When She Was Good

by Robotham, Michael

  ‘I had a call from him late one evening, out of the blue. He was in a police station in Manchester. He’d been arrested and charged with armed robbery. A gang had knocked off a post office in Stockport and Terry was accused of being the getaway driver. “I really fucked up this time,” he said, begging me to help him get bail. It was his oldest boy’s birthday and he’d promised to be there.’

  ‘You posted his bail?’

  ‘I didn’t have to. The charges were dropped.’

  ‘But you said—’

  ‘I know. I saw the brief of evidence. They had CCTV footage of Terry driving the van and his fingerprints were on one of the stolen notes. The other two suspects were facing eight-year sentences, but Terry skated.’

  ‘How?’

  She blows air from her cheeks and shrugs. ‘I drove all the way to Manchester, ready to post his bail, but someone had already negotiated his release – a top silk. Terry couldn’t afford a barrister.’

  ‘How then?’

  ‘I still don’t know. I arrived at the station just as Terry was leaving. He walked straight past me as though I was made of glass. I was expecting a hug, or a thank-you, but he ignored me. Two guys were waiting in a black Range Rover. Terry slid into the back seat and they drove off.’

  ‘That’s why you fought,’ says Sacha.

  Louise nods. ‘Terry called me a few days later and I hung up on him. He kept calling. I told him to piss off.’

  ‘Do you remember the month and the year?’

  ‘I know exactly when it was. It will be eight years ago in October. Terry’s oldest boy, Jonno, was turning nine.’

  ‘You saw Terry again?’

  ‘About four months later. He turned up at my house one day, sounding desperate and asking for money. I told him I never wanted to see him again and slammed the door in his face.’ She grows less certain. ‘He must have been running from them; the men who killed him.’ The words get stuck in her throat. ‘A few days later, I had a visit from two men. I was taking the kids to school, when they suddenly appeared, standing in my driveway, as I tried to reverse my car, refusing to step aside. They looked like debt collectors or process servers. I figured Terry must have owed someone money.’

  ‘What did you tell them?’

  ‘Same as I told you – I wanted nothing to do with my brother. One of them tried to get heavy with me, saying he’d come back if I was lying. I threatened to call the police, he laughed.’

  ‘Did you call the police?’ I ask.

  ‘No.’

  I glance at Sacha and see the shadow cross her eyes.

  ‘Did one of them have a scar on his forehead?’ she asks.

  ‘Yeah. Just above his right eye,’ says Louise, pulling details from her memory. I’ve never told anyone that. I don’t know why. Maybe because …’

  ‘You were frightened,’ says Sacha.

  Louise nods.

  My pager is vibrating on my belt. It’s a message from Langford Hall.

  Evie Cormac has barricaded herself in a storeroom. She’s asking for you.

  23

  Evie

  I am used to small places. Beneath beds. Behind walls. Below the stairs. I’m like an octopus that can squeeze into any jar, twisting my body into weird shapes and filling space like water. The storeroom at Langford Hall is where they keep the brooms and cleaning products and the big spinning floor-polisher. It doesn’t have an anti-barricade door because they don’t expect anyone to fortify a broom cupboard.

  I have ripped a sheet into strips and plaited them together to fashion a rope, which is wrapped around the door handle and tied to two brooms that I’ve braced sideways across the door, holding it closed.

  Madge is on the other side, telling me to come out.

  ‘You promised me no repeats, Evie.’

  ‘I want to talk to Cyrus.’

  ‘Dr Haven is not your case worker. He can’t help you.’

  ‘You don’t understand. They’ve found me.’

  ‘Who has found you?’

  I can’t tell her. I can’t tell any of them. My hands are trembling. I squeeze them between my thighs to stop them shaking.

  I hear Guthrie’s voice. ‘This is what I mean. She needs to be sectioned. Call a doctor.’

  ‘Please be quiet,’ snaps Madge. She addresses me. ‘I can tell you’re upset, Evie. Can you tell me why?’

  ‘Get Cyrus,’ I reply.

  Davina tries next. Between them, they use bribery, flattery, threats, but it doesn’t matter. I’m not coming out.

  We had a broom cupboard like this at the big house that I used to call ‘the stinky cupboard’ because it stored turpentine and bleach and floor cleaner. I began hiding in the stinky cupboard when I knew that Uncle was coming to stay. I’d squeeze behind the metal shelves and crouch down, sitting on my heels, making myself small.

  Eventually, they found me – they always did – and Mrs Quinn punished me by taking away my blankets and sending me to bed without supper.

  ‘You don’t know how lucky you are,’ she said. ‘You have a lovely room, and nice clothes, and an uncle who loves you.’

  ‘He’s not my uncle.’

  ‘Hush! You’ll hurt his feelings.’

  She didn’t understand. She didn’t want to see the truth.

  Terry was the same. Not mean or cruel, but blind. He didn’t question what happened when he dropped me off at different houses. And afterwards, he didn’t ask, ‘Did you have a nice time?’ or ‘What did you do today?’

  Instead, he tried to do nice things for me, taking me bike riding or to the movies, and once to a farm because he said I needed to know where milk comes from.

  ‘I know where milk comes from,’ I said. ‘The supermarket.’

  It took him a moment to realise I was joking.

  ‘That’s the first joke you’ve ever told me,’ he said, as if I’d passed some test.

  I began sitting in the front seat, where it was easier to talk, but we had to be careful how much time we spent together because Mrs Quinn was a ‘clock-watcher’, who kept tabs on when we arrived home. Terry used to blame the traffic and once he lied about having to change a flat tyre, but he wasn’t very convincing. Not to me.

  Sitting in the front seat one day, I opened the glove compartment and found a gun.

  Terry slammed it closed.

  ‘Why do you need a gun?’ I asked.

  ‘Protection.’

  ‘Who are you protecting?’

  ‘Don’t be so nosy.’

  I remember that day because Terry took me to KFC and I had a chicken burger and an ice-cream with chocolate bits. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. We were sitting on plastic chairs at a plastic table and Terry was talking about his two boys. He told me their names, but I can’t remember them. He said he didn’t see them very often, but they talked on the phone most weeks and he sent them cards and presents on their birthdays. He showed me photographs on his phone. They were sitting on either side of a woman, who had her arms around them.

  ‘Is that your wife?’

  ‘My ex.’

  ‘Did she die?’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘I thought “ex” might mean gone for good.’

  ‘We’re divorced.’

  I stopped asking questions because they made him sad.

  One afternoon, Terry collected me from the big house and took me on a long drive to a new city, on motorways and past a big airport where I saw planes coming in to land one after the other. I could see them in the distance, getting closer and lower and larger.

  It was getting dark when we pulled through the gates of a house surrounded by tall trees. Some of the leaves had fallen and were being blown into piles by men with leaf blowers.

  Terry walked me to the front door and pushed a button. A grey man answered. Grey hair. Grey face. Grey smile.

  ‘Welcome, my dear,’ he said, bending at the waist. ‘I’ve been expecting you.’

  He put a finger beneath my chin an
d lifted it. His breath smelled sour. ‘That’s a pretty dress. Is yellow your favourite colour?’

  I shook my head.

  He talked to Terry in a different tone. ‘You’re late.’

  ‘Traffic.’

  ‘Don’t let it happen again.’

  The grey man took my bag. Terry touched my arm. ‘I’ll be back tomorrow.’

  The door closed.

  ‘You don’t say very much,’ said the grey man, as he took me upstairs to a bedroom. He was eager to begin. Unbuckling his belt, he slid down his trousers and told me to leave my dress on. He picked me up and put me on the bed. I felt his weight between my thighs.

  ‘Say something,’ he groaned. ‘Look at me.’

  I was silent.

  ‘Look at me.’

  I kept my eyes closed.

  ‘Isn’t this nice?’

  He slapped my face and jabbed his fingers into my soft bits. I knew he was going to hit me. I saw it in his eyes. A flicker. A switch. A light. A shadow. A taste in my mouth.

  ‘This is your fault,’ he said. ‘You did this to me.’

  I heard the rushing sound – water and wind and driven snow – as the darkness bubbled up through the floorboards to my ankles, my knees, my thighs, my chest, covering my mouth. Suffocating me. I was gone by then, flying backwards in time, disappearing into the mists of my childhood where I held Papa’s hand on a merry-go-round.

  * * *

  The next morning, I woke curled in a ball on the floor, with my hands clamped beneath my armpits, hurting all over. A square of light shone around the curtains.

  I heard voices downstairs.

  ‘She can stay another day,’ said the grey man.

  ‘That’s not the deal,’ replied Terry.

  ‘I’ll make a call. Get approval.’

  ‘Let me see her.’

  ‘You’re not allowed in here.’

  I heard Terry calling my name. His boots on the stairs.

  ‘You’re trespassing!’ said the grey man.

  Doors swung open. Terry kept shouting.

  ‘Do you know who I am?’ yelled the grey man. ‘You’ll pay for this.’

  A handle rattled.

  ‘Why is this one locked?’ asked Terry.

  ‘Get out!’

  Wood splintered and the door blasted inwards. Terry filled the whole frame. He knelt next to me. He touched my arm. I groaned.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  He saw the bruises on my face and arms. His eyes asked permission to unbutton my dress. I shook my head. He did it anyway and saw the cigarette burns.

  Taking off his jacket, he wrapped it around me. ‘Can you walk?’

  I tried to stand but stumbled. He scooped me up and carried me down the stairs. I smelled his smell – the oil and the sweat and the soap. He opened the car door and lay me on the back seat, putting his coat over me.

  I didn’t see what happened next, but I know that Terry went back into the house. When he returned, his knuckles were grazed and bleeding. We drove in silence until he stopped at a petrol station, where he parked away from the bowsers and bought bottles of water to wash my burns.

  ‘We need to find a chemist,’ he said. ‘They’ll have cream. Otherwise you’ll scar.’

  Terry was embarrassed about touching me. It was like his hands were too big and he might break me.

  ‘Did you do something to make him angry?’ he asked.

  I must have done something. It must have been my fault.

  Terry saw my face and said, ‘No! You did nothing wrong. He was a monster. They’re all monsters.’

  We drove away and I lay across the back seat, watching the lights from oncoming cars sweep over the roof and shine on Terry’s face.

  ‘Did you hurt that man?’ I asked.

  ‘He got what he deserved.’

  Terry took me to where he lived in a room with a bed and a TV and a small stove. It was on the second floor and he wanted to carry me upstairs, but I said I could walk.

  He made me a cup of sugary tea, sniffing the milk first, because he thought it might be ‘off’. I sat on the edge of his bed while he collected clothes and shoved them in a canvas bag with a drawstring. He took a heavy leather jacket from a hanger and made me put it on. It reached down to my knees.

  Terry had his motorbike parked in an alleyway behind the bedsit. He put a helmet on my head that felt too heavy for my neck to hold. I struggled with the clasp. Terry did it for me, too roughly. I flinched. He jerked his hands away and looked at them as if he wanted to cut off his fingers.

  He swung his leg over the seat and settled his weight on it before lifting me behind him. I didn’t flinch when he touched me.

  ‘You OK?’

  I nodded.

  He started the engine with a flick of his wrist.

  ‘You have to put your arms around my waist.’

  I didn’t move.

  He reached back and took my hands and pulled them around his middle so that my fingers met on his stomach and my face was pressed against his back. The black leather was cold against my face.

  ‘Hold on. Never let go.’

  24

  Cyrus

  I knock softly on the door of the storeroom.

  ‘Evie?’

  ‘What took you so long?’ she replies, sounding annoyed.

  ‘This isn’t how you get my attention.’

  She ignores the comment.

  ‘They found me,’ she says, her voice shaking.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You know who.’

  I pause. I can hear her breathing.

  ‘You want to come out and talk about it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You can’t stay in there for ever.’

  ‘You have to get me away from here.’

  ‘I can’t do that if you don’t come out.’

  ‘I’m frightened.’

  ‘I know.’

  My knees creak as I sit on the floor, leaning my back against the door.

  I imagine Evie sitting the same way, with her back to mine and the door between us.

  ‘You want to tell me what happened?’

  She relates the story. Some of it I know already, having talked to Mrs McCarthy.

  ‘The man who came to reception, did you see his face?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How did you recognise him?’

  ‘His voice.’

  ‘Where had you heard him?’

  ‘At the house – when Terry died. He was one of them.’

  I turn my cheek to the wood. ‘That was a long while ago, Evie, and you were very young.’

  ‘Don’t treat me like a child,’ she snaps. ‘He knew your name … and about me.’

  ‘Even if what you’re saying is true – he can’t touch you in here.’

  ‘You’re not listening. They know my new name.’

  ‘This is a high-security children’s home. It’s the safest place you could be. Trust me, Evie. I won’t let anyone hurt you.’

  At the far end of the corridor, I see a three-man control and restraint team waiting to take over. They’re armed with power tools to drill out the lock and a battering ram to take down the door.

  ‘You don’t have much time, Evie. They’re going to come in and get you. After that, I can’t help.’

  ‘Tell them to wait.’

  Getting up from the floor, I try to stall them, asking Guthrie to give me more time. He thinks I’m being played.

  Behind me, I hear Evie moving in the storeroom. Cursing. ‘Everything OK?’ I ask.

  ‘I can’t undo the knots. Wait! It’s coming.’

  I hear metal shelves being pushed aside and brooms clattering to the floor. The door suddenly opens and Evie emerges, turning along the corridor as though she’s passing a line of people queuing for tickets.

  ‘Where are you going?’ I ask.

  ‘Busting for the loo,’ she replies blithely. ‘I almost had to pee in a bucket.’

  One of the control team grabs her from be
hind, lifting her off her feet. She yells in alarm and lashes out. A second man grabs her legs. They’re twice her size. She’s swearing, biting and scratching. I’m shouting, telling everyone to calm down, but a third security guard body-checks me.

  ‘Sedate her,’ says Guthrie.

  ‘No!’ I shout. ‘Please.’

  I see the needle sliding into Evie’s arm. It takes ten or fifteen seconds for the drug to take effect. She continues struggling, her voice becoming thick and slurred, as vowels are caught in her throat. Finally, her body goes limp and she’s suddenly small again, like an exhausted child being carried to bed.

  ‘That wasn’t necessary,’ I say, glaring at Guthrie, who ignores me.

  ‘She’s not your concern. You shouldn’t even be here.’

  I look to Mrs McCarthy, hoping for an ally, but she has lost control of the situation. When in doubt, she sides with her staff. Evie is being carried away, her head lolling backwards over a forearm and her eyes open, as though she’s unconsciously accusing me of betrayal.

  ‘Someone came looking for her,’ I say. ‘She was frightened.’

  Nobody reacts.

  ‘There must be CCTV footage. Talk to the receptionist.’

  ‘This isn’t a police matter,’ explains Mrs McCarthy. ‘You have no jurisdiction here. Please leave.’

  25

  Evie

  Some nights are longer. Darker. Colder. Terry rode the bike for hours and I clung to him like a kitten on a sweater as the wind cut through my clothes and my fingers and toes grew numb. Sometimes he could feel me falling asleep and would reach back and pinch my thigh to wake me up.

  Hours later we stopped at a motel beside the motorway with a red vacancy sign. Terry had to pry my fingers from his coat before he went inside and woke the night manager.

  My teeth were chattering and I couldn’t feel my feet.

  ‘You have to get warm,’ said Terry, turning on the shower and testing the temperature with his fingers.

  I couldn’t undo the buttons of my dress. Terry helped me, clumsy with his hands, but patient. He turned away when the dress slipped off my shoulders and left me in the shower. When I finished in the bathroom, he was already asleep in one of the beds. I took the other, crawling under the covers and burrowing down into the dark coolness like I was digging a place to hide.