‘Evie disarmed the man,’ says Caroline.
‘By offering herself as a victim.’
‘It was a ploy.’
Hodge snorts and waves his hand dismissively, as though Caroline were resorting to semantics.
‘Evie Cormac is not mature enough, or stable enough, to be released from care. She has no means of support, no job training, or anywhere to live. I should also point out that crime figures show that children in care go on to make up a disproportionate percentage of our prison population.’
‘Hardly a glowing endorsement of local authority care,’ says Caroline.
‘The onus is not on the council to prove Evie Cormac’s age,’ says Hodge.
‘Whose job is it?’
‘Her own. It is Mr Guthrie’s submission that Evie Cormac knows her real name and her age but refuses to co-operate. She is her own worst enemy. She is not ready to be released from care and even if she were deemed to be an adult in this court today, the local authority has instructed me to immediately seek to have her sectioned under the Mental Health Act and sent to a secure psychiatric hospital.’
‘That’s outrageous,’ argues Caroline.
‘You can’t fucking do that!’ yells Evie, leaping to her feet. Her chair topples over with a bang. She is on the bar table, crawling towards Hodge, as though ready to rip out his throat. Caroline has to pull her back, holding her around the waist. Evie is so small that Caroline lifts her easily but has to avoid her kicking feet.
Hodge has backed away. ‘I think that proves my point.’
‘You’re a fuckwit!’ screams Evie.
‘Please be quiet,’ Caroline pleads, glancing helplessly at me.
Judge Sayle waits until Evie is back in her chair before warning her, ‘There can be no more outbursts.’
Evie’s shoulders are shaking with rage, or maybe she’s crying. I can’t see her face.
The judge opens a folder and turns the pages. I glimpse notes scrawled in the margins and paragraphs that are underlined.
‘I’d like you to approach the bench, Miss Cormac,’ he says. ‘Come up and take a seat.’
Evie stands awkwardly, slightly pigeon toed, and looks over her shoulder as she makes her way forward. The judge points to a wooden chair, which has been positioned to be on the same level as his own seat.
‘I’m sorry you had to listen to that,’ he says gently. ‘It can’t be easy hearing yourself described in such a way.’
Evie doesn’t answer.
‘I have read your application and I think I understand how you feel. Children are taken into care for many reasons, primarily due to parental abuse or neglect, but also because there is nobody else to look after them. Your case was considered to be so serious that you were made a ward of this court and we are your guardians.’
Sitting with her back straight and knees together, Evie listens with a disquieting intensity.
‘Do you know how old you are?’ he asks.
‘Eighteen.’
‘When were you born?’
‘I can’t tell you the exact date.’
‘You look small for your age.’
‘You look young to be a judge.’
He smiles at that.
‘I have at least eight statements here from child care experts who say you’re a danger to yourself and a risk to the community.’
‘I’m not.’
‘In fact, the only submission that supports your application was delivered to me yesterday.’ Judge Sayle searches his folder and fumbles to put his glasses on his nose. ‘The one person who thinks you are mature and stable enough to be released is a psychologist, a Dr Haven.’
Evie turns her head to look at me. Caroline does the same. For the briefest of moments, I’m the subject of everyone’s attention, until Judge Sayle reclaims the focus.
‘What will you do, Evie? Where will you live?’
‘I want to go to London and get a job.’
‘You have no qualifications or record of employment. You don’t have a National Insurance number or a bank account, or any savings. Mr Hodge may be right – you could be sixteen.’
‘People get married at sixteen.’
‘With parental consent.’
‘They join the army.’
‘If their parents approve.’
Evie stops. She’s not winning the argument.
Judge Sayle continues. ‘I could order you emancipated, but only if you could prove that you are economically self-sufficient and emotionally capable of living alone, or going to a home environment that is entirely suitable for a minor.’
‘I’m eighteen.’
‘But you can’t prove it.’
‘Neither can anyone else.’
‘Exactly. That’s the rub, isn’t it?’
Judge Sayle takes off his glasses and pulls a cloth from his pocket, breathing on each lens before polishing them.
‘I don’t want to see you remain in care, Evie, but I don’t have any alternative unless you can find the means to support yourself or can prove your real age.’
Evie is shaking her head from side to side. I expect anger or an explosion. Instead I see tears prickle at the corners of her eyes, but she refuses to let them fall. Hodge grins triumphantly.
Judge Sayle hooks the glasses over his ears, jotting notes as he talks.
‘I have decided to nominate a birth date for the appellant, Evie Cormac. According to the records, she was found on September 6, six years ago. For that reason, I’m going to nominate September 6 next year as the date that she turns eighteen. In the meantime, she will remain in council care.’ He addresses Evie. ‘Use that time well, young lady. Listen to your counsellors, study hard and sort through your issues.’
Evie is staring right through Judge Sayle, as if unable or unwilling to believe how quickly her fate has been decided. The speed of the decision. The complete reversal.
Instinctively, I realise this isn’t over; that some unseen part of Evie’s personality is stirring, uncoiling, waiting for the right moment to vent her fury upon the world.
21
Angel Face
The hate climbs inside me. It rises from my stomach into my throat, up my neck to my cheeks. In the near silence of the courtroom, I want to scream. I want to hurt someone. I want blood and carnage and destruction.
Willing myself to stand, I make my way back to the bar table. Caroline touches my arm. I pull away as if scalded. Instantly, I loathe this woman with her blemish-free skin and her expensive clothes and her lovely straight hair that smells of coconut; who has had everything handed to her by an accident of birth, born into the right family, sent to the best schools, taken on holidays abroad, given ballet and violin lessons. Everything has come easily to her – university, a career and a fiancé; I bet Mummy and Daddy helped her buy a flat. Even her name, Caroline Fairfax, sounds like it belongs to a film star or a fashion designer.
I hate her. I hate all of them – the judge and Guthrie and the braying lawyers. Fuckwits! Dickheads! Scumbags! I will not look at them. I will not show my disgust. Why did they raise my hopes and then tear me down? Why not just beat me up, break a few bones and dump my body in a ditch? Why not swing a fist into my stomach, or boot me in the groin?