Miss Harmsworth, my maths teacher, is handing back our test papers. In the bottom right corner of the last page, circled in red, is an ‘A’。 There is a message: Well, done, Evie, and a smiley face. I’ve never had an ‘A’ before. I’m usually a shaky D or a fail.
‘Only one student answered question twelve correctly,’ she says. ‘Well done, Evie.’
People turn to stare at me. Someone mutters ‘muff-diver’ and I hear the guffaws. Someone else says ‘bean-flicker’。 I don’t know what that means, but some of the boys think Miss Harmsworth is gay because she shares a house with Miss Bottari, the head of drama, who is really pretty. I’ve seen them arrive at school together, car pooling. Maybe they’re just housemates, but the boys like making crude comments.
After my classes, I avoid hanging around because nobody wants to talk to me. My car is in the teachers’ parking area because I was running late this morning. I’ve given the Mini a name – Mouse – and managed to fix the radio by using a coat hanger as an aerial. As I unlock the door, I hear Miss Bottari.
‘Excuse me, but you’re a student and you’re not supposed to park here.’
‘I have special permission,’ I say, tossing my bag onto the passenger seat. ‘On account of my disability.’
Her eyebrow lifts. ‘Really? And what would that be?’
‘I have macular degeneration.’ I have no idea what that means, but it sounds like a serious medical condition.
‘Should you be driving?’ she asks.
‘Yeah. It’s totally fine.’
‘You don’t wear glasses.’
‘My oncologist says I don’t need them.’
‘You mean your ophthalmologist?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Or maybe your optometrist?’
She knows I’m lying now, but I decide to distract her by asking her about the school musical which I know she’s casting because she’s been pleading for volunteers at every school assembly.
‘Little Shop of Horrors. Are you thinking of auditioning?’
‘Oh, I can’t sing.’
‘You could dance.’
‘I’m a triple non-threat.’
‘Oh, I think you can act, Evie,’ she says. ‘You’re very convincing.’ She turns away. ‘Tomorrow, park somewhere else.’
‘Yes, miss.’
I drive straight home, eager to show Cyrus my maths paper because I don’t normally have anything to brag about. As I come through the front door, I yell his name, but stop abruptly when I reach the kitchen. We have a visitor, a skinny guy with a short-trimmed beard and a retro ponytail that makes him look like a paedo.
‘This is Dr Baillie,’ Cyrus says. ‘He’s from Rampton.’
Another shrink.
Poppy is whining and scratching at the door.
‘Why is she locked outside?’
‘I’m allergic to dogs,’ says Dr Baillie, getting to his feet. I’m not used to gentlemanly gestures and immediately step back.
‘This is Evie,’ says Cyrus. ‘She is my lodger.’
That’s a new one. My status seems to be changing by the day.
‘Elias said you had a young lady staying,’ says Dr Baillie.
‘How was school?’ asks Cyrus.
‘Same old,’ I reply. I’m not going to boast about my maths paper in front of a stranger. I dump my tote bag on the table, rattling cups.
‘Elias is going to visit again,’ says Cyrus.
‘For how long?’
‘The weekend, maybe longer.’
‘When?’
‘He’ll come on Friday,’ says Dr Baillie. ‘I’m checking on how things went last time. Did you get to meet Elias?’
I nod.
‘What was your impression?’
Creepy as fuck, I want to say, but Cyrus is listening. ‘He was OK. A bit intense.’
‘Did he make you feel uncomfortable?’
‘Not especially.’
‘Elias will take time to adjust. We have female employees at Rampton, but he hasn’t spent much time with them, certainly not someone your age, not one-on-one.’
‘Will I be one-on-one?’ I ask.
‘Elias won’t be chaperoned on his next visit. He will be wearing an electronic monitor and be subject to geographic limits and a curfew.’
‘What curfew?’ asks Cyrus.
‘He won’t be able to leave the house unaccompanied, and he will have to be at this address by ten every evening. There will also be mandatory drug and alcohol tests. He’ll be expected to collect his medications and look after his own meals, laundry and other chores. Up until now, these things have been done for him.
‘The main thing is to prepare yourself for the long haul,’ says the doctor. ‘These first few visits are just one small part of Elias re-entering society. He might need further counselling and he will face lifelong hurdles to readjust, to find a job and a place to live. For him to succeed, he’ll need your support.’
‘He has that,’ says Cyrus.
I don’t say anything.
‘You should brace yourself for some degree of conflict,’ says Dr Baillie.
‘What sort of conflict?’ I ask.
‘You may find that Elias struggles with the simplest things. He’s been out of society for twenty years. The Internet was in its infancy when he went into Rampton. Smartphones and streaming services and social media didn’t exist. The world has changed, and he hasn’t been part of that change.
‘This may frustrate him, at first, and upset his routines. At Rampton, his life was very regimented – he knew where he had to be at any given hour – but he will find freedom more difficult. Making decisions. Bearing the consequences. I suggest you make sure he gets plenty of rest and that he continues taking his medications.’
‘And if he doesn’t?’ I ask.
‘That would not be good.’
Dr Baillie doesn’t elaborate. Instead, he continues, ‘Loneliness could be another issue. Right now, Elias is surrounded by people, but when he gets here, he will find that sometimes he is home alone. The absence of people and the silence will be deafening to him.’
‘How do we fix that?’ asks Cyrus.
‘You should try to keep him busy. Give him chores. Talk to him. Make him feel needed.’
A part of me wants to push back. Why should Cyrus have to do these things? Why should I be included?
‘You should also avoid creating any trigger events. Elias knows exactly what he did, but I suggest you remove any photographs or items that might remind him of his past actions.’
‘Like sharp objects,’ I say, trying to make a joke. It falls flat.
Dr Baillie presses on. ‘Elias will have idealised what being released will be like. And he will have forgotten how hard day-to-day life can be. You need to remember that he will always be a schizophrenic. Properly medicated, he can lead a relatively normal life; his behaviour can be tempered, his triggers deactivated, but there will be bumps along the way when his anxiety and paranoia may spike. Bumps, not cliffs.’
‘Good to hear,’ I say, earning a look from Cyrus.
Dr Baillie smiles and stands. ‘All being well, we’ll deliver him at four on Friday afternoon.’