When She Was Good

by Robotham, Michael

  ‘She’s a sociopath,’ says Guthrie.

  ‘She’s different.’

  Mrs McCarthy hushes them both. She’s so softly spoken, I struggle to hear what she’s saying. I try to move closer to the door, but the receptionist, Geraldine, spies me and clears her throat.

  ‘Are you eavesdropping?’ she asks.

  I shake my head. She points to a chair furthest from the door. I pull a face. She pokes out her tongue. We both smile.

  Terry used to do that. Pull faces in the rear-view mirror when we were driving places. I remember small things like that. Nice things. He had this freckle on his lower lip that looked like spilled chocolate that I always wanted to wipe off, even though it was just a freckle. And he spoke with a slight lisp because he’d lost his front teeth in a motorbike accident and wore a plate, which he took out at night and kept in a glass of water beside his bed. He’d drink the water when he got thirsty, which I thought was disgusting, although I don’t know why.

  When I stayed at the big house, I wasn’t allowed to go into the garden unless someone was with me. I think they worried I would try to escape, but the walls were eight feet high and where would I go?

  Terry would sometimes let me come to the garage when he was washing the cars, or working on his bike, but only if I wore old clothes, or he put a sheet on the chair to make sure I didn’t dirty my dress.

  ‘Does Mrs Quinn know you’re here?’

  ‘Yes,’ I’d lie.

  Terry would talk while he tinkered, explaining how engines worked. I liked the sound of his voice.

  ‘Will you take me for a ride one day?’ I asked once.

  ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I can’t afford to break you.’

  I heard Mrs Quinn calling for me. Terry didn’t hear her until it was too late and the door handle was turning. I scrambled beneath the work bench, between Terry’s knees.

  The door opened, but it wasn’t Mrs Quinn.

  ‘Have you seen my niece?’ asked Uncle. ‘She’s hiding from me again. Sometimes I think she likes being punished.’

  ‘You don’t have to punish her.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Terry mumbled.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing, sir.’

  Terry had his back pressed against the bench, keeping me hidden. He wiped his hands on a rag. I could hear the anger in Uncle’s voice.

  ‘When I employed you, Terry, when I rescued you from the scrapheap, when I kept you out of prison, I issued very strict instructions.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You see nothing. You hear nothing. You talk to nobody.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘No mobile phones. No handwritten addresses. You memorise everything.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Mrs Quinn has been keeping an eye on you. She says you’ve been arriving home later than expected. She knows how long it takes to drive to each of my niece’s appointments. She knows what time they finish. She’s a precious thing, my little girl. I hope you haven’t been taking liberties with her.’

  I didn’t know what ‘liberties’ meant, but the word seemed to light a fire inside Terry because he straightened and turned to face Uncle, bracing his legs apart.

  ‘We go to the park,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I take her to the park. The swings.’

  ‘Why would you do that?’

  ‘She’s a little girl.’

  Uncle laughed. ‘She’s too old for swings, you moron.’

  Terry took a step forward. I thought he might hit Uncle, so I touched the back of his leg, just below the knee where his jeans were covered in oil-stains. I wanted to let him know it was OK; that he didn’t have to get hurt for me.

  Uncle poked Terry in the chest with his forefinger. ‘You don’t talk to her. You don’t look at her. You pick her up. You drop her off. You bring her home. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Now help me find the ungrateful little cunt. She must be hiding in the house.’

  21

  Evie

  ‘Please come in, Evie,’ says Mrs McCarthy, who is holding the door open. She tries to touch my shoulder as I pass, but I duck and avoid the contact.

  Apart from Guthrie and Davina, there’s one other person in the room, a solicitor who I’ve seen before. He works for the local council and looks like an owl, with bushy black eyebrows and thick spectacles.

  I take a seat, sitting stiffly, knees together.

  Mrs McCarthy asks how I am. She’s always struck me as a nice person who was taught proper manners by nice parents. Everything about her is nice, from her bobbed burgundy hair, to her neat skirt and matching jacket. She probably has nice children and a nice husband and a nice house.

  ‘Fine, thank you,’ I say, trying to be nice.

  ‘Do you know why you’re here, Evie?’

  ‘No.’ I glare at Guthrie.

  ‘We sense that you’re struggling at the moment. Would that be a fair assumption?’

  ‘No.’

  Guthrie grunts. ‘You could tell her the sky was blue and she’d argue.’

  ‘Leave this to me, Adam,’ says Mrs McCarthy.

  She begins again, talking to me like I’m a puppy who has just pooped on her rug and has to be taught a lesson.

  ‘Ever since you came to Langford Hall, Evie, we have tried our best to prepare you for life on the outside, but we now feel as though you might be better suited to a different environment. Somewhere new.’

  ‘You can’t send me to prison. I’m not eighteen.’

  Guthrie finds this amusing. ‘You’ve spent the past year trying to get out of this place.’

  ‘That’s not the point.’

  ‘You don’t fit in here, Evie. You have very few friends,’ says Mrs McCarthy.

  ‘I have Ruby.’

  ‘And you’re not the best role model for her. She still has a chance to put her life back on track.’

  ‘And I’m a lost cause, I suppose.’

  ‘That’s not what anyone thinks.’

  ‘I want to talk to Cyrus.’

  ‘Dr Haven has no say in this matter.’

  ‘Then I want a lawyer.’

  ‘I’m your lawyer,’ says the man, who hasn’t spoken until now.

  ‘I want Caroline Fairfax. She’s my lawyer.’

  The others look at each other.

  ‘You can’t make us keep you,’ says Guthrie.

  ‘I’ll fight any attempt to move me. I’ll take out an injunction. I’ll contact the Children’s Ombudsman. I have rights, you know.’

  Mrs McCarthy tries to calm the situation. ‘Nothing has been decided yet, Evie. Perhaps if you showed a greater willingness to address our concerns—’

  Your concerns! What about my concerns? I want to scream, but the words stay inside my head. I have spent longer in this place than most of the staff, including Madge. I don’t need to be moved. And I don’t need special attention, or extra counselling.

  I say none of these things, but sit frozen in place, with my hands squeezed between my thighs.

  Mrs McCarthy begins again.

  ‘I have made inquiries about having you transferred to another secure unit, perhaps Alnwood in Newcastle.’

  ‘That’s a loony bin.’

  ‘It’s a special psychiatric unit.’

  ‘Yeah, a loony bin.’

  She ignores me. ‘I’m of a mind to give you another chance, Evie, but I will require some guarantees. I want no more violence or abusive behaviour or foul language or disobedience. No more lies.’

  ‘You’re making a mistake,’ says Guthrie.

  ‘Fuck off,’ I mutter.

  ‘Did you hear that?’ says Guthrie. ‘That’s what she’s like.’

  ‘Wait outside, Evie,’ says Mrs McCarthy.

  ‘We should transfer her immediately,’ says Guthrie.

  ‘That’s not your decision.’


  ‘I’m her case worker.’

  ‘You’re an arsehole,’ I mutter.

  People begin shouting over each other. Mrs McCarthy has to slam her hand down on her desk, surprising herself with the sound. Regaining order, she points to the door and I go back to the same seat in the corridor.

  I seem to have spent most of my life waiting for other people to make decisions about me: the shrinks and do-gooders and men in wigs, who gave me a new name and made me a ‘ward of court’. They’re doing it again, casting votes to decide my fate like the United Nations of the clueless.

  I slouch. I squeeze blackheads. I swing my feet. I hold up my hand to the light, looking at the pink skin between my fingers.

  There is a lull. A buzzer sounds. A visitor has pressed the intercom. Geraldine answers, letting them inside. We are separated by a partition that has glass on the top half. I can see Geraldine’s face, but only the back of the visitor.

  ‘Hello,’ says a man’s voice. ‘How has your day been?’

  The question catches Geraldine off guard.

  ‘I’ve had better,’ she replies. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘A smile would be a start.’

  I see her force her lips to part, showing her teeth.

  ‘That’s lovely,’ he replies. ‘I’m looking for someone. A girl in her late teens. She knows a friend of mine, a psychologist, Cyrus Haven.’

  The man’s voice sends a chill rolling down my spine, like a cube of ice is being dragged over each vertebra, bringing my skin to life. I’ve heard his voice before. It has haunted my dreams, and hunted for my hiding places.

  ‘You mean Evie?’ says Geraldine.

  ‘Yeah, that’s her,’ says the man, who clicks his fingers, as though he’s forgotten my last name.

  ‘Cormac,’ she answers, trying to be helpful.

  ‘Yeah. Evie Cormac. Is she here?’

  ‘Are you family?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Visits have to be pre-arranged unless you are family or a medical professional.’

  I edge sideways, trying to see him. From behind, he looks tall, dressed in a tight-fitting suit. A wallet has created a bulge in his back pocket beneath the flap of his jacket. Maybe it’s not a wallet.

  ‘What is this place?’ he asks.

  ‘Langford Hall is a children’s home.’

  He reaches forward and takes a mint from a bowl on the counter, unwrapping it by pulling on both ends of the paper.

  ‘They’re for charity,’ says Geraldine.

  He pops the sweet into his mouth and reaches for his wallet. He takes out a tenner.

  ‘A gold coin is sufficient.’

  ‘I’m a generous man,’ he replies. ‘Now about Evie Cormac – how long has she been here?’

  ‘Why would you need to know that?’

  ‘To make sure I have the right person,’ he says, as though it’s a perfectly normal question.

  ‘I can’t talk about residents.’ She glances along the corridor. Our eyes meet. She sees the fear in them. I shake my head.

  ‘What’s your business here?’ she asks.

  He ignores the question. ‘Does Evie have a case worker?’

  ‘Adam Guthrie.’

  ‘Where can I find him?’

  ‘He’s busy at the moment. You can leave a message.’ She slides a notepad and pen across the counter.

  He takes the pen and examines it closely before twirling it over his knuckles. He seems to be contemplating what to write. Geraldine glances at me again. He follows her gaze. I duck below the level of the partition, panic closing my windpipe.

  He clicks the pen closed.

  ‘On second thoughts, I’ll catch up with Adam later.’

  ‘Can I tell him you dropped by?’

  ‘Don’t bother.’

  ‘Can I have my pen?’ she asks.

  The man looks at the pen. ‘You mean this one?’

  She nods tentatively.

  ‘Are you sure it’s your pen?’

  ‘I just gave it to you.’

  ‘But I had this pen with me when I walked in.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘Are you calling me a liar?’

  ‘No. I … ah … I don’t want … I only …’

  ‘Are you trying to take this pen away from me?’

  ‘No.’

  His voice softens and he leans closer to her, holding the pen in his cupped hands like an offering.

  ‘If it means so much to you, please have it,’ he says.

  Geraldine reaches for the pen, her hand trembling. She pinches it between her forefinger and thumb, lifting it slowly and dropping it into a colourful ceramic mug that bristles with other pens.

  ‘Hey! That was my gift to you – my special pen – and you’ve cast it aside.’

  She looks lost for words.

  ‘Pick up the pen,’ he demands.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Pick it up.’

  She does as he asks.

  ‘From now on, I want you to keep it close,’ he says. ‘I think you should put it just there, in your breast pocket, above your heart.’ He takes the pen from her and slides it into her breast pocket, letting his fingers brush over the fabric.

  ‘That’s better,’ he says. ‘You have a nice day.’

  The automatic door opens and closes. Geraldine doesn’t move. She is staring into the distance with a blank expression on her face.

  I have turned away, walking along the corridor. She calls for me to come back, but I’m already halfway to my room where I throw myself on my bed, pressing my face into the pillow, screaming into the softness.

  I am found. I am lost.

  Stupid girl. Foolish girl. Ignorant girl. Ugly girl.

  22

  Cyrus

  The law firm has a brass plaque screwed to a brick wall, with similar plaques affixed above and below. The façade of the building is late Victorian, but the interior has been demolished and rebuilt in glass, chrome and steel with skylights and indoor plants and ‘work-pods’.

  The receptionist examines my business card as though it’s written in braille. ‘You’re a forensic psychologist?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘An expert witness?’

  ‘Among other things.’

  ‘Do you have an appointment?’

  ‘No.’

  Calls are made. More questions are asked. The nature of our business. Is it a legal matter? Are the police involved?

  ‘We don’t look very professional,’ whispers Sacha, who is self-conscious about her jeans and sweater.

  Eventually, we’re allowed upstairs where Louise Heyward née Boland greets us at the lift doors and points to a nearby sofa.

  ‘If this is about Terry, I’ve said it all before. I barely knew my brother. We were separated as children. We saw each other less than six times in twenty years.’

  The statement is delivered with such finality, I expect her to stand and leave. Instead, she waits, fixing her gaze on Sacha, who has been quietly listening.

  ‘You’re the one who found her – the little girl.’

  ‘Yes.’

  A flicker of interest registers in Louise’s eyes. ‘Did they discover who she was?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But surely her family …’ She frowns sadly, but seems to visibly relax, paying more attention to Sacha than to me. ‘My brother was tortured to death and nobody cared. Not the police or the tabloids or the public. To them he was a low-life scumbag, who got what he deserved. A paedophile. A nonce.’

  ‘He wasn’t a paedophile,’ I say.

  The certainty in my voice catches her by surprise and she stops protesting.

  ‘I’ve talked to Angel Face. She told me that Terry saved her life. He protected her.’

  ‘From who?’

  ‘We’re hoping to find out.’

  Louise seems caught between trusting us and risking disappointment.

  ‘That’s what the last one said.’

  ‘Who?’
<
br />   ‘Detective Whitmore.’

  ‘When did you talk to Detective Whitmore?’

  ‘A few weeks ago. He said he had new information about Terry and began asking about Eugene Green, that sicko who killed those kiddies. He said Terry and Green knew each other. I told him to get out.’

  ‘Detective Whitmore is dead,’ I say.

  ‘I saw that,’ she replies with no hint of sadness.

  Sacha changes the subject. ‘What was Terry like?’

  Louise falters, as though searching for an answer.

  ‘He had a big heart and a small brain,’ she says. ‘As a kid he was always tall for his age. Solid, you know. Big shoulders. Big hands. Sometimes this kept him out of trouble. At other times, it meant people challenged him because he was the biggest kid in the playground.’

  ‘Was he easily led?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes. Maybe.’

  ‘Why were you and Terry separated as children?’ asks Sacha.

  ‘Our parents died when I was four and Terry was eight. A drunk driver. A rainy night. Same old story. We were put up for adoption, but unfortunately, the family only wanted one child – a girl. The County insisted they take Terry as well. My new parents were good people, who loved me, but they made it clear in a thousand little ways that they didn’t want Terry.’

  She pauses. Sighs. Continues.

  ‘It was OK for a while, but eventually Terry began acting up. Getting into fights. Skipping school. Causing trouble. My parents said he was uncontrollable and made the adoption agency take him back. After that Terry became trapped in the system. He was too old to be adopted and too young to be allowed to leave. They sent him to a children’s home in Wales.’

  ‘Hillsdale House.’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Hamish Whitmore linked Eugene Green to the same place.’

  ‘Terry wasn’t like that monster. I don’t care what anyone says.’

  ‘I believe you.’

  ‘Did you stay in touch with your brother?’ asks Sacha.

  ‘We wrote letters and sent emails for a while, but as the years went by we drifted apart.’ Her voice is tinged with regret. ‘I went to Terry’s wedding. He didn’t come to mine. The last time I saw him we had a fight.’ She corrects herself. ‘Not the last time – the one before that.’

  ‘What happened?’ I ask.