Lying Beside You (Cyrus Haven #3)(31)

20


Evie


I hear him come home. His key in the lock, the security chain, his boots being kicked off. He’s on the stairs now. The third one from the top creaks like an old rocking chair. Cyrus wants to get it fixed, but I like hearing him come home.

I sit up in bed, expecting him to knock and say goodnight. He does that sometimes when he sees the strip of light beneath my door. He knocks and asks if I’m awake. Then he comes into my room and perches on the end of my bed, leaning on his outstretched arm. I always look at his hand and want him to move it closer to me, to touch my covered foot. Nothing else would have to happen. It would be enough.

I know where he’s been. It came up on my news feed. The police have discovered a woman’s body near Mansfield, half an hour from Nottingham. Her name hasn’t been released, but everybody seems to know that it’s Maya Kirk.

Cyrus doesn’t stop outside my door. Instead, he goes to his bedroom and gets changed. Minutes later, he returns. I imagine his knuckles tapping on the door, but nothing happens. He continues downstairs to the basement. That’s not a good sign.

When something is troubling Cyrus, he lifts weights. I have watched him some nights, spying on his sessions, fascinated and fearful of what he does, how his ink-stained arms tremble as he raises the bar from the cradle, his breath coming in short bursts. He does it again and again – each lift slower than the last. This is not exercise. This is self-abuse. This is punishment.

I don’t know how long I lie awake, listening to the sound of weights being dropped into the cradle, imagining his groans of pain. This is how I fall asleep, wishing I could make him stop.

In the morning, Cyrus is up and gone before I get downstairs. There is a note on the kitchen table.

Take down the dating profile.

It’s against the law to steal someone’s identity.

Stay out of my life, Evie, or you can’t be part of it.



My legs go hollow and my heart drops to my feet and further. I read the note again. I want there to be an ‘x’ at the end, or an ‘o’. Even his initials would do. I want to read between the lines and see that he’s angry, but not finished with me.

How did he find out? Somebody must have recognised his photograph on the dating profile. I was going to tell him, but only when I had found someone who was perfect for him.

When I suggested that he join a dating site, he laughed, saying that he’d meet someone ‘organically’, whatever that means. Nobody meets organically. It sounds creepy. And I know Cyrus. He doesn’t go to parties, and he is completely hopeless at flirting or realising that someone fancies him.

Sacha went back to London four months ago and there hasn’t been anyone since then. He needs someone, now more than ever. Elias is getting out. It’s going to bring back memories of his parents dying, and his sisters. Nobody should have to go through that alone.

‘Knock, knock,’ says a voice.

Mitch is standing at the laundry door, holding his cap in both hands. He’s wearing the same clothes as yesterday.

‘Bus broke down. Sorry I’m late.’

It sounds like a lie, but he’s telling the truth.

‘I had to walk the last half-mile.’

He leans down and massages his knee.

‘What happened to it?’ I ask.

‘Broke it in prison.’

‘How?’

‘A misunderstanding.’

Not the whole truth.

‘You were attacked,’ I say.

His shoulders rise and fall.

‘Why?’

‘I was a sex offender. The lowest of the low. Not as bad as the nonces, you know, the paedos and kiddie-fiddlers, but still a bottom feeder.’

‘What did they do?’

‘Two guys held me down, while another one jumped on my leg.’

I flinch and Mitch apologises. Why do people do that – say sorry for something they didn’t do?

‘Does Cyrus have any paint?’ he asks. ‘He wanted me to fix the side gate. Thought I’d give it a few coats.’

‘Did you check the shed?’

‘Some half cans that weren’t sealed properly.’ Mitch scratches his chin. ‘I could pick up some paint from a hardware store. Do a colour match.’

‘Do you need money?’

‘He can fix me up later.’

Mitch limps back into the garden to get his jacket. Watching him, I feel guilty. Cyrus’s car keys are on the hall table.

‘I could drive you,’ I say, twirling the keys on my finger.

‘If it’s no trouble, miss.’

‘Please call me Evie.’

The once red Fiat, now a faded pink, is parked beneath trees, and pigeons have been using it as target practice. I sweep leaves off the windscreen and Mitch struggles into the passenger seat, lifting his damaged leg into the footwell. Poppy jumps into my side and scampers onto the back seat.

The engine coughs, complains and spits out a cloud of smoke.

‘Nice car,’ says Mitch.

‘Are you being sarky?’

‘No. It’s very retro. When did you get your licence?’

‘Who said anything about a licence?’

I stamp on the accelerator and roar away from the kerb, aiming at the cars parked opposite before swerving back to the centre of the road.