“No.”
“You walked in on her.”
“That was an accident.”
“Why would she lie?”
“Her father owed me coaching fees. Four hundred pounds. He wouldn’t pay up. I threatened to sue him. Next thing, he was accusing me of being a pervert.”
“But you ended up paying him.”
“I waived his fees. I should have sued him for slander.”
“That sounds plausible,” says Lenny, “but it seems odd that your phone was stolen just before the police could investigate the complaint. I can’t work out if that’s convenient or unfortunate.”
“There were no photographs,” says Whitaker. “It was bullshit.”
Watching him through the observation window, I can see him fortifying himself, but he’s less confident than before.
“When did you start coaching Jodie?” asks Edgar.
“I’ve always coached her.”
“When did you start grooming her?”
“That’s a lie.”
“Your fingerprints were found on condoms in her school locker,” says Lenny.
The statement rattles his composure. “I bought them for her when I discovered she was sexually active. I didn’t want her falling pregnant.”
“That’s very avuncular of you. Did Jodie’s parents know you were buying her condoms?”
“Of course not.”
“Did Jodie ask you to?”
“No.”
“How did you discover she was sexually active?”
“I guessed . . . I feared . . . I’ve had it happen before. Young skaters reach a certain age. They think they’re missing out or they go boy crazy . . .”
“You must see how it looks, Bryan. You’re her uncle—her skating coach—and you’re buying her condoms. You’re facilitating her having underage sex. Did you take her virginity?”
“Don’t be ridiculous!”
“I can see how it could happen. You’re traveling together to competitions—sharing a room to save money, separate beds to begin with. Then one night . . .”
Whitaker is breathing heavily through his nostrils, while his eyes are screwing a hole through Lenny’s forehead.
“You’re wrong!”
“You got her pregnant, Bryan.”
“No.”
“We’ve found the search history on your laptop—you were looking up abortion clinics.”
“I wanted to help her.”
“By lying to us.”
“No! I mean. Jodie came to me. She told me she was pregnant. I thought, because of her skating career and her age . . . I mean, she was too young to have a baby. Jodie couldn’t talk to her parents. Maggie is so devoutly Catholic and Dougal would have gone to war. I thought if we could do it quietly, without anyone knowing . . .”
“It was your suggestion.”
“Jodie agreed.”
“But she changed her mind.”
Whitaker doesn’t answer.
“We’ve done the DNA tests, Bryan. We know you’re the father.”
“What! No!”
“It doesn’t matter if Jodie consented. You were in a position of trust and she was a minor. In a few hours from now, technicians will have triangulated the signals from Jodie’s phone, pinpointing her movements in her last hours. They’re going to put you and Jodie together on the night she died. I think you had sex with her and afterwards you followed her. You begged her to have an abortion, but she wouldn’t listen. She threatened everything—your career, your marriage, your reputation. You hit her from behind and dumped her off the bridge. You left Jodie for dead—and that’s what happened, she died cold and alone in that clearing.”
“No,” he moans. His chest is bent forward towards his knees and his forehead almost touches the table.
Opening a different folder, Lenny begins pulling out crime scene photographs, laying them down one by one. “Don’t look away, Bryan. See what you did.”
Whitaker blinks at her wordlessly. The deep lines around his eyes are etched in misery.
“I didn’t . . . I wouldn’t . . . Ask Felicity.”
“We’ve spoken to your wife. She didn’t see you come in that night.”
“I was there. I came home. I had a shower. I went to bed.”
“You sleep in different rooms.”
“I didn’t go out again.”
Lenny sighs and collects the photographs. “You can keep telling that story all the way to your trial, but eventually a jury is going to see right through your fabrications and bluster.”
“You caught the guy. You charged him.”
“Craig Farley is guilty of many things, but he didn’t get Jodie pregnant; he didn’t hit her from behind and push her off a bridge.”
Dropping his head into his hands, Whitaker groans.
“This is wrong! A mistake! Let me talk to Felicity. Let me explain.”
54
* * *
CYRUS
* * *
Three words appear on my pager: “Poppy has gone.”
I call Evie’s mobile and she answers breathlessly, unable to get the words out quickly enough.
“There’s a hole under the fence . . . near the gate. I found her collar hanging on the chain. I’ve looked everywhere.”
“OK, calm down. She won’t go far.”
“What if she gets run over? What if someone took her?”
“We’ll find her.”
Minutes later, I’m behind the wheel. Each time I catch myself driving too quickly, I reluctantly touch the brakes, cursing the amount of traffic. Why is every Sunday driver out today? Every little old lady, slow truck, Belgian, Audi owner, and lawn bowler.
I don’t want to imagine losing Poppy—not because I’ve grown attached to her, but because of Evie. I should never have got her a dog. The downside risk was too great. She hasn’t loved anything or anyone in so long and now I’ve opened her up to being hurt again. Abandoned.
Pulling up outside the house, I see Evie standing on the brick wall, yelling Poppy’s name. Her arms are wrapped around her body, hugging her chest, shaking.
She tells me again about the collar and the fence and how she’s knocked on doors and talked to neighbors. I know how hard that must be for Evie—meeting strangers and interacting with people.
“We should make posters,” I say, wanting to keep her occupied. “Do you have a photograph?”
She holds up her phone.
“OK. Download them onto my laptop and make a poster and flyers. We’ll put them up on lampposts and in mailboxes.”
Upstairs, I begin getting changed, pulling on a T-shirt, compression tights, and a fleece-lined top. I have to wear my old running shoes, which are almost worn through.
“Where are you going?” Evie asks.
“I can cover more ground.”
“What will I do?”
“You put up the posters.”
She shows me an A4 page with a photograph of Poppy taken in the garden and the headline: MISSING DOG. Underneath is a description of Poppy and Evie’s phone number, along with the words: REWARD OFFERED.
“What reward?” I ask.
“We’ll think of something,” she says hopefully.
We decide on a plan. I’ll cover the park and run along Wollaton Road, while Evie knocks on doors and distributes the flyers. Setting off, I jog my usual route, along Parkside, before turning through the entrance to Wollaton Park. I soon grow breathless, trying to run and call Poppy’s name at the same time. Occasionally, I stop and ask people if they’ve seen her, showing them Evie’s poster, which is damp with my sweat. I carry on running . . . calling . . . asking.
Having circled the park, I cross Derby Road and search the grounds of the university, past the boating lake and the faculty buildings. Nottingham is suddenly a maze. Poppy could be anywhere, sleeping under a hedge or in someone’s garden. She could be miles away by now, or I could run right past her and never know.
They say there are only four human emotions a
nd sadness is one of them, but there are different types of sadness. Loss. Failure. Abandonment. Depression. Some of these are unavoidable. Some are necessary. Some make us human and whole. I remember seeing a Michael Leunig cartoon showing a tiny sad-eyed man with a noose around his neck. The rope was curled over a beam with a large bucket tied to the other end. As the man cried, his tears filled the bucket and lifted him higher and higher off the ground. Evie is that figure, standing on her tiptoes, filling a bucket with her tears. If only she could stop crying . . .
It’s growing dark. I’m exhausted. I cannot run or stumble any farther. With dread in every step, I turn for home, trying to fashion words for Evie.
As I turn the corner, I see her waving from the gate. Yelling.
“She’s home! She’s home!”
A wave of relief breaks over me, rushing over the shingles with a soft rattling hush that whispers, “Thank God!”
55
* * *
ANGEL FACE
* * *
“I knew you’d come,” the woman had announced.
I had been about to put a flyer through the mailbox when the door swung open and she said, “Labrador. Golden colored. What’s her name?”
“Poppy.”
“Come! Come! She’s in the garden.”
She ushered me along the hallway and through patio doors to a small neat garden with paving stones and raised flower beds. Poppy was tethered to a wheelbarrow full of ornamental plants.
“She didn’t have a collar, but I knew she belonged to someone. She’s such a beautiful girl.”
Short and dumpy with a pudding-bowl haircut, the woman had a yappy dog in her arms and two cocker spaniels leaping around her legs.
I threw myself at Poppy, burying my face in her neck, squeezing her so hard that she whimpered but she kept wagging her tail.
“We were in the park and Poppy came bounding over and started playing with Ajax and John Brown,” the woman said. “They were having such fun. I kept looking for her owner, but nobody showed up. Poppy followed us home and sat at the front door. Eventually, I brought her inside. I knew you’d come looking.”
The lump in my throat made it hard for me to answer. It’s still there now as I tell the story to Cyrus, who is unlacing his running shoes and looking at a blister on his heel. Meanwhile, Poppy is curled up on a rug in the laundry, oblivious to the trouble she’s caused.
“I promised her a reward,” I say.
“Do you think she expects money?”
“We could take her flowers.”
“Good idea.”
“I saw a nice garden a few doors down.”
“We’re not stealing flowers.”
“OK. Right.” The blister looks really nasty. “I’ve tightened Poppy’s collar so it won’t slip off, but there’s still a hole under the back fence, so we can’t let her go outside.”
“I’ll fix it,” says Cyrus, retying his runners.
“You don’t have to do it now.”
“I should.”
Cyrus collects a metal toolbox from beneath the stairs and walks outside to the garden shed. After a few minutes, he emerges with a sawhorse under his right arm and several wooden planks balanced on his opposite shoulder.
He kneels and examines the hole beneath the fence. Some of the palings have rotted where they were partially buried in the ground, breaking easily in his fingers. He kneels and begins scooping out soil.
“Can I help?” I ask.
Cyrus hands me a flashlight and peels off his sweaty T-shirt, tossing it onto the steps. Then he takes out a tape measure and calculates the dimensions of the gap.
I notice his tattoos. The inked birds on his torso and arms look like mythical creatures that shimmer in the beam of the flashlight, transforming into new shapes as he moves his arms and bends his body, measuring wood and marking it up. He tucks the pencil behind his ear and picks up a handsaw, which he draws back and forth along the line with a strong easy rhythm, creating puffs of sawdust that fall onto the grass like tiny flakes of snow.
“Where did you learn to do that?” I ask.
“My father taught me. These were his tools.”
I look at the folding drawers of the toolbox: full of chisels and screwdrivers with worn wooden handles. There is a small ax. Momentarily, I contemplate what happened to Cyrus’s family before pushing the thought away.
Cyrus kneels again and measures the piece of wood against the hole. I try not to look at the cabled veins and muscles on his back. The tattooed wings are so beautifully drawn, I have to fight the urge to reach out and touch them with my fingertips to stroke the feathers, feeling their softness.
“Light, please.”
“Huh?”
“I can’t see.”
“Oh, sorry.”
I focus the light on Cyrus’s hands as he measures another length of wood and begins sawing. When he straightens, I notice the downy line of dark hair beneath his navel and the slight shadow where the waistband of his running leggings is stretched across his hip bones.
“Are you cold?” I ask. “I can get you a sweater.”
“I’m OK,” he replies.
“What about a cup of tea?”
“I’d prefer a beer.”
I go inside and glimpse him through the kitchen window, telling myself to stop being so foolish. Getting two bottles of Heineken from the fridge, I open them and return to the garden.
Cyrus takes the beer and empties it in one long series of swallows. He notices that I have one too.
“Is that for me?” he asks.
I mumble and thrust the bottle towards him.
He smiles and says, “No. You have it,” before turning back to the repairs.
I’m aiming the flashlight, but my eyes stray again. This time I’m looking at his mouth and wondering what it would be like to kiss those lips, the upper one thinner and shaped like a cupid’s bow, the lower one fuller and pinker. How would it feel to touch his teeth with my tongue?
Don’t be stupid!
Foolish girl!
I am not a sexual being or a sensual one. I don’t crave physical contact or need sexual release. Yet I feel strange around Cyrus. Different.
Light spills across the grass from the open door, a golden glow with slashes of purple where the shadows are deepest. Cyrus has stopped speaking. He’s looking up, waiting for me to say something, but I haven’t been paying attention. Has he asked me a question?
He brushes dirt from his knees. “Are you OK, Evie?”
“What?”
“I asked what you wanted for dinner?”
“Oh.”
“The pub on the corner does a good steak. The fillet is this thick.” He holds his thumb and forefinger an inch apart.
“I’m a vegetarian.”
“They have other things.”
“That’d be nice,” I whisper.
56
* * *
CYRUS
* * *
Evie has pinned up her hair, letting a few carefully arranged locks fall across her cheeks, framing her face. She’s wearing mascara and eye shadow, making her eyes look enormous and her skin impossibly pale. I prefer it when she’s scrubbed clean of blandishments and I can see her freckles; when she looks her age.
We find a table in the restaurant area, away from the busy front bar, where people are watching a European Cup match on the TV, groaning or cheering at the ebb and flow of the action.
Evie is mirroring my movements, unfolding her serviette, putting it on her lap. Reading the menu. At times like this, she doesn’t seem like a damaged teenager. She is confident and articulate and trying to be normal. Practicing.
Our relationship has already crossed boundaries in professional terms because of the emotion that comes with therapy. When you hire a lawyer, it doesn’t matter if he or she believes in your innocence or if you like spending time with them. The same is true of a surgeon. As long as they do a good job, your personal feelings don’t matter. With a psychologist i
t’s different because it involves observation and trust and engagement and empathy. I am walking a tightrope when it comes to Evie because I’m not sure if I can be everything she needs—a guardian, a therapist, a friend, and a confidante.
She has a gift. She calls it a curse. Perhaps she’s right. Perhaps she’ll never lead a normal life, but I can try to protect her. If others discover what Evie can do, they’ll never let her go. Guthrie was right about that much. The questions, experiments, and clinical trials will never stop. Evie will become a guinea pig, a lab rat, a freak, a weapon. I will not let that happen.
The restaurant is short-staffed and the lone waitress is chatting to two young guys at the bar. I wave. She ignores me. One of the young men glances at Evie, trying to make eye contact. She seems oblivious. I signal to the waitress again. Nothing.
Evie gets up and weaves between tables, interposing herself between the waitress and the two men.
“Sorry if I’m interrupting your planning for tonight’s threesome, but we’re waiting to order.”
Heads turn. The waitress looks horrified. The men laugh. Evie jabs one of them in the chest with the knuckle of her forefinger. “If you don’t stop staring at me I’ll shove that glass in your face.”
His smile evaporates and he steps back, no longer certain of anything.
Returning to the table, Evie sips from her glass of water, acting as though nothing has happened.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say.
“Do what?”
“Embarrass people.”
“He was staring at me.”
“He was admiring you.”
“What?”
“You look nice tonight.”
Evie screws up her nose, embarrassed by the compliment. She doesn’t understand praise because it heightens expectations. She thinks I don’t mean it or that I should be praising someone else.
The waitress arrives, glancing at Evie nervously.
“I’ll have a rum and Coke,” says Evie. “And the mushroom risotto.”
Good Girl, Bad Girl Page 30
