Lying Beside You (Cyrus Haven #3)(20)

Mitch is sitting up straight, clasping a woollen hat in his hands, pressing it into his lap. He ducks his head – a legacy of his time in prison, when making eye contact can be a revolutionary act, or a stupid one.

‘When were you released?’

‘Ten days ago.’

‘How has it been?’

He inhales and holds the breath for a few moments. ‘Terrible.’

‘Any particular problem?’

‘I’m innocent.’

‘By that you mean … ?’

‘I didn’t attack anyone. It wasn’t me.’

‘You were convicted. You served six years.’

‘I pleaded not guilty.’

‘Yes, but to be granted parole, you must have accepted your guilt and told the parole board that you were sorry—’

‘I told them what they wanted to hear. I couldn’t survive another day in there. If I was guilty, maybe, yes, but not when I’m innocent. Do you know what that’s like? It eats you up inside. It’s wrong …’

He wants to explain but can’t find the words. He begins again.

‘I thought I could pick up my life where I left off. That I could forget what happened, but I can’t. It’s like having a boulder on my chest. I struggle to breathe, to sleep, to talk to people. I want my old life back.’

‘That might not be possible.’

‘Maybe if I could prove my innocence?’

‘What do you expect me to do?’

‘Hypnotise me. Learn the truth.’

‘Hypnotism doesn’t work that way and the results aren’t admissible in court.’

‘What about a lie detector test?’

‘The same.’

His shoulders are shaking. I find him a box of tissues. He pulls out too many and clumsily tries to shove them back inside.

‘I’m happy to discuss what happened to you, Mitch; and to help you come up with some coping strategies, but your guilt is a matter of public record. You have served your time. Earned your freedom. Now you have to pick up the pieces.’

He doesn’t respond.

‘Where are you living?’

‘A boarding house. I have a month to find somewhere else.’

‘Are you looking for work?’

‘They gave me some numbers, but nobody is hiring.’

‘What do you do?’

‘I used to be a film editor. Now I’d take anything.’

My phone beeps. It’s a message from Evie.

I’ve been arrested by the truth police. I need you to come get me.



‘I have to make a phone call,’ I tell Mitch, stepping into the corridor. Evie answers on the second ring.

‘What have you done?’ I ask.

‘Why do you assume it’s me?’ she replies belligerently. ‘It might not be my fault.’

‘What is it then?’

‘The deputy principal wants to see you.’

‘Why?’

Evie starts to answer but is instructed by somebody to hand over the phone. She does so reluctantly, yelling, ‘It wasn’t my fault,’ before the handset is with someone else, the deputy principal.

I’ve met Richard Thorndyke before. He’s one of those tall, square-shouldered types with a crushing handshake and a brusque manner. He might be ex-military, or an army reservist. When I applied to enrol Evie at the college, she didn’t meet the entry requirements, but I promised Mr Thorndyke that she was very bright, and she’d get to class and be no trouble. Famous last words.

‘Dr Haven, I’m sorry to bother you, but Evie has upset some of the students and faculty. Under our short-term exclusion policy, she is being asked to stay home for the next week.’

‘What did she do?’

‘She expressed opinions that were deemed to be racist and triggered other students.’

‘I did not,’ interjects Evie.

‘We are very inclusive at the college and aim to provide a safe and nurturing environment where people can feel free to express their opinions without being harassed or made to feel uncomfortable.’

‘I understand.’

‘I want to make sure her behaviour isn’t repeated. Perhaps we should consider a multi-agency assessment.’

‘She will write a letter of apology.’

‘Like hell I will!’ says Evie.

‘I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again,’ I say. ‘I’ll come and pick her up.’

Mitch is still waiting in my office where he’s managed to put all the tissues back in the box.

‘Are you any good at odd jobs?’ I ask. ‘Gardening? Painting?’

‘Yeah.’

I write my address on the back of a business card. ‘Come around tomorrow. Early as you like. Wear old clothes.’

He looks at the card. ‘That’s all I own.’





13


Cyrus


‘He’s a fascist,’ says Evie, who is sulking in the passenger seat. She has unlaced her boots and put her socked feet on the dashboard, which annoys me, but I let it go. For most of the drive she’s been quiet. Her silences can sometimes last for days and be so inexplicable and impenetrable that I can’t find out what I’ve done, or not done.