Like what? Type 2 diabetes.
Cyrus is at the other security table. He looks at me as if to say, ‘I told you so.’
‘You can pick it up as you’re leaving,’ says the guard, putting the box on a shelf behind him.
Cyrus is waved through. He’s carrying some superhero comics and graphic novels, as well as writing paper and a deck of playing cards.
‘What am I going to give him?’ I ask, as we wait for our escort.
‘You can give him this.’ He hands me a photograph. ‘I found it in the attic.’
It’s a picture of two barefoot boys sitting in the bones of a treehouse made from planks of wood nailed across the branches. A knotted rope hangs down the trunk. The older boy has his hand on the younger boy’s shoulder and the two of them are beaming at the camera.
In a different, parallel universe, those boys grew up and became men together. They were the best man at each other’s wedding, and godparents to their first-born child. They argued about football and Brexit and Scottish independence even though both supported the same side. I would have liked to have lived in that universe, but perhaps Cyrus would be different if Elias hadn’t done what he did. Maybe he wouldn’t have become a psychologist and visited Langford Hall and met me. I wouldn’t be here without him.
‘Well, look who the cat dragged in,’ says Oscar, grinning with his gold tooth. He doffs an invisible hat and bows. ‘How are you, Evie?’
‘Very well, Oscar. Thank you for asking.’
This has become our running joke, being extra polite to each other like we’re meeting at a garden party at Buckingham Palace.
We follow him through fortified doors, along a covered path that intersects a large grassy lawn with raised garden beds at the borders. We pass an oversized chess set where the queen is missing her head and one of the bishops appears to be humping a horse. I know it’s called a knight, but it will always be a horse to me.
Eventually, we arrive at an accommodation block, and are taken to a small lounge with two sofas and a low table and a bookcase full of board games and jigsaw puzzles. The furniture is bolted down, and a camera in one corner of the ceiling looks like a bulging eye.
Elias arrives and is patted down one final time before being allowed to enter the lounge. He grins and does a little jig, which makes his oversized body shake.
‘You came.’
‘Of course,’ says Cyrus, but Elias is looking at me, not him.
‘How are you?’ he asks. ‘Have you been well?’
‘Very well, thank you,’ I say, still playing the game.
‘Sit down. Sit down,’ he says. ‘Not there. Here. This chair. You get a view. You can see the trees.’
Oscar has stayed in the lounge but is very good at blending into the background. Right now, he’s playing draughts against himself.
Cyrus gives Elias the comics and graphic novels and other gifts.
‘I brought you this,’ I say.
As I’m passing the photograph across the table, I wonder if it’s the wrong gift. What if it makes him sad, or brings up bad memories? Elias doesn’t say anything. He’s holding the picture in both hands.
‘Where did you find this?’ he croaks, his eyes shining.
‘I can take it back,’ I say.
‘No. It’s wonderful. Thank you.’
I want to say that he should thank Cyrus, but I’m selfish and it doesn’t matter, and I know Cyrus won’t mind if I take the credit.
‘I also have these,’ says Cyrus, giving him two letters. The envelopes have been opened and taped shut again by the security guards.
Elias opens the first, which is written on pale blue paper with a floral design around the edges. He smells the page, which must be scented. He reads slowly, pausing every so often to relay the news.
‘Lilah is selling her flat and looking for a house to buy, somewhere with a yard for Trevor. And she might be able to come and visit me next month. Look, she included a photograph.’ He shows us a picture – a selfie of Lilah and Trevor sitting on the front steps. Trevor has his tongue out, trying to lick the camera.
Elias opens the second letter.
‘Guess what? Daniela is engaged. She and Martyn are getting married in the summer. They say I’m invited to the wedding, but they know I probably can’t make it. Do you think I should ask Dr Baillie?’
‘You should,’ says Cyrus. ‘And if you can’t make it, I’ll bring you some wedding cake.’
‘I’ll write back to them tonight,’ says Elias. ‘It’s nice having penfriends.’ He turns to me expectantly. ‘Are you going to write to me?’
‘I’m not very good with words.’
I get his sad eyes.
‘I will keep coming to see you.’
‘Even better.’
Elias grows quiet. ‘I have something for you.’
I think he means Cyrus, but he’s looking at me.
‘Hold out your hand and close your eyes.’
Nervously, I do as he asks. His hand is twice the size of mine. He places something in my palm and closes my fingers over it. Even without looking I know what it is. My mother’s tortoiseshell button.
‘Where did you find it?’ I croak.
‘It was under one of the boxes.’
‘You’ve had it all along.’
‘I’m sorry. I thought it might bring me luck.’
It didn’t bring it to me, I want to say, but I’m so happy I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I’ll decide later, when I’m in the attic, hiding between the boxes, with the button on the window sill.
Wheels and cups rattle in the corridor as a tea trolley arrives. Oscar manoeuvres it through the door and Elias jumps to his feet, checking that we have enough cups, teabags, milk and sugar.
‘I ordered us the carrot cake,’ he announces. Another ritual.
And this is how we spend the next forty minutes, sipping tea and eating cake and making small talk, until Oscar tells us that it’s time to bounce. Elias waves to us from the door of the lounge and watches from the window as we take the covered walkway back the way we came.
‘Will he ever get out of here?’ I ask.
‘Yes,’ says Cyrus.
I stop and tug on his sleeve, making him turn and look at me. ‘Say that again.’
‘One day Elias will be free.’
I nod, satisfied, and hook my arm through his, as we walk out of the hospital, into the parking area. For a fleeting moment I consider his answer and wonder if Cyrus has discovered a way to deal with my questions. Rather than lying, he gives me the sort of answers that have more than one meaning.
One day Elias will be free, like all of us.
77
Cyrus
Takeout Tuesday. Evie’s choice. An Indian feast: butter chicken, beef korma, basmati rice, chapatis and lots of side dishes. She takes off the cardboard lids and puts spoons in the containers.
‘You over-ordered again,’ I say.
‘No, she didn’t,’ says Mitch. ‘And I’m paying.’ He pulls a bottle of Prosecco from the fridge. ‘I got a job today.’
‘Doing what?’
‘This big online gamer wants me to edit his Twitch stream and post them on YouTube. And he’s recommended me to his friends. One of them has twelve million followers on TikTok.’