‘Where did you learn to do this?’ I ask.
‘My dad was good with his hands.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘Dead. Lung cancer. Smoked two packets a day.’
‘How about your mum?’
‘She remarried. Lives in Scotland.’
‘Did she ever come and visit you?’
‘Twice a year. I think she was embarrassed by me. I was the black sheep, not the prodigal son.’
‘The who?’
‘It’s a Bible story.’
‘I like stories.’
‘It’s about these two sons of a wealthy man. One of the brothers asks for his inheritance early and then parties hard, having a good time, living the high life. When the money runs out, he goes home, where the other brother has been working hard, looking after the farm and his old father. Instead of being treated like a waster for pissing away his inheritance, the son gets welcomed home like a hero, and they throw a party in his honour. The good son is working in the fields, and nobody bothers to tell him about the party. He’s forgotten.’
‘That’s an awful story.’
‘Yeah, I used to think like that,’ says Mitch, smiling, ‘but I think I understand it now. The father said that his son was lost and now he’d been found. It’s about redemption and absolution.’
‘I don’t believe in forgiving people who hurt me.’
‘Has anyone ever hurt you?’ he asks, raising an eyebrow.
Suddenly, I want to change the conversation because I don’t want Mitch treating me like I’m damaged goods.
‘Tell me about Lilah,’ I ask.
‘She was nice. She worked as a nurse. Neonatal intensive care, looking after the premmie babies. It was a tough job.’
‘But she saved lives.’
‘Yeah, but she also had to watch some babies die, you know – the ones they couldn’t save. She said it was nature’s way, part of natural selection, but you can’t say that to grieving parents, can you?’
‘I guess not.’ I have no idea what natural selection is, but I don’t want to interrupt him.
‘She talked about quitting nursing because someone made a mistake at the hospital and she took the blame, but I can’t imagine her doing anything else.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘Don’t know. Don’t care.’
He tests the door, making sure it closes properly. ‘She used to own the flat where the attack happened. Her parents helped buy it for her. Maybe she moved back home, although I doubt that. She didn’t really like her old man. Said he was too controlling.’
‘Are you angry at her?’
‘No.’
‘But if only she’d realised.’
‘Do you know the two saddest words in the English language?’
I shake my head.
‘If only.’
Later, when Mitch is putting another coat of paint on the side gate, I take a can of Red Bull to the library, where I open my laptop and type in his name.
There aren’t many stories. One from the Nottingham Post:
A 30-year-old film editor has appeared in court charged with sexually assaulting a Nottingham nurse. Mitchell Coates of Portland Road confirmed his name, date of birth and address, but no pleas were entered. He was granted bail with conditions and his case was sent to Nottingham Crown Court, in Canal Street, to be heard on February 12.
I look for more stories. Seven months later, there was a trial.
A neighbour who terrorised a young nurse, cutting off her clothes and sexually assaulting her, has been sentenced to eight years in prison.
Mitchell Coates, 30, lived upstairs from the victim and had a key to her flat. Traces of his DNA were found on her bed and on a pillowcase used to cover her head during the attack. An item of jewellery, lost during the struggle, was later found in his washing machine.
The jury at Nottingham Crown Court was told that Coates was lying in wait for his neighbour when she arrived home shortly before midnight. She was attacked from behind and lost consciousness, before waking hours later with her arms and legs bound, her head covered, and her clothes lying on the floor.
In sentencing, the judge set a non-parole period of six years, and described Coates as a violent, arrogant, and controlling bully who had terrorised and humiliated a young woman.
‘Your lack of remorse and refusal to admit your crimes has ensured you will spend a considerable period behind bars.’
I can’t imagine Mitch being violent or arrogant or controlling. Why can’t people see what I can see?
The only other mention of the crime is a feature article about the most dangerous streets in Nottingham. Home Office figures had named the Arboretum as the worst area, with more than four hundred violent crimes in the previous twelve months. Among those highlighted was the sexual assault of a young nurse, who lived in Portland Road. It must be her.
29
Cyrus
Melody Sterling is singing a nursery rhyme to the wet-cheeked child on her lap. Her daughter. Victoria. Around her, the police are at work. Belongings are being picked up and examined. Books feathered. Drawers opened. Furniture moved. Carpets peeled back.
Something falls and breaks above our heads.
‘They’ll be gone soon,’ I say apologetically.
‘But what are they looking for?’
‘Electronic equipment. Computers. iPads. Phones. USB sticks. Memory cards.’
‘Is this about Maya? What has Dean done?’
‘We found evidence of spy cameras in Maya’s bedroom and bathroom. We believe your husband placed them there.’
Melody’s mouth opens, ready to argue, to defend him, but something makes her stop. Instead, her shoulders sag and her head drops as the air leaves her lungs. I wait as she processes this new information, watching her face change as she moves from denial, to shock, and to cold hard anger.
‘Where were the cameras?’ she asks.
‘One was in the smoke alarm in Maya’s bathroom and the other was in a teddy bear on a shelf in her bedroom.’
‘The Paddington Bear?’
‘Yes.’
‘Dean gave that to Maya for her last birthday. He used to tease her about her collection of stuffed toys, saying she’d never grow up.’
‘Is teasing all that he did to her?’
Melody doesn’t answer immediately. The light fitting on the ceiling shakes as detectives move from room to room.
‘When Dean and I first started dating, he would joke about how he couldn’t tell Maya and me apart. He had this fantasy that one night we’d switch places and Maya would be in his bed and not me.
‘He always laughed, as though he was teasing me or trying to make me jealous, but I knew that a part of him wanted her …’ The words dry up and she wets her lips. ‘It’s not as though we were ever identical. I’ve always carried more weight, particularly since the pregnancy.’ She pushes hair from Victoria’s forehead and kisses her cheek. ‘I once saw a documentary on twins. Even though we share the same genes, some of those genes can be influenced by outside events, getting turned on or off. Illness. Stress. Exercise. Nutrition. Smoking. Maya had pneumonia when she was four and I had a staph infection when I was eight. Maybe that’s why she was skinny and I’m like this.’