Lying Beside You, page 14
“It’s not about liking him,” says Cyrus. “I’m the closest family he has left.”
“Whose fault is that?”
Cyrus gives me a look.
“It’s what my parents would do,” he says. “They’d want me to forgive him and help him make something of his life.”
“Are you sure?”
“Elias is still young. Not even forty. He could go on to lead a good life. Surely that’s better than having him die in a psychiatric hospital.”
“That was his punishment.”
“It was never meant to be that.” Cyrus leans against the kitchen counter. “Schizophrenia is a mental illness.”
“What causes it?”
“Nobody knows for certain. Most likely it’s a combination of genetics, environment, and altered brain chemistry.”
“Can you catch it?”
“No.”
“You said genetics—does that mean you could get it?”
“Yes.”
“How would I know?”
“My behavior would change. My thoughts and speech would be disorganized. I’d become isolated and lose touch with people.”
“You do that now.”
“Very funny.”
“What if Elias hasn’t changed?”
“He has. He’s a lot different.”
“But people can be born bad, can’t they? Under the wrong sign.”
“I don’t believe in signs or omens or fate. I stick to the science.”
A horn toots, and I watch from the library window as a van pulls up and Cyrus opens the front door and waves. I’ve seen photographs, but I didn’t expect Elias to be so fat. Not obese, but just big all over, with a double chin and blotchy skin and a terrible haircut. He’s wearing baggy jeans and a sweater that stretches over his midriff.
Two hospital orderlies are with him, black guys who are built like bouncers and move like basketball players.
Cyrus and Elias embrace. It’s not the most convincing hug, but I guess they’re out of practice. Soon they’re into the kitchen, talking about the weather and the drive into Nottingham.
“So many new buildings,” says Elias. “You’ll have to take me on a tour.”
The senior orderly is Roland, and his colleague is Oscar, and they look more like brothers than Elias and Cyrus. Oscar makes me think of Oscar Wilde because I’m reading The Importance of Being Earnest as one of my English texts.
Five people make the kitchen feel small.
“You don’t have to stay,” says Cyrus, who is smiling more than usual.
“That’s not how it works,” replies Roland. “On the first visit we have to remain here.”
“Of course.” Cyrus turns to me. “Evie, this is Elias. And Elias, this is Evie. She lives here.”
I don’t move. Am I supposed to shake his hand? I don’t want to touch him.
“Is she your girlfriend?” asks Elias.
“No,” we answer in unison.
Cyrus calls me his housemate, hesitating over the word, as if unsure of how I should be labeled. Elias is still staring at me. Maybe he hasn’t seen many women my age.
“She’s not your girlfriend,” he says again, as though wanting to be very clear.
“I’m nobody’s girlfriend,” I reply.
There is a beat of silence. Cyrus suggests making tea and says that he’s bought a carrot cake because he knows how much Elias loves it. There are comments about the kitchen and the garden. Small talk. Minuscule talk. Blah, blahing.
Elias asks about their grandparents.
“They’re good,” says Cyrus. “Living in Weymouth. Granddad golfs. Grandma plays bridge.”
“They never came to visit me,” says Elias. “I got birthday and Christmas cards.”
Cyrus doesn’t respond.
“And now you’re living here—in their house. I always loved this place.” Elias has walked to the kitchen window. “The beech tree is still there. Remember that summer we built the treehouse? And Mum said, ‘If you fall out of that tree and break both your legs, don’t come running to me?’ ”
They both laugh and I think it’s weird they’re talking about a woman that Elias stabbed to death. People often misuse the word “surreal,” using it when something is unreal rather than bizarre, but this is just fucking weird.
“You made that ladder out of knotted rope,” says Cyrus.
“And you weren’t strong enough to climb it.”
“I made it eventually.”
“Only with my help.”
“You were older.”
“And you were a weakling.”
There is an edge to the banter. Maybe it’s sibling rivalry, which is something I never really had with Agnesa because I knew she was prettier and cleverer and nicer than me.
“But look at you now.” Elias grins. “You’ve been pumping iron?”
“I built a gym in the basement. You’re welcome to use it.”
“I used to be able to bench-press you.”
Not anymore, I think. Now you’re a salad dodger.
I can picture them growing up. Elias being older. Cyrus trying to compete for his attention or affection, but he’s the one in control now and Elias looks like the ugly fat friend who makes people feel more attractive by standing next to them. He begins to walk from room to room, remembering certain stories and anecdotes from their childhoods. Roland and Oscar stay in the kitchen eating carrot cake, while Cyrus gives Elias a tour of the house. I hang back when they go upstairs but I can hear them talking.
“You can’t go in there,” says Cyrus. “It’s Evie’s room.”
“How long is she staying?”
“As long as she wants.”
They’ve reached Mitch’s room. His rucksack is on the bed. I half climb the stairs. Eavesdropping.
“Someone else is staying for a few days,” says Cyrus.
“When I come home, where will I sleep?”
“You can have this room.”
“But Evie has the one with the view over the park.”
“You’ll choose another.”
Elias goes quiet for a while.
“I could ask Granddad and Grandma.”
“Ask them what?”
“About which bedroom is mine.”
“They gave the house to me,” says Cyrus. “I get to decide.”
There is another long silence. “What about Mum and Dad’s money?”
“It went into a trust fund.”
“For you?”
“It paid for my education and my living expenses. And I sent you money every month—so you could buy things at the Rampton shop.”
“What’s left?”
“Nothing.”
Elias doesn’t reply. They’re in Cyrus’s room and I can’t hear them anymore, but I wait on the landing, crouched out of sight. When they reappear, Elias is telling Cyrus why they were never allowed in the attic.
“That’s where Granddad kept his Playboys. He had hundreds of them. I used to sneak up here and look at them.”
Cyrus laughs. “Did Grandma know?”
“I don’t think she cared.”
“Reckon they’re still there?” asks Elias.
“They’re not.”
“How do you know?”
“I know.”
There is a moment of silence and I hear their footsteps getting closer. I retreat downstairs. I don’t want anyone touching the attic. That’s my place. It’s where I hide when I have my nightmares. I squeeze between the crates and chests, and curl up on the floor, making myself small, trying not to make a sound.
* * *
The van has gone, but Cyrus is still standing at the gate. A gust of wind sends leaves tumbling across the lawn, pinning them against the fence. Three hours with Elias has felt like a year. At least I didn’t say the wrong thing. Normally I don’t care, but this is different.
I start tidying up the kitchen. Cyrus returns.
“Why didn’t you tell Elias that I was living here?” I ask.
“I did.”
“Yes, but only now. I’ve been here a year.”
“He must have forgotten.”
Cyrus scoops cake crumbs from the table and tips them into the pedal bin.
“Don’t you think it was weird, how he talked about your family, as though nothing had happened? Like that stuff with the treehouse and your mum.”
“He was nervous, that’s all. He’s not used to socializing.”
“Is he going to come and live here?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want me to move out?”
“No.”
“Look at me when you say that.”
We’re face-to-face. Eye-to-eye.
“I want you to stay.”
31 Cyrus
Morning cold. I walk through Wollaton Park on my way to the university. The sun is a pale yellow ball behind the grey clouds that won’t shift all day, or month, or perhaps until the spring. Three gardeners are planting bulbs but seem to break regularly to brew up mugs of tea in their shed, sternly gazing at the sky, discussing the weather.
On the edge of the park, a group of students are holding up placards and chanting. They’re protesting about student loans and the rents charged during lockdowns but look halfhearted or half-frozen.
Henri meets me in the corridor. He’s holding a soiled diaper, wrapped in a tight bundle, treating it like an unexploded bomb.
“She’s very nice, but that toddler shits like an espresso machine.”
I have no idea who he’s talking about until I discover Melody Sterling in my office. Victoria is sitting on the floor, playing with crayons and a blank piece of paper.
“You gave me your business card,” says Melody, sounding embarrassed. “I know I should have called, but I didn’t know if I could do this. I’ve been sitting in the car for the past hour, summoning the courage.”
She’s wearing cargo pants, a cotton blouse, and a loose sweater.
“They won’t let me see Dean. I don’t know if he’s been charged, or if he’s appearing in court. Can the police do that—tell me nothing?”
“Yes.”
“But he didn’t hurt Maya. He was in Leeds.”
“He wasn’t staying at the pub,” I say.
It takes a moment for the information to register and the implications to become clear. Her eyes cloud before growing bright and hard. “Who is she?”
“Someone he met.”
“Someone he paid for?”
I don’t answer.
“I knew it. I do the accounts. I see where the money goes.” She walks to the window, muttering to herself, “The bastard! The lousy, fucking bastard!”
Victoria looks up from the floor and babbles something incomprehensible. Melody understands and pulls a rusk from a plastic Ziploc bag. The toddler grips it in both hands and gnaws on the edge.
“I feel stupid.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. He’s a good father. He works hard. He’s never raised his hand to me.”
I don’t know if Melody is trying to convince me or herself.
“Who is she?” she asks.
“A single mother. Tessa. He won’t tell police her full name.”
“He wants to keep seeing her.”
It’s a statement, not a question. Melody seems to reach a decision. She unzips a side pocket of her bag and retrieves a cork that looks like it belongs in a wine bottle. Squeezing it in her fist, she twists it in half, revealing the silver plug of a USB stick.
“I found a bottle of red wine in our wine rack. The plastic seal had been broken. Dean drinks beer. It made me wonder…”
She hands me the thumb drive.
“Have you looked?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t want to see what he filmed. I won’t lie for him. I won’t wait for him.”
Melody gets to her feet and takes a few minutes to gather the toys and crayons and baby paraphernalia that has found its way into every corner of my office. She looks at the soggy biscuit crumbs on the floor.
“Do you have a dustpan?”
“I’ll clean up,” I say.
I walk mother and daughter along the corridor to the stairs. Victoria reaches up and takes my hand, swinging her legs in the air between us.
“Will he be charged?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“Will he go to prison?”
“Not if he tells the police everything and expresses remorse.”
Melody smiles sadly. “Dean has only regretted one thing in his life. Marrying me.”
* * *
Returning to my desk, I plug the USB into my laptop and wait for it to be recognized. I expect to need a password or a code, but the files appear automatically. Hundreds of them, each with a letter and seven-digit number.
I randomly right-click a file and ask for information. It gives me the size and the date it was created. When I double-click to open the video, my computer doesn’t recognize the format. I try several versions until finally a window pops up and I see Maya Kirk’s bedroom, her double bed and dressing table. This was taken by the Paddington Bear camera.
A woman walks into frame. Maya. She’s wearing exercise gear and looking at her phone. She sits on the bed and kicks off her shoes, smiling at something on-screen. Flopping backwards, she holds the phone above her head and continues watching. After a few minutes, she sits up, peels off her top, and begins to shimmy out of her leggings. I close the file, not wanting to see any more, but at the same time I feel strangely compelled.
The word “voyeur” seems old-fashioned, as though it belongs to an era of peep shows and Victorian erotica, of women in stockings and giant panties. Either that, or it conjures up images of men with binoculars or telescopes, training their gaze on neighboring windows, seeking gratification by spying on someone else’s life.
The media have softened the word by linking it to reality-TV shows where people agree to be filmed, playing games of survival, or deception, but that isn’t true voyeurism. Permission cannot be granted. A voyeur watches in secret, peering through keyholes, up-skirting, or watching through windows as someone undresses or bathes or has sex.
The files on the thumb drive are arranged in chronological order. I choose the most recent. When the screen opens, I’m looking at footage of Dean Sterling’s face, as he reaches up towards the smoke detector with a screwdriver in his hand, removing the spy camera. The next file shows him reaching for the Paddington Bear and turning it over. The image shakes as he retrieves the second camera, pulling out the eyeball lens.
I keep searching. Some of the footage lasts only a few seconds and nobody appears in frame. The motion sensor has a time lag, which means someone can enter the room and leave again immediately, without being recorded. I open a new file and see a forensic officer, wearing coveralls, working in Maya’s bedroom, dusting for fingerprints and collecting fibers from the bedding. Cassie Wright. She calls to someone. Craig Dyson appears. They discuss something on the dressing table. Cassie takes strands of Maya’s hair from her hairbrush, sealing it in an evidence bag.
The next file shows Stephen Voigt using a spray bottle to coat the bath and sink with Luminol, searching for the presence of hemoglobin, which will turn blue under an ultraviolet light if even the faintest traces of blood are left behind.
Working backwards, I watch as the first responders arrive at the house. A young constable appears in the bedroom, looking for Maya, making sure not to touch anything. Rohan Kirk is lying dead downstairs in a pool of his own blood.
Growing impatient, I jump backwards to an earlier time code and discover footage of Maya getting ready for her date. Dressed in a bra and panties, she opens her wardrobe door and searches for something to wear. Again, I feel like a voyeur, but this has become necessary. Maya holds a dress against her body… a second… a third. Having chosen one, she lifts it over her head, arms raised, and shimmies as the fabric slides over her shoulders and falls to just below her knees. This is what she was wearing when they found her body.
Taking a seat on a padded stool in front of her dressing table, Maya applies vermilion lipstick, uncapping the silver applicator and painting it over her lips. She pops her thumb in her mouth and pulls out again, removing any residue. Then she brushes her hair, before sliding a tortoiseshell clip above her parting, holding it away from her face.
Afterwards, she opens a small clutch bag and checks the contents. Her car keys. Lip gloss. Tissues. One last look in the mirror and she leaves, turning off the light. Her bedside lamp remains on, and her duvet is turned down at one corner, waiting for her to return.
The screen goes dark when the motion sensor turns off the recording. I press play on the next file. It is the same room, darker, but still lit by the bedside lamp. A figure crosses the room. A man, wearing jeans and a jacket. He drags the duvet from the bed and bundles it under one arm. He hesitates and walks to the dressing table, opening the top drawer. He sorts through Maya’s underwear, holding up pieces against the light. He puts a pair of knickers into his pocket and turns towards the door, revealing his face.
Anders Foley lied about leaving Maya outside the bar. He brought her home. He searched her bedroom. He took something away.
32 Evie
“The handbrake is a bit dodgy, so make sure to keep it in first when you park,” says Morty, as he shows me around the Mini.
“You’re not much of a salesman.”
“You should know what you’re buying.”
I sit in the driver’s seat and hold the wheel. Practicing. Pretending. I have a sudden, jarring memory of being six years old and sitting on Papa’s lap as he drove. I turned the wheel, while he changed gears and worked the pedals. The truck smelled of tobacco and diesel fumes and the windows would sometimes drop into the doors when we hit a pothole.
Every Sunday, after Mass, we’d drive into the mountains—Papa, Mama, Agnesa, and me—and picnic among the wildflowers, eating sandwiches and honey and nut cake. Papa would fall asleep with his head on Mama’s lap, while Agnesa showed me how to make daisy chains, which we draped around Papa’s neck and across his face. He was only pretending to be asleep and would wake with a roar and tickle us until we begged him to stop. I know that’s a real memory, but sometimes I wonder about other parts of my childhood. I feel like one of those science fiction robots that gets programmed with a past to make them feel more human.
“Whose fault is that?”
Cyrus gives me a look.
“It’s what my parents would do,” he says. “They’d want me to forgive him and help him make something of his life.”
“Are you sure?”
“Elias is still young. Not even forty. He could go on to lead a good life. Surely that’s better than having him die in a psychiatric hospital.”
“That was his punishment.”
“It was never meant to be that.” Cyrus leans against the kitchen counter. “Schizophrenia is a mental illness.”
“What causes it?”
“Nobody knows for certain. Most likely it’s a combination of genetics, environment, and altered brain chemistry.”
“Can you catch it?”
“No.”
“You said genetics—does that mean you could get it?”
“Yes.”
“How would I know?”
“My behavior would change. My thoughts and speech would be disorganized. I’d become isolated and lose touch with people.”
“You do that now.”
“Very funny.”
“What if Elias hasn’t changed?”
“He has. He’s a lot different.”
“But people can be born bad, can’t they? Under the wrong sign.”
“I don’t believe in signs or omens or fate. I stick to the science.”
A horn toots, and I watch from the library window as a van pulls up and Cyrus opens the front door and waves. I’ve seen photographs, but I didn’t expect Elias to be so fat. Not obese, but just big all over, with a double chin and blotchy skin and a terrible haircut. He’s wearing baggy jeans and a sweater that stretches over his midriff.
Two hospital orderlies are with him, black guys who are built like bouncers and move like basketball players.
Cyrus and Elias embrace. It’s not the most convincing hug, but I guess they’re out of practice. Soon they’re into the kitchen, talking about the weather and the drive into Nottingham.
“So many new buildings,” says Elias. “You’ll have to take me on a tour.”
The senior orderly is Roland, and his colleague is Oscar, and they look more like brothers than Elias and Cyrus. Oscar makes me think of Oscar Wilde because I’m reading The Importance of Being Earnest as one of my English texts.
Five people make the kitchen feel small.
“You don’t have to stay,” says Cyrus, who is smiling more than usual.
“That’s not how it works,” replies Roland. “On the first visit we have to remain here.”
“Of course.” Cyrus turns to me. “Evie, this is Elias. And Elias, this is Evie. She lives here.”
I don’t move. Am I supposed to shake his hand? I don’t want to touch him.
“Is she your girlfriend?” asks Elias.
“No,” we answer in unison.
Cyrus calls me his housemate, hesitating over the word, as if unsure of how I should be labeled. Elias is still staring at me. Maybe he hasn’t seen many women my age.
“She’s not your girlfriend,” he says again, as though wanting to be very clear.
“I’m nobody’s girlfriend,” I reply.
There is a beat of silence. Cyrus suggests making tea and says that he’s bought a carrot cake because he knows how much Elias loves it. There are comments about the kitchen and the garden. Small talk. Minuscule talk. Blah, blahing.
Elias asks about their grandparents.
“They’re good,” says Cyrus. “Living in Weymouth. Granddad golfs. Grandma plays bridge.”
“They never came to visit me,” says Elias. “I got birthday and Christmas cards.”
Cyrus doesn’t respond.
“And now you’re living here—in their house. I always loved this place.” Elias has walked to the kitchen window. “The beech tree is still there. Remember that summer we built the treehouse? And Mum said, ‘If you fall out of that tree and break both your legs, don’t come running to me?’ ”
They both laugh and I think it’s weird they’re talking about a woman that Elias stabbed to death. People often misuse the word “surreal,” using it when something is unreal rather than bizarre, but this is just fucking weird.
“You made that ladder out of knotted rope,” says Cyrus.
“And you weren’t strong enough to climb it.”
“I made it eventually.”
“Only with my help.”
“You were older.”
“And you were a weakling.”
There is an edge to the banter. Maybe it’s sibling rivalry, which is something I never really had with Agnesa because I knew she was prettier and cleverer and nicer than me.
“But look at you now.” Elias grins. “You’ve been pumping iron?”
“I built a gym in the basement. You’re welcome to use it.”
“I used to be able to bench-press you.”
Not anymore, I think. Now you’re a salad dodger.
I can picture them growing up. Elias being older. Cyrus trying to compete for his attention or affection, but he’s the one in control now and Elias looks like the ugly fat friend who makes people feel more attractive by standing next to them. He begins to walk from room to room, remembering certain stories and anecdotes from their childhoods. Roland and Oscar stay in the kitchen eating carrot cake, while Cyrus gives Elias a tour of the house. I hang back when they go upstairs but I can hear them talking.
“You can’t go in there,” says Cyrus. “It’s Evie’s room.”
“How long is she staying?”
“As long as she wants.”
They’ve reached Mitch’s room. His rucksack is on the bed. I half climb the stairs. Eavesdropping.
“Someone else is staying for a few days,” says Cyrus.
“When I come home, where will I sleep?”
“You can have this room.”
“But Evie has the one with the view over the park.”
“You’ll choose another.”
Elias goes quiet for a while.
“I could ask Granddad and Grandma.”
“Ask them what?”
“About which bedroom is mine.”
“They gave the house to me,” says Cyrus. “I get to decide.”
There is another long silence. “What about Mum and Dad’s money?”
“It went into a trust fund.”
“For you?”
“It paid for my education and my living expenses. And I sent you money every month—so you could buy things at the Rampton shop.”
“What’s left?”
“Nothing.”
Elias doesn’t reply. They’re in Cyrus’s room and I can’t hear them anymore, but I wait on the landing, crouched out of sight. When they reappear, Elias is telling Cyrus why they were never allowed in the attic.
“That’s where Granddad kept his Playboys. He had hundreds of them. I used to sneak up here and look at them.”
Cyrus laughs. “Did Grandma know?”
“I don’t think she cared.”
“Reckon they’re still there?” asks Elias.
“They’re not.”
“How do you know?”
“I know.”
There is a moment of silence and I hear their footsteps getting closer. I retreat downstairs. I don’t want anyone touching the attic. That’s my place. It’s where I hide when I have my nightmares. I squeeze between the crates and chests, and curl up on the floor, making myself small, trying not to make a sound.
* * *
The van has gone, but Cyrus is still standing at the gate. A gust of wind sends leaves tumbling across the lawn, pinning them against the fence. Three hours with Elias has felt like a year. At least I didn’t say the wrong thing. Normally I don’t care, but this is different.
I start tidying up the kitchen. Cyrus returns.
“Why didn’t you tell Elias that I was living here?” I ask.
“I did.”
“Yes, but only now. I’ve been here a year.”
“He must have forgotten.”
Cyrus scoops cake crumbs from the table and tips them into the pedal bin.
“Don’t you think it was weird, how he talked about your family, as though nothing had happened? Like that stuff with the treehouse and your mum.”
“He was nervous, that’s all. He’s not used to socializing.”
“Is he going to come and live here?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want me to move out?”
“No.”
“Look at me when you say that.”
We’re face-to-face. Eye-to-eye.
“I want you to stay.”
31 Cyrus
Morning cold. I walk through Wollaton Park on my way to the university. The sun is a pale yellow ball behind the grey clouds that won’t shift all day, or month, or perhaps until the spring. Three gardeners are planting bulbs but seem to break regularly to brew up mugs of tea in their shed, sternly gazing at the sky, discussing the weather.
On the edge of the park, a group of students are holding up placards and chanting. They’re protesting about student loans and the rents charged during lockdowns but look halfhearted or half-frozen.
Henri meets me in the corridor. He’s holding a soiled diaper, wrapped in a tight bundle, treating it like an unexploded bomb.
“She’s very nice, but that toddler shits like an espresso machine.”
I have no idea who he’s talking about until I discover Melody Sterling in my office. Victoria is sitting on the floor, playing with crayons and a blank piece of paper.
“You gave me your business card,” says Melody, sounding embarrassed. “I know I should have called, but I didn’t know if I could do this. I’ve been sitting in the car for the past hour, summoning the courage.”
She’s wearing cargo pants, a cotton blouse, and a loose sweater.
“They won’t let me see Dean. I don’t know if he’s been charged, or if he’s appearing in court. Can the police do that—tell me nothing?”
“Yes.”
“But he didn’t hurt Maya. He was in Leeds.”
“He wasn’t staying at the pub,” I say.
It takes a moment for the information to register and the implications to become clear. Her eyes cloud before growing bright and hard. “Who is she?”
“Someone he met.”
“Someone he paid for?”
I don’t answer.
“I knew it. I do the accounts. I see where the money goes.” She walks to the window, muttering to herself, “The bastard! The lousy, fucking bastard!”
Victoria looks up from the floor and babbles something incomprehensible. Melody understands and pulls a rusk from a plastic Ziploc bag. The toddler grips it in both hands and gnaws on the edge.
“I feel stupid.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. He’s a good father. He works hard. He’s never raised his hand to me.”
I don’t know if Melody is trying to convince me or herself.
“Who is she?” she asks.
“A single mother. Tessa. He won’t tell police her full name.”
“He wants to keep seeing her.”
It’s a statement, not a question. Melody seems to reach a decision. She unzips a side pocket of her bag and retrieves a cork that looks like it belongs in a wine bottle. Squeezing it in her fist, she twists it in half, revealing the silver plug of a USB stick.
“I found a bottle of red wine in our wine rack. The plastic seal had been broken. Dean drinks beer. It made me wonder…”
She hands me the thumb drive.
“Have you looked?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t want to see what he filmed. I won’t lie for him. I won’t wait for him.”
Melody gets to her feet and takes a few minutes to gather the toys and crayons and baby paraphernalia that has found its way into every corner of my office. She looks at the soggy biscuit crumbs on the floor.
“Do you have a dustpan?”
“I’ll clean up,” I say.
I walk mother and daughter along the corridor to the stairs. Victoria reaches up and takes my hand, swinging her legs in the air between us.
“Will he be charged?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“Will he go to prison?”
“Not if he tells the police everything and expresses remorse.”
Melody smiles sadly. “Dean has only regretted one thing in his life. Marrying me.”
* * *
Returning to my desk, I plug the USB into my laptop and wait for it to be recognized. I expect to need a password or a code, but the files appear automatically. Hundreds of them, each with a letter and seven-digit number.
I randomly right-click a file and ask for information. It gives me the size and the date it was created. When I double-click to open the video, my computer doesn’t recognize the format. I try several versions until finally a window pops up and I see Maya Kirk’s bedroom, her double bed and dressing table. This was taken by the Paddington Bear camera.
A woman walks into frame. Maya. She’s wearing exercise gear and looking at her phone. She sits on the bed and kicks off her shoes, smiling at something on-screen. Flopping backwards, she holds the phone above her head and continues watching. After a few minutes, she sits up, peels off her top, and begins to shimmy out of her leggings. I close the file, not wanting to see any more, but at the same time I feel strangely compelled.
The word “voyeur” seems old-fashioned, as though it belongs to an era of peep shows and Victorian erotica, of women in stockings and giant panties. Either that, or it conjures up images of men with binoculars or telescopes, training their gaze on neighboring windows, seeking gratification by spying on someone else’s life.
The media have softened the word by linking it to reality-TV shows where people agree to be filmed, playing games of survival, or deception, but that isn’t true voyeurism. Permission cannot be granted. A voyeur watches in secret, peering through keyholes, up-skirting, or watching through windows as someone undresses or bathes or has sex.
The files on the thumb drive are arranged in chronological order. I choose the most recent. When the screen opens, I’m looking at footage of Dean Sterling’s face, as he reaches up towards the smoke detector with a screwdriver in his hand, removing the spy camera. The next file shows him reaching for the Paddington Bear and turning it over. The image shakes as he retrieves the second camera, pulling out the eyeball lens.
I keep searching. Some of the footage lasts only a few seconds and nobody appears in frame. The motion sensor has a time lag, which means someone can enter the room and leave again immediately, without being recorded. I open a new file and see a forensic officer, wearing coveralls, working in Maya’s bedroom, dusting for fingerprints and collecting fibers from the bedding. Cassie Wright. She calls to someone. Craig Dyson appears. They discuss something on the dressing table. Cassie takes strands of Maya’s hair from her hairbrush, sealing it in an evidence bag.
The next file shows Stephen Voigt using a spray bottle to coat the bath and sink with Luminol, searching for the presence of hemoglobin, which will turn blue under an ultraviolet light if even the faintest traces of blood are left behind.
Working backwards, I watch as the first responders arrive at the house. A young constable appears in the bedroom, looking for Maya, making sure not to touch anything. Rohan Kirk is lying dead downstairs in a pool of his own blood.
Growing impatient, I jump backwards to an earlier time code and discover footage of Maya getting ready for her date. Dressed in a bra and panties, she opens her wardrobe door and searches for something to wear. Again, I feel like a voyeur, but this has become necessary. Maya holds a dress against her body… a second… a third. Having chosen one, she lifts it over her head, arms raised, and shimmies as the fabric slides over her shoulders and falls to just below her knees. This is what she was wearing when they found her body.
Taking a seat on a padded stool in front of her dressing table, Maya applies vermilion lipstick, uncapping the silver applicator and painting it over her lips. She pops her thumb in her mouth and pulls out again, removing any residue. Then she brushes her hair, before sliding a tortoiseshell clip above her parting, holding it away from her face.
Afterwards, she opens a small clutch bag and checks the contents. Her car keys. Lip gloss. Tissues. One last look in the mirror and she leaves, turning off the light. Her bedside lamp remains on, and her duvet is turned down at one corner, waiting for her to return.
The screen goes dark when the motion sensor turns off the recording. I press play on the next file. It is the same room, darker, but still lit by the bedside lamp. A figure crosses the room. A man, wearing jeans and a jacket. He drags the duvet from the bed and bundles it under one arm. He hesitates and walks to the dressing table, opening the top drawer. He sorts through Maya’s underwear, holding up pieces against the light. He puts a pair of knickers into his pocket and turns towards the door, revealing his face.
Anders Foley lied about leaving Maya outside the bar. He brought her home. He searched her bedroom. He took something away.
32 Evie
“The handbrake is a bit dodgy, so make sure to keep it in first when you park,” says Morty, as he shows me around the Mini.
“You’re not much of a salesman.”
“You should know what you’re buying.”
I sit in the driver’s seat and hold the wheel. Practicing. Pretending. I have a sudden, jarring memory of being six years old and sitting on Papa’s lap as he drove. I turned the wheel, while he changed gears and worked the pedals. The truck smelled of tobacco and diesel fumes and the windows would sometimes drop into the doors when we hit a pothole.
Every Sunday, after Mass, we’d drive into the mountains—Papa, Mama, Agnesa, and me—and picnic among the wildflowers, eating sandwiches and honey and nut cake. Papa would fall asleep with his head on Mama’s lap, while Agnesa showed me how to make daisy chains, which we draped around Papa’s neck and across his face. He was only pretending to be asleep and would wake with a roar and tickle us until we begged him to stop. I know that’s a real memory, but sometimes I wonder about other parts of my childhood. I feel like one of those science fiction robots that gets programmed with a past to make them feel more human.
