Good Girl, Bad Girl(92)
“What was she doing out last night?”
“What did she tell you?”
“She said she went out to meet friends and her drink was spiked. She says she can’t remember what happened after that . . . where she’s been or who she was with. She doesn’t want to give us the names of her friends because most of them were underage. Can you help?”
“Not really.”
“When did you last see Evie?”
“Yesterday afternoon,” I lie.
“Do you have any idea where she was last night?”
“No.”
The officer is taking notes in a small flip-top notebook.
“Listen, Cyrus. Can I call you Cyrus?”
He’s going to do it anyway.
“Evie was found with no money or phone or ID. The state of her clothing and her bruises indicate that she was attacked, robbed, and possibly sexually assaulted. It may be that she’s too scared to reveal the identity of her attacker. You should talk to her. Tell her it’s in her own best interests.”
Is it, though?
“Of course,” I say, trying to sound genuine, when I have no idea what to tell Evie. I have treated dozens of victims of sexual assault—some who reported their attacker to the police and others who kept it secret. I can’t say for sure which of them made the right choice. For every perpetrator who was punished, three walked away without being charged or were cleared by a jury. Right now, all I can think about is Evie—what she’s been through, how to make her whole.
Finally they let me see her. She’s sitting on the edge of an examination table with her head down, letting a curtain of hair cover her eyes. She doesn’t acknowledge my arrival or the sound of my voice.
“How are you feeling?”
“Like shit.”
“Are you in pain?”
“No.”
The officers are watching how she reacts to me—reading her body language. No doubt my name will be run through the Sex Offender Register and they’ll contact Social Services, checking on my status as a foster carer.
“I need the bathroom,” Evie says, pushing past me. We still haven’t made eye contact. A nurse escorts her to the ladies’ and waits outside. The officers are talking on their phones. Occasionally, one or both of them glance at me.
“Can I take her home?” I ask the doctor.
“Unless you want me to refer her to the psych ward.”
“I’m a psychologist.”
It raises an eyebrow.
Minutes pass. Evie has been gone too long. There could be another exit. She could be trying to run again. I have to stop myself grabbing a nurse and getting her to check inside the cubicle, but suddenly Evie appears. She has slicked down her hair with water and rubbed and washed her face. A nurse must have given her lipstick and eye shadow.
For the first time I notice her clothes—the suede skirt, torn blouse, and ankle boots—and wonder how and where she got them.
“Put this on,” I say, giving her my coat. “It’s cold outside.”
PC Burton stops us before we reach the main doors. He gives Evie his card, telling her to call him if she remembers anything. She nods in a noncommittal way.
The younger officer escorts her outside, while his partner puts a hand on my shoulder, leaning close until his mouth brushes my ear.
“If I discover you’ve touched her, I’m going to break your jaw and shit down your throat.”
48
* * *
CYRUS
* * *
Reaching for her seat belt, Evie flinches and turns her face away, staring into the lightening sky. I start the engine and we pull out of the parking area, driving along near-deserted roads wet from the rain.
“Where did you go?” I ask eventually.
“I found a poker game.”
“For two days?”
She doesn’t answer.
A bus pulls out ahead of us. I overtake, catching a glimpse of the brightly lit interior, where a handful of bleary-eyed shift workers rest their heads against the glass.
“I won,” whispers Evie.
“The police said you had no money.”
“I was robbed.”
“Who robbed you?”
“I didn’t take down their names.”
Normally a line like that would be delivered with sarcasm, but Evie doesn’t seem to have the energy or the anger.
“Why didn’t you go to the police?”
“Why do you think?”
“You could have sent me a message.”
Evie looks at me with unexpected coldness, laying waste to something within me. Not for the first time, I recognize something missing inside her—a deficit or arrears. I have never met such a pure nihilist. She is like a new species of human, raised in almost total annihilating self-hatred that has destroyed any self-regard she may once have had. In her mind and heart she is an insult to the ground that she walks upon and the air that she breathes. All her strength, all her mental faculties are telling her that she must hate the world, that she must smash it to pieces before it destroys her.
Yet all my experience tells me that she wants to be normal. She wants to be included. She’s like a child who has never been invited to a party but who presses her face against the glass, listening to the laughter and watching the games being played, hoping to be asked to join in, yet willing to burn the house down without a second thought.