I lean across the table and turn the jacks. ‘These are newer cards. You swapped them in.’
I know I’m right. It’s written all over his face. The lie.
Shades holds up the cards, comparing them to the rest of the deck. Two of them look newer.
‘She’s a liar!’ says Barnum.
‘Empty your pockets,’ mutters Shades.
‘Fuck off!’
Barnum holds the bottom of his shirt, creating a basket, and scoops poker chips from the table. Livingstone grabs him by the wrist. Barnum swings a punch with his other hand, but the black man is bigger, quicker and stronger. Poker chips spill across the floor, rolling and rattling under the table and chairs.
Barnum is pushed face-first against the wall with his right arm twisted behind his back. Playing cards fall from his other sleeve – two queens and two kings, along with a seven of clubs and a six of hearts. He’s been holding picture cards, waiting for his chance to swap them in.
The bouncer’s boots are heavy on the stairs and his shoulders threaten to widen the door.
Katelyn pulls me away, shepherding me into another room.
‘But my money!’
‘I’ll fix it.’
She locks the door and we listen to the blonde cashier yelling at Barnum, telling him he’s barred. Barnum threatens to call the police and ‘have you all arrested!’
‘And I’ll tell your wife how much money you owe me,’ yells the cashier.
Katelyn pulls a packet of cigarettes from the strap of her bra. ‘Christ, you were cool in there. How did you know he was cheating?’
I gesture with a lift of my shoulders.
‘I’ve never seen anyone play poker like you – the way you stare people down. You’re fearless.’
She offers me a cigarette. I accept, wishing I could stop my hands from shaking. The lighter flames. Smoke is exhaled in a cloud.
‘You should play professionally,’ says Katelyn. ‘You’d be a rock star.’
I don’t answer. I want to get away from this place.
‘You could join the poker tour,’ says Katelyn. ‘There are big tournaments all over the world, televised events. With your looks and your skill, you’d be top table in no time.’
‘I don’t want to be on TV.’
‘We’re talking millions. All you need is a decent stake. I could help you. We could be partners.’
‘I don’t need a partner.’
‘I could get you sponsorships and brand deals.’
Why isn’t she listening?
‘I want my money.’
‘OK, OK, I’ll talk to the boss.’
I follow Katelyn out of the room. The cashier is on her hands and knees picking up the fallen poker chips.
‘They’re hers,’ says Shades, motioning to me.
‘Can she prove that?’ asks the cashier.
‘I’m her proof.’
‘And me,’ says Katelyn.
Back in her booth, the cashier opens a safe, taking out bricks of cash, which she begins counting.
‘If you like I could mind this for you – keep it in the safe. You can pick it up tomorrow, or the next time you play.’
‘I’m not coming back,’ I say.
The cashier looks annoyed. She hands me my money – more than seven grand. I shove it deep into my coat pocket and descend the stairs.
The bouncer has gone, along with Shades, Livingstone and Barnum. The street lights barely touch on the darkness and the air is damp with mist.
Katelyn has followed me outside. ‘Do you want a lift?’ she asks. ‘My car is just there.’ She points to the vacant lot where two cars are parked amid mounds of rubble. I can’t see her face.
‘Good luck finding a cab at this hour,’ she adds, lifting the collar of her coat. ‘Not around here.’
‘How far is the station?’ I ask.
‘Trains won’t be running.’
I sniff at the silence.
‘You could come back to mine,’ says Katelyn. ‘I got a sofa. My boyfriend won’t mind.’
The quiet descends again.
‘Make up your mind. I’m freezing my tits off out here,’ says Katelyn. She sets off. Halfway across the road, she yells, ‘Hope you don’t run into that arsehole Barnum.’
I glance up and down the empty street, wondering if she’s right. She’s almost at her car. I run to catch up. She opens the passenger door and leans inside to sweep envelopes and fast food wrappers onto the floor. She straightens and holds the door for me.
‘Mind your head.’
I duck. In that split second I realise my mistake as Katelyn takes hold of my hair and drives my forehead into the frame of the door. It bounces off and she does it again. My legs fold and a knee rises up to meet me on the way down, snapping my head sideways. And then darkness.
39
The night feels tilted.
I’m cradling my pager in my hands, staring at the screen, willing Evie to send me a message . . . any message. She can abuse me for all I care. I just want to know she’s safe.
When we first met at Langford Hall Evie told me that people wanted her dead. I thought she was exaggerating or turning every setback into a catastrophe. What threat could she possibly pose, a teenage girl who has spent a third her life in care?
Sacha Hopewell’s parents were the same – convinced their daughter had been hounded out of her home and forced to hide by some nefarious, nameless conspiracy.
I shouldn’t have shouted at Evie for stealing the envelope. I should have remained calm and let her explain. It should have been a discussion, not a confrontation, but I fucked up. Despite my training, I’m unequipped for this. Floundering.
I’ve searched Evie’s room. She didn’t take a rucksack with her clothes or her make-up. I think she’s wearing the dress and boots that Caroline Fairfax bought her for the court hearing.
The other thing I noticed was that she’d decorated her bedroom, painting the walls with vertical green and white stripes. She must have found some old paint in the laundry, or garden shed. I wonder how she managed to get the lines so straight.
Again, I’ve misjudged her. All this time I thought she was skulking around the place and poking through my stuff, but she was doing something useful. Apart from painting, she re-organised the pantry and the laundry, lining up cans and bottles in alphabetical order and according to size, the labels always facing out.
I don’t know what to do next. What if she’s jumped off a bridge or thrown herself under a train? She could be unconscious or have amnesia. I’ve called the city’s hospitals, asking about admissions. The obvious next step is to contact the police, but I know the ramifications of that. Evie will be classed as a runaway and returned to Langford Hall where Guthrie and the others will make sure she stays. I don’t mind being proved wrong. I didn’t force Evie to stay with me. I gave her a choice. I bought her clothes, a new bed, vegetarian food and sugary breakfast cereal. I promised her a phone. I’ve offered her normality, a home, freedom . . . In the same breath I chide myself for being so stupid. Evie is damaged. Broken. Wild.
Victims of childhood abuse don’t associate kindness with trust. There is no fairness, or balance. I am everything Evie has learned to mistrust. Men. Authority figures. Experts. Just being here – alone with me in this house – must have worried her, possibly frightened her.