‘This way,’ he says, tugging at my sleeve, wanting me to follow.
‘What about her?’
‘She’s dead.’
70
Christ, Evie! Where in God’s name did you get a gun?
We’ve reached the landing. Thick black smoke has filled the stairwell. Evie is coughing so hard she doubles over, curling up on the floor.
‘Stay with me,’ I yell, making her focus. I put her hands on the back of my belt and close her fingers. ‘Don’t let go.’
I crawl blindly across the landing, leading Evie. Feeling my way, I find her bedroom door and then her bed. My head bumps against the far wall. I reach for the sash window, I pull it up and lean outside, taking deep gulps of air.
Evie?
She’s let go of me. I drop to my knees and feel for her, touching her hair. At that moment, flames sweep past the bedroom door, feeding on the oxygen from the open window.
I drag her to her feet and lean her body outside, telling her to breathe. Poppy is below us in the garden, barking and leaping up the wall, planting her paws on the bricks as though wanting to climb.
I lift Evie onto the window ledge with her feet dangling out. The garden is twenty feet below us. A jump like that will break her legs. Where are the ladders? The firemen? On the wrong side of the house.
I take Evie’s wrists and lower her down so that she’s dangling above Poppy, but it’s still too high.
‘Let go,’ she yells, as a window blows out beneath us and glass scatters through the shrubbery.
I notice a downpipe to my right, but it’s too far for Evie to reach. Four feet. More. I begin to move my shoulders, swinging her back and forth, building up momentum. She gets the idea and kicks with her legs, swinging out further, but I can’t hold her much longer.
Her fingertips touch the downpipe, but she’s unable to hold on and slides away. I swing her one more time and let go. She wraps her hands around the black-painted metal and clings on. Slipping down. Safe. It’s my turn. I can’t make a jump like that. I doubt if the pipe can take my weight.
These old houses know how to burn with their dry timbers and draughty rooms. My history is in flames. Family photographs. Books. Heirlooms. Memories.
Smoke billows past me and I can’t see the pipe any more. I can’t see Evie or Poppy. I can’t breathe.
I hear her voice, yelling at me, but not the words. I lower myself out of the window, clinging by my fingertips, my shoes scrabbling for a toehold in the mortared bricks. I’m ready for the fall . . . for whatever comes. But as I let go, strong hands find my feet, directing me onto the rungs of a ladder, helping me down one step at a time through the smoke. My feet touch soft earth and I wheel around, stumbling a dozen paces before falling to my knees, coughing as though my lungs might slither out of my throat and convulse on the grass.
Evie has her arms around me, her head buried in my neck. The girl without tears is crying. Her wet cheeks are smeared with soot that clings to her like a second skin, except for around her eyes, giving her the appearance of an emaciated cartoon panda.
I wrap my arms around her. Holding her. Feeling her sob.
Meanwhile jets of water arc over the rooftop, falling onto our heads like rain.
‘Where did you get the gun?’
‘I stole it from Felix.’
‘Why?’
‘In case they come.’
71
Angel Face
I’m sitting on my bed, sticking pictures in a scrapbook. Cyrus will be here soon. He tries to come every day, when he can, bringing me cigarettes and chocolate fingers and pictures of Poppy. Poppy in the park. Poppy chasing squirrels. Poppy drinking from the bird bath. Poppy wading in the pond.
Langford Hall is the same. The food. The routines. The staff. I’m used to it now. I feel safe here.
I once read a story about how inmates sometimes get so used to being behind bars they don’t want to leave. I can’t imagine myself ever getting to be like that, but I can survive this. I’ve lived through worse.
Other girls my age are going to parties, or getting a job, or hanging out with friends, but I don’t want any of those things. I wouldn’t know what to do with that sort of life. That’s why I don’t have a calendar on the wall or a clock in my room. I don’t want to see time passing. Instead, I’ve become an expert at existing and letting each day play out like the one before.
I miss Poppy. I miss Cyrus. I wish he didn’t blame himself for what happened.
‘It was nobody’s fault,’ I told him. ‘Bad luck follows me around.’
‘You don’t believe in luck,’ he replied, and I knew that he understood.
Cyrus can’t foster me again. They say he put me in danger and involved me in a murder investigation. The gun would have sealed the deal. I was ready to take the blame, but Cyrus wouldn’t let me. He said they’d keep me locked up for longer or send me to an adult prison or a general psych hospital. Guthrie would love that. So I told the police that Felicity had the gun and nobody could prove otherwise.
Davina knocks on the door. ‘Your boyfriend’s here.’
‘He’s not my boyfriend.’
‘Well, why are you smiling?’
‘Fuck off!’
‘I love you, too.’ She laughs as she disappears down the corridor, tossing her dreads and swinging her hips.
Cyrus pokes his head around the corner.
‘Hi!’
‘Hello.’
He hugs me. I stiffen. I wonder if I’ll ever get used to someone touching me like that.
‘I have a surprise,’ he says.
‘More photographs.’
‘Better.’
He wants me to close my eyes. I look at him suspiciously, but obey, letting him lead me out of my room and along the hallway. He tells me to mind my step when he opens the sliding door to the courtyard.
Poppy is tied to a baby tree, trying to rip it out of the ground. Let loose, she leaps all over me, pushing me backwards onto the grass, licking my face and hands.
Cyrus sits on a concrete bench and watches while we chase, wrestle and run. Later, exhausted, I sit beside him. Normally, I’d light a cigarette but I’m trying to quit.
‘How have you been?’ he asks.
‘Fine.’
‘Are you sleeping?’
‘Yeah.’
He always starts this way – with the simple questions – before he begins asking me about my dreams and earliest memories; my fears and regrets.
‘Victims of childhood abuse often dissociate,’ he says, talking like a textbook. ‘They block out cognitive links and emotions. Sometimes they do it so completely, it’s as if they never consciously experienced trauma. That could be why you have so few memories.’
‘It could be,’ I say.
‘Whatever was done to you as a child, it wasn’t your fault.’
‘I know.’
‘You don’t have to blame yourself.’
‘I don’t.’
I know what Cyrus wants. Details. Facts. He wants to climb down into the same sewer that I escaped from. He wants to join me in the filth and lead me out again. He wants to know what went through my mind during all those hours, days and weeks. What I heard. Why I stayed hidden. How I managed to stay alive.