When She Was Good, page 8
When Elias first arrived, he was housed in the Peaks, a unit for men with severe personality disorders. He spent eleven months in solitary because of his violent behavior but has since been moved to a new unit with more privileges. Even so, he still has to be chaperoned by at least four people when he’s moving around the hospital.
I am taken to a small lounge where two sofas are arranged facing each other with a narrow coffee table in between, bolted down so it cannot be moved.
“Won’t be long,” says Nigel.
I perch on the armrest of a sofa and gaze out the window at the rings of steel that surround the hospital. The last escape from Rampton was in 1994, when someone used a makeshift ladder to climb the fence. After that they added a second barrier and installed more than nine hundred CCTV cameras. One of them is watching me now, a bulbous eye in a corner of the ceiling.
Visiting Elias always triggers mixed feelings in me. I am no longer the boy who idolized his older brother, who followed him around and proudly wore his hand-me-downs. I am a visitor, the sole survivor, the boy who lost his family in one violent hour.
I have happier memories of my brother, before he was diagnosed with schizophrenia. I remember us playing football in the garden and how he dinked me to school on his bicycle and once took me to see Manchester United play Nottingham Forest at the City Ground. Forest was my team and we lost eight to one. I wanted to cry but Elias told me it was only a game and I believed him.
At secondary school, he set up his own business mowing lawns for money. He’d sharpen the mower blades in the garage, using a bench grinder and whetstone. Later he began to hone axes and kitchen knives for our neighbors, reveling in how sharp he could make them.
Elias was barely sixteen, with money in his pockets and girls trying to attract his attention, but slowly he started withdrawing, drifting away from us. As the months passed, he grew secretive and reclusive, spending hours in his bedroom, where he talked to himself and argued back and forth. I thought he was on the phone, but the handset was still in the living room.
He stopped mowing lawns and sharpening knives. Instead he spent his weekends sleeping and playing video games, and watching movies in his room. When he did come out, he’d make strange comments, like accusing Mum of trying to poison him or telling me the government was spying on him. He said he had special powers and could control the planets and that without him the moon would hurtle into the earth and make humankind extinct, just like the dinosaurs.
The diagnosis made things easier for my parents, because answers are better than uncertainty, but it took months to sort out the right drugs, which Elias called “zombie pills.” His grades were in free fall and A Levels were out of the question. Mum and Dad let him drop out of school and got him a job working as a gardener for Dad’s business partner, a property developer. For a while, we got the old Elias back again, with his quirky sense of humor and alarming laugh. He’d have dinner with the family and belt out songs on the twins’ karaoke machine and dance my mother around the kitchen until she threatened to pee her pants if he didn’t stop.
He became obsessed with exercise and built himself a weight bench from planks of wood and old sawhorses. The weights were paint tins filled with rocks that he hooked over each end of a broom handle, or plastic milk jugs full of sand that he curled until his forearms bulged.
The good times didn’t last. Elias lost his job. Tools went missing… then money. Nobody could prove it was Elias, but he was let go regardless. After that he retreated to his room again, surfing the Internet, watching horror movies and pornography.
When Dad took away his TV, Elias pounded holes in the walls. He swung my mother so violently that he broke her wrist. She was crying and holding her arm, pleading with him. “Please, Elias, tell me what’s wrong.”
He looked at her blankly. “They won’t let me talk to you.”
“Who?”
“The voices.”
We lived like that for almost two years—up and down, having good weeks and bad, never knowing what to expect. Sharing a house with a paranoid schizophrenic is like carrying a time bomb that you can hear ticking, sometimes faster, sometimes slower, but always ticking.
* * *
Elias arrives and is patted down one final time before being allowed to enter the lounge. He grins at me warmly and then bounds across the room like an energetic red setter not yet fully in control of its limbs.
He stops just as quickly, unsure of whether to hug me or shake my hand. We shake. He’s nervous.
“You came.”
“Of course. Happy birthday.”
“They’re making me a cake, but it won’t be ready until supper. You’ll miss out.”
“That’s all right.”
“It’s going to be chocolate.”
“Your favorite.”
I produce a present from behind my back. The wrapping is torn because security has checked the contents. I wanted to buy an iPod loaded with his favorite music, but electronic equipment isn’t allowed. Instead I settled on a sweater with a heavy weave. It’s probably too heavy for him, because he doesn’t get outside very often, never beyond the grounds. I also give him a bundle of comic books, which I know he likes. Black Panther. Spider-Man. Venom. Deadpool. Titans. It’s easy to forget that Elias is turning thirty-six, because he acts like an overgrown teenager.
“Sit down. Sit down,” he says. “Not there. Here. This chair.”
He has a picture in his mind of how the scene should look.
“Can I take your jacket? Are you cold? Too hot? I can get them to adjust the heating.”
“I’m fine.”
“I ordered us tea and carrot cake with cream cheese icing. It’s really good. People are always complaining about the food in here, but it’s top nosh.”
His voice is a rich, lush baritone, and he talks a lot when he’s nervous, periodically wiping his hands on his thighs—a side effect of his medications. Sitting opposite me, he perches forward, his face like an open book. Smiling. Eager to please. He’s put on weight since I saw him last and needs a haircut.
Nigel is still with us, watching from the far side of the room. He’s with a second escort, who sets up a chessboard. Two more orderlies are waiting outside in the corridor.
“How have you been?” I ask.
“I’m getting better.”
“I can see that.”
“Any day now, they’ll let me go.”
“That’s good.”
He frowns, as though I’m patronizing him. Nothing he’s said is technically untrue, but in seventeen years, I have never heard anyone talk seriously about letting him go.
Elias was convicted of manslaughter by reason of diminished responsibility, hospitalized under Section 37 of the Mental Health Act. This means he cannot be moved or discharged without approval from the Home Office. That decision begins with a mental health tribunal, which looks at Elias’s case every few years. At each hearing, Elias argues that his schizophrenia is under control and expresses remorse, which could be genuine, or it could be a learned response.
A refreshments trolley appears. Elias jumps to his feet and examines the fare, listing the items as though taking an inventory. Cups. Saucers. Milk. Sugar.
“Where is the breakfast tea?” he asks.
“We ran out,” says a woman in dark slacks and a floral blouse. “I’ve brought some Earl Grey.”
“But I asked for breakfast tea.”
“I’m happy to have Earl Grey,” I say.
“But you said it tasted like potpourri,” he argues. “Nobody drinks Earl Grey except tourists and Americans, that’s what you said.”
How does he remember this stuff?
“I was only joking.”
He is shaking and rocking from side to side.
“Calm down, Elias,” says Nigel. “Remember your exercises. Breathe.”
Elias inhales through his nose, holding it in his chest. He exhales slowly, as though counting the beats, fighting his emotions. This is a fleeting glimpse of the old Elias, the one who frightens me, the one who frightens everyone.
His breathing normalizes.
“Thank you for bringing the carrot cake,” he says to the tea lady, giving her a shallow bow, as though he’s greeting the Queen. The tea lady acknowledges him with a curtsy and smiles. She pours the tea. Milk. Sugar.
Nigel is still standing alongside Elias. “Why don’t you tell Cyrus what you’ve been studying.”
Elias makes a hushing sound.
“What are you studying?” I ask.
“You’ll laugh at me.”
“Why?”
“It’s nothing, really.”
“Then tell me.”
“Elias is studying to be a lawyer,” says Nigel. “Manchester Law School has an online law degree. Part-time.”
I glance at Elias, seeking confirmation. His cheeks have reddened.
“The library can barely keep up with him,” says Nigel. “What are you studying now?”
“Human rights law,” says Elias, growing in confidence. “I’m going to become a solicitor or maybe a barrister.”
“That’s amazing,” I say, trying to process the news. Surely there’s no way a paranoid schizophrenic could become a lawyer… not one who killed his family.
“How long is the course?” I ask.
“Four years. I’m in my second year.”
“Why haven’t you mentioned it before?”
“I thought you might laugh at me.”
“I wouldn’t do that.”
He is excited now. “When I get out of here, I’ll need to make a living. I want to help people like me. Represent them.”
“That’s very noble,” I say, aware of how insincere I sound. “You used to hate studying at school.”
“This is different. I’m learning important things—not Shakespeare or Auden.” He puts on a plummy voice. “To be or not to be. Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone.” He laughs. “Who cares, eh? But this is important and I’m getting distinctions.”
At a loss for words, I let Elias carry on, displaying the breadth of his new knowledge, quoting case law like it’s a new language he’s learned. Elias has always had a good memory but was a poor student. And until now, Rampton seemed to have infantilized him, rather than educated him.
He touches my arm. I’m surprised by the physical contact. Nigel is watching carefully.
“Ever since I came to Rampton the doctors have talked about me moving forward,” says Elias. “They said there were pathways for me to get better. This is my pathway. I’m going to be a lawyer and get out of here.”
15 EVIE
The young doctor looks like Harry Styles if Harry Styles were Spanish and had a cleft in his chin. I’m at the A&E because Davina insisted I get checked out.
“Follow my finger,” says the hot doctor.
“Why? Where are you gonna put it?”
“Don’t be disgusting,” says Davina.
“What did I say? Nothing. You’re the one with the filthy mind.”
The hot doctor smiles nervously and moves his finger to the left and right, up and down.
“Well, I can’t see any signs of concussion and you don’t need stitches on that lip, so I think you’ll be fine.” He hands me an ice pack wrapped in a towel. “Keep icing it until the swelling goes down.”
I knew I didn’t need stitches, but Davina wanted me out of the way when the police arrived at Langford Hall. Either that or she’s hoping a hospital visit will help convince people that I was the victim of a vicious, unprovoked assault, blah… blah… blah.
“Is there anything else I can do for you?” asks the doctor.
“You shouldn’t ask me a question like that.”
“Leave off, Evie,” says Davina. “Thank you, Doctor, we’ll be fine.”
We walk to her car, a Mini, which is ridiculous given her size.
“You embarrassed that young man,” she says.
“Me?”
“You were teasing him. You should be careful of that. Men don’t always like women who are too brazen.”
“What does ‘brazen’ mean?”
“Slutty.”
“You think I’m slutty?”
“No. I think you’re all bark and no bite, Evie Cormac. You pretend to be all sassy and confident, but if a boy tried to kiss you, I bet you’d run a mile.”
“I guess that depends on how well I’ve tied him down,” I say, making her laugh.
We drive back to Langford Hall, listening to music. I look at the lights and the people on buses and waiting at bus stops and think they have no idea of who I am or what I’ve done. Not a clue…
* * *
Each time Uncle arrived at the house, Mrs. Quinn acted surprised, as though he’d caught her unawares, but she knew all along he was coming because she’d make me have a bath and wash my hair and wear a new dress.
“Remember to call him Uncle,” she said.
I didn’t reply.
“Are you listening?”
“But he’s not my uncle.”
“He looks after you.”
Uncle always arrived late. “Don’t you look pretty,” he said, pulling me into his arms, sniffing my hair. Then he ran his finger down my cheek and under my chin, making me look up to meet his eyes. “Have you been a good girl?”
“Yes, Uncle.”
“I’m sorry I haven’t been around. Did you miss me?”
“Yes, Uncle.”
“That’s a lovely dress. Who bought you that?”
“You did.”
“Give me a twirl. That’s it.”
Mrs. Quinn got antsy because I was getting all his attention.
“Dinner is ready,” she announced. “I’ve cooked you osso buco.”
“Ah, Queenie, you’re too good to me,” he said, unfurling a serviette with a flap of his wrist. He pulled my chair closer, saying, “Sit next to me.”
Mrs. Quinn served the food.
I didn’t eat. I couldn’t swallow. For a while nobody said anything. Food went into Uncle’s mouth. Vegetables. Polenta.
“Eat your dinner,” he said.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Mrs. Quinn has made you this lovely meal.”
“She made it for you.”
He gave me a look that should have been a warning. I picked up my fork. I moved a mound of polenta away from the gravy and the meat. I tried to send him a message that said: Don’t look at me.
He smacked his hand on the table next to my plate. “Eat your fucking food!”
I held my fork in my hand. I wanted to drive it through his eyes, but instead I put it down.
“Did you hear me?” he screamed, his face twisting, spit flying. He picked up a spoon and scooped up polenta and gravy and vegetables and aimed it at my mouth. I turned my face away. Food smeared across my cheek and dropped into my lap, staining my new dress.
He shoveled more. I clenched my teeth. The spoon bashed at my lips. I wanted to cry out, but that would have meant opening my mouth.
“She’ll eat when she’s hungry,” said Mrs. Quinn.
Uncle let go of me and turned to her. “What did you say?”
Blood rushed from her face. “Nothing.”
“Are you telling me how to discipline my own niece in my own house?”
“No, sir, but…”
“But what?”
“I didn’t mean…”
Uncle pushed his plate away. “It’s too salty. You overseason everything.”
“I’m sorry.”
Mrs. Quinn started clearing the table. Uncle finished his wine and poured another glass.
“What’s for pudding?”
“Oh, I didn’t make any. You normally don’t want… I can make you something.”
He winked at me and laughed. “Don’t be so sensitive, Queenie. I’m joking.”
He lit a cigar and drank more wine. The plates were cleared.
Later that night he came for me. I was still awake, listening for his footsteps. The door opened and the moon cast his shadow across the floor. I felt his arms slip under my body. He carried me to his bed and whispered my proper name.
I have never told anyone what happened to me… what they did. Uncle and the man with the crooked teeth, and the one with milky eyes, and the fat man who had two dachshunds, and the woman who made me dress up like a boy. The aunts. The uncles. The fathers. The teachers. The touchers.
16 CYRUS
The drive back to Nottingham passes in a blur. I keep telling myself that I love Elias and want what’s best for him, but that doesn’t extend to my wanting his freedom. I know I am supposed to separate the person from the act, to hate the sin but forgive the sinner. I’ve tried and failed. A better me, a kinder soul, an empath, a saint, could give Elias the absolution he’s seeking. I can’t.
Poppy hears me open the front door and starts barking from the laundry. When I let her into the house, she pushes past my legs, running from room to room, looking for Evie. She does that every day, living in hope that Evie might come back and live with me.
Most of the lower floor of the house has been rebuilt and redecorated since the fire. I have a new kitchen, library, and sitting room. A few pieces of furniture were saved and repaired, including my antique desk and a chesterfield sofa that belonged to my grandparents. This was their house once, but they left it to me when they retired to the south coast.
Only three framed photographs survived the blaze, including my least favorite—an official family portrait taken at a studio in Nottingham. My mother insisted the whole family wear matching tartan jumpers, which made us look like the Bay City Rollers.
The twins were seven, I was nine, and Elias had just turned fifteen. Dad has this painted-on smile that looks more like a grimace and Mum is muttering threats about canceling our holiday to France if we don’t stop “mucking about.” The button was pressed, the shutter blinked, and the moment was captured for posterity. Four years later everybody in the photograph was dead except for Elias and me. Some pictures tell stories that should never be told, not even in whispers.
