Good Girl, Bad Girl(95)
“Are you OK?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“I thought you might have drowned.”
“No.”
“OK.”
“Hey, Cyrus?”
“Yeah.”
“How do you get scurvy?”
“By not eating enough fruit.”
“Oh.”
“Why?”
“My fingers have gone all white and wrinkly.” I wait. “Why are you laughing?”
“No reason.”
50
* * *
CYRUS
* * *
I hear the news on the radio the next morning.
The alleged killer of schoolgirl Jodie Sheehan is under police guard in hospital after a failed suicide attempt. Twenty-six-year-old Craig Farley was found hanging from a torn bedsheet in his cell at HMP Nottingham, where a prison medical team revived him.
Farley was charged two weeks ago with the rape and murder of Nottingham schoolgirl Jodie Sheehan, whose body was discovered near a popular footpath . . .
My pager is vibrating: showing Lenny’s number. Opening my laptop, I Skype her.
Her face appears on-screen. “You heard the news?”
“Just now.”
“It’s another sign of his guilt.”
“If you say so.”
Lenny doesn’t take the opportunity to gloat. “Farley’s lawyer has given you permission to talk to him.”
“Why now?”
“The guy is suicidal. You’re a psychologist.” She makes it sound like a simple sum.
“The hospital has a psych department.”
“Yeah, but he asked for you.”
*
A police officer is dozing on a chair in the corridor, his hat resting over his eyes. Nobody has told him I’m coming. He grumbles and mutters darkly under his breath before making the necessary calls to confirm my visit. Half an hour is wasted.
Farley is out of intensive care and in a private room. I knock. Enter. He’s lying on a bed, facing the window, where the blinds have been left open and the sky outside is the color of cigarette ash in a white bowl.
“Hello, Craig,” I say.
He turns his head and I notice the bruising around his neck. He looks at me with interest, frowning, as though he’s expecting someone older or someone else or salvation in general. The future is a scary place when you’ve been charged with raping and murdering a child. Prison is not an end point. Pedophiles and child killers are the lowest form of life behind bars, normally segregated or held in solitary for their own protection. Farley might not be the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree, but he knows what awaits him—the beatings, insults, and hurled bodily waste; until the inevitable moment when a crude shank finds its mark and, if he’s lucky, he’s condemned to pissing into a bag for the rest of his days.
He has lost weight since I last saw him in the interview room at West Bridgford Police Station. His face has thinned out and his eyes seem to be submerged in pools of shadow.
“My name is Cyrus,” I say. “Do you mind if I sit down?”
He doesn’t answer, but I take a chair and pull it closer to the bed. Settling.
“How are you feeling?”
No response.
“Do you mind if I turn the light on?” I don’t wait for him to answer. I can see the blue of his eyes and the dry patches of skin on his forehead.
“You can always try again,” I say.
“What?”
“If you really want to die—you can always try again.”
He frowns, unsure if I’m being serious.
“How old are you, Craig? Midtwenties. Still a young man. You could live to be ninety. You could choose any one of those days to die. What’s the rush?”
I wait for an answer. Each second without sound creates tension, like a rubber band being stretched out.
“Aren’t you supposed to talk me out of dying?” he croaks, his vocal chords bruised by his near hanging.
“Everybody dies, Craig.”
“Yeah, but that’s different.”
“You mean they wait for old age or disease or some tragic, unexpected accident.”
“Yeah.”
I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees.
“You’re not special, Craig. Most people contemplate suicide at some point, even if it’s only to imagine who might show up at the funeral and what they might say. Living isn’t evolutionary. We can pull a trigger at any time—step off a cliff or walk in front of a train or wrap a torn sheet around our necks. Most of us don’t. We wait and see what happens.”
Farley pretends not to be listening. He reaches for a cup with a straw and takes a sip, staring at me over the rim.
“I don’t think you killed Jodie Sheehan,” I say.
He blinks at me.
“Maybe you played a part. Maybe you could have saved her, but I don’t think you killed her.”
The silence in the room magnifies the humming of the air-conditioning.
“I can understand why you were charged—and why you’ll be convicted. You pulled down her jeans and her underwear. You masturbated into her hair. That’s pretty damning stuff. Most people would happily put you away for a long stretch. Some would pull the trapdoor. But while I have you, I want to ask a question. Why? Jodie was right there in front of you. She was everything you desired—young, pretty, unconscious. You could have done anything to her, but you didn’t.”