‘This place does.’
‘Is that why you tell lies and take off your clothes and disrupt group therapy sessions?’
‘Not really. Maybe. I have my wheel.’
‘What’s that?’
‘My hamster wheel – everybody needs one in a place like this. It keeps you sane.’
‘What’s yours?’
‘I stopped caring.’
‘I don’t believe that’s true.’
‘Suit yourself.’
Evie pulls up her foot and blows on her toes.
‘Do you have any friends here?’ I ask.
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Some of them are OK. Nathan and Cleary have been to prison and try to big themselves up, hoping the girls might sleep with them, but no bed-hopping is allowed.’
‘Would you like to bed-hop?’
She raises one eyebrow. ‘Are you suggesting I’m promiscuous?’
‘I’m asking if you have a boyfriend.’
‘Maybe I fancy girls. You shouldn’t assume. I once kissed Charlotte Morris – with tongues – but that was for a dare.’
‘Was Charlotte a friend?’
‘Not really. She went home. They all go home eventually.’
‘Except for you.’
Evie shrugs and I can see a timeless humanity in her.
‘What about foster parents?’ I ask.
‘I’ve had loads.’
‘What happened?’
‘They sent me back.’
‘All of them?’
‘Sometimes I ran away.’
‘Tell me about the last family who fostered you.’
‘You mean Martha and Graeme. They were hippies. Vegan. They treated their herbalist like he was a brain surgeon and kept blaming my behaviour on my diet, wanting me to eat weird shit.’
‘Is that why you ran away?’
She pauses and thinks. ‘I don’t know. Maybe.’
‘Where did you go?’
‘Edinburgh.’
‘You were six weeks on your own.’
‘And I would have been fine if they’d left me alone.’
‘You were arrested for gambling.’ I glance at the deck of cards on her table. ‘Do you like playing cards?’
‘I’m good at it.’
It doesn’t come across as bragging.
‘You were quite tough on Serena the other day.’
‘She was lying.’
‘You don’t know that.’
‘Yes, I do.’
Evie looks up from painting her nails, the brush poised above her big toe. Wet strands of hair have escaped from her ponytail.
‘Can I call you Cyrus?’
‘Sure.’
‘If you’ll permit me to say this, Cyrus, I don’t think it’s fair for someone like you to be studying me and not to tell me why.’
‘You think I’m studying you?’
‘Yes.’
Evie screws the lid onto the nail polish and points her toes towards me. ‘What do you think?’
‘Nice.’
‘I have pretty feet, don’t you agree, Cyrus?’
She stretches out her legs, resting her feet in my lap. This time when she points her toes, they press against my groin.
‘Are you one of those guys who get off on women’s feet?’
‘No.’
I lift her legs and put them back on the bed.
Evie smiles. ‘Definitely not gay. Are you married?’
‘No.’
‘Do you have a girlfriend?’
I hesitate before answering. ‘Yes.’
‘Mmmm,’ says Evie, as though not convinced. ‘What’s her name?’
‘Claire.’
‘Do you live together?’
‘She’s working overseas.’
‘When is she coming back?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Mmmmm,’ Evie says again.
I’m annoyed at myself. Guthrie has me spooked. Is that why I’m being so truthful?
Technically, Claire and I are still together, by which I mean we haven’t broken up, although our Skype calls have gone from daily to weekly and lately once a month. She’s in Austin at the moment, working on appeals for death-row inmates on behalf of the Texas Defender’s Service. It was supposed to be a six-month assignment, which has stretched to ten months. Initially we had planned to spend this Christmas together in New York, but Claire told me two weeks ago that she has to work through the holidays. I offered to come to Austin. She told me I’d have more fun at home.
‘What were the dogs called?’ I ask.
Evie hesitates. ‘What dogs?’
‘The Alsatians that you kept alive in the garden. The newspapers called them William and Harry, but you must have had names for them.’
Fear ignites in Evie’s eyes. She’s not used to people knowing about her background.
‘You can’t tell anyone who I am,’ she says, glancing anxiously at the door. ‘It’s against the law.’
‘I know.’
I give her a moment to relax.
‘Sid and Nancy,’ she says, referring to the dogs.
‘Did you name them?’
‘No.’
‘Terry must have liked The Sex Pistols.’
‘I guess.’
‘Why didn’t you let the dogs loose? You were sneaking out at night to steal food for them – you could have set them free.’
Evie has gone quiet. Someone shouts along the corridor. A voice answers. A third person tells them to shut up.
‘I think you wanted their company,’ I say. ‘Sid and Nancy were your friends.’
I can almost see the wheels turning in Evie’s mind. She’s steeling herself for the next question. The obvious one. The most offensive one. Why didn’t she run when she had the chance? I won’t ask it because it would imply that she was somehow complicit – that she was responsible for what happened, when nothing could be further from the truth.
I know the answer already. Elizabeth Smart, Jaycee Dugard, Shawn Hornbeck, Natascha Kampusch – all victims of celebrated kidnappings, all of whom had opportunities to escape but chose to stay with their abductors out of misplaced loyalty and love; or a ‘learned helplessness’.
The same was true for Evie. She was drawn into a binding, dysfunctional, yet compassionate relationship with her abuser. She was brainwashed using the classic methods of sensory deprivation, threats, violence and kindness. He created a new normal for Evie, convincing her that her parents were dead, or had abandoned her; or that others wanted to kill her and only he, Terry Boland, could keep her safe.
‘Did you stay in touch with Sacha Hopewell?’ I ask.
‘Who?’
‘The officer who found you.’
Evie shrugs, pretending not to remember her name.
‘How did she find you?’ I ask.
‘She got lucky.’
‘I think she was very clever.’
Evie pulls a face.
‘That famous photograph – the one where she’s carrying you into the hospital – she had white powder on her knees and elbows. You had white powder on your bare feet. It bugged me for a while. Then I realised it was talc. I think she suspected you were hiding somewhere in the house, so she waited until dark and she sprinkled baby powder over the floors. The next morning, she saw your footprints, up the stairs, across the landing, into the wardrobe. That’s pretty clever, don’t you think?’