‘These are truly awful.’
‘So were yours at that age.’
‘How do you know? Maybe I was a prodigy.’
She retrieves a stray wooden block from a crack in the sofa. ‘Do you ever want children?’
‘I haven’t thought about it.’
‘Yes, you have.’
She’s doing it again. It’s like living with a mind reader.
‘You’re worried you might not be a good father,’ she says.
‘No.’
‘Or that your kids might turn out like Elias.’
I don’t answer, but she’s closer to the truth.
After a beat she turns to study my face. ‘Could you love someone who couldn’t have children?’
‘Yes.’
‘You say that now, but you might change your mind.’
‘That’s possible.’
Another pause. ‘You know that I can’t have children – not after what they did to me.’
‘How do you feel about that?’
Her shoulders lift and drop. ‘I used not to care. Why bring a child into this fucked-up world?’
‘And now?’
‘What if a baby is the only way I’ll ever be loved?’
‘It won’t be.’
‘Do you love me?’
‘Yes.’
‘But not in that way.’
‘In the best way.’
Evie smiles sadly. We have had conversations like this before and I have tried to explain to her that her feelings towards me are due to transference – the redirecting of emotions from one person to another because they represent what you desperately want, somebody who listens, or cares.
Melody returns with an old shoebox full of bric-a-brac – expired passports, postcards, photographs, lanyards, ticket stubs and receipts. She hands me a yellowing clipping.
A nurse accused of unlawfully killing a three-day-old premature baby and causing brain damage to another, has walked free from court after the case against her collapsed.
Lilah Hooper, 28, cried and hugged her friends and family as the judge instructed the jury that the prosecution had withdrawn from the case. Two other nurses, awaiting trial on charges of criminal negligence, were also acquitted.
The case arose after a mix-up in medications that occurred in the neonatal intensive care ward at the St Jude’s Medical Centre in Nottingham, when one of the nurses mistakenly administered a dose of the wrong drug. One new-born died within hours, while another suffered permanent brain damage.
An internal investigation revealed that a pharmacy technician had stocked a cabinet with adult vials of heparin rather than Hep-Lock, a medication used to keep catheters open and flowing freely.
Judge Winston Davies, QC, instructed the jury to return a not guilty verdict against Lilah Hooper, who had denied the manslaughter of Oliver Rennie.
‘In thirty-five years as a barrister and a judge I cannot think of a more tragic case,’ Judge Davies said. ‘My heart goes out to these families but also to the young nurses involved.’
Outside the court, a solicitor read a statement from the Rennie family. He said that his clients would be pursuing civil action against the hospital and the staff responsible.
A spokesperson for the St Jude’s Medical Centre said the hospital trust was still considering whether the nurses would face disciplinary action or be allowed to return to work. The pharmacy technician had already been dismissed.
‘Why was Lilah Hooper charged with manslaughter, but not the others?’ asks Evie, who has been reading over my shoulder.
‘Lilah was the senior nurse on duty,’ says Melody. ‘Maya was new to the unit. She didn’t want to be a nurse after that. It broke her heart.’
My mind is rattling through the possibilities. Three nurses – the third one was almost certainly Daniela Linares. One attacked, one murdered, one missing – all linked to a joint tragedy. I’ve been looking at this from the wrong angle. The duck isn’t a duck after all – it’s only pretending.
56
Evie
‘Where are we going?’ I ask.
‘I’m dropping you home.’
‘But I want to come with you.’
‘Not this time.’
‘You think it has something to do with those babies.’
‘Yes.’
We are driving towards home where Elias will be waiting, watching TV, eating snacks, wondering where we’ve been. He’ll want to talk about a show he’s discovered where people swap wives or get married at first sight. I don’t want to be alone with him.
‘Will you talk to Lilah Hooper?’ I ask.
‘Yes.’
‘I thought that wasn’t allowed.’
‘This is different.’
Because there’s one rule for you and another for me, I want to say, but that sounds childish when everybody knows there have always been two sets of rules – one for people like me and another for people like Cyrus. I don’t mean men, although that’s also true. I mean people who are respected and whose opinions are valued.
‘I can show you where Lilah lives,’ I say. ‘And she’ll be less frightened if I’m there.’
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’
‘I can tell you if she’s lying.’
Cyrus seems to weigh this up as we turn into Parkside. We have reached the house. He doesn’t stop. Instead, he turns left and left again, bringing us back onto Derby Road, heading east into the city. I have so many questions, but I stay quiet because I know that Cyrus is putting the pieces together. Eventually, I begin to fidget and sigh and make clicking noises with my tongue.
‘What is it?’ he asks.
‘Why do some people find it easier to forgive?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’ve forgiven Elias for what he did, but you think there’s someone who hasn’t forgiven the nurses for what happened to those babies.’
‘We don’t know that’s the reason.’
‘But that’s what you’re thinking.’
Cyrus doesn’t answer.
‘You once told me that bearing a grudge was like mud wrestling with a pig. You both finish up dirty, but only the pig enjoys it.’
‘Please stop quoting things back to me.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s annoying.’
We’ve reached Portland Road. The lower windows are in darkness. I point to the buzzer. He presses. A light goes on. A voice crackles through the speaker. Sleepy. Anxious.
Cyrus holds up his identity card to the camera. ‘My name is Cyrus Haven, I’m a forensic psychologist, and I work for the Nottinghamshire Police. I know it’s late, but this is important. I need to ask you about Daniela Linares and Maya Kirk.’
There is a long pause. I can hear Lilah breathing.
‘Who are you with?’ she asks. I look up at the camera.
‘You’ve met Evie,’ says Cyrus. ‘She’s come to apologise.’
‘How do you know her?’
‘Evie lives with me, but this has nothing to do with Mitchell Coates.’
Well, that’s not true, I think, but keep my mouth shut. We wait, wondering if silence is her answer. A siren sounds in the distance. A dog barks. Someone yells out a window. The door mechanism clicks.