‘You rescued her.’
Sacha waves her hand dismissively.
‘This is what I do. I help people recover from trauma,’ I explain.
‘Is she traumatised?’
‘Yes. The question is: are you?’
Her face hardens. ‘I don’t need your help.’
‘You’re running away from something.’
‘People like you!’ she mutters angrily, spinning away from me and crossing the promenade. I run to catch up.
‘My offer is genuine. I’m driving back to Nottingham. You’re welcome to come with me.’
Sacha doesn’t answer, but for a fleeting moment, I glimpse her vulnerability. The joy that once resided inside her has gone, and she has cut herself off from her family, trying to forget what happened, but I have brought the memories flooding back.
Returning to the pub, I pack my things, and settle the bill. The front bar is already populated by a handful of hardened, all-day drinkers, imbibing with quiet determination, each adding a small, sullen silence to the larger whole. I cross the parking area and unlock my faded red Fiat, slinging my bag on to the back seat. The engine won’t start the first time. I pump the accelerator a few times, and try again, listening as the starting motor whirs, fires, splutters, and whirs again, before finally sparking the engine.
Wrestling the Fiat into gear, I reverse out of the space and turn towards the entrance. I’m almost at the boom gate when I see Sacha. She’s in the rowing boat, bending forward over the oars and back again, following the edge of the breakwater. Her supplies are covered by a tarpaulin, and her hair is corralled under the hood of her anorak.
I’m not disappointed. I’m relieved. She’s safe for now and I know where to find her.
4
Evie
‘You have to put on some clothes, Evie. They can’t interview you if you’re half naked.’
‘Exactly.’
Caroline Fairfax is my lawyer and she’s not comfortable with my nudity. I don’t think she’s prudish, or gay, but she’s one of those straighty-one-eighty types, who hasn’t done a single rebellious thing in her life. At school, I bet she sat in the front row of every classroom, knees together, uniform perfect, hand poised to shoot up. Now she’s in her early thirties, newly married, wearing dark trousers and a matching jacket. Sensible. No nonsense. Boring.
The police took away my shoelaces and my leather belt, so I went a step further and took off everything except my knickers (which are clean). I’m sitting on a concrete bench in a holding cell, freezing my arse off, but I won’t tell her that.
‘They can force you to put on clothes,’ she warns.
‘Let them try.’
‘They could have you charged with public indecency.’
‘I’m not in public.’
‘You attacked someone.’
‘He started it.’
‘Now you’re being petulant.’
‘Fuck you!’
Her eyes widen for a moment. Then narrow to a squint. I want to apologise but ‘sorry’ isn’t a word that trips easily off my tongue. It gets caught in my head and never makes it as far as my mouth.
‘Where’s Cyrus?’ I ask.
‘You asked me not to call him.’
‘I thought you’d do it anyway.’
‘No.’
I look at her face. She’s telling me the truth. I don’t want Cyrus knowing I’m in trouble again. He’ll look at me with his sad droopy eyes, like a puppy begging for food.
‘Please, get dressed,’ she says again.
‘This is bullshit,’ I say, pulling on my jeans and hoodie. I tell her I need the bathroom. A female officer escorts me along the corridor and watches me fix up my clump of lawless brown hair, this month’s colour. I wish I had my make-up. It’s weird, but I feel more naked without mascara than I do without clothes.
Ten minutes later we’re in the interview room with a table and four chairs and no window. Caroline sits next to me. Opposite are two uniformed officers who might be auditioning for a TV cop show. Most of their questions are statements, trying to put words into my mouth.
One of them has an undertaker’s face and dandruff on his shoulders. His partner is younger and has a smug look, like a dog scratching for fleas. I recognise him from earlier. He was one of the officers who came down to the cells when I was naked, perving at me through the observation window. Every so often, he smirks, as though he’s got something over me because he’s seen my tits.
In my experience, people tend to talk at me rather than to me. They preach or they lecture, or they hear what they want to hear. But that’s not the reason I don’t answer. I don’t trust the truth. The truth is a story. The truth is a habit. The truth is a compromise. The truth is a casualty. The truth died long ago.
‘We can do this the easy way or the hard way,’ says the smug one.
I want to laugh. There’s no such thing as an easy way.
‘What did you do with the engagement ring?’
‘My client didn’t take any ring,’ replies Caroline. ‘She was helping look for it.’
‘Your client should answer my question.’
‘She’s denying your allegation.’
‘Does she actually speak? Maybe she’s a mute.’
‘I speak when I have something to say.’
The undertaker props his elbows on the table, chin resting on his hands. ‘Who are you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I tried to call up your juvenile record, but the files were sealed. Even the bare bones have been redacted. No birthplace. No next-of-kin. No health records. We gave you one phone call and a barrister shows up from London. All of which makes me think you’re somebody important. What is it? Witness protection? Or are you some politician’s idiot child?’
Caroline Fairfax interrupts his speech. ‘Do you have a question for my client?’
‘I asked her a question.’
‘You know her name and her age and her current address.’
The undertaker ignores her, concentrating on me.
‘If I put in a request for access to your complete file, what am I going to find?’
‘Nothing,’ replies Caroline.
‘That’s the point, though, isn’t it? She’s a protected species. Why is that?’
‘I’m a Russian spy,’ I say.
Caroline hushes me, but I ignore her.
‘I’m a mafia moll. I’m Donald Trump’s love-child. I’m the shooter on the grassy knoll.’
Somebody knocks on the door and saves me from myself. The officers are summoned outside. I can hear them murmuring in the corridor but can’t make out what they’re saying.
‘Are you OK?’ asks Caroline.
‘I’m fine.’
‘This will be over soon.’
‘I didn’t steal anything.’
‘I know.’
Caroline glances at her mobile phone, like she’s waiting for a message. Only one of the officers returns to the room. The undertaker.
‘You’re free to go,’ he says.
‘What’s happened?’ asks Caroline.
‘New information has come to light.’