When I reach the top of the stairs, I hear Hoyle calling my name.
‘Before you go, I want to apologise about some of the things I said earlier – my behaviour. Arresting you. It wasn’t my finest moment.’
‘That’s perfectly OK. It was understandable.’
‘You did good work today.’
‘Thank you.’
I descend the stairs and pass through the charge room, glancing up to see a girl sitting on a plastic chair with a Labrador lying at her feet. I carry on for two more steps before I realise who it is.
Evie raises her head and groans.
36
Evie
I hate the way Cyrus looks at me when he’s disappointed. He has these wet brown eyes like those baby harp seals that get clubbed to death in Canada because rich women like to wear dead things. I wish someone would club me.
Without a word, he takes the chair next to me. Poppy sniffs at his pockets, hoping he’s brought some food. Cyrus cradles her head in his hands and rubs behind her ears. I want him to do that to me – not rub my ears, but look at me like that, with nothing but love, without asking questions.
‘I made a mistake,’ I say.
‘OK. I’m listening.’
‘I was trying to help Mitch, but I misjudged the situation.’
‘How?’
‘Well, I thought if I could find the person who accused him. And if she changed her story … If she realised …’
At that moment I look up and see Mitch being led into the charge room. Handcuffed. Head down. He has a bruise on his cheek. The officer pushes him roughly towards a bench, telling him to sit.
Without thinking, I’m on my feet, shouting, ‘Let him go! He didn’t do anything wrong.’
Cyrus wraps his arms around me, pulling me back.
‘No! Please. This is my fault,’ I yell.
Mitch glances up and away again. The arresting officer talks to the sergeant, ‘Mitchell Coates. Resisting arrest. Breaching parole. He’s going back inside.’
Cyrus has lifted me off the ground, my feet are wheeling in mid-air. He’s talking in my ear. Telling me I’m making things worse.
‘It wasn’t Mitch. It was me. Please. Help him.’
‘Not like this, Evie. Quiet now.’
My legs stop churning and my muscles relax and my eyes splinter with tears.
‘You wait here,’ he says, making me sit on a chair.
He crosses the room to where Mitch is being processed. I hear some of their conversation and lip-read the rest, or maybe I’m putting words into their mouths.
‘I don’t know what they’re talking about,’ says Mitch. ‘I haven’t been near Lilah. I don’t even know where she lives now.’
Cyrus glances back at me. I can’t meet his eyes.
Mitch is photographed and fingerprinted. An officer yells that the prison transport is coming. Cyrus returns. He expects me to make excuses or to push back, but I have no defence.
‘Mitch didn’t send me there. I found the address. I wanted to see if she was lying.’
‘That doesn’t matter, Evie. It’s not allowed. You can’t identify or approach the victim of a sexual assault.’
‘But she only thinks Mitch attacked her. She’s not sure.’
‘She is protected. Nothing changes that.’
Mitch is being led away. His boots still have grass stains from our garden. His jeans are speckled with paint from the side gate.
‘What’s going to happen?’ I ask.
‘He’ll serve the rest of his sentence.’
‘Can he appeal?’
‘There is no appeal process. All he can do is make representations to the parole board.’
‘When?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What if I make a statement?’
‘It won’t matter.’
‘Because nobody believes me.’
Cyrus wants to deny it, but he knows that it’s true. Nobody trusts what I tell them because ‘I can’t lie straight in bed’ – his words not mine. What if I don’t want to be straight? I’m not an arrow, or a road or a ruler. Being bent is less boring.
‘Come on,’ says Cyrus, taking Poppy by the collar.
‘Where are we going?’
‘Home.’
Sometimes, when my world is washed in grey, I go to dark places in my mind. Lonely places. Cruel places. The only way to escape this is to hide; to discover somewhere no bigger than a crawlspace, where nobody can find me. I push boxes aside and squeeze between crates and old furniture in the attic, before curling up on a bedspread that smells of mothballs and mildew. Closing my eyes, I listen to the ticks and wheezes of the radiator, the cars that pass outside, the voices of children in the park. Time slows down. Time stops. And my skin registers the fall in temperature as it grows dark outside.
Next to me, on the narrow sill of the attic window, I have my most precious things – the button from my mother’s coat and my collection of coloured glass that looks like gemstones. When I hold the button in my fist, I can remember what my mother looked like and the sound of her voice and how she smelled.
She was wearing that coat when I last saw her. I clung to her, and they had to prise my fingers apart. It was only later, when I opened my hand, that I saw the button, which must have come loose in the struggle.
A creak on the stairs. A gentle knock.
‘Are you hungry?’ asks Cyrus.
‘No.’
‘I made pasta.’
Silence fills every corner. I wait to hear his weight on the stairs, but he’s still there. A moment later, a box slides aside and I see his face.
‘Leave me alone, please.’
‘This is cosy,’ he replies, squeezing in beside me. He sits with his back against the wall, hugging his knees. His socked feet almost touch mine. We sit like that for a long while, listening to each other breathing.
‘What’s with the button?’ he asks.
‘It belonged to my mother.’
‘You don’t talk about her.’
‘It won’t bring her back.’
Silence. Breathing.
‘Cyrus?’
‘Yeah.’
‘How long will Mitch have to serve?’
‘Another two years.’
That’s how much I have cost him. Two years of hating me, of cursing my name.
‘Sometimes I wish I was dead,’ I say.
‘Don’t say that.’
‘Everyone would be better off.’
‘Not me.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I think you are the most fascinating, challenging, infuriating, exciting, unknowable person that I’ve ever met, and I want to see how you turn out.’
‘What if this is how I turn out?’
‘Well, that would be just fine.’
I gaze into his face, looking for the lie, but can’t see one. Maybe I’m not so good at picking them. Maybe he’s getting better at hiding them.
I am weeping now, head down, hands over my eyes.
‘Evie?’
I can’t answer.
‘Evie, listen to me.’
I feel him shuffle closer and his hand touches my head and strokes my hair.
‘You are the bravest person I’ve ever met. You have been forged by fire. Don’t give up, OK? Never give up.’
He leans forward and wraps his arms around me, pulling my head against his chest.