“Does this mean you want me to stay?”
“I’ve always wanted you to stay.”
She turns away, hiding her face.
“I went to the bus station, hoping I could get to London, but I didn’t have any money. This guy came and talked to me. He offered me somewhere to stay.” Evie hesitates. “It was Felix Sheehan—the brother of that girl.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.”
I take a deep breath. “Did he . . . ? Were you . . . ?”
“No.”
“The doctor said you were drugged.”
She doesn’t answer. “Felix is a dealer. He doesn’t deliver the stuff himself—he has people do it for him.”
“Is that what he wanted you to do?”
Evie nods.
“We have to tell the police.”
“No!”
“He attacked you.”
She looks at me pleadingly. “They’ll send me back to Langford Hall.”
“Not necessarily.”
“I ran away. I gambled. I hung out with drug dealers . . .” Evie sucks in a breath and starts again. “I think he took pictures of me.”
“What sort of pictures?”
She shakes her head. “Please don’t tell the police.”
I want to argue, to change her mind, but at that moment a door opens and a Labrador bounds into view, pulling on a lead and wagging her tail so furiously that her whole body is shaking. Raptor tries to hold her back, but she wants to sniff everything and everyone.
“Her name is Poppy,” says Raptor. “We reckon she’s about eighteen months old. Still a puppy really, but she’s been desexed and microchipped and had all her jabs.”
Evie has dropped to her knees and grabbed Poppy by the head, rubbing behind her ears and under her chin. Poppy’s tongue lolls out, wanting to lick Evie’s face. She laughs and wrestles with her—every movement practiced and assured. She’s more comfortable around animals than people. That’s why she wasn’t frightened of Sid and Nancy in the kennels—why she stole food for them.
Raptor is still talking.
“She’s very intelligent, although a little neurotic. We had to call the vet last week cos Poppy chewed up some of her toys and swallowed the plastic.” He looks back at the kennel. “You want to see some of our other rescues?”
“No,” says Evie. “Poppy is perfect.”
“If she were mine, I’d walk her at least twice a day—maybe more. She needs lots of stimulation.”
“I will.” Evie looks up at me. “You want to pat her? She’s really friendly. She has golden flecks in her eyes. See?”
As I kneel down, Poppy tries to jump into my arms, knocking me backwards. I finish up on my backside on the damp grass.
“She doesn’t know her own strength,” says Raptor. “You should train her. Get her used to socializing with people and other dogs.”
Evie nods, draping herself across Poppy.
Paperwork has to be filled out. Forms signed. I buy a bag of dried dog food from the shop, as well as a harness lead and bowls for the kibble and water.
“Where is she going to sleep?” asks Evie.
“I thought maybe the laundry.”
“That’s too cold. Can she stay in my room?”
“We’ll see how it goes tonight.”
Evie sits in the back seat with Poppy, cracking a window so the Labrador can sniff the air outside. I get behind the wheel and reach for my seat belt. Suddenly, Evie wraps her arms around my neck and presses her cheek against my ear. It is a stiff hug. Unpracticed. Uncertain.
“Thank you,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “Thank you.”
49
* * *
ANGEL FACE
* * *
I want to tell Cyrus what happened. I want to tell him nothing.
Confiding in him would go against everything I was ever taught. Trust nobody. Believe in nothing. Terry told me that. He proved it.
“You think you can rely on someone,” he said. “You think you know their name, you think you’ve seen their worst side, but that is a blindness. You haven’t looked closely enough.”
Sitting at the kitchen table, I shuffle the cards and deal a hand, playing them in my head before shuffling again. Cyrus is at the sink using a sharp knife to divide slabs of chuck steak into portions that he’ll freeze for Poppy. The Labrador is sitting on her haunches, hoping a morsel might fall to the floor.
“Don’t you dare feed her from the table,” says Cyrus.
I let my hand slip from my pocket and drop a piece of meat under the chair. Poppy sniffs it out and guzzles it greedily.
“Labs are notorious overeaters,” says Cyrus. “You don’t want her getting fat.”
Poppy is licking my fingers.
Cyrus is talking about building “a run” for Poppy in the back garden.
“She can’t stay inside all day. She’s too destructive.”
I glance towards the laundry, where one of his Nike runners has been chewed into a scattering of rubber, mesh, and synthetic leather.
“I’m sorry about your shoe,” I say for the umpteenth time. “I’ll pay for new ones.”
“What with?”
“When I get a job.”
Cyrus doesn’t comment.
The Labrador seems to be listening. Her paws make clicking sounds on the floor as she crosses the kitchen, wagging her tail and shoving her nose into Cyrus’s crotch. He pushes her away. “We should teach her not to do that.”
“She’s saying sorry.”
“She’s begging.”
I laugh and produce a phone from the pocket of my smock dress. It was on my pillow this afternoon, along with a note saying: “I know it’s secondhand, but I can’t afford a new one.”
When I tap the phone, the screen lights up, showing the different icons and apps. I don’t have anyone to call, but that’s OK.
“I’ve programmed my pager number into the contacts,” says Cyrus. “Next time if you get into trouble—”
“I won’t get into trouble.”
“I know, but just in case . . .”
A piece of meat drops from the chopping board and is quickly gobbled up by Poppy.
“Hey! You said not to feed her.”
“That was an accident,” says Cyrus, winking at me.
“You have a bathtub,” I say, in a mildly inquiring tone.
“Yes.”
“I’ve never had a bath. At least I don’t think I have. I don’t remember.”
“You can borrow mine,” he says.
“When?”
“Whenever you like.”
“Now?”
“Sure.”
I go upstairs and collect a towel. In Cyrus’s bathroom, I adjust the taps and begin filling a deep, claw-footed tub. Spying a bottle that says “bath crystals,” I pour half the contents into the running water. Pillows of foam erupt from beneath the taps, getting higher and higher. Maybe that was too much.
Slipping out of my clothes, I avoid looking in the mirror, because my bruises look like the inkblot tests that Guthrie used to give me.
“What does this remind you of, Evie?” he’d ask.
“A vagina.”
“And this?”
“Another vagina.”
It did his head in.
Having drawn the bath, I slide into the tub, sending a tsunami of foam spilling over the sides onto the floor. I’m not sure what to do next. In a shower you wash yourself, but in a bath—going by the films I’ve seen—people read magazines or drink champagne or go to sleep. I rest my head on a folded hand towel and close my eyes, letting the warm water soak into my muscles and bruises.
I can see the point of baths now. I’m going to stay in this tub forever.
Cyrus knocks. Immediately, I cover up, before remembering the door is locked.
“Are you OK?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“I thought you might have drowned.”
“No.”
“OK.”
“Hey, Cyrus?”
“Yeah.”
“How do you get scurvy?”
“By not eating enough fruit.”
“Oh.”
“Why?”
“My fingers have gone all white and wrinkly.” I wait. “Why are you laughing?”
“No reason.”
50
* * *
CYRUS
* * *
I hear the news on the radio the next morning.
The alleged killer of schoolgirl Jodie Sheehan is under police guard in hospital after a failed suicide attempt. Twenty-six-year-old Craig Farley was found hanging from a torn bedsheet in his cell at HMP Nottingham, where a prison medical team revived him.
Farley was charged two weeks ago with the rape and murder of Nottingham schoolgirl Jodie Sheehan, whose body was discovered near a popular footpath . . .
My pager is vibrating: showing Lenny’s number. Opening my laptop, I Skype her.
Her face appears on-screen. “You heard the news?”
“Just now.”
“It’s another sign of his guilt.”
“If you say so.”
Lenny doesn’t take the opportunity to gloat. “Farley’s lawyer has given you permission to talk to him.”
“Why now?”
“The guy is suicidal. You’re a psychologist.” She makes it sound like a simple sum.
“The hospital has a psych department.”
“Yeah, but he asked for you.”
* * *
A police officer is dozing on a chair in the corridor, his hat resting over his eyes. Nobody has told him I’m coming. He grumbles and mutters darkly under his breath before making the necessary calls to confirm my visit. Half an hour is wasted.
Farley is out of intensive care and in a private room. I knock. Enter. He’s lying on a bed, facing the window, where the blinds have been left open and the sky outside is the color of cigarette ash in a white bowl.
“Hello, Craig,” I say.
He turns his head and I notice the bruising around his neck. He looks at me with interest, frowning, as though he’s expecting someone older or someone else or salvation in general. The future is a scary place when you’ve been charged with raping and murdering a child. Prison is not an end point. Pedophiles and child killers are the lowest form of life behind bars, normally segregated or held in solitary for their own protection. Farley might not be the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree, but he knows what awaits him—the beatings, insults, and hurled bodily waste; until the inevitable moment when a crude shank finds its mark and, if he’s lucky, he’s condemned to pissing into a bag for the rest of his days.
He has lost weight since I last saw him in the interview room at West Bridgford Police Station. His face has thinned out and his eyes seem to be submerged in pools of shadow.
“My name is Cyrus,” I say. “Do you mind if I sit down?”
He doesn’t answer, but I take a chair and pull it closer to the bed. Settling.
“How are you feeling?”
No response.
“Do you mind if I turn the light on?” I don’t wait for him to answer. I can see the blue of his eyes and the dry patches of skin on his forehead.
“You can always try again,” I say.
“What?”
“If you really want to die—you can always try again.”
He frowns, unsure if I’m being serious.
“How old are you, Craig? Midtwenties. Still a young man. You could live to be ninety. You could choose any one of those days to die. What’s the rush?”
I wait for an answer. Each second without sound creates tension, like a rubber band being stretched out.
“Aren’t you supposed to talk me out of dying?” he croaks, his vocal chords bruised by his near hanging.
“Everybody dies, Craig.”
“Yeah, but that’s different.”
“You mean they wait for old age or disease or some tragic, unexpected accident.”
“Yeah.”
I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees.
“You’re not special, Craig. Most people contemplate suicide at some point, even if it’s only to imagine who might show up at the funeral and what they might say. Living isn’t evolutionary. We can pull a trigger at any time—step off a cliff or walk in front of a train or wrap a torn sheet around our necks. Most of us don’t. We wait and see what happens.”
Farley pretends not to be listening. He reaches for a cup with a straw and takes a sip, staring at me over the rim.
“I don’t think you killed Jodie Sheehan,” I say.
He blinks at me.
“Maybe you played a part. Maybe you could have saved her, but I don’t think you killed her.”
The silence in the room magnifies the humming of the air-conditioning.
“I can understand why you were charged—and why you’ll be convicted. You pulled down her jeans and her underwear. You masturbated into her hair. That’s pretty damning stuff. Most people would happily put you away for a long stretch. Some would pull the trapdoor. But while I have you, I want to ask a question. Why? Jodie was right there in front of you. She was everything you desired—young, pretty, unconscious. You could have done anything to her, but you didn’t.”
“You’re sick.”
“Did you lose your erection when you tried to penetrate her? Maybe you wanted to humiliate her.”
Farley’s fist rattles on the side of the bed where he’s been handcuffed to the frame.
“I know you put branches on her body, but it’s not as though you covered your tracks. You left footprints at the scene. You tied your dog to a nearby tree. You bragged to a schoolgirl that the police had found Jodie. You couldn’t have made it any more obvious if you’d hung a sign around your neck saying, ‘Arrest me.’ ”
“I’m not dumb.”
“Prove it to me.”
Farley goes quiet. I let the silence build until it fills every corner of the room. It leaks into his ears and his chest and his bladder and his bowels and every dark place in his mind. Very few people are comfortable with silence. It’s one thing to be on a plane or in a train carriage or in a waiting room and to ignore those around you, but not when you know someone is expecting you to answer.
“How?” he mutters.
“Tell me what happened—the whole story. I’m not the police. There are no cameras or recorders, no notebook, no witnesses. I’m not a priest. I can’t take your confession. I don’t care if you’re guilty. I don’t care if you feel guilty. I only want the truth.”
Farley turns to face the window and I wonder if he’s chosen to stonewall me.
“I didn’t chicken out,” he whispers.
“What were you doing on the footpath?”
“When I can’t sleep, I walk my dog.”
“Why did you choose that path?”
“It’s close to home.”
“There are nearer parks.”
Farley raises his shoulders. Drops them. It might be a shrug. It might be resignation.
“I got a dog yesterday,” I say. “A Labrador called Poppy. She’s not really mine. She belongs to a friend of mine who’s staying with me, but we’re going to take turns to walk her. I do the night walks, because I don’t like my friend going out alone.”
Farley is listening.
“Our nearest park gets locked up at dusk, so last night I took Poppy around the block a few times. It’s a different world at that hour. You think the roads would be deserted, but all sorts of people are out walking their dogs. Some stop and chat, talking about the weather or the stars. Last night, I was two streets from home when I looked up and saw a woman getting ready for bed. She’d left her curtains open.”
“Was she naked?” asks Farley, facing me again, more animated now.
“She was wearing a dressing gown and drying her hair.”
“How much could you see?”
“She was studying herself in the mirror, turning her face
left and right, as though she was searching for something she’d lost.”
“What?”
“Youth.”
Farley doesn’t understand.
“I felt sorry for her. She looked lonely. I wondered if that’s why she left the curtains open—to be noticed.”
“Lots of them do,” he says.
“Really?”
“Oh yeah.”
“Is that why you go walking at night?”
He goes quiet.
“Is that what you were doing on the night you saw Jodie—looking in windows?”
Again nothing.
“Did you see Jodie on the footpath?”
“No.”
“Where was she?”
“In the water.”
“You first saw her in the water?”
“I heard her.”
“What did you hear?”
He looks at me plaintively. “Splashing.”
I make him go over it again, describing how he left home with his dog and went along certain roads where he’d been lucky in the past. At some point, he decided to take Silverdale Walk, past the school and across the tramlines. As he approached the footbridge he heard someone cry out and then a splash.
“I thought it was an animal, you know.”
“What did you do?”
“When I got to the footbridge, I peered over the side. That’s when I saw her.”
“Jodie?”
He nods. “I didn’t know it was her. I thought somebody had dumped some trash into the pond. I went to check it out—in case it was something valuable, you know—but I saw her moving. She was crawling through the reeds.”
He swivels his head slowly, eyes wide, wanting me to believe him. I can smell the sweat rising from his body and the faint hint of urine.
“Then what?”
“I scrambled down the bank. I thought she might need some help. She was coughing. Wet. Cold. I wanted to keep her warm. I offered her my jacket.”
“What did she say?”
“Nothing.”
He lifts his eyes, blinking miserably, unable to make his mouth form the words.
“She ran away. You chased her.”
“I didn’t mean to hurt her. I wanted to make her warm.”
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