‘Yeah. I was a few years ahead. You’re that kid whose family got killed by your brother – the schizo.’
Melody suggests he be quiet. He ignores her.
‘You found the bodies, yeah? That must have been rough. I heard it was a bloodbath.’
‘I don’t think he wants to talk about it,’ says Melody.
‘What are you now – some sort of a shrink?’
‘A forensic psychologist.’
‘Like Cracker?’
He’s talking about a BBC series from the nineties. Robbie Coltrane played a chain-smoking, gambling-addicted psychologist who helped police solve crimes.
‘I’m nothing like Cracker,’ I say, embarrassed for Melody more than myself.
‘What happened to your brother?’ asks Dean. ‘Is he still banged up?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thank God for that, eh?’
He retakes his seat and picks up a glossy fashion magazine, leafing through the pages, looking at the models. Almost as an afterthought he asks when they ‘get the house back’。
‘Pardon?’
‘Rohan’s house. I left some tools there. I wanted to pick them up.’
‘Dean retiled the bathrooms,’ explains Melody.
‘It’s a crime scene,’ I say.
‘Yeah, but that won’t be forever,’ says Dean. ‘I need my tile cutter and laser level. Won’t take me a minute to get them.’
‘That’s not possible.’
Dean wants to argue but changes his mind. I offer to get Melody a tea or a coffee from a machine outside, but she wisely chooses to stick with water. I take the chair next to her and ask if she minds answering a few more questions.
She nods and seems to steel herself.
I begin with gentle queries, building up a picture of Maya’s life. Her likes and dislikes. Passions. Relationships. Schooling.
‘Did she own a dog?’
‘No. Why?’
‘Having a dog-grooming business, I just assumed …’
‘Dad was allergic to them. Maya always loved dogs. She used to work in an animal shelter after school and talked about becoming a vet, but she didn’t get the A-levels. She studied science and worked as a nurse for a few years. I really thought she’d found her vocation. She made great friends and moved out of home.’
‘Why did she stop?’
‘Something happened. A medical mix-up. Maya didn’t feel the same about nursing after that. She quit her job and went travelling – backpacking through South-East Asia and fruit picking in Australia. She came back for my wedding and to help look after Dad.’
‘Did she have many boyfriends?’
‘Compared to me, yes, but I’ve always been easy to please.’ She says it in a teasing way, knowing that Dean is listening.
‘When was her last serious relationship?’
‘A while back. Daryl Branagh. He worked at the building company.’ Melody drops her voice to a whisper. ‘Before that, she was seeing a married man for a while, which embarrassed her, because she didn’t want to be a home-wrecker. He promised to leave his wife, but Maya didn’t come down in the last shower. She knew he was lying.’
‘But she stayed with him?’
‘He took her away on nice weekends – to Scotland and the Cotswolds.’
‘You described Maya as outgoing and friendly. Did she make eye contact with people when she passed them in the street? Men, I mean. Would she smile, or say hello?’
‘She was friendly.’
‘Did she like to draw attention to herself? Was she flirtatious, or sexually provocative?’
‘She liked wearing nice clothes, but nothing too revealing.’
‘Oh, c’mon,’ says Dean, who seems bored at being left out of the conversation. ‘She was a party girl. Remember at university? She would change boyfriends more often than she changed her underwear. That’s when she wore underwear.’
Melody gives him a death stare. ‘That’s my sister!’
Dean realises his mistake and reaches out to take her hand. Melody brushes it aside angrily. ‘You didn’t have to come.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—’
‘I know you don’t want to be here. Just leave.’
I’m trapped in the middle of a domestic, where the anger feels practised and tired and worn into a familiar groove.
A bereavement counsellor arrives and saves my discomfort. Maya’s body is ready for viewing.
‘If you’d rather not see her directly, I can show you photographs,’ she explains.
‘No, I’m here now,’ says Melody.
‘I should warn you that she doesn’t have any hair.’
‘Why?’
‘She was found that way.’
The counsellor knocks gently on an adjoining door, which is opened by Cassie, who is still wearing her medical scrubs. She steps back to allow Melody into the spartan room, which has a trolley-bed and a body outlined beneath a white sheet.
Cassie takes the corners of the shroud and pulls it back, revealing Maya’s face. I hear an intake of breath.
‘Your beautiful hair,’ whispers Melody, who reaches out and touches her sister’s cheek. ‘You silly old thing. You’ve left me all alone.’
24
Evie
Cyrus has been in the library all evening. I know he’s looking at crime-scene photographs and other grisly things, which is why he has the door closed.
I heat up leftovers and knock on the closed door, asking if he’s hungry.
‘I’ll eat later,’ he says from within, sounding impossibly far away.
‘It will get cold.’
I wait, leaning my head against the painted wood. I raise my hand and knock again.
‘Are you going to ever talk to me again?’
‘Yes.’
‘When?’
Silence. I feel a desolate wind sweep through empty spaces inside me.
‘Do you want me to leave? I mean – move out – live somewhere else.’
‘I want you to stop interfering in my life.’
‘Ditto,’ I whisper, but not quietly enough.
‘I heard that,’ he says.
The door opens and I stumble inwards, off balance. Cyrus reaches for me, but I correct myself and brush his hand away, surprised by his touch. He apologises and I wish I could do the same, but the word sorry has never rolled easily off my tongue. It’s such a small word, but it gets caught in my mouth, or my throat, or my brain.
‘Why did you do it, Evie?’
‘Because you were lonely, and I wanted to find someone nice for you.’
‘I’m not lonely.’
‘Yes, you are. I hear you at night, lifting weights, moaning, hurting yourself.’
‘I’m exercising.’
‘You’re punishing yourself when you’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘That’s not your concern.’
I show him my phone. ‘Look at all the people who swiped right for you.’
‘I’m not interested.’
‘Some of them are really nice. I’ve been vetting them.’
‘Catfishing is a crime.’
‘I’m not catfishing. It’s matchmaking.’
Cyrus sighs in frustration. He never raises his voice. Sometimes I wish he’d shout at me or hit me because I understand that sort of treatment. I’ve been beaten, starved and denied affection by people who used cruelty and small acts of kindness to make me feel grateful and compliant, until each new bruise became another merit badge.