Lying Beside You (Cyrus Haven #3)(72)

‘He won’t hurt you,’ I say.

‘How do you know?’

‘They’ve spent twenty years fixing him.’

‘You told me schizophrenia can’t be cured.’

‘He’s medicated.’

‘Eighty per cent of them relapse.’

‘Will you stop googling!’

There is another long pause. I can picture her, sitting on her bed, biting her fingernails, which are always chewed to the nub and raw.

‘Have you found Daniela?’ she asks.

‘Still looking.’

‘When will you be home?’

‘On my way.’

I knock gently on Evie’s bedroom door and call her name. I hear bare feet on the floor and her chest of drawers being pushed aside. A key is turned.

Her voice. ‘You can come in.’

She is sitting up in bed, holding a pillow against her chest.

‘Was all of that necessary?’ I ask.

She gives me a shrug but no explanation.

I glance around the room. Right now, she’s in her Goth phase, with a deep purple bedspread, black pillows and sepia-coloured wallpaper. Moving closer, I sit on the bottom corner of her mattress. There is a stony quality to Evie, something unforgiving and grey.

‘Give him time,’ I say.

‘How long?’

‘A few weeks, at least.’

She makes a huffing sound, which I take to be agreement, but could be my wishful thinking.

‘Are you hungry?’ I ask.

‘Maybe.’

‘I’ll give you a call when dinner’s ready – unless you want to keep me company.’

‘No.’

Downstairs, I hear Elias laughing. He’s watching an episode of Friends, with the volume turned up. He must think nothing has changed. Opening the fridge, I begin taking out ingredients. I search for a sharp knife to dice the onions. I find them in the breadbin. Either Evie has hidden them or Elias is messing with my head.

I hear a floorboard creak. He’s in the doorway.

‘I’m sorry I wasn’t home when you arrived,’ I say.

‘That’s OK.’

Pulling up a chair, he takes a seat at the table and tears a sheet of kitchen towel from the roll. He folds it in half and half again, making smaller and smaller squares.

‘I think I should have Evie’s room.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s bigger.’

‘She was here first.’

‘I’m family.’

‘And she needs one.’

Elias frowns, not understanding.

‘Evie has been through more than you can possibly imagine. She’s remarkable. Unique. And she needs someone to watch over her.’

‘Why does it have to be you?’

‘It could be you, too.’

Elias is about to say something but seems to change his mind. I open the fridge and take out two beers. Then I remember that he shouldn’t be drinking because alcohol affects his medications. I put the bottles away. Elias has noticed.

‘I used to do group sessions with guys who were alcoholics,’ he says. ‘Rampton had a programme for them.’

‘I hope you’re not suggesting I’m an alcoholic.’

‘They were doing the twelve steps, you know. My case worker told me that I should do the same – make a list of the people I’ve hurt and make amends.’

‘Step eight?’

‘Nine.’

I tip the diced onions into the heated oil.

‘I’m scared you won’t forgive me,’ says Elias.

‘I’ve forgiven you already.’

‘Have you? Really?’

‘You’re here, aren’t you?’

‘Everybody trusted me. Mum. Dad. Esme and April. What I did can’t be undone. I can try to make amends for everything else, but not that. I wish I could bring them back. Every day, I pray for their forgiveness.’ He has the fervour in his eyes of someone born again, yet I get the sense he’s talking about events that happened to somebody else and he’s puzzled about knowing so many of the details.

‘I had a priest who used to visit me,’ he says. ‘He gave me a Bible and encouraged me to pray. He said that if I’m truly sorry for what I did, and if I ask for God’s forgiveness, I’ll receive his grace and be allowed to join them in Heaven.’

‘Is that where you think they are?’ I ask.

‘Yes. Don’t you?’

I avoid answering because I don’t believe in Heaven, or Hell. And when I picture my family, we are all living in our little house, the twins sharing a room, Dad brewing his beer, Mum doing her yoga in the sunroom, and Elias and me kicking a football in the garden.

‘You have every reason to hate me,’ he says. ‘And I have no right to expect anything from you – not friendship, or trust, or love. You said a lot of nice things to the tribunal, but it’s just us now – you and me – in the kitchen of Grandma and Granddad’s house. You can be honest with me. You can tell me what you really think.’

I fall silent, watching the spaghetti soften in the bubbling water.

‘I’m not ready to talk about that,’ I say.

After a pause, he clears his throat. ‘I need to find some people. I have a list. I might need your help.’