Jesus Christ. Would you like to learn more?”
“No.”
“We’re here to share.”
“You want to change my mind, that’s not sharing.”
The two Mormons look at each other. I have my foot braced against the door, ready to slam it closed. The quieter of the two is waiting for his partner to take the lead.
I look at him. “Do you truly believe that God exists?”
“With all my heart.”
“No. I think your mate does, but you’re not so sure. Come back when you are.”
I shut the door and go back upstairs, continuing my search of the house. The upper-floor rooms are supposed to be off-limits, according to Cyrus. That was a mistake. Who is going to ignore a challenge like that?
Most of the rooms are full of old furniture and rolled-up rugs and boxes of magazines and sheet music and photographs. I wonder how many generations of people have lived here. How many have died.
The loneliness of the house is seeping into me and I wish Cyrus would come home, even though he’ll want to know what I’ve been thinking behind my mask or want to squeeze my skull and shake things out.
Having searched the turret room, I go to the small dirty window and peer out at the near-empty street and at the houses opposite and the parked cars and the rooftops beyond. A woman pushes a pram along the pavement. A cyclist sweeps past her.
From somewhere behind me, I hear Terry’s warning.
“You must never tell anyone who you are.”
“I won’t.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
33
* * *
CYRUS
* * *
As I near the Sheehan house, a neighbor appears at his front gate, sitting astride a mobility scooter. Rolls of flesh cascade over his belt, making it hard to see where his legs begin.
“Are you with the police?” he asks aggressively.
“No.”
I don’t stop. He follows me, accelerating to my pace. I recognize him from his photograph: Kevin Stokes—the former swim instructor who served eight years for sexually abusing two boys at a local swimming center.
“Yes, you are. I saw you the other night. When are they gonna clean this up?” He nods towards his house, where the words “pedo” and “pervert” have been daubed in red paint across his front fence.
I don’t stop.
“What about my rights?” he yells.
“What about the boys you abused?” I mutter.
A police officer answers the door at the Sheehan house. Female. Uniformed.
“Is anyone home?” I ask.
“Mrs. Sheehan has gone to church.”
“And Mr. Sheehan?”
“He left early this morning.”
The constable jots down the address of a nearby church and draws me a map on a scrap of paper. I follow her directions until I see the steeple from two streets away. The main doors are locked so I try a side entrance and enter a nave with a vaulted ceiling crisscrossed by white beams that join together and plunge down pink-tinted walls. Seats are arranged on three sides around an altar.
Maggie Sheehan is cutting flowers and arranging them into tall vases. She has a warm, open face with a high forehead and pale blue eyes. She’s an introvert. I recognized that when I first saw her deferring to Dougal, letting him speak first, almost seeking permission with her eyes before she voiced an opinion. It was as though she had grown accustomed to being in the background, and I could imagine how easily she could disappear, fading into the wallpaper or evaporating without leaving so much as a spot.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Mrs. Sheehan,” I say, clearing my throat. “Do you remember me?”
“Dr. Haven.”
“Cyrus.”
She goes back to trimming the flowers. “We’ve been sent so many, I thought I should bring some to the church,” she explains. “People are very kind. I do the flowers every week . . . and clean the presbytery for Father Patrick.”
“I called on Felicity earlier,” I say. “It must be a comfort having her living so close.”
“She’s like a sister to me. People used to think Bryan and I were twins, but he’s two years younger. I remember when he first brought Felicity home to meet our parents. He whispered to me, ‘I’m going to marry this one.’ And he did.”
She snips another stem.
“I was engaged to Dougal by then. We talked about a joint wedding, but I fell pregnant and we had to rush up the altar. Does that shock you?”
“No.”
“I guess it doesn’t matter so much anymore. Sex before marriage. A pregnant bride. Felicity was my birth partner because Dougal didn’t want to see the ‘nuts and bolts.’ That’s what he called it. I promised that I’d do the same for Flip but she took ages to fall pregnant.”
“Flip?”
“That’s my pet name for her. It almost drove her mad—the IVF and the heartbreak. Then a miracle—Aiden came along. Did you meet him? Isn’t he gorgeous? So kind and gentle. He’s going to Cambridge next year.”
“Felicity told me.”
She smiles. I smile. Our voices echo in the emptiness of the church. She picks up a carnation and uses pruning shears to trim it to the desired length.
“I used to think having children was our way of cheating death,” she says reflectively. “We wedge our foot in a closing door, you know, giving ourselves a glimmer of hope that we’ll leave something behind—some part of us will endure.”
“But surely you believe in Heaven.”
“I do. Yes. Even more so now. A part of me can’t wait to get there—to see my Jodie.” Maggie raises her eyes to the ceiling, as though she suspects that Jodie may be listening to us. “Father Patrick says I’m allowed to be angry with God. He says anger is a natural human response to situations that are out of our control or beyond our ability to understand.
“I still think it’s wrong. Jodie deserved more. I deserved more. Father Patrick says that if ever I come to a place where I can’t run, I should walk. And if I can’t walk, I should crawl. And if I can’t crawl, I should turn on my back, look up to Heaven, and ask Christ for help.”
Maggie snips another stem and arranges it in a vase.
“The police found six thousand pounds in Jodie’s school locker.”
I leave the statement hanging. Maggie blinks at me, as though not comprehending.
I try again. “Have you any idea where she’d get money like that?”
“No. I mean, we don’t have that sort of cash. We live month to month.”
“Could she have been holding the money for someone else?”
“Who?”
“Felix?”
Maggie makes a pfffffmmmph sound, as though I’m talking rubbish.
“Could she have been involved in something dangerous?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know—that’s why I’m asking.”
“Is everything all right, Maggie?” asks a voice that echoes from all around me. A priest appears from a vestry. In his early forties with a shock of dark hair that is swept back in a wave, he’s dressed in black trousers and a white open-necked shirt with a small gold crucifix pinned to each collar.
“You must be Father Patrick,” I say, introducing myself. He has a warm firm handshake and an uncertain frown.
“Have we met before?”
“No. I was talking to Tasmin Whitaker. She remembered you were at the fireworks. You did Jodie a service by retrieving her tote bag.”
Maggie looks confused.
“Jodie had a problem with some boys,” I explain. “Father Patrick saw them off.”
The sudden revelation appears to embarrass him.
“How long have you been at the parish?” I ask.
“Eight years.”
“You must have known Jodie quite well.”
&nb
sp; “I try to know all of my parishioners.”
It’s a nothing answer.
“They found money in Jodie’s locker,” says Maggie. “Six thousand pounds.”
“Where did it come from?” asks the priest.
She shakes her head.
“I have to ask you about something else the police found in Jodie’s locker. Perhaps we should talk alone—outside.”
Maggie shakes her head. “I want Father Patrick to be here.”
“Jodie had a box of condoms in her locker.”
Maggie’s mouth drops open and her hand covers it instinctively as though a word might suddenly fly out.
“Our Jodie was a good girl,” she says defensively.
“Yes, of course, but there is evidence that she had sex with someone on the night she died.”
“She was raped.”
“Rapists don’t normally use condoms.”
Maggie’s voice grows strident and tears prickle in her eyes. “Why are you telling me this? You . . . you have no right!”
“I’m trying to understand—”
“My little girl was raped and murdered and now you’re doing it all over again.”
“I promise you—that’s not my intention.”
“I think you should leave,” says Father Patrick, stepping into my space, making himself large. The odor of him touches my face—a mixture of shampoo, aftershave, and mouthwash. Foamy bits of spit are clinging to his lips.
He puts his arm around Maggie’s shoulders. She leans against him, pressing her face to his chest.
The priest isn’t finished with me. “I have spent the past week telling Maggie she is not to blame for what happened to Jodie, that sometimes terrible things happen to good people. She thinks she’s a bad mother. She thinks she could have saved her daughter. Her only respite has been to come here and talk to me . . . and to God.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“I want you to leave.”
My shoes echo on the flagstones as I follow the center aisle to the main entrance. As I pull open the heavy door, I turn back and see Father Patrick and Maggie sitting together. He holds her face in his hands and uses a handkerchief to wipe the tears from her cheeks.
Good Girl, Bad Girl Page 18
