Good Girl, Bad Girl(34)

Across the road, Japanese tourists are posing for photographs in front of a Robin Hood statue. Cast in thick bronze, Robin has a green tinge and is about to unleash an arrow at a tourist stand selling felt hats, medieval tunics, Maid Marian wimples, and Friar Tuck teddy bears.

“Where do you stand on Robin Hood?” I ask, enjoying the banter.

“He was a dangerous progressive who gave money to spongers and welfare cheats. Nowadays, they’d lock him up or make him leader of the Labour Party.”

She smiles, and I feel a jolt of attraction as her eyes meet mine. In that moment it feels like she has mentally grabbed hold of my testicles and given them a tug. I look away and try not to blush. I expect her to look away as well, but Caroline’s eyes are still searching my face. She licks the spoon again.

“Evie’s case is on Wednesday,” I say.

“Are we allowed to be talking?”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe you’re going to be a witness for the other side.”

“Are there sides?” I ask. “We all want what’s best for Evie.”

She looks at me doubtfully. “Why do people always say that when they’re taking the choice away from someone?”

“Do you think Evie is ready?”

“My job is to ask questions of people like you, who seem to think she’s too damaged to be allowed out into the big bad world.”

“You must have an opinion.”

“I’m a legal aid lawyer, not a psychologist.”

“How old were you when you left home?” I ask.

The question annoys her. “I don’t see what difference that makes.”

“Was it university?”

“Yes.”

“You went home for the holidays. You had a student loan, a car, regular money from your parents.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“Evie doesn’t have any support. No family to fall back on.”

“We can’t keep people locked up because they don’t have parents or family money.”

I hesitate, about to ask another question, but Caroline gets in before me. “I know who she is.”

“Pardon?”

“Evie. I know the truth.”

I play dumb.

“She’s Angel Face.” There is a beat of silence. Caroline lowers her voice. “I guessed. How many people her age can’t prove how old they are?”

“You can’t tell anyone.”

“I know the law, Dr. Haven.”

“Please call me Cyrus.”

Outside, another group of tourists are carrying matching red shoulder bags and following a guide who is twirling a yellow umbrella like a baton.

Caroline speaks next. “Do you want to keep Evie locked away?”

“No.”

“Then why are you here?”

I don’t know how to answer her or if it’s actually appropriate to tell her the truth. How do I explain that Evie Cormac has lodged under my skin like a splinter that irritates me at unexpected moments? She fascinates and alarms me and makes me realize why I became a psychologist.

Normally, when someone is balanced and copes well with day-to-day life, there’s no point in trying to unlock their psyche. More importantly, it can be dangerous to tinker with a “machine” that isn’t broken. Most people learn to live with trauma and deprivation by developing coping mechanisms. They get on with life rather than dwelling on failure or loss.

I don’t know if Evie remembers what happened to her or has chosen to forget. The idea of traumatic memories being suppressed and coming to the surface later has divided psychologists and neurologists for thirty years, but the memory wars of the 1990s were never resolved. I don’t think Evie has suppressed memories. We know some of what she endured. She listened to a man being tortured to death. She spent weeks in a house with his decomposing body. She was sexually abused from a young age and doctors doubt if she’ll ever be able to have children.

Yet despite being treated by a legion of therapists, counselors, and psychologists, she has never spoken about what she witnessed or how she came to be in the secret room. I don’t care how untouched or untroubled she may appear to be, she will have scars. She does remember.

Caroline runs her finger around the rim of her coffee cup, collecting the remaining froth.

“Would you like another?” I ask.

“I don’t have time,” she replies, glancing at her phone. “About Evie. Can I call you as a witness?”

“No.”

“But you’ve talked to her.”

“She’s told me nothing.”

“You’ve read her files.”

“Same answer.”

“Was it really so bad—what happened to her?”

I lean closer. “I’ll tell you this much. So far I haven’t found anyone who doesn’t consider Evie to be a danger to herself and to others.”

“And you agree?”

“Not completely. I think Evie is self-destructive, self-hating, antisocial, and impervious to criticism. Yet she’s also the most self-aware, undaunted, sanguine person I’ve ever met. She doesn’t appear to need friends or approval or human interaction. That doesn’t make her dangerous to anyone other than herself, although she has a history of attacking people who she perceives as having wronged her in some way.”