Lying Beside You (Cyrus Haven #3)(21)

‘You can’t call people fascists because you don’t like what they’re saying.’

‘What if they are fascists?’

‘You have to respect other people’s opinions.’

‘They don’t respect mine. They laugh at me.’

‘I’m sure that’s not true.’

‘Whenever I’m in trouble, you immediately say, “What have you done, Evie?” You never think that I might be right and they’re wrong.’

We’re driving around the edge of Wollaton Park where the trees are a blaze of red and orange leaves.

Evie opens a new line of defence. ‘You told me that I’d make friends. You said I’d become more independent, and confident. You said school would offer me all these new opportunities and I’d be doing what I love. Well, I haven’t made friends and I don’t love it.’

‘I thought it might help you break out of your shell,’ I say.

‘I like my shell.’

‘And find a new direction.’

‘Why do I need a new direction?’

‘To expand your career choices.’

‘I don’t want a career.’

‘What are you going to do with your life?’

‘I’m going to be a professional nihilist.’

‘I’m being serious.’

‘So am I. Worry about your own life.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘You’re single. You have nightmares. Your brother is a nutcase. You lift weights like you want to punish yourself. You’re the shrink who can’t find a cure for what’s wrong with him.’

‘This isn’t about me.’

‘It never is.’

The car is stopped at a set of traffic lights. Evie’s fingers are hovering near the handle as though she’s contemplating an escape. We are silent for a while. I’m angry, but also regretful. I shouldn’t get into these arguments with Evie. I forget how young she is – and how damaged.

When we reach the house, she jumps out of the car and goes inside without waiting for me. She’ll be in the back garden playing with Poppy, the only creature in her life who seems incapable of disappointing her. I would like to be another one, but I’m caught between being her friend and her protector.





14


Evie


Some strange guy is mowing the lawn. He’s wearing jeans and a checked shirt and a red woollen hat that makes him look like a gnome.

‘Who is he?’ I ask.

‘Someone who needs the work,’ says Cyrus.

‘But I’m supposed to mow the lawn.’

‘Really?’

Only Cyrus could put that much sarcasm into a single word or turn a question into a statement. We’re in the kitchen, looking out the window, as the mower guy does the edges of the garden. He’s mid-thirties and walks with a limp.

‘His name is Mitch,’ says Cyrus. ‘He’ll be doing some odd jobs around the place. He can fix up the side gate and paint the window frames and maybe sort out your bedroom door.’

‘Where did he come from?’

‘He’s been in jail.’

‘For what?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘It matters to me.’

‘He was convicted of sexual assault.’

‘And you want him fixing my bedroom door?’

‘You said it was sticking – and he’s served his time.’

Mitch notices us watching him and stops the mower. He makes a drinking motion with his hand.

‘Make him drink from the hose,’ I say, feeling anxious.

‘He won’t bite.’

‘That’s not what I’m afraid of.’

Mitch comes to the door. His boots are caked in grass clippings. He slips them off. There are holes in his socks. Cyrus introduces us. Mitch nods shyly.

‘Are you going to rape me?’ I ask.

‘Evie!’ scolds Cyrus, who glares at me. He starts apologising to Mitch, saying I should be ashamed for asking a question like that, but it’s the only question that matters because I’ll be able to tell if he’s lying.

Mitch is holding his hat in both hands. ‘I’m no threat, Evie. I didn’t hurt anyone.’

Cyrus is looking at me, waiting for me to apologise. I suddenly wonder if this is a set-up. Mitch fills his glass again and is drinking. I move out of earshot, and whisper to Cyrus, ‘How can both of you be telling the truth?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You said he was a rapist.’

‘He was convicted of sexual assault.’

‘Well, if he’s guilty – nobody told him.’

I can see Cyrus is troubled by this. Mitch rinses his glass and leaves it on the drainer.

‘I’ll get back to work.’

‘Evie will make you a sandwich later,’ says Cyrus.

‘I can walk to the shops.’

‘She doesn’t mind,’ says Cyrus, nudging me.

‘Yeah, no trouble,’ I say, when I mean the opposite.

Cyrus hates me lying, then forces me to do it.

The doorbell sounds. Cyrus motions with his head, expecting me to answer it. What am I – the maid and the butler?