“Please start at the beginning.”
A look passes between them. They don’t trust me, but whatever has happened has gone on too long.
“When Sacha finished school, she applied to join the police force,” says Mrs. Hopewell. “I didn’t think it was a proper career for a woman—not like nursing or teaching—but she had her heart set on it. She tried twice to join the Metropolitan Police but missed out. She was too young the first time. Then they said she had to live in London to be eligible.”
“That’s why she became a special constable,” adds Mr. Hopewell. “She said it was a stepping-stone. The next best thing.”
They both fall silent. I wait.
He begins again. “That all changed when she found Angel Face. It made her famous for a while. Everybody wanted to talk to her—the newspapers, TV shows, magazines. She thought it might help her career, but it caused her nothing but grief.”
“Why?”
“It never stopped—the late-night phone calls and the people following her.”
“Are you talking about reporters?”
“At first, yes, but then other people came calling. Some wouldn’t take no for an answer. We had two burglaries and her car was vandalized.”
“Who did these things?”
Mrs. Hopewell erupts. “You tell us!”
I can’t answer her.
“Where is Sacha now?” I ask.
“Traveling.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“Last week she was in France. A month ago it was in Germany. Before that we got postcards from Scotland, Italy, and Ireland.”
Mr. Hopewell motions to the fridge, which is entirely covered in cards. “She never stays in the same place more than a few days. That’s why they can’t find her.”
“Who?” I ask.
“The people who are looking for her.” He makes it sound so obvious.
“Have you ever met these people?”
“No.”
“Does Sacha know their names?”
“No.”
“Was she ever threatened?” I ask.
“Everything was a threat,” says her father.
We’re going around in circles.
“They didn’t leave their names,” says Mr. Hopewell. “Instead they waited outside the house, watching us, or followed Sacha to work or the shops or the gym. They thought she could lead them to Angel Face.”
“Did Sacha tell the police?”
“They thought she was paranoid or making stuff up. That’s why they wouldn’t let her join the Met, they labeled her as too unstable.”
“Can I phone her?” I ask.
“She doesn’t have a phone.”
The irony isn’t lost on me.
“She rings us,” says Mr. Hopewell. “We never know when she’ll call. Sometimes she contacts her brother or her aunt.”
She’s covering her tracks.
“Can you bring Sacha back?” asks his wife. She’s holding his hand beneath the table.
What do I say? I don’t understand why she’s gone.
Mr. Hopewell turns to me and struggles to speak.
“You want to know the worst thing . . . I’m angry with Sacha. I wish she had never grown up. I wish we could have locked her in a room and stopped her leaving home.
“We sit here, waiting for the phone to ring or hoping for a postcard. That’s our future. That’s what we look forward to when we wake up every morning. Each day begins and ends with her.”
* * *
On the drive back to Nottingham, the rain arrives, sweeping in from the west in sheets that blur the landscape of fields and forests. My wipers struggle, slapping against the side of the windscreen like a soggy metronome.
I go over my visit to the Hopewells. A part of me wants to dismiss their suspicions as paranoia, but neither of them was looking for confirmation or justification. Paranoid people believe the world is conspiring against them and that mistakes are never their fault. Paranoid people focus on what they want to see.
At the same time, I don’t buy into conspiracies. I’m not saying they don’t exist, but too many people are drawn to complicated answers, rather than obvious ones. They want to believe that arch-villains or shady organizations or the “deep state” are manipulating society, pulling the strings.
In reality, there isn’t some shooter in the grassy knoll or child sex ring in the pizza shop or secret group controlling the world. To misquote Mark Twain: It isn’t what we don’t know that gets us into trouble. It’s what we know for sure that just isn’t so.
16
* * *
ANGEL FACE
* * *
The minibus is supposed to leave at noon. I stand back while the others jostle to get on board, calling “shotgun” on certain seats or demanding to sit next to the window.
“Will you get on the sodding bus,” says Miss McCredie, pinching Nat on the forearm.
“Ow! What did I do?”
“You’re being a twat,” she says under her breath, but loud enough for me to hear.
Miss McCredie’s partner, Judy, is driving the bus. She looks like a nightclub bouncer or a rugby manager, with her square head, boxy clothes, and tightly cropped hair.
“I know who wears the pants in that relationship,” whispers Chloe.
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“She’s the butch one. She goes on top.”
Do lesbians worry about tops and bottoms? I wonder.
Chloe considers herself an expert on sex, having boasted about giving blow jobs to her older brother’s friends and her biology teacher, who got sacked when he texted her a picture of his dick. He thought it was anonymous, but he forgot to crop the image, which included a coffee cup that said: “Old teachers never die, they just lose their class.” Irony 101.
I take a seat near the front where I’m less likely to be hassled. I plug in my music but can still hear Chloe commandeering the back seat and choosing who gets to sit next to her.
Miss McCredie does a head count and tells everybody of the penalties that await anyone who misbehaves. She’s almost finished when Reno steps on the bus. A cheer goes up because Reno is one of the most popular members of staff. He’s young and into music and he likes discussing last night’s episode of Love Island. He also plays keyboard in a pub band called Roadkill. They once came to Langford Hall and did a gig, which was the most fun anyone could remember—unless you ask the neighbors.
Reno sits next to me and holds out his fist for a bump. I do it reluctantly, glancing at him quickly before looking away again, seeing the stubble on his cheeks and the stud in his earlobe. Some of the boys wolf whistle and chorus, “Oooooh.” I don’t react, but I’ll get them later.
Reno is just back from his honeymoon in Sri Lanka. He showed me where that was on a map, but I couldn’t tell if it was a long way away because I have no sense of distance.
The bus pulls out of the driveway and heads through the streets until the houses give way to pound stores and pawnshops. We pass an Islamic bookshop, a Kosher butcher, an Arab grocer, and an Asian supermarket. People call it the great melting pot, but nothing is melting or blending. I like it that way—with everybody being different.
What I don’t like are the old people, who hobble along footpaths and wait at bus stops and count out their change at supermarket checkouts. Grey and puffy as dumplings, they hum with disapproval every time a young person speaks too loudly or moves too quickly or simply breathes. Don’t ride your skateboard. Don’t play your music. Don’t wear those clothes.
The minibus stops at a red light. Reno is reading a story on his phone. It’s about a schoolgirl who was raped and murdered in Nottingham.
“Who did it?” I ask.
“Some sicko.”
“How can you tell?”
“What?”
“How do you know when someone is sick in the head, or when they’re just plain bad?”
Reno shrugs.
“Is that why we’re in La
ngford Hall?” I ask.
“Nobody thinks you’re sick or bad.”
I turn away, resting my forehead against the glass, watching the window grow foggy with each breath.
* * *
At the cinema we wait while Miss McCredie buys our tickets. Arcade machines ping and whistle and blink with bright lights. A group of boys is playing table football, knowing the girls are checking them out. Chloe grabs Reebah by the arm and pulls her over to the boys. Chloe has all the moves—pointing her front toe, pushing out her boobs, and smiling coyly. Straightaway, she’s targeted the best-looking one, who has blond hair, cut short and gelled into spikes like he’s channeling his inner hedgehog. I notice his smoky-grey eyes and his clear skin, but most of all his confidence. Where does it come from? Does it come with age or testicles, or can it be ordered online from Amazon—next-day delivery?
The boy has his arm around Chloe, running it down her back, letting it drift lower.
“Chloe Pringle!” barks Miss McCredie, giving the boy the evil eye. She marches Chloe back to the group. Chloe looks over her shoulder and mouths the word, “Later,” tossing her hair again for the sake of tossing it.
We queue for popcorn. I let the others push past me. Reebah takes an age to choose what she wants because she’s careful with her money. The guy behind the counter acts like he’s got a plane to catch. He hands Reebah her change. She looks at her hand, saying, “This isn’t enough.”
“What?”
“I gave you twenty quid.”
“You gave me a tenner.”
“No.”
He opens the till and holds up a ten-pound note. “See!”
“I gave you a twenty,” says Reebah, growing anxious and looking around for support.
“Next,” says the man, looking past her.
“I brought twenty quid. I know I did.” Reebah looks at Miss McCredie, then at Chloe and Nat and the rest of the group. “I gave him a twenty, I swear.”
“You must be mistaken,” says Miss McCredie.
“It’s my birthday money. Mum sent it to me.”
The man behind the counter interrupts. “She gave me a tenner, OK? I get kids coming in here all the time trying to pull this scam.”
“It’s not a scam,” says Reebah, her voice changing pitch.
Miss McCredie tells her to calm down and step away from the counter.
“But he stole my money.”
“Be quiet, Reebah!” she scolds, and apologizes to the man, saying she’s sorry for causing trouble.
I’ve been watching from the back of the queue. Reluctantly, I step forward. “She’s telling the truth.”
Miss McCredie frowns. “Did you see her hand over the money?”
“She’s not lying.”
Miss McCredie pulls me closer to the counter. “You were standing way back there, Evie. How could you see what money she handed over?”
“She gave him a twenty.”
“They’re both in on it,” says the man. “It’s a scam.”
“You’re trying to rip her off,” I reply, shifting my slouch from one hip to the other.
The man behind the counter grows flustered. “I’ll call the manager. You’ll all have to leave.”
“You won’t call the manager,” I say.
“Maybe I’ll call the police.”
“Go on then.”
The conviction in my voice seems to surprise him. He’s not used to being contradicted—not by a girl. He leans towards me and I brace myself, expecting to be slapped.
Reno intervenes, protecting me, giving me confidence.
“I think you’ve done this before,” I say. “I bet you put that twenty straight into your pocket.”
The man reacts with fake outrage.
“Empty your pockets,” says Reno.
The man mutters something and opens the till. He takes a ten-pound note and tosses it towards Reebah. She picks it off the floor and puts the money deep into the back pocket of her jeans.
“I hope you weren’t lying,” mutters Miss McCredie as she walks behind me into the cinema.
Reebah is ahead of us. She looks over her shoulder, as though wanting to say thank you but not remembering the words.
17
* * *
CYRUS
* * *
Sunday afternoon in the shadows of Nottingham Castle, two boys and a girl, roughly the same age, are pushing a wheelbarrow across the square. Slumped inside is a crude effigy of Guy Fawkes, stuffed with straw or rags, with red woolen hair, a flat cap, and mismatched buttons for eyes.
“They’re a bit late,” I say. “Bonfire Night was a week ago.”
“Maybe they’re getting a head start on next year,” says Caroline Fairfax. Evie Cormac’s lawyer is in her early thirties with dark wavy hair held back from her face by an Alice band. She’s dressed in a cream-colored blouse and blue denim jeans that look brand-new. She reaches for the sugar and fills a spoon twice, stirring as though it might solidify if she didn’t.
“You don’t see Guy Fawkes effigies very often anymore,” I say.
“That’s not a bad thing,” she replies. “Anti-Catholic rituals are rather outdated.”
“Are you Catholic?”
“Heavens no! I’m an equal-opportunity atheist.” She licks foam from her spoon.
Across the road, Japanese tourists are posing for photographs in front of a Robin Hood statue. Cast in thick bronze, Robin has a green tinge and is about to unleash an arrow at a tourist stand selling felt hats, medieval tunics, Maid Marian wimples, and Friar Tuck teddy bears.
“Where do you stand on Robin Hood?” I ask, enjoying the banter.
“He was a dangerous progressive who gave money to spongers and welfare cheats. Nowadays, they’d lock him up or make him leader of the Labour Party.”
She smiles, and I feel a jolt of attraction as her eyes meet mine. In that moment it feels like she has mentally grabbed hold of my testicles and given them a tug. I look away and try not to blush. I expect her to look away as well, but Caroline’s eyes are still searching my face. She licks the spoon again.
“Evie’s case is on Wednesday,” I say.
“Are we allowed to be talking?”
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe you’re going to be a witness for the other side.”
“Are there sides?” I ask. “We all want what’s best for Evie.”
She looks at me doubtfully. “Why do people always say that when they’re taking the choice away from someone?”
“Do you think Evie is ready?”
“My job is to ask questions of people like you, who seem to think she’s too damaged to be allowed out into the big bad world.”
“You must have an opinion.”
“I’m a legal aid lawyer, not a psychologist.”
“How old were you when you left home?” I ask.
The question annoys her. “I don’t see what difference that makes.”
“Was it university?”
“Yes.”
“You went home for the holidays. You had a student loan, a car, regular money from your parents.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“Evie doesn’t have any support. No family to fall back on.”
“We can’t keep people locked up because they don’t have parents or family money.”
I hesitate, about to ask another question, but Caroline gets in before me. “I know who she is.”
“Pardon?”
“Evie. I know the truth.”
I play dumb.
“She’s Angel Face.” There is a beat of silence. Caroline lowers her voice. “I guessed. How many people her age can’t prove how old they are?”
“You can’t tell anyone.”
“I know the law, Dr. Haven.”
“Please call me Cyrus.”
Outside, another group of tourists are carrying matching red shoulder bags and following a guide who is twirling a yellow umbrella like a baton.
Caroline spea
ks next. “Do you want to keep Evie locked away?”
“No.”
“Then why are you here?”
I don’t know how to answer her or if it’s actually appropriate to tell her the truth. How do I explain that Evie Cormac has lodged under my skin like a splinter that irritates me at unexpected moments? She fascinates and alarms me and makes me realize why I became a psychologist.
Normally, when someone is balanced and copes well with day-to-day life, there’s no point in trying to unlock their psyche. More importantly, it can be dangerous to tinker with a “machine” that isn’t broken. Most people learn to live with trauma and deprivation by developing coping mechanisms. They get on with life rather than dwelling on failure or loss.
I don’t know if Evie remembers what happened to her or has chosen to forget. The idea of traumatic memories being suppressed and coming to the surface later has divided psychologists and neurologists for thirty years, but the memory wars of the 1990s were never resolved. I don’t think Evie has suppressed memories. We know some of what she endured. She listened to a man being tortured to death. She spent weeks in a house with his decomposing body. She was sexually abused from a young age and doctors doubt if she’ll ever be able to have children.
Yet despite being treated by a legion of therapists, counselors, and psychologists, she has never spoken about what she witnessed or how she came to be in the secret room. I don’t care how untouched or untroubled she may appear to be, she will have scars. She does remember.
Caroline runs her finger around the rim of her coffee cup, collecting the remaining froth.
“Would you like another?” I ask.
“I don’t have time,” she replies, glancing at her phone. “About Evie. Can I call you as a witness?”
“No.”
“But you’ve talked to her.”
“She’s told me nothing.”
“You’ve read her files.”
“Same answer.”
“Was it really so bad—what happened to her?”
I lean closer. “I’ll tell you this much. So far I haven’t found anyone who doesn’t consider Evie to be a danger to herself and to others.”
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