‘Who did it?’ I ask.
‘Some sicko.’
‘How can you tell?’
‘What?’
‘How do you know when someone is sick in the head, or when they’re just plain bad?’
Reno shrugs.
‘Is that why we’re in Langford Hall?’ I ask.
‘Nobody thinks you’re sick or bad.’
I turn away, resting my forehead against the glass, watching the window grow foggy with each breath.
At the cinema we wait while Miss McCredie buys our tickets. Arcade machines beep and blink with bright lights. A group of teenage boys are playing table football, knowing the girls are checking them out. Chloe grabs Reebah and pulls her over to the boys. Chloe has all the moves – pointing her front toe, pushing out her boobs and smiling coyly. Straight away, she’s targeted the best-looking one, who has blond hair, cut short and gelled into spikes like he’s channelling his inner hedgehog. I notice his smoky-grey eyes and his clear skin, but most of all his confidence. Where does it come from? Does it come with age, or testicles, or can it be ordered online from Amazon – next-day delivery?
The boy has his arm around Chloe, running it down her back, letting it drift lower.
‘Chloe Pringle!’ barks Miss McCredie, giving the boy the evil eye. She marches Chloe back to the group. Chloe looks over her shoulder and mouths the word ‘Later’, tossing her hair again for the sake of tossing it.
We queue for popcorn. I let the others push past me. Reebah takes an age to choose what she wants because she’s careful with her money. The guy behind the counter acts like he’s got a plane to catch. He hands Reebah her change. She looks at her hand, saying, ‘This isn’t enough.’
‘What?’
‘I gave you twenty quid.’
‘You gave me a tenner.’
‘No.’
He opens the till and holds up a ten-pound note. ‘See!’
‘I gave you a twenty,’ says Reebah, growing anxious and looking around for support.
‘Next,’ says the man, looking past her.
‘I brought twenty quid. I know I did.’ Reebah looks at Miss McCredie, then at Chloe and Nat and the rest of the group. ‘I gave him a twenty, I swear.’
‘You must be mistaken,’ says Miss McCredie.
‘It’s my birthday money. Mum sent it to me.’
The man behind the counter interrupts. ‘She gave me a tenner, OK? I get kids coming in here all the time trying to pull this scam.’
‘It’s not a scam,’ says Reebah, her voice changing pitch.
Miss McCredie tells her to calm down and step away from the counter.
‘But he stole my money.’
‘Be quiet, Reebah!’ she scolds, and apologises to the man, saying she’s sorry for causing trouble.
I’ve been watching from the back of the queue. Reluctantly, I step forward. ‘She’s telling the truth.’
Miss McCredie frowns. ‘Did you see her hand over the money?’
‘She’s not lying.’
Miss McCredie pulls me closer to the counter. ‘You were standing way back there, Evie. How could you see what money she handed over?’
‘She gave him a twenty.’
‘They’re both in on it,’ says the man. ‘It’s a scam.’
‘You’re trying to rip her off,’ I reply, shifting my slouch from one hip to the other.
The man behind the counter grows flustered. ‘I’ll call the manager. You’ll all have to leave.’
‘You won’t call the manager,’ I say.
‘Maybe I’ll call the police.’
‘Go on then.’
The conviction in my voice seems to surprise him. He’s not used to being contradicted – not by a girl. He leans towards me and I brace myself, expecting to be slapped. Reno intervenes, protecting me, giving me confidence.
‘I think you’ve done this before,’ I say. ‘I bet you put that twenty straight into your pocket.’
The man reacts with fake outrage.
‘Empty your pockets,’ says Reno.
The man mutters something under his breath and opens the till. He takes out an extra ten-pound note and tosses it towards Reebah. She picks it off the floor and puts the money deep into the back pocket of her jeans.
‘I hope you weren’t lying,’ mutters Miss McCredie, as she walks behind me into the cinema.
Reebah is ahead of us. She looks over her shoulder, as though wanting to say thank you, but not remembering the words.
17
Sunday afternoon in the shadows of Nottingham Castle, two boys and a girl, roughly the same age, are pushing a wheel-barrow across the square. Slumped inside is crude effigy of Guy Fawkes, stuffed with straw or rags, with red woollen hair, a flat cap, and mismatched buttons for eyes.
‘They’re a bit late,’ I say. ‘Bonfire night was a week ago.’
‘Maybe they’re getting a head start on next year,’ says Caroline Fairfax. Evie Cormac’s lawyer is in her early thirties with dark wavy hair held back from her face by an Alice band. She’s dressed in a cream-coloured blouse and blue denim jeans that look brand new. She reaches for the sugar and fills a spoon twice, stirring as though it might solidify if she didn’t.
‘You don’t see Guy Fawkes effigies very often any more,’ I say.
‘That’s not a bad thing,’ she replies. ‘Anti-Catholic rituals are rather outdated.’
‘Are you Catholic?’
‘Heavens, no! I’m an equal opportunity atheist.’ She licks foam from her spoon.
Across the road, Japanese tourists are posing for photographs in front of a Robin Hood statue. Cast in thick bronze, Robin has a green tinge and is about to unleash an arrow at a tourist stand selling felt hats, medieval tunics, Maid Marian wimples and Friar Tuck teddy bears.
‘Where do you stand on Robin Hood?’ I ask, enjoying the banter.
‘He was a dangerous progressive who gave money to spongers and welfare cheats. Nowadays they’d lock him up, or make him leader of the Labour Party.’
She smiles, and I feel a jolt of attraction as her eyes meet mine. In that moment it feels like she has mentally grabbed hold of my testicles and given them a tug. I look away and try not to blush. I expect her to look away as well, but Caroline’s eyes are still searching my face. She licks the spoon again.
‘Evie’s case is on Wednesday,’ I say.
‘Are we allowed to be talking?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Maybe you’re going to be a witness for the other side.’
‘Are there sides?’ I ask. ‘We all want what’s best for Evie.’
She looks at me doubtfully. ‘Why do people always say that when they’re taking the choice away from someone?’
‘Do you think Evie is ready?’
‘My job is to ask questions of people like you, who seem to think she’s too damaged to be allowed out into the big bad world.’
‘You must have an opinion.’
‘I’m a legal aid lawyer, not a psychologist.’
‘How old were you when you left home?’ I ask.
The question annoys her. ‘I don’t see what difference that makes.’