Lilah is waiting for us. She’s wearing a dressing gown over striped cotton pyjamas and is holding Trevor by his collar. He licks at my hand, remembering me.
Another small lounge room, this one lit by table lamps and smelling of dog. A sad-looking potted plant is almost leafless. Lilah takes the armchair, curling her feet beneath her. Cyrus sits opposite on the sofa, while I put a cushion on the floor where I can play with Trevor.
‘This is about the babies, isn’t it?’ She takes a shuddering breath. ‘I was going to come forward, but I was …’
She doesn’t finish. I wonder what word she’s missing. Frightened. Faint-hearted. Selfish.
‘Daniela and Maya were the other nurses,’ says Cyrus, wanting confirmation.
Lilah nods.
‘When did you last see them?’
‘Maya – not for years. I saw Daniela at St Jude’s occasionally. I’m a theatre nurse now and she’s in maternity. Have they found her?’
‘The police are still looking,’ says Cyrus, using his therapist voice, which makes you feel like you’re being dipped in hot chocolate. ‘I need to know what happened to the babies.’
Lilah picks at the polish on her toenails. ‘It was a Sunday night. We were short-staffed. There were three new-borns in the neonatal ICU. Two of them were premmies and being kept in incubators. The third needed a heart operation.’ She pauses and takes an extra breath. ‘Have you ever heard of Hep-Lock?’
‘Explain it to me.’
‘It’s an intravenous solution which is injected into the IV catheter after the IV line has been inserted into the vein. It’s designed to stop blood flowing back into the catheter where it can clot and prevent the flow of the IV medication. We use it a lot with premature babies.
‘I sent Maya to get the Hep-Lock from the pharmacy cabinet. She came back with heparin – a blood thinner. The boxes were almost the same colour, light blue and dark blue, and the vials were identical. We administered the wrong drug – an adult dose, a thousand times stronger than a baby can take.’
‘All three babies?’
‘No, two of them.’
‘When did you realise?’
‘Babies are susceptible to heparin overdoses because of their weight, but the changes are quite subtle, so we didn’t think anything was wrong until they started bleeding and had trouble breathing.
‘I raised the alarm. The doctors arrived and tried to reverse the effects of the heparin, but it was too late. One baby was already dead and the other grew sicker. She suffered permanent brain damage.’ Lilah’s voice thickens. ‘We didn’t cover anything up. We told the truth to the hospital and the parents and the police – but we didn’t reveal which of us had made the mistake.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it wasn’t fair,’ says Lilah. ‘I took responsibility. I was in charge.’
‘Did Maya administer the drug?’ asks Cyrus.
‘It doesn’t matter. I should have checked. The pharmacy technician shouldn’t have put adult heparin in the cabinet. But we were all so busy. Exhausted.’
‘You were charged with manslaughter,’ says Cyrus.
‘The case was dropped.’
‘What happened afterwards?’
‘The families were furious. I don’t blame them. The hospital had a disciplinary hearing. Maya quit. Daniela and I were suspended. I offered to resign, but they were short of nurses. They always are.’
‘Surely the families sued?’
‘The hospital settled. I wasn’t called as a witness.’
Cyrus leans back and stretches his arms above his head. His shirtsleeves slide down his forearms, revealing a hummingbird and a house sparrow tattooed above his wrists. He glances at me. She’s been telling the truth.
‘How long after the case collapsed were you attacked?’ he asks.
Lilah shoots a glance at me. ‘What has that got to do with anything? You think I sent the wrong person to prison?’
‘A jury did that – not you.’
Lilah shakes her head. Hair swings back and forth. ‘Mitch attacked me.’
‘But you’re not sure,’ I say.
Cyrus wants me to be quiet. He doesn’t need to say as much. I can tell.
‘You can understand why it’s worth investigating,’ he says. ‘You, Maya and Daniela were all involved. You were attacked. Maya was murdered. Daniela is missing. Maya had her head shaved, just like you. Her arms were bound with rope.’
Lilah presses the palms of her hands over her eyes. ‘It was Mitch. He had my earring … They found it upstairs.’ When she shows her face again, there is a different emotion. ‘Oh, God, what if I was wrong?’
‘Let’s take this slowly,’ says Cyrus. ‘Eight years is a long time to wait between attacks. The police are testing the rope used to bind you and Maya. If it matches, we’ll know it’s the same man.’
‘What if it’s not Mitch,’ says Lilah, looking miserable. Before Cyrus can answer, she realises something else. ‘Am I in danger? I mean, if he took Maya and Daniela …’
‘He may feel that you’ve already been punished,’ says Cyrus. ‘But you should take precautions. Is there someone you can call?’
Lilah looks at her phone. ‘It’s after midnight. My mother would have a heart attack.’
‘You can come and stay with us,’ I say, glancing at Cyrus for confirmation.
Lilah hesitates, caught in two minds. She barely knows us.
‘Or I can stay,’ I say. ‘I’ll sleep on the sofa.’
I’m expecting Lilah to dismiss the idea, or for Cyrus to disagree, but neither of them says a word. Straight away I wish I could change my mind. Why do I care about this woman? Her evidence put Mitch in prison.
‘I’ll find you some pyjamas,’ says Lilah, who goes to her bedroom.
When she’s gone, I turn to Cyrus. ‘Are you OK with this?’
‘I think it’s a good thing.’
‘Why?’
‘You can’t always hide, Evie. Sometimes you have to show you’re not afraid.’
‘I’m not afraid.’
‘Good.’
Lilah calls from the bedroom. ‘I don’t have anything your size.’
‘A T-shirt will be great,’ I reply.
Cyrus is still looking at me.
‘Lock the door when I’m gone. In the morning, bring Lilah to our place. Wait for me to call.’
57
Cyrus
Silence in the pre-dawn. I have barely slept. I creep downstairs to the library and turn on the desk lamp. The pool of light reaches the mantelpiece and throws shadows on the walls. I look up, expecting to see a family photograph, but then I remember taking it down before Elias arrived.
The framed portrait was taken for a Christmas card when the twins were seven and I was nine and Elias fifteen. Mum made us wear matching sweaters with elves on the front and Dad has a Santa hat, tilted at a cocky angle. The only one of us not smiling is Elias, who participated under protest and adopted a defiant glare that he probably thought was rebellious, but just looks sulky.
Mum has a fixed smile and gritted teeth, having threatened to cancel Christmas if we didn’t sit still and ‘stop mucking about’ because the photographer was costing money, even though she’d won the session as a lucky door prize at a school trivia night.