Good Girl, Bad Girl(106)

“I avoid self-analysis.”

That’s another lie.

“My grandparents wanted me to be a surgeon, but I chose psychology because it was the most difficult thing I could imagine doing.”

“Why?”

“Surgery has rules. The problems are tangible and technical, whereas psychology relies more on instinct and empathy. A surgeon can see his or her results and knows all the answers after the operation. He can declare a decision right or wrong, looking forwards and understanding backwards, which is how we all live. A psychologist has no such certainty. I cannot reach inside a brain and rearrange things. I cannot search for holes with my fingertips or repair damage with sutures and clamps. Yet that’s what I have to do—fix holes, paper over cracks, mend and compensate. I have to repair what’s broken using words and ideas and thoughts.”

“You want to heal the world,” I say.

“Or to save myself.”

The answer is too glib. Too neat.

“I think you don’t want to visit your brother,” I say. “You don’t want to look into his eyes and remember what he did. And it doesn’t matter how many times you remind yourself that he’s your brother and you should love him, it doesn’t change how you feel.”

Cyrus looks sad rather than angry. “I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

“What?”

“That.”

The tram has been moving quietly between stops and the carriage has slowly emptied. It crossed a river and skirted a pond before the tracks straightened for a long stretch.

“This is us,” says Cyrus as it slows again.

Ruddington Lane has an uncovered platform bathed in a pale glow from trackside lights.

“This way,” says Cyrus.

We follow a concrete footpath, past rows of neat semidetached houses and cottages, most of which are dark except for security lights that trigger as we pass or the occasional grey flickering of a TV behind the curtains.

“Do you know who got Jodie pregnant?” I ask.

“Her uncle.”

“Did he rape her?”

“We don’t know.”

“What about Craig Farley?”

“I think he found Jodie’s body.”

“Alive?”

“Close to death.”

I make an mmmpph sound through my nostrils. “And people say I’m screwed up.”





58




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CYRUS




* * *



The Whitakers’ house is dark except for a light upstairs behind a glowing square blind. I know the layout of these postwar bungalows. Three bedrooms and one bathroom on the upper floor with a narrow staircase that partially doubles back on itself. The ground floor has an entrance hall, sitting room, kitchen, laundry, and a dining area overlooking a patio and rear garden.

I try to picture Jodie arriving here that night. Smoke from bonfires and the smell of gunpowder must have lingered in the air.

“Jodie didn’t have a key,” I say out loud. “Tasmin had promised to leave the patio door unlocked.”

“Did she?” asks Evie.

“No. She wanted to punish Jodie for keeping secrets.”

“Is that why she walked home?”

According to the phone signals, Jodie spent three hours here. She must have knocked on the door or found another way inside. Perhaps Bryan Whitaker let her into the house.

I glance along the side path to the small silver caravan. Aiden told the police he was home that night but that he didn’t see Jodie. Surely he’d have a key to the house.

Headlights swing around the corner towards us, bleaching our faces white. Evie instinctively raises her hand to shield her eyes. I recognize the distinctive silhouette of a black cab. Dougal Sheehan doesn’t seem to notice us as he brakes hard and flings open the driver’s door. Moments later he’s hammering his fist on the front door while holding down a plastic button that chimes through the house.

Nobody answers. He grunts disgustedly and leaps over the low hedge before jogging down the side path towards the caravan.

“Aiden,” he yells. “Are you in there?”

He tries the handle. It’s locked. He tries to break it off but fails. Dipping his head, he drives his shoulder into the side of the van, making it rock violently on rusty springs.

“Come out, you coward!”

“Stay here,” I say to Evie before sprinting across the road and down the path.

Dougal Sheehan has picked up a shovel and is trying to smash the back window of the caravan. He succeeds on his third attempt, sending glass exploding inwards. Stepping to the right, he starts on another window.

“Did you touch her?” he bellows. “Was it you?”

Aiden is trapped inside, calling for help. Felicity Whitaker appears from inside the house wearing a dressing gown and slippers. She throws herself at Dougal, grabbing at his arms, trying to wrestle the shovel from his hands. He pushes her away, sending her sprawling onto the grass. Up again, she hammers her fists on his back, yelling at him to leave Aiden alone.

“It was Bryan!” she sobs, breaking down. “It was Bryan.”

Dougal hurls the shovel at the caravan. It bounces off the door leaving a dent in the aluminum.