When She Was Good

by Robotham, Michael

  Each time Uncle arrived at the house, Mrs Quinn acted surprised, as though he’d caught her unawares, but she knew all along he was coming because she’d make me have a bath and wash my hair and wear a new dress.

  ‘Remember to call him Uncle,’ she said.

  I didn’t reply.

  ‘Are you listening?’

  ‘But he’s not my uncle.’

  ‘He looks after you.’

  Uncle always arrived late. ‘Don’t you look pretty,’ he said, pulling me into his arms, sniffing my hair. Then he ran his finger down my cheek and under my chin, making me look up to meet his eyes. ‘Have you been a good girl?’

  ‘Yes, Uncle.’

  ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been around. Did you miss me?’

  ‘Yes, Uncle.’

  ‘That’s a lovely dress. Who bought you that?’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘Give me a twirl. That’s it.’

  Mrs Quinn got antsy because I was getting all his attention.

  ‘Dinner is ready,’ she announced. ‘I’ve cooked you osso buco.’

  ‘Ah, Queenie, you’re too good to me,’ he said, unfurling a serviette with a flap of his wrist. He pulled my chair closer, saying, ‘Sit next to me.’

  Mrs Quinn served the food.

  I didn’t eat. I couldn’t swallow. For a while nobody said anything. Food went into Uncle’s mouth. Vegetables. Polenta.

  ‘Eat your dinner,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘Mrs Quinn has made you this lovely meal.’

  ‘She made it for you.’

  He gave me a look that should have been a warning. I picked up my fork. I moved a mound of polenta away from the gravy and the meat. I tried to send him a message that said: Don’t look at me.

  He smacked his hand on the table next to my plate. ‘Eat your fucking food!’

  I held my fork in my hand. I wanted to drive it through his eyes, but instead I put it down.

  ‘Did you hear me?’ he screamed, his face twisting, spit flying. He picked up a spoon and scooped up polenta and gravy and vegetables and aimed it at my mouth. I turned my face away. Food smeared across my cheek and dropped into my lap, staining my new dress.

  He shovelled more. I clenched my teeth. The spoon bashed at my lips. I wanted to cry out, but that would have meant opening my mouth.

  ‘She’ll eat when she’s hungry,’ said Mrs Quinn.

  Uncle let go of me and turned to her. ‘What did you say?’

  Blood rushed from her face. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Are you telling me how to discipline my own niece in my own house?’

  ‘No, sir, but …’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘I didn’t mean …’

  Uncle pushed his plate away. ‘It’s too salty. You over-season everything.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Mrs Quinn started clearing the table. Uncle finished his wine and poured another glass.

  ‘What’s for pudding?’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t make any. You normally don’t want … I can make you something.’

  He winked at me and laughed. ‘Don’t be so sensitive, Queenie. I’m joking.’

  He lit a cigar and drank more wine. The plates were cleared.

  Later that night he came for me. I was still awake, listening for his footsteps. The door opened and the moon cast his shadow across the floor. I felt his arms slip under my body. He carried me to his bed and whispered my proper name.

  I have never told anyone what happened to me … what they did. Uncle and the man with the crooked teeth, and the one with milky eyes, and the fat man who had two dachshunds, and the woman who made me dress up like a boy. The aunts. The uncles. The fathers. The teachers. The touchers.

  16

  Cyrus

  The drive back to Nottingham passes in a blur. I keep telling myself that I love Elias and want what’s best for him, but that doesn’t extend to my wanting his freedom. I know I am supposed to separate the person from the act, to hate the sin but forgive the sinner. I’ve tried and failed. A better me, a kinder soul, an empath, a saint, could give Elias the absolution he’s seeking. I can’t.

  Poppy hears me open the front door and starts barking from the laundry. When I let her into the house, she pushes past my legs, running from room to room, looking for Evie. She does that every day, living in hope that Evie might come back and live with me.

  Most of the lower floor of the house has been rebuilt and redecorated since the fire. I have a new kitchen, library and sitting room. A few pieces of furniture were saved and repaired, including my antique desk and a chesterfield sofa that belonged to my grandparents. This was their house once, but they left it to me when they retired to the south coast.

  Only three photographs survived the blaze, including my least favourite – an official family portrait taken at a studio in Nottingham. My mother insisted the whole family wear matching tartan jumpers, which made us look like the Bay City Rollers.

  The twins were seven, I was nine and Elias just turned fifteen. Dad has this painted-on smile that looks more like a grimace and Mum is muttering threats about cancelling our holiday to France, if we don’t stop ‘mucking about’. The button was pressed, the shutter blinked, and the moment was captured for posterity. Four years later everybody in the photograph was dead except for Elias and me. Some pictures tell stories that should never be told, not even in whispers.

  It’s Friday night, which means a six-pack of beer and a takeaway curry. My local Indian, the Taj of Beeston, has my order on computer: butter chicken, mixed vegetable korma, pilau rice, chapatti and raita. I pick up the beer while I’m waiting, never more than a six-pack. I take my future alcoholism seriously but slowly.

  The doorbell sounds as I’m spooning curry on to a plate from a foil container. I spill sauce on to my new pine table. Cursing, I wipe it up quickly, hoping the turmeric won’t stain the wood.

  I glance through the peephole, but nobody is waiting on the steps. Opening the door, I see a lone figure lifting the latch on the front gate, walking away.

  ‘Can I help you?’ I ask.

  The figure turns and pushes back a hood.

  ‘I thought nobody was home,’ says Sacha Hopewell.

  ‘You didn’t wait very long.’

  She looks over her shoulder at the footpath. ‘I changed my mind.’

  ‘Can I change it back?’

  She hesitates.

  ‘Please. Come in.’

  She’s carrying a small canvas bag hooped over her shoulder. After a moment more of thought, she retraces her way along the path and up the steps. I hold the door open as she passes. She’s wearing dungarees and Timberland boots beneath an oilskin overcoat.

  Noticing my new floorboards, she begins to take off her boots. I tell her it’s not necessary. She does it anyway.

  ‘Are you rich?’ she asks, glancing up the staircase.

  ‘It was my grandparents’ house.’

  She sniffs the air. ‘You’ve been redecorating.’

  ‘I had a fire.’

  Sacha moves from room to room on the ground floor. Some people walk into a stranger’s house and act as though they’re in a museum or a church, speaking in whispers and not touching anything. Sacha is different. She picks things up and puts them down. She flicks though books, opens my turntable and looks at my record collection.

  Her red hair is plaited and pinned up high like an oversized ballet dancer’s bun. A stray lock pulls free and she tucks it behind her ear.

  ‘How did you get here?’ I ask.

  ‘Two buses.’

  ‘You must have been travelling all day.’

  She doesn’t answer, but notices the takeaway containers.

  ‘Are you hungry? Have some. I always order too much. Eyes bigger than my stomach.’

  ‘My mother used to say that,’ she says.

  I pull out a chair and get another plate, serving out the curry because I know she’ll take too little.

  �
��Would you like a beer?’

  ‘No.’

  She has taken off her coat and hung it over her chair, but her bag is resting near her feet, as though she’s ready to leave at a moment’s notice.

  I make small talk, asking about her parents. Has she been to Nottingham before? Does she have any siblings? Her answers are yes or no, without elaboration because she doesn’t trust me yet.

  ‘What have you been doing in Cornwall?’ I ask.

  ‘Does that matter?’ she asks sharply.

  ‘I’m sorry … I wanted … I didn’t mean to pry.’

  Forks scrape on plates, making the silence seem somehow louder.

  Sacha exhales. ‘I work part time as a teaching assistant at a local primary school. And I’m a volunteer coastguard. We rescue people at sea and on the cliffs.’

  ‘That can be dangerous.’

  She shrugs and we lapse into another long silence. Her next statement is unexpected.

  ‘When I first took Evie to the hospital, she wouldn’t let anyone touch her. She scratched two nurses and kicked a doctor in the shins. We needed her clothes for forensic testing. It took me ages to get her undressed. She was like some kid in a famine report – her ribs sticking out. She didn’t like the hospital gowns, so we found her a pair of jeans and a shirt that was too big, but she wore them. Everything was a fight. Examining her. Getting her to speak. She only ate chocolate for the first three days.

  ‘Whenever she met someone new – a social worker or a psychologist – she would give them this bottomless look, as though she could see right into their souls. It used to drive the nurses to despair because they tried so hard to win her trust. They wanted hugs and smiles. Evie gave them nothing.

  ‘One of them brought a stuffed toy for Evie. It was a rabbit with floppy ears. “What shall we call her?” I asked, hoping she might drop a hint about her own name.

  ‘“Agnesa,” she said.

  ‘“That’s a pretty name. Do you know somebody called Agnesa?”

  ‘Evie shook her head. I tucked the rabbit into bed beside her, but the next morning I found it on the floor. The morning after, it was under the bed with the dust bunnies. Then I found it in the rubbish bin. Finally, it disappeared completely.’

  She takes another mouthful of food.

  ‘I’ve never known anyone as quiet as Evie. I slept on a fold-out bed in the same room, and sometimes I’d worry that she’d stopped breathing. I used to get out of bed and put my head close to her chest to make sure. At other times she’d kick off her bedclothes and I worried that she’d be too cold; or I’d find her sleeping on the floor near the door, closer to escape.

  ‘Sometimes, when I thought she was asleep, I’d try to sneak out. I wanted to go home to get fresh clothes, or to brief my boss. Evie would sit bolt upright in bed and begin shaking all over, like she was terrified of being alone.’

  I open another beer.

  ‘I’ve changed my mind,’ says Sacha.

  I slide the bottle across the table. She drinks quickly and lets out an embarrassed burp. Laughing.

  ‘Some days Evie refused to talk at all. The therapists thought she was slow, you know. Developmentally challenged. They began using picture books and dolls when they talked to her, but I used to watch how Evie eavesdropped on their conversations. I could tell she was collecting information. Storing it away.

  ‘One day, I brought in some flash cards – the kind of things they use to teach children letters, numbers and shapes. I started going through the alphabet. A is for apple. B is for bear. Evie sighed and rolled her eyes, before pointing to a sign on the back of the door and reading it out: “Emergency Evacuation Procedure. In case of fire or other emergency, follow the exit signs to leave the building …” She read the whole thing perfectly. The next day I brought her some proper books, including some maths questions and puzzles for her to solve.

  ‘Eventually, they moved Evie from the hospital and put her in a safe house. There was talk of having her fostered, but the police needed information about Terry Boland’s murder.’

  ‘Did she witness the murder?’

  ‘She wouldn’t say. Not a word.’

  I push away my plate and wipe my lips on a paper towel, folding it in squares. ‘You mentioned playing a game with Evie.’

  ‘Fire and Water,’ says Sacha, more animated now. ‘One player is sent out of the room, while the others hide something. When the player returns and begins searching, the others call out, “water, water” if they are getting further away and “fire, fire” as they get nearer. Like our hotter and colder game.’

  ‘I’ve been doing some research. Fire and Water is a popular children’s game played throughout the Balkans and in Greece.’

  Opening my laptop on the kitchen table, I call up a grainy, poorly focused video showing a line of people snaking across a crowded room, weaving between tables.

  ‘The penguin dance!’ exclaims Sacha.

  ‘This was filmed at an Albanian wedding, but the dance is also popular in Romania, Kosovo, Bulgaria, Moldovia, Macedonia …’

  ‘You think she was smuggled into the UK.’

  ‘She could have come with her family. Romania joined the EU in 2007.’

  I collect our plates and begin packing the dishwasher – a new addition to the kitchen.

  ‘Has Evie talked to you about Terry Boland?’ asks Sacha.

  ‘He didn’t abuse her.’

  ‘But the reports said …’

  ‘He died trying to protect her.’

  ‘From who?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  17

  Cyrus

  I wake early when the streets are still quiet and the grass is damp with dew. I dress in my running gear and lace my trainers on the back steps, while Poppy dances around me. Clipping on her lead, I open the side gate and begin jogging along Parkside, turning into Wollaton Park. Poppy keeps pace with me as I run. She has learned not to cut across my path or get me tangled in her lead; lengthening her stride on the downhills, as her tongue lolls from side to side.

  Sacha slept in Evie’s old room last night, the one at the top of the stairs. I made up her bed the way Evie taught me, using ‘hospital corners’ that make the sheets tighter than a drum. According to Evie, if you slide into bed at the right angle, it’s like someone has tucked you in. I remember being sad when she told me that.

  It is strange having someone else in the house – the first person since Evie. I’ve had occasional girlfriends, or one-night stands, or mates who were too drunk to drive home, but I’ve grown accustomed to living alone, having one-sided conversations and arguments with myself that I still manage to lose.

  Today I’m not running for the fresh air or the exercise. I’m purging myself of the negative thoughts about Elias. It’s the same reason I lift weights and get tattoos; the same reason I once carved insults into my skin. I want to empty my mind and rid myself of the poison inside me.

  After an hour, I turn back into my street and see a Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow parked in front of the house. I know the owner. I don’t know the reason. Jimmy Verbic isn’t usually an early riser. A former lord mayor of Nottingham, Jimmy is a city councillor, businessman, entrepreneur, philanthropist and man about town. He’s a celebrity in a city with precious few of them and a friend I’ve always counted on.

  The car doors open. Two men emerge. Neither of them is Jimmy. Shaped like wrecking balls wrapped in misshapen suits, they look like gangsters in a Guy Ritchie movie.

  ‘Mr Verbic wants to see you,’ says the older one, who has flecks of grey in his crewcut. I remember his name: Steptoe.

  Poppy growls and strains at her lead. I hold her back.

  ‘Is Councillor Verbic inviting me or instructing me?’ I ask.

  The difference is lost on Steptoe.

  Sacha is watching from the house, standing in the open doorway.

  ‘They’ve been here for twenty minutes,’ she whispers, as I pass her. ‘What do they want?’

  ‘It’s OK. It’s
a business meeting.’

  She frowns. ‘What sort of business?’

  ‘Family matters.’

  Ten minutes later, showered and changed, I’m sitting in the back of the Rolls as it ghosts through the streets of Nottingham. I gaze out of the window, noticing how people stare at us as we pass them, some with envy, others with quizzical interest, as though expecting a film star or a Hollywood mogul to be behind the tinted glass.

  Eventually, we pull through the stone pillars of a country club and follow a curving tree-lined road between fairways dotted with bunkers and lakes. The mock-Tudor clubhouse is perched on a rise overlooking the golf course. I’m reminded of a Groucho Marx line about not wanting to join a club that would accept him as a member.

  The Rolls stops and Steptoe opens my door before escorting me past the pro-shop to a practice area where Jimmy Verbic is polishing his swing with one of the club professionals, a woman in a short white golfing skirt and a sky-blue blouse.

  Standing behind Jimmy she holds his hips and shows him how to turn. Jimmy is dressed in beige trousers and a tartan jumper. His hair is slicked back. His skin is eggshell smooth.

  Satisfied, the pro steps back and Jimmy launches a ball effortlessly into the sky where it climbs as though rocket-propelled and seems to ricochet off the lower clouds.

  Jimmy notices me and smiles with his perfect teeth. Whiter than the unboxed golf ball.

  ‘You came.’

  ‘Did I have a choice?’

  He admonishes Steptoe with a frown before hugging me, holding my shoulders. ‘How have you been?’

  ‘Fine, thank you.’

  ‘Have you had breakfast?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Come. My treat.’

  He thanks Jessica by kissing her cheeks and makes an appointment for the same time next week. Then he strides towards a buggy, expecting me to follow. I sit beside him as he drives along a flower-fringed path, past elevated tees and groups of players. He asks about work and the renovations on the house. Small talk. Time-wasting. ‘Have you been to see Elias?’

  ‘Yesterday.’

  ‘It was his birthday.’

  ‘I know.’