Good Girl, Bad Girl(42)
“I want to go to London and get a job.”
“You have no qualifications or record of employment. You don’t have a National Insurance number or a bank account, or any savings. Mr. Hodge may be right—you could be sixteen.”
“People get married at sixteen.”
“With parental consent.”
“They join the army.”
“If their parents approve.”
Evie stops. She’s not winning the argument.
Judge Sayle continues. “I could order you emancipated, but only if you could prove that you are economically self-sufficient and emotionally capable of living alone or going to a home environment that is entirely suitable for a minor.”
“I’m eighteen.”
“But you can’t prove it.”
“Neither can anyone else.”
“Exactly. That’s the rub, isn’t it?”
Judge Sayle takes off his glasses and pulls a cloth from his pocket, breathing on each lens before polishing them.
“I don’t want to see you remain in care, Evie, but I don’t have any alternative unless you can find the means to support yourself or can prove your real age.”
Evie is shaking her head from side to side. I expect anger or an explosion. Instead I see tears prickle at the corners of her eyes, but she refuses to let them fall. Hodge grins triumphantly.
Judge Sayle hooks the glasses over his ears, jotting notes as he talks.
“I have decided to nominate a birth date for the appellant, Evie Cormac. According to the records, she was found on September sixth, six years ago. For that reason, I’m going to nominate September sixth, next year, as the date that she turns eighteen. In the meantime, she will remain in council care.” He addresses Evie. “Use that time well, young lady. Listen to your counselors, study hard, and sort through your issues.”
Evie is staring right through Judge Sayle, as if unable or unwilling to believe how quickly her fate has been decided. The speed of the decision. The complete reversal.
Instinctively, I realize this isn’t over; some unseen part of Evie’s personality is stirring, uncoiling, waiting for the right moment to vent her fury upon the world.
21
* * *
ANGEL FACE
* * *
The hate climbs inside me. It rises from my stomach into my throat, up my neck to my cheeks. In the near silence of the courtroom, I want to scream. I want to hurt someone. I want blood and carnage and destruction.
Willing myself to stand, I make my way back to the bar table. Caroline touches my arm. I pull away as if scalded. Instantly, I loathe this woman with her blemish-free skin and her expensive clothes and her lovely straight hair that smells of coconut; who has had everything handed to her by an accident of birth, born into the right family, sent to the best schools, taken on holidays abroad, given ballet and violin lessons. Everything has come easily to her—university, a career, and a fiancé; I bet Mummy and Daddy helped her buy a flat. Even her name, Caroline Fairfax, sounds like it belongs to a film star or a fashion designer.
I hate her. I hate all of them—the judge and Guthrie and the braying lawyers. Fuckwits! Dickheads! Scumbags! I will not look at them. I will not show my disgust. Why did they raise my hopes and then tear me down? Why not just beat me up, break a few bones, and dump my body in a ditch? Why not swing a fist into my stomach or boot me in the groin?
That’s what it feels like. I know because I’ve been here before. I’m the problem. I’m worthless, detestable, a receptacle for refuse, a sewer, a punching bag, a pi?ata, a cunt, an ignorant, stinking slit.
I cannot escape my past. I’m a child again, sullen and whining, being passed from person to person, greeted like a special delivery. Dressed up. Painted. Pampered. Playing a role.
“Call me Daddy.”
“Call me Uncle Jimmy.”
“Call me Aunt Mary.”
“Yes, Daddy. Please, Daddy. Don’t hurt me, Daddy. No more. We’ll be good next time.”
In the background, I can hear voices. Cyrus is talking. The judge. Caroline. I’m not listening. Nothing is worth hearing, anyway. The cardigan is tight around my neck. The boots are hurting my feet.
Suddenly, I picture myself in the same courtroom, this time with a machine gun. I press the trigger and bullets rattle through the air, punching holes in stomachs and chests and eye sockets, painting the walls with blood and gore.
When they’re dead. When their bodies are strewn around me, I walk out the door into the corridor, down the stairs, across the foyer, into the street, yelling to the armed guards. “Come and get me. Shoot!”
Caroline shakes my shoulder. “Evie, can you hear me?”
My heart creaks. Cyrus Haven is in the witness box. Why? When did he—?
“Dr. Haven wants to know if you’d agree to live with him?”
“What?”
“As a foster child.”
“I don’t understand.”
Judge Sayle speaks: “Dr. Haven would become your foster carer. Of course, he has to pass the necessary local authority and police checks, but he wants to know if such an arrangement might work for you.”
“We haven’t talked about it,” says Cyrus, addressing me directly. “I appreciate that this offer is quite spur-of-the-moment and you don’t know me well, but I’m serious. I have a big house in Nottingham. It’s old and pretty run-down, but comfortable. You’d have your own room and bathroom.”