He leans down and massages his knee.
‘What happened to it?’ I ask.
‘Broke it in prison.’
‘How?’
‘A misunderstanding.’
Not the whole truth.
‘You were attacked,’ I say.
His shoulders rise and fall.
‘Why?’
‘I was a sex offender. The lowest of the low. Not as bad as the nonces, you know, the paedos and kiddie-fiddlers, but still a bottom feeder.’
‘What did they do?’
‘Two guys held me down, while another one jumped on my leg.’
I flinch and Mitch apologises. Why do people do that – say sorry for something they didn’t do?
‘Does Cyrus have any paint?’ he asks. ‘He wanted me to fix the side gate. Thought I’d give it a few coats.’
‘Did you check the shed?’
‘Some half cans that weren’t sealed properly.’ Mitch scratches his chin. ‘I could pick up some paint from a hardware store. Do a colour match.’
‘Do you need money?’
‘He can fix me up later.’
Mitch limps back into the garden to get his jacket. Watching him, I feel guilty. Cyrus’s car keys are on the hall table.
‘I could drive you,’ I say, twirling the keys on my finger.
‘If it’s no trouble, miss.’
‘Please call me Evie.’
The once red Fiat, now a faded pink, is parked beneath trees, and pigeons have been using it as target practice. I sweep leaves off the windscreen and Mitch struggles into the passenger seat, lifting his damaged leg into the footwell. Poppy jumps into my side and scampers onto the back seat.
The engine coughs, complains and spits out a cloud of smoke.
‘Nice car,’ says Mitch.
‘Are you being sarky?’
‘No. It’s very retro. When did you get your licence?’
‘Who said anything about a licence?’
I stamp on the accelerator and roar away from the kerb, aiming at the cars parked opposite before swerving back to the centre of the road.
Mitch is clutching the door handle. ‘I don’t think this is a good idea. I don’t want you breaking the law.’
‘Relax. Cyrus works for the police.’
I’m speeding towards a busy roundabout; Mitch braces both his hands on the dashboard and closes his eyes.
I slow the car and start laughing. ‘The look on your face.’
It takes a few moments before Mitch cracks a smile. I’m driving carefully now with both hands on the wheel, at positions ten and two, along Derby Road past the Wollaton Park Golf Club, before taking the exit onto Clifton Boulevard, heading south towards the River Trent.
‘I used to ride my bike around here,’ says Mitch.
‘You had a motorbike?’
‘No. A racing bike. Fancied myself as a road cyclist for a while. Joined a club, wore Lycra and went cycling every Sunday morning. A group of us went to Paris one year and watched the final leg of the Tour de France.’
I think that’s a bike race, but I don’t want to show my ignorance.
‘Did you live around here?’
‘I was renting a one-bedroom flat near the Arboretum.’ He’s talking about a park, which has lots of old trees. ‘I bought the bike to save money. I wanted to buy my own place.’
‘Is that where it happened – the attack?’
He goes quiet. ‘I shouldn’t talk about it.’
‘Why not?’
‘You’re too young.’
‘I’m twenty-one.’
‘Even so.’
I want to tell him that nothing that happened to him could be as bad as what happened to me. If this were a competition, I’d get the stuffed giraffe on the top shelf of the coconut shy.
‘Did you know her?’ I ask.
‘She lived downstairs. We dated for a while. Well, it was one date, the classic one-night stand.’
‘You were drunk.’
‘Maybe, just a little, but I fancied her. Some people say that a man can’t be friends with a woman without contemplating what it would be like to sleep with her.’
‘Then we must never be friends,’ I say.
Mitch looks horrified and starts to apologise. ‘I didn’t mean you. I would never … you’re too …’
‘Ugly?’
‘No. Can we change the subject please?’ He tugs his hat over his eyes, embarrassed. The silence grows uncomfortable. He adds, ‘You’re not ugly, by the way.’
‘Good to know. What happened after you slept with her?’
‘We both realised it was a mistake and decided to be friends.’
‘You decided, or did she?’
‘Lilah did. She was having problems at work and didn’t need me to complicate things. After that we hung out as mates. I minded her dog when she worked nights. She had a poodle called Trevor. Stupid name for a dog, I know, but Lilah thought it was hilarious.’
‘Cyrus said she was sexually assaulted.’
Mitch sucks in a breath between his teeth. ‘Someone must have followed her home from the hospital. He put a pillowcase over her head. Tied her up.’
‘Did she see his face?’
‘No.’
‘Hear his voice?’
‘No.’
‘Why did they arrest you?’
‘I lived upstairs. I had keys to her flat. The police said there was no sign of forced entry, so they figured that whoever attacked her must have been waiting for her.’
‘There must have been other evidence.’
‘They found my fingerprints in her flat and traces of my DNA on the pillowcase. Some nights I’d hang out at Lilah’s flat because I felt sorry for Trevor being all alone. And she had this big-arse TV screen in her bedroom. I’d watch football or road cycling. That’s how my DNA got on the pillow.’
‘And you told that to the police.’
‘They didn’t believe me. They said I attacked Lilah out of revenge because she dumped me after one date, but it wasn’t like that. We were mates.’
He sounds frustrated rather than angry. I pull into the parking area and circle twice before I find a spot. Reversing isn’t my strongest skill, but Mitch helps direct me. I clip a lead onto Poppy’s harness and follow Mitch towards the large automatic doors.
‘You can’t bring her in,’ he says, pointing to a sign. ‘Only guide dogs and assistance dogs are allowed.’
I put on my sunglasses. ‘She’s my assistance dog.’
Mitch starts to argue, but I’m already inside the store, walking down a wide aisle where shelves reach to the ceiling.
‘There must have been stronger evidence,’ I say, when we reach the paint section and begin looking at colour charts.
‘DNA is pretty convincing.’
‘But you could explain that.’
‘Lilah lost an earring. They found it in my flat.’
‘How is that possible?’
‘My barrister argued that the earring must have got caught in my clothing when I untied Lilah.’
‘You found her?’
‘I heard her kicking at a wall and went downstairs. She was in the bedroom. Bound and gagged. Naked. Someone had shaved her head.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know.’