When She Was Good, page 28
“You don’t have an accent.”
“I came here when I was nine.”
“With your parents?”
“My mother and my sister.”
“What happened to them?”
“They’re dead.”
“How?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
He wants to push me on the point, but I interrupt him. “Not everything matters,” I say. “Ask about me, ask me about Terry, ask me about Ruby, but don’t ask me about that.”
“You promised me everything.”
“I promised you nothing.”
Cyrus narrows his eyes but he’s not angry. It’s more disappointment.
“The men who killed Ruby, did you see their faces?”
“No.”
“But you recognized one of them.”
“His voice,” I say. “It was the same man who killed Terry and who came to Langford Hall looking for me.”
“You’re sure?”
“Are you going to question everything I say?”
“I didn’t mean…”
“They tortured Terry to death. They burned him. They beat him. They kept asking him the same questions: ‘Where is she?’ ‘What have you done with her?’ But Terry wouldn’t tell them.… He wouldn’t betray me.… He died saving me.…”
I can’t finish what I meant to say. The words have dried up.
Cyrus is right. I haven’t forgotten anything. The opposite is true. These are memories that I bring out regularly and handle carefully, examining every bump and scratch and sharp edge. That’s why I can bring to mind the voices and the faces and the screams.
There is no such thing as forgetting.
55 CYRUS
Opening the envelope, I take out a photograph and slide it across the kitchen table towards Evie. It’s a copy of the driver’s license used by the man who visited Elias at Rampton Hospital.
“Do you recognize him?”
Evie shakes her head.
The next photograph is of Eugene Green.
“You’ve showed me this before,” she says after a cursory glance.
I put a new image in front of her. It’s a picture of Jimmy Verbic dressed in his mayoral robes. He is standing behind a large oak desk with a framed photograph of Queen Elizabeth on the wall behind him.
“This is the friend I mentioned—the one who killed himself.”
Evie runs her forefinger over his face as though she might recognize him using the tip of her finger.
“I don’t think he’s one of them,” she says, and I feel a surge of relief, although it doesn’t explain what Jimmy was doing at Dalgety Lodge or why he committed suicide.
I take out two more photographs and place them side by side on the table. Evie glances down and back up again immediately. Terror fills her eyes and tightens her fists. I tap my finger on the picture, asking her to look. She steels herself and glances down at the group of men standing in front of a fountain.
“That’s Terry,” she says, pointing to him.
“And this is Eugene Green,” I say. “They knew each other.”
Evie’s hands are trembling, but it’s not the men that frighten her. It’s the house behind them.
“Do you remember this place?” I ask.
Her chin barely moves as she nods.
“Did Terry take you there?”
Another nod.
I slide the last photograph across the table. It’s a picture of Patrick Comber, aged twelve. He’s standing with one foot on a skateboard. A fringe of brown hair has fallen across his right eye and a half smile shows the gap in his front teeth.
Evie glances at the image and her eyes swim. She whispers, “He was at the house.”
“This house?” I point to the photograph of Dalgety Lodge.
A nod.
“You talked to him.”
“Yes.”
“When was this?”
“I don’t remember. It was before I ran away with Terry.”
“How long before?”
“A few weeks. It was before Christmas.”
“What happened at this house?”
Evie shakes her head. I notice her hands. She is pinching the skin on her arm, digging her fingernails into the soft flesh with such force that she draws blood. A single drop runs across the curve of her wrist and falls to the table.
I have to stop myself from moving too quickly and pushing her too hard. My sense of urgency will only increase her anxiety. At the same time, I need this information. Who did she meet? What were their names?
“Do you think they told me their names?” Evie answers, looking at me defiantly. “I was locked in a room. They came and took me. There were no names.”
“Would you recognize their faces?”
Her eyes widen, more frightened now.
“If I could get their photographs or CCTV footage, would you recognize them?”
Evie’s whole body seems to be vibrating. Her eyes jink to the door and window, as though looking for some escape. I pull back and get her a glass of water. She needs both hands to hold it steady. Her wrist is still bleeding.
“Where did you normally live?” I ask, changing the subject.
“In a big house.”
“Did you ever see a signpost or the name of a village?”
I can see her straining to remember.
“Who did the house belong to?”
“Uncle.”
“Was he your uncle?”
“No.”
“Who else lived in the house?”
“Mrs. Quinn. She was the housekeeper.”
“The man you call ‘Uncle’—is he the one who took you from your family?”
“No.”
“How did that happen?”
“They promised Mama a job in England. They said that one of the big hotel chains would give her work because her English was so good. Agnesa could work as a chambermaid. I would go to school and we’d save money and take a trip to America. I wanted to visit Graceland. That’s where Elvis lived.”
“How did you get to England?” I ask.
Evie ignores the question and begins talking about her best friend Mina, who lived with other Roma families near the old railway yards. Mina’s father had a bow-backed horse he called Mother Theresa because “she was the most famous Albanian” and he drove a cart through the streets collecting scrap metal from people who had copper, zinc, or lead to sell.
I try again to interrupt her, but Evie’s mind has split off.
“Mina sat next to me in school, but I wasn’t allowed to sleep over at her house because Mama said I’d get nits and fleas.”
She’s not exactly rambling incoherently, but she’s also not here with me. She has disappeared to her safe place—perhaps some memory from her childhood when she felt protected and loved.
If I break down her psychological defenses, I could damage her permanently, which is why I pull back and lead Evie to the spare bedroom, where she curls up under the duvet, making herself small. I leave the door open in case she needs me.
When I’m sure she’s asleep, I call Dr. Baillie at Rampton and ask about Elias.
“He had a better night,” he says, sounding relieved. “His kidneys are functioning at fifty percent and improving. The doctors are monitoring the potassium levels in his blood and checking for fluid in his lungs, but he should make a full recovery.”
“Did you identify what toxin?”
“Not yet. What about the visitor, Thomas Sakr?”
“He used a fake driver’s license. That’s not his real name.”
“Why would he want to poison Elias?”
“It’s a long story and it’s still being unraveled,” I say, “but Elias didn’t deserve to be part of it.”
“Is he still in danger?”
“He’s safer in Rampton than anywhere else.”
“Not on this evidence,” he says tiredly. “There will have to be an internal investigation. New rules put in place.”
“Tell Elias I’ll come and visit him soon.”
“I will.”
* * *
An hour later I check on Evie, but the bed is empty. I panic and think she’s run again, until I hear her crying and find her squatting in the corner between the bed and the wall, hunched over, as though protecting herself from unseen blows that are raining down upon her body.
I say Evie’s name, and she clenches her teeth against the sobbing. It’s only the second time I’ve seen her cry properly, with real tears, and I fight the urge to pull back and escape her pain, which is so raw and absolute it’s like listening to her heart breaking.
I wrap her in my arms and stroke her hair, but my touch makes her cry even harder, shaking her body and mine, making everything move, the floor, the ground, the earth…
Evie talks between her broken sobs.
“Mama said I was born with wise eyes. She said I could walk before I could crawl. She said I sang before I spoke. She said I was a tomboy, always climbing trees and turning sticks into swords and every game into a contest. She said I slept with my finger against my cheek like I was solving problems in my dreams.” A choking sound. “She’s never going to hold me. She’s never going to say my name or brush my hair or wipe dirt from my face or pull splinters from my finger or read me stories or tell me she loves me.”
There is nothing I can say. No words that can take away her hurt. All I can do is hold her in my arms, letting her tears wet my shirt, and silently vow that I will find the person who did this—every person—and make them pay.
56 EVIE
“Where are we going?” I asked Terry.
“On a plane.”
“In the sky?”
“Where else?” He looked at me strangely. “Have you ever flown before?”
“No.”
“You needn’t be scared.”
“I’m not scared.”
Terry had come to the kitchen to collect me. Mrs. Quinn had packed a small suitcase, making sure I had enough socks and knickers and other clothes.
“You’re going on a holiday,” she said.
“To the beach?”
“Don’t be silly. It’s too cold for the beach. You’re going to Scotland. You might see Nessie.”
“Who?”
“The Loch Ness Monster.”
“I don’t want to see any monsters.”
She laughed and said it was make-believe, but if you really wanted to see it, sometimes it appeared.
“Will Uncle be there?” I asked.
“Of course.”
Terry drove the Merc to an airport, where he turned through metal gates covered with wire and drove across the tarmac to a plane that was long and sleek and white like it was made from folded paper.
“What holds it up in the sky?” I asked.
“The engines.”
“Are they like rockets?”
“Not quite the same.”
Papa used to say that God lifted planes into the sky and held them there, but I don’t believe in God anymore.
Nobody else was on board the flight except for two pilots who wore white shirts with wings on the sleeves. Terry held my hand as we took off, because the engines were so loud, but I think he was more nervous than me. The buildings outside the window were rushing past and I felt the wheels leave the ground.
“You can see the whole world,” I said to Terry as I looked out the window. “You want to look?”
“No thank you.”
From up above we hardly seemed to be moving at all, as if we were hanging in the sky and the earth was spinning slowly below us. Everything speeded up as we dropped from the clouds and the ground got nearer, the patchwork fields and rocky headlands and lights from fishing boats.
The plane stopped rolling and we walked down the steps onto the tarmac. Terry made a phone call and a car flashed its lights from the parking area. It was an old four-wheel drive with mud on the wheels and dirty windows. Terry put our bags in the back and held the door open for me. He sat up front next to the driver, who had a funny accent, and they talked about hunting and fishing. It grew dark on the drive and I was getting sleepy by the time we turned onto a narrow road that twisted and turned, over humps and dips. We crossed a bridge and passed a farmhouse with one light burning downstairs. The high-beam headlights formed a tunnel in the darkness and sometimes a set of eyes glowed back from the edge of the road—a fox or a cat or a deer.
Eventually we swung through a gate between matching stone pillars that had carved lions on the top. The driveway curved between trees and across a lawn to a house that had every window lit up. The grey building was made of stone with turrets and steeples etched against the stars. It looked like it had grown up from the ground, one rock at a time.
We parked at a garage behind the house and Terry took me inside to a kitchen that was warmed by twin ovens that never went cold. Uncle was waiting. He kissed the top of my head and ran his hand down my back, tugging at my dress where it clung to my woolen tights.
He didn’t acknowledge Terry or give me time to say good-bye. I was taken up a narrow flight of stairs behind the kitchen to an equally narrow corridor. As I passed an open door, I saw a boy sitting on a bed. He was having his hair combed and he looked up as I passed. His eyes were red from crying and he seemed to be hoping I was someone else.
Uncle pushed me to keep moving and we came to the next room.
“You’ll sleep here,” he said. “You can watch TV, but you can’t leave here unless someone comes to collect you. The door will be locked.”
He cupped my face in his right hand, making me lift my eyes to look at him. His thumb and forefinger were digging into my cheeks, pulling my mouth out of shape.
“What do you say?”
“Thank you, Uncle.”
I didn’t want to look at his eyes, so I concentrated on a spot just above them, a patch of dry skin on his forehead. He pushed me backwards onto the bed and brushed my neck with his fingers. “Feel how soft this duvet is. It’s filled with the smallest feathers that were plucked from birds while they were still alive. That’s where the softest feathers come from, just here.” His fingers closed around my throat. “If you ever disobey me—if you ever try to escape—I will pluck out the softest bits of you, do you understand?”
My mouth couldn’t make the sounds.
“Do you understand?”
I nodded.
I waited until I heard his footsteps on the stairs before I checked to make sure the door was locked. I felt more secure knowing that he had the key because I knew what to expect with Uncle. It was the others who made me nervous.
My room had a single bed and a box-shaped TV on a stand and a basin attached to the wall. I found a blue-and-white ceramic pot beneath the bed and knew what it was for.
I left the light on, but crawled into bed, waiting to be collected. I thought of the boy in the next room, who looked about my age, maybe a little older. Up until then, I thought I was the only one, but it felt good knowing I wasn’t alone. That makes me sound like a bad person, but I wanted him to be my friend.
57 CYRUS
“The man is a ghost,” says Badger, pushing back his chair. We are sitting at an ink-stained desk in his studio, where matching computer screens glow upon our faces. For the past three hours Badger has searched for information about Fraser Manning but has come up with next to nothing. Apart from being quoted in the occasional business story, Manning doesn’t appear to have any public profile. There is nothing on LinkedIn or any of the other professional networking sites and forums.
“How can someone be on the board of a major charitable foundation and not have a photograph or biography or some professional footprint?” Badger asks as he widens the search to include the Solicitors Regulation Authority and the Law Society. Manning’s name isn’t on either site.
“He asked me if I’d gone to Cambridge,” I say, wondering if it might help.
“The student registry should verify all degrees, but there’s nothing under his name,” replies Badger.
The only photograph we’ve come across was taken at the Henley Royal Regatta and published years ago in Tatler magazine. It shows Manning dressed in black tie and a straw boater, standing in a group of revelers who are raising champagne flutes in a toast. At his shoulder is a man with sandy-colored hair and a nonexistent chin, who has his arm around the waist of a young woman whose skin is so pale she could be made of porcelain.
“An engagement,” says Badger, reading the caption. “James Everett and Sara Connelly.”
I ask him to pull up Debrett’s—the bible of British lineage—and look up Lord Phillip Everett.
“Three marriages, six children,” says Badger. “His eldest boy, James Patrick Everett, married Sara Philomena Connelly in 2011.”
“That’s the link between Fraser Manning and Lord Everett,” I say. “They met through his son.”
“It still doesn’t explain how Fraser Manning is such a ghost. Unless…”
“What?”
“He changed his name.” Badger does a new search of the deed poll records, which formalize any change of name. “Anyone over sixteen can do it without having to register their new name with an official body, so long as they’re not doing it for illegal reasons,” he explains. “Saying that, I’d normally expect a trail of records that begins and ends suddenly.”
“How do we find someone’s original name?”
“It’s a process of elimination.”
After another half an hour, he comes up with a possible match—a Francis Lewinsky, born in London in August 1970. His father was Alfred and his mother Ella. They ran a fish-and-chip shop in Finchley. Francis won a scholarship to Highgate and later read law at Fitzwilliam College, Cambridge.
“That must be him,” I say. “But why does Francis Lewinsky become Fraser Manning?”
“Maybe he wanted to hide his Jewish roots,” suggests Badger.
“Is that still necessary?”
Using the new name, Badger finds another photograph. This one shows a Cambridge rowing eight posing in front of a stretch of river. Clad in singlets and Lycra, they are holding the female cox horizontally, while their boat bobs in the foreground.
