24 Evie

24

Some memories are like old photographs in dusty frames that are fading but forever preserved, while others are like shards of broken glass. If you hold them too tightly they can cut you over and over again. This one is sudden and savage and steals my breath. I know this man. I've seen him before.

Cyrus has pulled me away from the others. He whispers, ‘You recognise him?'

I nod.

‘From where?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Is he one of the men who . . . one of the . . .?'

‘No.' I answer too quickly.

Cyrus stops himself. He wants to know if this man abused me. If he's one of the many who passed me around like a birthday parcel, each unwrapping another layer, until they found their prize.

‘You're sure?' he asks.

‘Yes.'

I would remember him if he was one of them. Most were older, richer, uglier. Maybe he worked at one of their houses – as a driver or a guard or a gardener or a tradesman. He could have been one of the men who searched for me – who ripped up carpets and floorboards and knocked holes in walls, while I hid in my secret room, as quiet as a mouse.

At Langford Hall they kept trying to place me in foster homes, but each family sent me back because I was damaged goods or was just plain ‘creepy'. I remember the fathers; none of them had a face like his. Most of them were do-gooders or churchgoers or looking to make the world a better place for children.

Where else could I have met him? He wasn't a teacher or a therapist or a childcare worker. And it wasn't some random fleeting encounter like a charity door-knock or an Uber Eats delivery or someone in a supermarket queue. I know him.

A voice yells from across the dock. A detective waves and jogs towards us.

‘Did you pick up the knife?' he asks.

Cyrus answers. ‘It was lying on the ground.'

‘It's not there – and we searched him again.'

‘Maybe he kicked it into the water.'

The detective mutters something and turns away. I reach into the pocket of my jacket and feel the smooth black handle with my fingertips. I should tell Cyrus that I picked it up. I should apologise and plead ignorance. Better to be in trouble now than later, Papa used to say, but I have a secret now. A weapon. I am not defenceless.

‘Let's go home,' says Cyrus, wanting to get me away from this place.

The knife is warm from my body, but still feels cold to touch. Papa worked with knives. He died when one of them cut his neck. Turning suddenly, I stride towards the police cars. Cyrus jogs to catch up to me.

‘You can't talk to him,' he says.

Moments later, I'm standing beside the open door. The man has his eyes closed and his head back, mouth open, tongue showing pink and slug-like. His hands and feet are shackled.

‘Do you know me?' I ask.

His eyes open slowly. He blinks and rolls his head from side to side. The scar on his neck moves as he swallows.

‘We should go,' says Cyrus, touching my shoulder.

I shrug his hand away.

‘Have we met?' I ask, making it sound like a demand.

The man grins at me with crooked teeth. ‘Nae, lass, but I'm up for it if you are.'

He nods towards the crotch of his soiled jeans. ‘We could do it here.'

My breath catches and my fingers close tighter around the knife. I want to kill him, but I don't know why. I turn and let Cyrus lead me away.