Good Girl, Bad Girl
Michael Robotham
1
* * *
CYRUS
* * *
“Which one is she?” I ask, leaning closer to the observation window.
“Blonde. Baggy sweater. Sitting on her own.”
“And you’re not going to tell me why I’m here?”
“I don’t want to influence your decision.”
“What am I deciding?”
“Just watch her.”
I look again at the group of teenagers, girls and boys. Most are wearing jeans and long tops with the sleeves pulled down to hide whatever self-inflicted damage has been done. Some are cutters, some are burners or scratchers or bulimics or anorexics or obsessive compulsives or pyromaniacs or sociopaths or narcissists or suffering from ADHD. Some abuse food or drugs, others swallow foreign objects or run into walls on purpose or take outrageous risks.
Evie Cormac has her knees drawn up, almost as though she doesn’t trust the floor. Sullen mouthed and pretty, she could be eighteen or she could be fourteen. Not quite a woman or a girl about to bid good-bye to childhood, yet there is something ageless and changeless about her, as if she has seen the worst and survived it. With brown eyes framed by thickened eyelashes and bleached hair cut in a ragged bob, she’s holding the sleeves of her sweater in her bunched fists, stretching the neckline, revealing a pattern of red blotches below her jawline that could be hickeys or finger marks.
Adam Guthrie is standing alongside me, regarding Evie like she is the latest arrival at Twycross Zoo.
“Why is she here?” I ask.
“Currently, her primary offense is for aggravated assault. She broke someone’s jaw with a half brick.”
“Currently?”
“She’s had a few.”
“How many?”
“Too few to mention.”
He’s attempting to be funny or deliberately obtuse. We’re at Langford Hall, a high-security children’s home in Nottingham, where Guthrie is a resident social worker. He’s dressed in baggy jeans, combat boots, and a rugby sweater, trying too hard to look like “one of them”; someone who can relate to teenage delinquency and strife rather than an underpaid, low-level public servant with a wife, a mortgage, and two kids. He and I were at university together and lived in the same college. I wouldn’t say we were friends, more like passing acquaintances, although I went to his wedding a few years ago and slept with one of the bridesmaids. I didn’t know she was Guthrie’s youngest sister. Would it have made a difference? I’m not sure. He hasn’t held it against me.
“You ready?”
I nod.
We enter the room and take two chairs, joining the circle of teenagers, who watch us with a mixture of suspicion and boredom.
“We have a visitor today,” says Guthrie. “This is Cyrus Haven.”
“Who is he?” asks one of the girls.
“I’m a psychologist,” I reply.
“Another one!” says the same girl, screwing up her face.
“Cyrus is here to observe.”
“Us or you?”
“Both.”
I look for Evie’s reaction. She’s watching me blankly.
Guthrie crosses his legs, revealing a hairless pale ankle where his trouser cuff has ridden up his shin. He’s a jolly, fat sort of bloke who rubs his hands together at the start of something, presupposing the fun that awaits.
“Let’s begin with some introductions, shall we? I want you to each tell Cyrus your name, where you’re from, and why you’re here. Who wants to go first?”
Nobody answers.
“How about you, Alana?”
She shakes her head. I’m sitting directly opposite Evie. She knows I’m looking at her.
“Holly?” asks Guthrie.
“Nah.”
“Evie?”
She doesn’t respond.
“It’s nice to see you’re wearing more clothes today,” says Guthrie. “You too, Holly.”
Evie snorts.
“That was a legitimate protest,” argues Holly, growing more animated. “We were protesting against the outdated assumptions of class and gender inherent in this white-male-dominated gulag.”
“Thank you, comrade,” says Guthrie, sarcastically. “Will you get us started, Nathan?”
“Don’t call me Nathan,” says a beanpole of a boy with pimples on his forehead.
“What should I call you?”
“Nat.”
“You mean like a bug?” asks Evie.
He spells it out: “N . . . A . . . T.”
Guthrie takes a small knitted teddy bear from his pocket and tosses it to Nat. “You’re up first. Remember, whoever has the bear has the right to speak. Nobody else can interrupt.”
Nat bounces the teddy bear on his thigh.
“I’m from Sheffield and I’m here ’cos I took a dump in my neighbor’s VW when he left it unlocked.”
Titters all round. Evie doesn’t join in.
“Why did you do that?” asks Guthrie.
Nat shrugs nonchalantly. “It were a laugh.”
“On the driver’s seat?” asks Holly.
“Yeah. Course. Where else? The dickhead complained to the police, so me and my mates gave him a kicking.”