Good Girl, Bad Girl(43)

“And you’d have to continue your studies,” says the judge, “or undertake training or get a job. You will remain a ward of the court until next September and your foster arrangements will be monitored regularly by the local authority.”

I still haven’t responded. Where’s the catch? I think. Why would he do this? I’m not going to sleep with him. If he lays one finger on me . . .

“You can’t keep running away, Evie,” says Judge Sayle. “You have to behave yourself until next September.”

I look from face to face and back down to the boots that are hurting my feet. I won’t talk to him. I’ll never tell.





22




* * *





CYRUS




* * *



“What in God’s name were you thinking!” mutters Guthrie in a stage whisper. He has marched to the back of the courtroom, where he wrestles with the door, pushing instead of pulling. Evie and Caroline are still at the bar table. They look like they’re arguing. Evie is probably saying the same things as Guthrie.

“I asked you to help her, not foster her. You have no idea how dangerous she is.”

Evie is glancing in our direction, her eyes full of suspicion or murder.

“Look at her,” says Guthrie, following my gaze. “She’s already working out how to destroy you.”

“It won’t be like that.”

“She broke someone’s jaw with a brick. For all we know she killed Terry Boland.”

“Now you’re being ridiculous.”

“Within a week you’ll send her back.”

“No.”

“Either that or you’ll throttle her.”

“Rubbish.”

“She’ll find your weaknesses, Cyrus. She’ll make you question yourself.”

Would that be such a bad thing?

Guthrie runs his fingers through his hair and makes soft noises by opening and closing his lips. “You can still back out. Tell them you made a mistake.”

“It’s done. Leave Evie alone.”

“Christ!” he mutters.

“I thought you’d be pleased. She’s not your problem anymore.”

Then it dawns on me that it was Guthrie who had his jaw broken. He stole the money from Evie and lied about taking it to the police, but she saw through him.

“You’re going to publish, aren’t you?” he says, with a new look in his eyes.

“What?”

“You’re going to write about Evie Cormac like you’re some sort of Oliver Sacks. She’ll be your Solomon Shereshevsky.”

He’s talking about the famous Russian mnemonist who could remember astonishing lists of random numbers or words in order, forwards or backwards, even in languages he didn’t speak. He was discovered in the 1920s by a neuropsychologist called Alexander Luria, who published a famous book.

Guthrie is on a roll. “I thought you were one of the good guys, Cyrus, but you’re just another hypocrite. You’re going to use Evie like everybody else.”

I feel the blood warming in my cheeks and want to throw a quick rabbit punch into Guthrie’s soft belly, sending him down winded and sucking at air. I want to call him a self-deceiving, time-serving public servant, who looks for the worst in people unless someone forces him to see the good. Evie isn’t a prize that people should be fighting over.

Caroline Fairfax is approaching us. Guthrie gives me a look of pity and pushes open the door with a grunt.

“What was that all about?” asks Caroline.

“Nothing,” I reply, glancing at Evie, who is sitting alone in the courtroom.

“She wants to talk to you,” says Caroline.

I nod and suggest we go somewhere for lunch. Caroline offers to pay, calling it a celebration, although Evie doesn’t look convinced. We opt for a restaurant around the corner because it’s too cold outside to walk far.

Evie sits opposite me. I’m waiting for her to say something, but she stares at her fingernails, which have been picked clean of nail polish. She’s not hungry. Caroline orders for her anyway: a hamburger.

“I’m a vegetarian,” says Evie, as though it should be obvious.

“They have sweet corn fritters.”

Evie shrugs. Caroline excuses herself and goes to the ladies’—or perhaps she’s giving us some privacy.

“I don’t need a foster carer,” says Evie, sounding out each word like I’m dim-witted.

“The judge thought otherwise.”

“Are you a pervert?”

“No.”

“I’m not going to fuck you.”

“Good!”

“I wouldn’t fuck you for a million pounds.”

“Wow! You are expensive.”

I’m coming across as being equally childish, which annoys me.

“I’m trying to help you,” I say, but my voice sounds like I’m an exasperated father talking to his daughter. I see her face go fixed and hard, like the bricks of a wall going up.

“At least come and have a look,” I say.

“I won’t talk about what happened to me.”

“Understood.”

“And I won’t play happy families.”