‘I told you I’d come back. How have you been?’
I shrug.
Cyrus picks a chocolate finger biscuit and nibbles one end.
‘That’s not how you should eat them,’ I say.
He looks at the biscuit.
‘You have to bite off both ends. Then you can use it like a straw.’
‘In my tea?’
‘Exactly.’
Cyrus bends his head and sucks tea through the biscuit.
‘Eat it before it gets too soggy,’ I say.
He stuffs the biscuit into his mouth and chews, showing his chocolate-stained teeth. ‘That’s really good.’
‘I don’t think you should try it at the Ritz.’
‘Have you ever been to the Ritz?’
‘Oh, all the time,’ I say, putting on my posh voice. ‘I do so love their High Tea – the scones and clotted cream and strawberry jam. Although, one doesn’t understand the point of cucumber sandwiches. They taste of nothing, don’t you think?’
‘Do you lie a lot, Evie?’
‘What do you consider a lot?’
‘Enough for people to think you’re a liar.’
‘I’ve been called worse.’ I feel my jaw tighten. I don’t want Cyrus to be like the others. ‘So sometimes I lie. Is that so weird? You’d lie as well if you were stuck in here. You’d make up stories. Amuse yourself.’
‘What do you lie about?’
‘Random stuff. I don’t even know why I do it half the time. It’s automatic – like sneezing. Sometimes I hear myself say something and I think, that’s not even remotely true – not even fucking close – but I still keep going. The other day, I told this new girl that my father is a treasure hunter looking for a Spanish galleon that sank in the Bermuda Triangle. I told Cordelia that I won a scholarship to a cheerleading school in California but had to turn it down because I’m on a no-fly list as a suspected terrorist. Stupid cow believed me.’
Cyrus laughs. He has a nice smile. It makes his eyes go crinkly at the sides.
‘You want to play cards?’ I ask, taking a deck from the pocket of my hoodie.
‘OK.’
‘Poker. Texas hold ’em. Is that all right?’
I divide, bridge and flip the deck, overlapping the edges and sliding the cards together. I do it twice more before racking the deck loudly against the table. With a flick of my fingers, I deal, sending cards spinning across the Formica.
I peel up the corners and check the hole cards. Cyrus takes longer. He doesn’t play cards very often. I can tell from how he arranges them in his hand.
‘What are we going to bet?’ I ask.
‘I don’t think we should gamble.’
‘It’s poker. We have to bet.’
‘Not money.’
‘How about we gamble for questions?’
Cyrus agrees, but looks at me suspiciously.
‘This is called the flop,’ I explain, putting three cards face up on the table. ‘You want to bet?’
‘Yes. I’ll bet one question.’
‘I’ll match you.’
I deal another card and we go through the process again. Eventually, there are four questions on the table. I have two pairs – aces and sevens, to his two kings.
I rub my hands together. ‘Right, let’s get started. Do you have any family?’
‘A brother,’ he replies.
‘What about your parents?’
‘They’re dead.’
‘How did they die?’
‘They were murdered.’
I look for the telltale signs that he’s lying but see nothing except sadness and regret.
‘How old were you?’
‘Thirteen.’
‘Who killed them?’
‘You’ve had your four questions.’
Annoyed, I deal another hand. Win again.
‘Who killed them?’
‘My brother.’
I take a moment to digest the news. I wonder if I’m missing the lie but can see only the truth. I want to know the details. At the same time, I wish I could take my questions back and give Cyrus some privacy.
‘I don’t want to play this game any more,’ I say, pushing my chair away from the table.
‘But I didn’t get to ask a question.’
‘You were never going to beat me.’
‘Are you that good?’
‘Yes.’
Inwardly, I curse my bravado. What have I got to boast about?
‘You can ask me one thing,’ I say softly. ‘But not my name, or where I came from, or anything about Terry.’
‘What will you do if you get out of here?’
It’s always the same question, I think. ‘What do you want to be when you grow up, little girl?’ It’s as if jobs come on racks like clothes, hanging up before you: butcher, baker, tinker, tailor, waitress, receptionist. Pick one. Try it on for size.
‘I want to start my life,’ I say. ‘I’ve spent six years in places like this. It’s my turn.’
‘Your turn for what?’
‘To be normal.’
13
Looking at Evie now, it is difficult to picture the filthy urchin they discovered in a secret room six years ago. The child who came out at night and hid during the day; who stole food from neighbouring houses, drank from garden hoses and kept two Alsatians alive; who quite possibly heard a man being tortured to death and later watched his body putrefying.
Clearly intelligent, despite her lack of formal education, every escape and failed fostering attempt set Evie back academically, but she hasn’t fallen too far behind her peers. Dyslexia makes reading difficult, but she has good language and numeracy skills.
I spent last night going over her earliest interviews with counsellors and social workers. They were searching for clues about her background, but Evie revealed almost nothing. She asked for food when she was hungry and water when she was thirsty. She didn’t start conversations, or answer questions with more than a yes or no. Linguists and dialect experts were brought in to study her speech patterns and accent. One said that Evie had spent time in Scotland. Another detected possible East European traces in her voice, in particular how she made ‘rainbow’ sound like ‘ranbow’ and mixed up her tenses.
I don’t recognise any trace of an accent. Instead, I see a teenager with heightened defences, who trusts nobody. Right now she’s slouching in a chair, rolling her tongue, acting bored.
‘Why do you wear so much make-up?’ I ask.
‘I hate my freckles. They make my face look dirty.’
‘Your freckles are the best part.’
Evie looks at me with a mixture of pity and disgust. She doesn’t like being complimented. Praise is for other people.
‘You didn’t answer my question – what will you do?’
‘I’ll get a job.’
‘Doing what? Don’t say you’ll play poker.’
‘There are professional poker players.’
‘They have funds. A stake. Where will you live?’
‘I’ll rent somewhere.’
‘Do you know how much it costs to rent a flat? What about electricity, gas, phone bills, the TV licence fee?’