Good Girl, Bad Girl(33)

*

At the cinema we wait while Miss McCredie buys our tickets. Arcade machines ping and whistle and blink with bright lights. A group of boys is playing table football, knowing the girls are checking them out. Chloe grabs Reebah by the arm and pulls her over to the boys. Chloe has all the moves—pointing her front toe, pushing out her boobs, and smiling coyly. Straightaway, she’s targeted the best-looking one, who has blond hair, cut short and gelled into spikes like he’s channeling his inner hedgehog. I notice his smoky-grey eyes and his clear skin, but most of all his confidence. Where does it come from? Does it come with age or testicles, or can it be ordered online from Amazon—next-day delivery?

The boy has his arm around Chloe, running it down her back, letting it drift lower.

“Chloe Pringle!” barks Miss McCredie, giving the boy the evil eye. She marches Chloe back to the group. Chloe looks over her shoulder and mouths the word, “Later,” tossing her hair again for the sake of tossing it.

We queue for popcorn. I let the others push past me. Reebah takes an age to choose what she wants because she’s careful with her money. The guy behind the counter acts like he’s got a plane to catch. He hands Reebah her change. She looks at her hand, saying, “This isn’t enough.”

“What?”

“I gave you twenty quid.”

“You gave me a tenner.”

“No.”

He opens the till and holds up a ten-pound note. “See!”

“I gave you a twenty,” says Reebah, growing anxious and looking around for support.

“Next,” says the man, looking past her.

“I brought twenty quid. I know I did.” Reebah looks at Miss McCredie, then at Chloe and Nat and the rest of the group. “I gave him a twenty, I swear.”

“You must be mistaken,” says Miss McCredie.

“It’s my birthday money. Mum sent it to me.”

The man behind the counter interrupts. “She gave me a tenner, OK? I get kids coming in here all the time trying to pull this scam.”

“It’s not a scam,” says Reebah, her voice changing pitch.

Miss McCredie tells her to calm down and step away from the counter.

“But he stole my money.”

“Be quiet, Reebah!” she scolds, and apologizes to the man, saying she’s sorry for causing trouble.

I’ve been watching from the back of the queue. Reluctantly, I step forward. “She’s telling the truth.”

Miss McCredie frowns. “Did you see her hand over the money?”

“She’s not lying.”

Miss McCredie pulls me closer to the counter. “You were standing way back there, Evie. How could you see what money she handed over?”

“She gave him a twenty.”

“They’re both in on it,” says the man. “It’s a scam.”

“You’re trying to rip her off,” I reply, shifting my slouch from one hip to the other.

The man behind the counter grows flustered. “I’ll call the manager. You’ll all have to leave.”

“You won’t call the manager,” I say.

“Maybe I’ll call the police.”

“Go on then.”

The conviction in my voice seems to surprise him. He’s not used to being contradicted—not by a girl. He leans towards me and I brace myself, expecting to be slapped.

Reno intervenes, protecting me, giving me confidence.

“I think you’ve done this before,” I say. “I bet you put that twenty straight into your pocket.”

The man reacts with fake outrage.

“Empty your pockets,” says Reno.

The man mutters something and opens the till. He takes a ten-pound note and tosses it towards Reebah. She picks it off the floor and puts the money deep into the back pocket of her jeans.

“I hope you weren’t lying,” mutters Miss McCredie as she walks behind me into the cinema.

Reebah is ahead of us. She looks over her shoulder, as though wanting to say thank you but not remembering the words.





17




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CYRUS




* * *



Sunday afternoon in the shadows of Nottingham Castle, two boys and a girl, roughly the same age, are pushing a wheelbarrow across the square. Slumped inside is a crude effigy of Guy Fawkes, stuffed with straw or rags, with red woolen hair, a flat cap, and mismatched buttons for eyes.

“They’re a bit late,” I say. “Bonfire Night was a week ago.”

“Maybe they’re getting a head start on next year,” says Caroline Fairfax. Evie Cormac’s lawyer is in her early thirties with dark wavy hair held back from her face by an Alice band. She’s dressed in a cream-colored blouse and blue denim jeans that look brand-new. She reaches for the sugar and fills a spoon twice, stirring as though it might solidify if she didn’t.

“You don’t see Guy Fawkes effigies very often anymore,” I say.

“That’s not a bad thing,” she replies. “Anti-Catholic rituals are rather outdated.”

“Are you Catholic?”

“Heavens no! I’m an equal-opportunity atheist.” She licks foam from her spoon.