I try one of the intercom buttons. Nobody answers. I try another.
‘Yeah?’ says a male voice, sounding annoyed.
‘I’m looking for Lilah.’
‘Wrong address.’
He hangs up. I buzz again.
‘It’s really important I find her,’ I say. ‘It’s about her dog.’
‘Flat two. She works shifts.’
I try to thank him, but he’s gone again. Prick!
Nobody answers the buzzer.
‘We’ll come back,’ I tell Poppy. ‘Let’s go for a walk.’
As we turn back onto Portland Road, I notice a food truck parked near the corner. A picture of a sombrero and a cactus are painted on the side, next to a menu of Mexican street dishes. My stomach gurgles. I haven’t eaten since yesterday. A man is lifting the sides.
‘Are you open?’ I ask.
‘Not yet.’
‘When?’
He’s about to answer when I notice a woman turning the corner. She’s walking on the far side of the road. Her overcoat is unbuttoned. Underneath, she’s wearing dark blue trousers and a light blue tunic – a nurse’s uniform. Her long hair is pinned to her scalp and she’s chatting on her phone.
Retreating to the stone steps outside the flats, I take a seat and pull Poppy between my knees. The woman appears. She ends her phone call and searches in her shoulder bag for her keys. She’s not looking as she climbs the steps and doesn’t see me until the last moment, when she lets out a squeak of alarm.
I act equally surprised.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’
‘That’s OK. We surprised each other.’
She steps around me and stops. ‘Are you waiting for someone?’
‘My uncle Mitch.’
As I say the words, her eyes widen, but she pretends that she didn’t hear me.
‘Mitch Coates. He lives here,’ I say.
She turns away and puts a key in the lock. ‘No, he doesn’t.’
‘This is his address. I came here once, years ago.’
‘He left.’
‘Where did he go?’
‘Away from here.’
She doesn’t want to say he went to jail. Poppy is trying to be friendly, wagging her tail. Lilah gets tangled in her lead and has to unwrap it from around her legs.
‘I have to find him,’ I say. ‘It’s really important.’
‘I can’t help you,’ says Lilah, who pushes open the heavy door. I let out a moan and rest my head on my knees and pretend to cry. I have no idea if she’s watching, or if she’s gone inside, but Poppy seems to find me convincing. She puts her head on my lap, wanting to comfort me.
After an age, I hear Lilah’s voice. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Evie.’
‘Where do you live?’
‘London.’
‘How did you get here?’
‘I caught the train and I walked from the station. I don’t have enough money to get back and I don’t want to go. I’m going to stay with Uncle Mitch.’
‘That’s not a good idea.’
‘Do you know where he is? Can you call him?’
‘No,’ she says. ‘You should go home.’
‘I can’t.’
She frowns. ‘I’ll give you the money for a train fare. You can pay me back.’
‘It’s not that. My mum has this boyfriend, Barry, who’s always trying to walk in when I’m in the shower or getting dressed.’
‘Sounds like a creep.’
‘Totally. Gives me the ick.’
‘Did you tell your mum?’
‘She doesn’t believe me or she can’t be arsed.’
‘Go to the police.’
‘It’s Barry’s word against mine and Mum is going to side with him.’
Lilah is standing on the landing, hands on hips, deciding what to do.
‘Your uncle can’t help you.’
‘Why not?’
She sighs. ‘Come inside. I’ll make you a cup of tea, but then you have to leave.’
‘What about Poppy?’
‘Does she get on with other dogs?’
‘Loves them.’
‘Well, she can come and meet mine. I’m Lilah, by the way.’
I wipe my nose on my sleeve and follow her inside. As the door opens, I hear scampering sounds, claws on hardwood, and a large poodle appears around the corner, wagging a tail which is tipped with a ball of fur.
‘How are you, old boy?’ says Lilah, crouching to hug the poodle, who seems to creak a little with age. Trevor is more interested in Poppy. The two of them circle and sniff and circle some more.
Lilah dumps her bag on a chair, before pulling the pins from her hair and shaking it loose. She looks at herself in the hall mirror and touches the skin beneath her eyes. She’s come from a night-shift and is clearly tired.
‘You have lovely hair,’ I say. She looks at me oddly and touches it protectively.
‘I didn’t know Mitch had a sister.’
‘Just the one. I’m his only niece. That makes me his favourite. Uncle Mitch said that if I ever needed somewhere to crash, I could stay with him.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘Not for a long time. I know he went to prison, but he’s out now.’
‘Do you know why he was there?’
‘It was a mistake. Mum said he was innocent.’
‘Did she?’
We’re in the kitchen. Lilah fills the kettle and puts teabags into two mugs. She wraps the string tags around the handles to stop them falling into the tea. Papa is the only other person I’ve ever seen do this. She takes a carton of milk from the fridge and puts a bowl of sugar on the table.
‘I’d offer you a biscuit, but I refuse to have them in the place.’
‘Work of the devil according to my mum,’ I say, even as my stomach rumbles. ‘Uncle Mitch was given parole, which is some sort of early mark for good behaviour. I thought he might come back here.’
‘I hope not!’ she says. ‘He’s not supposed to come anywhere near me.’
‘Why?’
She gives me a strange look and I act surprised, saying, ‘You’re her! The woman who said she was attacked.’
‘I was attacked. And I think you should apologise or leave.’
‘Don’t take it the wrong way. I’m only saying what Mum said. She called you a …’ I stop myself.
‘Go on. What did she call me?’
‘She said you lied and stitched him up.’
‘I did no such thing.’
‘Maybe you made a mistake.’
‘No. He left me naked, bound and gagged on the bed. He shaved off my hair.’
‘But you didn’t see his face.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Mum told me.’
‘She’s wrong. Your uncle deserved to go to jail.’
There it is – the flicker of doubt. It’s in her eyes or her voice or shimmering in the air between us. Sometimes it’s not a lie I see, but an absence of truth, or the illusion of truth, rather than certainty.
Poppy hears the raised voices and comes padding into the kitchen, putting her velvety head on my lap. I scratch behind her ears and say, in a childlike voice, ‘Have you been playing with Trevor?’