When She Was Good

by Robotham, Michael

  When I woke in the morning, Terry was gone. I found a note: Gone shopping. Don’t open the door. Don’t answer the phone.

  I put on the same clothes and watched TV while I waited. When I heard a key in the door, I hid between the beds until Terry called my name. He had food. Bacon-and-egg rolls in a brown paper bag, stained with grease. Terry ate two. I couldn’t finish mine.

  He seemed different in the morning; as though he was having second thoughts about running away. I didn’t ask him if he had a plan. I didn’t care. This was better than where I was before.

  ‘I want to cut your hair,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They’ll be searching for a girl. You have to look like a boy.’

  He took a pair of scissors from one of the shopping bags and made me sit on a chair in the bathroom.

  Using his fingers, he brushed my hair and pulled it into a ponytail, before cutting it off.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I look awful.’

  ‘Sorry, Scout.’

  He cut it even shorter and unpacked a bottle of hair dye with a pretty woman on the box. I leaned over the sink while he rubbed a paste into my hair. Later he rinsed it off and I was shocked at how different I looked.

  ‘From now on, if anyone asks your name, it’s David and you’re my son.’

  ‘I don’t like the name David.’

  ‘What do you like?’

  ‘Albion.’

  He screwed up his nose.

  ‘It was my father’s name.’

  ‘OK, I’ll call you Albie.’

  The shopping bags also had clothes – a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt and underwear. He had bought special cream for my burns and a toothbrush and toothpaste.

  I lifted my sweatshirt and bent over while he dabbed cream on my back. He talked constantly, trying to hide his embarrassment.

  ‘We can’t go to the police. If I tell them what I’ve done … how I’ve been driving you around, they’ll arrest me. I’ll be charged. I’ll be blamed. They’ll say I was part of it. What they did to you – it’s a crime and I should have done something sooner.’

  ‘I’ll say you rescued me.’

  ‘That won’t be enough. I’ve done a lot of bad things. I’ll go to prison and I won’t be safe inside. They can find me. We can’t trust anyone. Not the police. Not strangers.’

  ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘I’ll take you back to your family.’

  ‘I don’t have a family.’

  ‘There must be someone.’

  ‘No.’

  Terry thought I was lying, but he’s the only person I never lied to.

  After my hair was dry, he packed our clothes into the leather bags on the motorbike and counted the money in his wallet, saying we didn’t have enough. We rode to a bank with a ‘hole in the wall’, but when he put his card in the machine it didn’t come out again. Terry punched the wall and screamed the worst words.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘They’ve frozen my account. I can’t get any money.’

  He was pacing up and down the footpath, hitting his forehead with his fist, as though he wanted to knock something loose. Then just as quickly, he lifted me on to the bike and told me to hang on.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘To see my sister.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me you had a sister.’

  ‘She doesn’t like me very much.’

  We rode for another few hours until we reached a town full of old buildings and churches and walled parks. Terry found his sister’s house and we spent about twenty minutes watching from the end of the road, making sure that nobody was waiting for us.

  ‘You have to stay here,’ he said. ‘I won’t be long.’

  I sat on the bike and leaned forward to grip the handlebars, which meant almost lying on my stomach across the gas tank. I pretended I was riding on the motorway, weaving between cars.

  There was a park across the road where children were playing, doing somersaults in the fallen leaves. I watched them through the railing fence, noticing their mothers nearby, peering into prams and sipping on takeaway coffee cups.

  One little girl ran over to the fence and asked me my name. I had to remember.

  ‘Albie.’

  ‘Are you a boy or a girl?’

  I touched my hair. ‘I’m a boy.’

  ‘I’m Molly.’ She pointed over her shoulder ‘That’s my best friend, Bella. We’re going to the footbridge to play Poohsticks.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  Molly laughed. ‘It’s a game, silly. I need to find a stick.’

  She was kicking at the leaves.

  ‘What about this one?’

  ‘No, that’s too big,’ she said, continuing her search. ‘It can’t be too big or too small. It has to be just right.’

  ‘Like porridge,’ I said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Goldilocks and the Three Bears.’

  ‘Exactly.’ She found one. ‘Come on.’

  I followed Molly and Bella to a footbridge over a small stream that cut through the park. It was shallow enough to see the bottom and had vertical brick walls covered in moss and ferns.

  ‘You’re the referee,’ said Molly. ‘Make sure Bella doesn’t cheat.’

  Bella pouted. ‘I don’t cheat.’

  ‘You always drop your stick too early. You never wait until I get to three.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  Bella was the shyer of the two. She had curly hair that stuck out from under a woollen hat. They were both wrapped up against the cold in puffy jackets and corduroy trousers tucked into wellington boots. They held their sticks over the water.

  ‘One … two … three.’

  The twigs dropped from their fingers and they ran to the opposite side of the footbridge.

  ‘Mine is winning,’ said Bella.

  ‘No, that’s mine,’ argued Molly.

  ‘Mine was the brown one.’

  ‘They’re both brown,’ I suggested.

  ‘I won! I won!’ said Bella.

  ‘No, you didn’t,’ argued Molly. She turned to me, expecting me to decide.

  ‘It was even,’ I said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You both won.’

  A woman’s voice interrupted. ‘Well, that seems very fair. You’re a born diplomat.’

  She was smiling at me. I didn’t know what a diplomat was, but I didn’t want to tell her that. She was pushing a pram with a baby that was so small and quiet, I wondered if it was a real baby or a doll.

  ‘And who are you?’ she asked.

  ‘Albie,’ answered Molly. ‘He’s our friend.’

  ‘Is he now?’

  The mother seemed to be staring at my over-sized leather jacket and my hair.

  ‘That’s an interesting hairstyle,’ she said. ‘Did you do it yourself ?’

  I shook my head and touched my hair.

  ‘Are you a local?’

  ‘I’m waiting for my father.’

  I pointed across the park in the general direction of the motorbike.

  ‘Let’s play Poohsticks again,’ said Molly excitedly.

  ‘We have to go home, dear-heart,’ said her mother. ‘It’s almost time for lunch.’

  ‘Can Bella come home with us?’

  ‘Not today.’

  ‘What about Albie?’

  ‘Oh, no, Albie is a big boy. He should probably be in school.’

  I hesitated, not knowing what to say.

  ‘Where do you go to school?’ she asked.

  ‘Nowhere.’

  ‘Are you taught at home?’

  I shrugged and looked past her, worried that Terry might leave without me.

  ‘I have to go.’

  Molly waved, but Bella hung back, less certain. I was already running, jumping over piles of leaves and following the iron-railing fence to the gate.

  Terry was standing beside the motorbike, looking up and down the street.

/>   ‘Where the fuck have you been?’ he said, more relieved than angry.

  ‘I was in the park.’

  ‘Never wander off like that. Understand? Don’t trust anyone.’

  ‘Did you see your sister?’

  ‘Get on the bike.’

  He lifted me on to the seat behind him and I automatically put my arms around him. Some time later we stopped for petrol. Terry bought me a can of lemonade and a donut with pink icing. He had to count coins to pay the cashier. I offered him half my donut, but he shook his head.

  Back at the motorbike, he checked the pockets of his other jeans, looking for money. Then he lifted me on to the seat and we rode to the exit, but instead of rejoining the motorway, he took a smaller side road and turned down a farm track, parking beside an old barn that was leaning at one end, like the world had tilted and it had forgotten to follow.

  ‘Don’t go anywhere,’ said Terry, as he reached behind his back and took the gun from the belt of his jeans. He looked along the barrel and closed one eye, aiming at the barn, before tucking the gun into his belt and pulling his jacket over the top. Then he crouched down and picked up a handful of mud, which he smeared on the number plate.

  ‘If I don’t come back, I want you to go to the police,’ he said. ‘But don’t mention my name. Don’t mention any names. Forget everything.’

  ‘Are you leaving?’

  ‘Not for long.’

  ‘Don’t go.’

  ‘You’ll be fine.’

  ‘But you said—’

  ‘Just wait here.’

  He turned the bike around and rejoined the road, heading towards the motorway. I sat on a tree stump that someone had used to chop wood. There were horses in a nearby field and sheep in the next one. I could see a tractor ploughing in the distance, creating brown lines in the green grass.

  I had a sensation in my skull that something would go wrong. I opened my mouth as wide as I could, trying to make my ears pop, but they were still blocked. When I closed my eyes, I saw Uncle’s face, so I opened them again.

  Uncle used to say I wore a mask and my face had grown to fit it, so he couldn’t tell what was going on inside my head. He said, ‘If anyone ever finds you. If they start asking questions. If you talk about me, I will hunt you down. I will skin you like a dead animal and wear you like a coat.’

  I heard the motorbike before I saw it. Terry was racing towards me. He slowed down and held out his arm, scooping me up and laying me over his lap as he sped up again. I was staring at the ground, which flashed past my nose in a blur. I heard sirens in the distance, growing louder then softer. Police cars.

  When he finally slowed the bike, I crawled around his body and sat behind him. He didn’t ride carefully any more. He was weaving between cars, ducking into spaces, squeezing between trucks. The engine roared and everything vibrated as the world rushed past us. Trees. Buildings. Trucks. Towns. Terry didn’t slow down until I tugged on the collar of his jacket and told him I needed to pee.

  He pulled over. ‘You’ll have to go behind a tree.’

  ‘Do you have any toilet paper?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Tissues?’

  He shook his head. I wished I was really a boy, then it wouldn’t matter.

  ‘Do your best,’ said Terry, looking in the other direction. ‘And watch out for the nettles. They’ll sting your bum.’

  When I returned, he was counting money, which he quickly stuffed into his jacket pocket.

  ‘Did you steal that?’ I asked.

  ‘I borrowed it.’

  It was a lie.

  ‘Did you hurt anyone?’

  He gave me a pained look. ‘I wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘Do we have enough now?’

  ‘For a few weeks.’

  I looked at myself in the mirror on the handlebars. My hair was ragged and uneven and the colour of coal dust. I didn’t mind that Terry was a thief, and I’ve never told anyone about the robbery.

  Cyrus thought I was protecting a monster, but the real monsters live in big houses, behind high walls and keep children locked in towers. Terry wasn’t a monster. He was my prince.

  26

  Cyrus

  ‘Are they allowed to do that?’ asks Sacha. ‘Sedate her, I mean.’

  ‘If she poses a danger to herself or to others.’

  ‘Was she out of control?’

  ‘No.’

  I remember Evie’s unconscious form being carried along the corridor. ‘I’m going to lodge a complaint with the Children’s Ombudsman.’

  ‘Will that help?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  It will take months to be heard, by which time Evie will be officially eighteen and no longer a child. And if they section her as an adult, she could be held indefinitely – the worst outcome by far.

  We’re talking in the kitchen. Sacha asks if I’m hungry and offers to cook something.

  ‘That’s not a great idea,’ I reply, but she’s already opened the fridge. I’m embarrassed by the contents – two cans of Red Bull, a six-pack of beer, a bag of pizza cheese, parmesan, orange juice, sundried tomatoes and half a dozen eggs.

  She opens another cupboard and finds a lone onion and some sad-looking potatoes that are starting to sprout.

  ‘You are such a cliché: the bachelor with an empty fridge.’

  ‘It’s not totally empty.’

  Her nose wrinkles. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I think it was an avocado.’

  ‘Ew!’

  Sacha gathers up the meagre supplies and pauses to pull back her hair and loop a band around the ponytail.

  ‘In dating circles, you’re what’s known as a WIP,’ she says, as she peels the potatoes.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A work in progress.’

  ‘That’s a good thing, yes?’

  ‘Mmmmmm,’ she replies cautiously. ‘I guess you could become someone’s pet project.’

  ‘I happen to own this house,’ I say in my defence. ‘I am a single man in possession of a good fortune – which makes me in need of a good wife, according to Miss Austen.’

  ‘I don’t think Mr Darcy ate his baked beans straight from the can.’

  ‘They didn’t have baked beans back then.’

  ‘And I doubt if he drank orange juice direct from the carton.’

  ‘I won’t get scurvy.’

  ‘It’s disgusting,’ she replies. ‘I bet you call your local Indian more than you phone your mother.’

  ‘I don’t have a mother.’

  The statement stops Sacha in her tracks, and she looks shocked. I want to take the words back, but it’s too late. She tries to apologise. I tell her I was joking, but the light-hearted banter has ceased. Hiding her embarrassment, she begins parboiling the potatoes and dicing the onion.

  ‘Red Bull or beer?’ I ask.

  ‘Is that a serious question?’

  I open two beers and watch her cooking, while telling her about the man who came looking for Evie. I don’t have a physical description, because they wouldn’t let me examine the CCTV footage, but Evie was certain that the same man was in the house when Terry Boland died.

  ‘That was seven years ago,’ she says. ‘Evie was what – ten or eleven? Would you remember a voice after that long?’

  ‘I might if he was torturing a man to death.’

  Sacha cringes and I apologise for being so blunt.

  ‘I’m not very good at this,’ I say. ‘I’ve been on my own for a long while.’

  ‘Me too,’ she replies, raising her bottle of beer and clinking it against mine. ‘What a great pair we make. The introvert and the hermit.’

  ‘Which one of us is the hermit?’ I ask.

  ‘That’s no contest. I need a rowing boat to reach my cottage and I buy supplies once a fortnight. I also grow my own vegetables, have solar panels and collect rainwater off my roof.’

  ‘You win,’ I laugh. ‘I’m the introvert.’

  When the potatoes are al
most cooked, Sacha cuts them into slices and layers them with the mixture of sautéed onions, sundried tomatoes and herbs. The beaten eggs are poured over the top, before she adds the cheese and puts the heavy-based dish into the oven to bake. I set out the knives and forks and open two more beers.

  Later, she uses both hands to carry the pan to the table where she slices and serves. Salt and pepper mills are exchanged. The first mouthful melts.

  ‘You’re a witch,’ I say.

  ‘It is rather good.’

  We eat in silence until Sacha has a question.

  ‘How did this person find Evie? You said nobody at Langford Hall knows that she’s Angel Face except for her case worker.’

  ‘He didn’t know Evie’s identity. He asked for me.’

  ‘By name?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I see where she’s going with this. I’m not listed among the staff, or as a consultant at Langford Hall. My only connection is with Evie.

  ‘He must have followed me,’ I say, thinking back over recent days. Jimmy Verbic knew that Angel Face was at a local children’s home but said he didn’t know her location or her new identity. Lenny said that someone from the Chief Constable’s office had called her expressing concern that I was searching for Angel Face.

  ‘I triggered something, a tripwire,’ I say.

  Sacha lowers her beer, wiping her lips. ‘Hamish Whitmore began looking first.’

  ‘Yes, but he didn’t know about Evie.’

  We both go quiet, silently asking the same questions.

  Sacha glances at the clock on the wall and yawns. ‘I know it’s early, but I keep a milkmaid’s hours.’

  ‘Go to bed,’ I say. ‘I’ll clean up.’

  I hear her footsteps on the stairs. Her bedroom door closes. I pack the dishwasher and wipe the benches. Later, I lift some weights in my basement gym until my arms are shaking and I can barely raise a water bottle to my lips. Climbing the stairs, I pass her door, pausing momentarily, and imagine her asleep, her red hair fanned across a pillow.

  Moving away, I go to my room and shower. Afterwards, towelling my hair, I stand at the bedroom window, gazing at the quiet street, wondering about the man who is looking for Evie. How did he know that I visited Langford Hall? Has he been watching me? Is this what it’s like for Evie, always looking over her shoulder, imagining someone is searching for her?

  Before going to bed, I go back downstairs to check the windows and doors are locked.