Lying Beside You, page 6
“Why did he take her?” asks Lenny.
“I don’t have enough information to answer that.”
A detective calls out from the far side of the room.
“The dating service has just sent us Maya’s chat history. She arranged to meet someone called Alex Foley.”
Moments later, a Web page is projected onto the whiteboard. Foley’s dating profile lists his age as thirty-six and says he works in IT. The main photograph was taken outdoors, showing blond highlights in his hair and muscled forearms sticking out of a T-shirt that is a size too small.
Pros: I’m not afraid of commitment. I love cooking. And my mum is the coolest person I know.
Cons: I don’t like doing the dishes, or wearing white shirts when I eat, or ordering wine at restaurants because I know nothing about wine.
My motto: Be all in or be all out. There’s no halfway.
There are two more photographs, casual shots designed to make him look like a relaxed, carefree, all-around nice guy, and a world traveler. In one he’s pictured riding an electric scooter in Italy, and another shows him in Egypt, perched on a camel with the Sphinx in the background.
“He lives in West Bridgford,” says Prime Time, who has pulled up a street-view image of the house. Detached. Two stories. A garage to one side.
Monroe has been typing. “No rap sheet, but two years ago a woman alleged that Foley sexually assaulted her and held her against her will.”
“Was he charged?”
“She got cold feet and refused to sign a statement.”
Lenny studies the satellite images. “Maya could be inside the house or the garage.”
“We don’t have enough for a warrant,” says Hoyle.
“What about a gas leak? Probable cause,” asks Edgar.
“Any judge will see through that,” says Hoyle.
“Maya’s safety is more important than a conviction,” says Lenny.
“Rohan Kirk might not agree,” says Hoyle. He addresses the task force. “I want eyes on the house, around the clock, and I want Foley followed. We stick to him like goosegrass.”
“For how long?” I ask.
“Twenty-four hours. If Foley doesn’t come forward, we’ll know he has something to hide.” Hoyle claps his hands together. “Let’s get to work. Remember the ABC of being a detective. Assume nothing. Believe no one. Check everything.”
11 Evie
My English teacher, Mr. Joubert, has a thick French accent and speaks through his nose, making him sound condescending even when he’s calling the class roll.
“Cheryl Agostino?”
“Here.”
“Aaron Bailey.”
“Here.”
“Evie Cormac.”
“Yeah.”
He never looks up from his tablet, which means that anybody could answer. Half the class could be missing. He doesn’t care. On our first day, he gave us a speech about treating us like adults, not children, and that he wouldn’t mollycoddle us. I still don’t know what that word means.
Tuesday morning and I have two classes today, English and maths. I prefer numbers because letters sometimes get jumbled and start to move when I read them. Mr. Joubert knows that I don’t have the required grades to be studying at Nottingham College and he probably thinks my father is somebody famous or influential, who bribed the admissions officer to let me in. I don’t really care. If it were down to me, I wouldn’t bother with higher education. I’m only here because of Cyrus.
There are about twenty of us in class today, a chocolate box of different ethnicities and colors. We’re discussing one of our set texts, Othello. I don’t understand Shakespeare, particularly the old-style language and the weird couplets and iambic penta-whatnots. The Bard couldn’t rhyme for shit.
Everybody else is crowing about poor old Othello and what a tragedy it is; and how it’s a play about human nature and relationships and sexual jealousy. I’ve been listening for twenty minutes, saying nothing, checking the time on my phone.
“What bollocks!” I mutter under my breath.
“Did you have something to say?” asks Mr. Joubert.
I glance up and discover the entire class staring at me.
“No.”
“Did you agree with Aaron?”
“No.”
“Why not?” He opens his arms. “Share your opinion with us.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Class participation is a requirement.”
I roll my eyes and stare at the ceiling, knowing this is a mistake.
“Othello isn’t honorable, or tragic,” I say. “The whole play is nothing but toxic masculinity masquerading as art.”
“I think you’re being a little harsh,” says Mr. Joubert.
“Fine. I’ll shut up.”
“No. I respect your opinion,” he says, lying through his arse. “But the definition of a tragic hero is someone who makes a bad judgment that leads to his own destruction. As Aristotle said, tragic heroes are ‘doomed from the start.’ ”
“Othello was dumber than a box of rocks,” I say.
Tianna gives me a filthy look. I scratch my nose, flashing her the finger.
She complains. Mr. Joubert ignores her.
“Othello was an outsider, an outcast, who was manipulated by others,” he argues.
Paulo agrees. “That’s why Desdemona forgave him before she died. She understood his tragic flaws.”
“Dumb cow,” I say. “They deserved each other.”
I must have piqued Mr. Joubert’s interest because he wants me to continue.
“I mean, she gets stabbed by her jealous husband and, as she’s bleeding out, she wakes up and tells everybody that she did it to herself. She’s dying and she’s still protecting him. What does she want—a medal?”
“She made the ultimate sacrifice because she loved him,” says Mr. Joubert.
“Call the Pope, we have a new saint.”
“It’s a tragedy.”
“No, it’s a travesty. A misogynistic prick kills his wife because he loves her too much. That’s an excuse that violent men have been using forever—and everybody says it’s a crying bloody shame. Poor old Othello. Pity the poor black guy.”
“You can’t call him black,” says Tianna.
“But he is black. Shakespeare calls him an old black ram who is tupping a white ewe.”
“Yeah, but the way you said it was racist.”
“I don’t care if he’s black, white, or turquoise. He’s a pathetic loser.”
“You should be careful,” says Mr. Joubert, who can sense other students growing restless.
Tianna points at me. “I think she should apologize for bringing race into this discussion.”
“It’s a play about race,” I say, growing exasperated. “Othello is a black bloke in a white society who marries a white chick who is into black guys, which pisses everyone off. Happened then. Happens now.”
“He could have been any color,” says Tianna.
“Yeah, but he wasn’t; he was black. And you can’t kill your wife and get a free pass because of your race.”
I look around the room expecting people to agree with me, but I’m preaching to the wrong audience, or maybe they’re not listening.
“I think you should leave the classroom,” says Mr. Joubert.
“Why?”
“You’re upsetting people.”
“They’re being snowflakes.”
“Another racist remark,” says Tianna.
“ ‘Snowflake’ isn’t racist. It’s like me calling you a stupid cow. You could be a stupid brown cow, or a stupid white cow. You’re still a cow.”
“Report to the deputy principal’s office,” says Mr. Joubert.
I’m already halfway to the door.
12 Cyrus
Although I’m not a tenured academic, I have rooms on the fourth floor of the School of Psychology at the University of Nottingham. The corner office has two large picture windows that overlook Highfields Park, which has a boating lake and an arts center and dozens of Canada geese grazing on the grass.
I was given the rooms because I guest-lecture at the university and supervise postgraduate students who are writing their doctoral theses. In return, the chancellor allows me to see private patients on two afternoons a week.
As I unlock my door, I hear the singsong voice from along the corridor. One of my colleagues, Henri Moretti, clearly wants a word. Henri is the professor of health psychology and dresses like a caricature of a professor, in corduroy trousers, an open-neck shirt, and a tweed jacket with leather patches sewn onto the elbows. I sometimes wonder if he buys his clothes at a costume shop, rather than off the rack.
“You had a visitor. I told him to come back,” he says, whispering conspiratorially.
“I don’t have any appointments until three.”
Henri follows me inside, keen to chat. “Strange chap. Nervous.”
“Did he give you a name?”
“No.”
Henri’s accent is pure Yorkshire, but he clings to his Sicilian roots. His parents own the oldest and best Italian café in the city, one of those bustling, noisy places staffed by an inexhaustible supply of aunts, sisters, cousins, and more distant relatives.
Henri’s father, Arturo, operates the espresso machine, a belching, farting contraption that he plays like a church organ. At the same time, he and his wife, Rosina, argue incessantly, always in Italian, hurling mysterious insults at each other. The melodrama is unmissable, and customers visit Moretti’s not for the food or coffee but the floor show.
Another reason is because of Henri’s sister, Candelora, a rare beauty, with flashing green eyes and a wardrobe of tight clothes. Despite the male attention, Candelora has remained stubbornly single, which has prompted Henri to suggest I ask her out. The thought appealed to me until I woke one night in a cold sweat, imagining that I had married Henri’s mother.
“He didn’t look like a druggie,” says Henri.
“Who?”
“The chap who came to see you. I’m always worried you’ll invite someone around who will chew off your face.”
“I don’t treat meth addicts,” I say, which isn’t completely true.
A knock interrupts me. A man is standing in the doorway. I hope he didn’t hear what I just said.
“That’s him,” says Henri.
“I have an appointment,” says the stranger. “My parole officer contacted you.”
I glance at my phone and see a missed call.
“Take a seat. I’m sorry, I didn’t get the message.”
I signal to Henri that he should leave. He reluctantly departs, whistling down the hallway.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Mitch.”
He hands me an envelope. I take a moment to read the contents. Summarizing. Mitchell Coates, aged thirty-six, convicted of sexual assault and actual bodily harm. Released from prison after six years of an eight-year sentence. Struggling to readjust to life on the outside.
Mitch is sitting up straight, clasping a woolen hat in his hands, pressing it into his lap. He ducks his head—a legacy of his time in prison, when making eye contact can be a revolutionary act, or a stupid one.
“When were you released?”
“Ten days ago.”
“How has it been?”
He inhales and holds the breath for a few moments. “Terrible.”
“Any particular problem?”
“I’m innocent.”
“By that you mean…?”
“I didn’t attack anyone. It wasn’t me.”
“You were convicted. You served six years.”
“I pleaded not guilty.”
“Yes, but to be granted parole, you must have accepted your guilt and told the parole board that you were sorry—”
“I told them what they wanted to hear. I couldn’t survive another day in there. If I was guilty, maybe, yes, but not when I’m innocent. Do you know what that’s like? It eats you up inside. It’s wrong…”
He wants to explain but can’t find the words. He begins again.
“I thought I could pick up my life where I left off. That I could forget what happened, but I can’t. It’s like having a boulder on my chest. I struggle to breathe, to sleep, to talk to people. I want my old life back.”
“That might not be possible.”
“Maybe if I could prove my innocence?”
“What do you expect me to do?”
“Hypnotize me. Learn the truth.”
“Hypnotism doesn’t work that way and the results aren’t admissible in court.”
“What about a lie detector test?”
“The same.”
His shoulders are shaking. I find him a box of tissues. He pulls out too many and tries to clumsily shove them back inside.
“I’m happy to discuss what happened to you, Mitch, and to help you come up with some coping strategies, but your guilt is a matter of public record. You have served your time. Earned your freedom. Now you have to pick up the pieces.”
He doesn’t respond.
“Where are you living?”
“A boardinghouse. I have a month to find somewhere else.”
“Are you looking for work?”
“They gave me some numbers, but nobody is hiring.”
“What do you do?”
“I used to be a film editor. Now I’d take anything.”
My phone beeps. It’s a message from Evie.
I’ve been arrested by the truth police. I need you to come get me.
“I have to make a phone call,” I tell Mitch, stepping into the corridor. Evie answers on the second ring.
“What have you done?” I ask.
“Why do you assume it’s me?” she replies belligerently. “It might not be my fault.”
“What is it, then?”
“The deputy principal wants to see you.”
“Why?”
Evie starts to answer but is instructed by somebody to hand over the phone. She does so reluctantly, yelling, “It wasn’t my fault,” before the handset is with someone else, the deputy principal.
I’ve met Richard Thorndyke before. He’s one of those tall, square-shouldered types with a crushing handshake and a brusque manner. He might be ex-military, or an army reservist. When I applied to enroll Evie at the college, she didn’t meet the entry requirements, but I promised Mr. Thorndyke that she was very bright, and she’d get to class and be no trouble. Famous last words.
“Dr. Haven, I’m sorry to bother you, but Evie has upset some of the students and faculty. Under our short-term exclusion policy, she is being asked to stay home for the next week.”
“What did she do?”
“She expressed opinions that were deemed to be racist and triggered other students.”
“I did not,” interjects Evie.
“We are very inclusive at the college and aim to provide a safe and nurturing environment where people can feel free to express their opinions without being harassed or made to feel uncomfortable.”
“I understand.”
“I want to make sure her behavior isn’t repeated. Perhaps we should consider a multi-agency assessment.”
“She will write a letter of apology.”
“Like hell I will!” says Evie.
“I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again,” I say. “I’ll come and pick her up.”
Mitch is still waiting in my office, where he’s managed to put all the tissues back in the box.
“Are you any good at odd jobs?” I ask. “Gardening? Painting?”
“Yeah.”
I write my address on the back of a business card. “Come around tomorrow. Early as you like. Wear old clothes.”
He looks at the card. “That’s all I own.”
13 Cyrus
“He’s a fascist,” says Evie, who is sulking in the passenger seat. She has unlaced her boots and put her socked feet on the dashboard, which annoys me, but I let it go. For most of the drive she’s been quiet. Her silences can sometimes last for days and be so inexplicable and impenetrable that I can’t find out what I’ve done, or not done.
“You can’t call people fascists because you don’t like what they’re saying.”
“What if they are fascists?”
“You have to respect other people’s opinions.”
“They don’t respect mine. They laugh at me.”
“I’m sure that’s not true.”
“Whenever I’m in trouble, you immediately say, ‘What have you done, Evie?’ You never think that I might be right and they’re wrong.”
We’re driving around the edge of Wollaton Park, where the trees are a blaze of red and orange leaves.
Evie opens a new line of defense. “You told me that I’d make friends. You said I’d become more independent, and confident. You said school would offer me all these new opportunities and I’d be doing what I love. Well, I haven’t made friends and I don’t love it.”
“I thought it might help you break out of your shell,” I say.
“I like my shell.”
“And find a new direction.”
“Why do I need a new direction?”
“To expand your career choices.”
“I don’t want a career.”
“What are you going to do with your life?”
“I’m going to be a professional nihilist.”
“I’m being serious.”
“So am I. Worry about your own life.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’re single. You have nightmares. Your brother is a nutcase. You lift weights like you want to punish yourself. You’re the shrink who can’t find a cure for what’s wrong with him.”
“This isn’t about me.”
“It never is.”
The car is stopped at a set of traffic lights. Evie’s fingers are hovering near the handle as though she’s contemplating an escape. We are silent for a while. I’m angry, but also regretful. I shouldn’t get into these arguments with Evie. I forget how young she is—and how damaged.
When we reach the house, she jumps out of the car and goes inside without waiting for me. She’ll be in the back garden playing with Poppy, the only creature in her life who seems incapable of disappointing her. I would like to be another one, but I’m caught between being her friend and her protector.
