In the years that followed, he matched his words with actions, showing up at school speech days and my graduation from university, never acknowledging the fact or seeking publicity. Most people say he’s a good man and I have no reason to doubt that, but having followed the fortunes of Nottingham over the years, I have learned that Jimmy swings like a weather vane when it comes to having his convictions. He always follows the prevailing wind.
Although no longer the lord mayor, Jimmy is still a city councilor and the sheriff of Nottingham, a ceremonial position rather than a keeper of law and order. He greets tourists, poses for photographs, and promotes the Robin Hood legend.
“How can I help you, Councilor?” I ask.
“Jimmy, please.”
We’re in the kitchen. I offer him a drink. He refuses and examines the chair before sitting.
“It’s been too long,” he says. “I was trying to think. I last saw you at Easter.”
“The Parkinson’s fund-raiser.”
“That’s the one. You’re looking well. Working out, I see.”
Jimmy is an expert at small talk and I let him carry on, knowing this isn’t a social call—not at this hour.
“One of my employees came to see me yesterday. He was rather upset by something you’d done.”
“Me?”
“I didn’t want to believe him. It sounded so out of character.”
“Who are we talking about?”
“Dougal Sheehan.”
“I didn’t know he worked for you.”
“He’s my part-time driver and a valued employee. He’s in shock, obviously. We all are. Jodie was such a lovely girl. Passionate. Pretty.”
“You knew her,” I say, keeping the surprise out of my voice.
“Didn’t everyone?” he replies before realizing how smart-alecky it sounds. “Dougal introduced me,” he explains. “Occasionally, we’d drop Jodie off at school in the Rolls. She thought that was great fun.”
“Did you see her skate?”
“Of course. I was one of her sponsors.”
“You gave her money?”
He shrugs. “I paid some of her bills. Dougal and Maggie were very appreciative.” He looks at me askance. “As you’ll recall, I did the same for you after your family died. It’s what I do, Cyrus. I help where I can.”
Jimmy lets the statement linger, as though wanting me to feel guilty for questioning his motives. I can’t hold his gaze.
“Dougal is a broken man,” he explains. “I don’t know what to say to him or how to ease his pain. But you can imagine my concern when he told me that Maggie came home from church in tears after a conversation with you. He said you were dragging Jodie’s name through the mud.”
“That’s not my intention.”
“What is your intention—if you don’t mind me asking? A man has confessed to the crime. He’s awaiting trial.”
“There is a question mark over whether Craig Farley acted alone.”
“You’re saying he had an accomplice.”
“DNA evidence has raised the possibility.”
Jimmy smooths back his hair and his mouth narrows to a tight pucker. I sense that he wants to frown, but his smooth, white forehead refuses to buckle.
“Obviously, you have a job to do, Cyrus, but perhaps you could use a little more tact around Jodie’s family.”
“Of course.”
Jimmy nods and smiles, as if his work here is done. Then he looks around the kitchen, noting the general state of disrepair.
“I heard a whisper about you the other day,” he says, catching a glimpse of his reflection in the window. “You know I’m not one for gossip.”
I almost laugh. Jimmy sees the funny side as well.
“Somebody told me you had fostered a child.”
“Yes.”
“What made you do that?”
“She needed somewhere.”
He looks past me. “Is she here?”
“She’s asleep.”
“Well, that’s very noble of you, Cyrus. I hope you haven’t given up on the idea of having your own family someday. Are you seeing anyone?”
“No. Are you?”
Jimmy laughs properly, showing his white, perfectly aligned teeth. “OK, OK, it’s none of my business. I care about you, Cyrus. You’re like a son to me.”
One of many, I want to say, but hold my tongue. I owe Jimmy a lot and he’s never given me a reason to doubt him.
“Have you been to see Elias?” he asks.
“Not for a while.”
“You should keep in touch with him. He’s family.”
All I have left, is what he means to say, but I don’t need reminding. Not a day goes by when I don’t relive some moment of that night. What I lost. What my brother took from me.
I follow Jimmy along the hallway to the front door, where his minders are standing like sentries on either side of the steps.
“Was Dougal Sheehan working for you on the night of the fireworks?” I ask.
“Yes, as a matter of fact. I had my annual Guy Fawkes soiree. Dougal was on hand to drive people home.”
“He didn’t mention that to the police.”
Jimmy flashes me another smile. “I expect my employees to be discreet.”
“What time did Dougal start work?”
“Around nine, I suppose.”
“Did you see him?”
“No.”
“Was he driving the Rolls?”
“Heavens no! I told him to use the Range Rover. I don’t want drunken freeloaders throwing up on white calfskin seats.”
Jimmy opens his arms and hugs me again. “We should have lunch. I’ll call you.”
“I don’t have a phone.”
“Of course you don’t. You are an odd duck, Cyrus.”
One of the minders jogs ahead, checking the street before opening the door of a Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow. Jimmy slips inside. The door closes. As the car ghosts away, I remember the famous advertising slogan written in the fifties.
“At 60 miles an hour, the loudest noise in this new Rolls-Royce comes from the electric clock.”
40
* * *
ANGEL FACE
* * *
I open my eyes. Clamped tightly in a fetal ball, I remain completely still, trying to place myself in the universe. I wiggle my fingers, stiff with the cold, then my toes. I flex my legs and arms. I move my tongue, tasting iron. Blood. I put my hand between my legs, touching my knickers. Relieved.
Raising my head, I bump something hard and cry out. My fingers brush against greasy metal. I’m lying beneath the chassis of a car, where I half remember crawling. Gasping shallowly, I pull myself along the ground until I’m clear of the vehicle and can see the sky. Bracing my hands on the gravel and broken concrete, I attempt to stand, but the pain finds parts of me that I didn’t know existed. I stop. Lie still. Breathe.
I remember leaving the game with Katelyn and walking across the road. I picture her opening the car door . . . my head bouncing off the roof. Reaching into my coat pockets, I search for my winnings. Every pocket. Nothing.
Shit! Fuck!
I crawl back beneath the abandoned car, hoping I might have dropped the money, but I know the answer already.
A bile-like wretchedness fills my chest, rising up my throat, making me want to gag, but I cannot find enough saliva to spit it out. The feeling is familiar, this sense of desolation and helplessness. During all the weeks in the house with Terry’s body and afterwards, I had always expected to die. I made plans to kill myself, taking a knife from the kitchen and choosing a spot on my chest that corresponded with the organ I could feel beating inside. Twice I held the knife in my hands when I heard them getting close to finding me. Even as I doubted my strength, I told myself I could do it. I promised. But when the time came, I couldn’t bring myself to push the knife into my chest. Coward! Weakling!
I get slowly to my feet and stumble across the vacant lot until I reach a wire fence that has collapsed u
nder the weight of a vine. Leaning against the mesh, I take ragged breaths and wonder if my ribs are broken. Could I be bleeding inside? The bump on my forehead feels like an egg beneath my skin.
I have no money, no phone, nowhere to go. I think about Cyrus. He’ll have searched my room by now. He’ll have knocked on my door and waited for permission to enter, worried that I might be half-dressed or that I wouldn’t hear his knock because I was blow-drying my hair or plugged into music. He’ll have searched my things, looking for clues. How long will he wait before he calls the police?
Straightening again, I walk gingerly along the road towards a railway bridge. Streetlights are burning palely, floating in air the color of dirty water. A truck rumbles past. A taxi slows. I feel like a figure from an earlier time—a street urchin or waif, destined for the poorhouse, or a prostitute forced to walk the streets. I often picture myself like this—in other guises, living other possible lives. Sometimes I’m famous like Meghan Markle or Taylor Swift, but more often I’m famously tragic like Amy Winehouse or Marilyn Monroe.
Halfway across the bridge, I place my palms upon the stained brick wall and watch a freight train pass beneath me, louder then softer, shaking the world. I have fucked up big-time. I have no money or means of escape. Nowhere to go. How much will it cost to get to London? Maybe I could steal the money or beg for loose change.
The bus station is in York Street near the Victoria Centre, which is an indoor shopping mall, full of department stores, boutiques, cafés, and food halls, none of which are open at this hour of the morning. The station concourse is brightly lit and dotted with the sleeping bodies of backpackers resting on rucksacks, and the homeless, whose possessions are stuffed into plastic bags or piled in trolleys. A bus for London leaves at four thirty and another at five. I could be in London by nine o’clock . . . if I had ten pounds.
I go to the ladies’ and examine myself in the mirror. Apart from the bump on my head, my face avoided the worst of the beating. I can hide the bruise with my fringe.
A woman enters. Our eyes meet in the mirror. She’s middle-aged, wearing jeans and canvas shoes and a bulky sweater. Her lank hair has been dyed so often that her natural color is a distant memory. She enters a cubicle and locks the door.
“Excuse me,” I say “Can you lend us a tenner? My mum is real sick and I need to get to London.”
The woman doesn’t answer.
“I lost my purse. I think someone stole it.”
“I can’t help you,” the woman says.
“It’s only ten quid.”
“How do I know you’re not a junkie?”
“I’m not.”
“Yeah, but I don’t know that.”
“Junkies don’t normally dress like me.”
“You could be a hooker.”
“If I was a hooker I wouldn’t need to borrow money.”
“Oh, so you’re borrowing now.”
“I’ll pay you back.”
“Yeah, sure.”
She flushes the toilet. The cubicle door opens. This time she’s holding a can of something in her fist, pointing it at my face. “Come anywhere near me and you’ll get this,” she says, waving the aerosol.
“That’s deodorant,” I say.
“No, it’s pepper spray.”
“I can read the brand name. It says Dove.”
Clutching a tote bag to her chest, the woman skirts the sinks, keeping her eyes on me. The zip of her jeans is still undone.
“Are you going to wash your hands?” I yell, but the woman has gone.
Back on the concourse, I approach the ticket office, where a middle-aged man is putting new paper in a printer.
“Won’t be a second, love,” he says, snapping the lid shut and pressing a button to make the paper feed through a slot.
Short and thickset, he’s wearing a uniform that is so tight across his stomach that the fabric gapes between the buttons, showing his white singlet.
“How can I help you?”
“I need a ticket to London.”
“Return?”
“One way.”
He looks up at the screen. “There’s one leaving in ten minutes. I have three seats left.”
“I’ll take one.”
He rings up the register. “That’ll be nine pounds, fifty.”
“I don’t have any money.”
He sighs rather than frowns.
“I’m really good at telling when someone is lying,” I say.
“That’s a coincidence—so am I.”
“No, I’m being serious. Test me.”
“Get lost.”
“Tell me something true or false and I’ll tell you if you’re lying.”
“I’m not here to play games.”
I notice the drawer of the cash register is open. “Look at a banknote. Don’t show me. Tell me the last digit of the serial number. I’ll say if you’re lying or not.”
The clerk looks past me, wondering if this is some sort of scam. He picks up a ten-pound note.
“What’s the last number?” I ask.
“Seven.”
“That’s true. Try another.”
“The first number is a zero.”
“No.”
I grow more confident. “If I get the next two right—will you give me a ticket to London?”
The clerk doesn’t reply. He examines the note more carefully. “The fourth digit is a nine.”
“Can you look at me when you say that?”
“What?”
“I need to see your face.”
“What difference does that make?”
“It’s not a nine,” I say, feeling my chance slipping away.
He sighs heavily down his nostrils. “Step back from the window.”
“What! No! I’m right.”
“I think you had a friend come in earlier who gave me that tenner after you’d memorized the serial number.”
“I don’t have a friend. Pick another note. Test me.”
“Step away or I’ll call the police.” He reaches for the phone.
I retreat angrily, as if robbed all over again. Finding an empty row of seats, I hug my knees, feeling the pain in my back where a boot must have landed. Cyrus will have called the police by now. They’ll be looking for me. I’ll be sent back to Langford Hall or some worse place. I should get away from the bus station. It’s one of the first places they’ll look.
“Hello there,” says a voice.
I brace myself, ready to run. A young man is grinning at me. He’s holding two cans of Coca-Cola. “I thought you looked thirsty.” He holds one out to me.
I eye him up warily as he pops the lid of his can and drinks. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows and looks like a tiny animal trapped in his throat. Tall and thin, he has mutton-chop sideburns that crawl down his cheeks but seem to run out of energy before they reach his chin.
“I’m Felix,” he says, belching quietly. “What’s your name?”
“Does it matter?”
“Not to me.” He laughs, showing a chipped front tooth. “You could be Queen Nefertiti for all I care.”
“Who?”
“She was one of the most beautiful women who’s ever lived. An Egyptian queen. Married to a pharaoh. That’s what Nefertiti means—a beautiful woman to come.”
“How come you know so much about Egypt?”
“A past life.” Felix laughs. “Hey, you hungry? I know this place down the road that opens early for breakfast. They make proper French pastries, you know, pain aux raisins and pain chocolat. One sniff and you’ll swear you were in Paris.”
“I’ve never been to Paris.”
“All the more reason . . .”
I open the can of drink. The cold liquid feels good sliding down my throat and the sugar charges through my veins, shaking exhaustion away. I spend a fraction too long gazing at Felix, wondering why he doesn’t look in the mirror and see the absurdity of his facial hair.
“Can you lend me ten pounds? I need to get to L
ondon.”
“Going to meet your boyfriend?”
“No.”
“Family?”
“I don’t have any.”
This answer seems to please Felix. “I can’t just give you the money,” he says thoughtfully. “But you could earn it.”
I look at him warily. “I’m not fucking you.”
“Keep it down,” he whispers, glancing over his shoulder. “Nobody said anything about fucking anyone.”
“What do I have to do?”
“Let’s discuss it over breakfast.”
“I can’t afford breakfast.”
“That’s OK. I’m buying.”
41
* * *
CYRUS
* * *
At some point I tumble into an exhausted sleep, full of shadowy dreams and images of Jodie Sheehan floating in a pond or lying half-naked in a clearing surrounded by trees. My mind’s eye moves closer, zooming in, from above, through the branches, coming into focus until it settles on a face that belongs to a different girl.
I sit bolt upright, unable to draw breath, a scream stuck in my throat. But I’m not awake. I’m dreaming of being in a dream. Evie is standing in front of me, by the side of the bed. I can almost touch her. She is holding a pack of cards, shuffling them, asking me to play a game.
“If you win you get to ask me a question.”
“What’s your real name?”
“Not that one.”
“Are you coming home?”
“Where’s home?”
My pager buzzes on the bedside table. Reaching for it too quickly, I send it clattering to the floor and the battery dislodges. I go searching on my hands and knees, collecting the pieces, putting it back together.
Robert Ness has left me his number. I get dressed and put on my coat before walking to the corner shop. The front door jangles and Mrs. Patel smiles from behind the counter. Her long grey hair is plaited down the back of her bright green-and-gold sari.
Good Girl, Bad Girl Page 22
