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‘How will you know the truth if I’m not there?’
‘It’s too dangerous.’
‘Angus Radford didn’t recognise me and he’s in prison,’ I say. ‘And nobody else knows who I am.’
Cyrus doesn’t answer, which is a good sign. We walk on a while longer.
‘Who’ll look after Poppy?’ he asks, but he knows the answer already. Mitch and Lilah.
We’re going to Scotland.
Book Two
‘And once the storm is over, you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.’
Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore
1
Cyrus
My ageing Fiat, once red, now pink, has been returned to me by the police. The boot latch has been repaired, but the signs of the forensic search remain – fingerprint dust on the dashboard and an evidence tag left in one of the door pockets. I am not a car person. The Fiat is not an extension of myself. Nor does it make a statement about my politics or my aspirations or compensate for something that’s missing or undersized. A car is just a car in the same way that a washing machine is just a washing machine.
It feels strange having Evie in the passenger seat because Arben was the last person to sit there. We head north along the M1, crossing the Yorkshire Dales past Penrith and Carlisle. The windows are cracked open, letting in the road sounds and the rushing air and the smells of summer.
Evie turns on the radio and finds a song. Something familiar. ‘Yesterday’ by the Beatles. I begin to sing. She joins in. It’s a nice moment, like something out of a film, but eventually she goes quiet.
‘We’re in Scotland,’ I say, pointing to a sign for Gretna Green. ‘It’s a famous place for weddings.’
‘Why?’ asks Evie.
‘Back in the eighteenth century, anyone under the age of twenty-one was forbidden to marry in England and Wales without their parents’ permission. The young and in love began eloping to Scotland, coming to Gretna Green to get married.’
‘Do they still do it?’
‘There’s a blacksmith’s shop in town that’s famous for marriages.’
‘I think it’s romantic,’ says Evie, surprising me. Usually, she scoffs at love songs and romcoms and public displays of affection, telling people to ‘get a room’.
The landscape changes as we turn north-east towards Stirling and onwards to Perth. The sun is trying to break through a thin layer of cloud, but a persistent wind steals the heat from the air. The further north we’ve travelled, the cooler it has grown.
Evie falls asleep and jerks awake, as though trying to run, but the seat belt holds her back.
‘A bad dream?’ I ask.
She doesn’t answer. Instead, she hugs her knees to her chest, rocking slightly. When her breathing returns to normal, she studies her phone, telling me when she has four bars, or three, or two. It’s as though she expects us to lose touch with civilisation at any moment.
On the outskirts of Dundee, I stop to fill up with petrol and to get a coffee. The smell of petrol fumes blends with the fried food and sugar from the donut shop. Evie goes to the toilet and wanders around the gift shop. I have a missed call from Florence. I call her back.
‘Scotland? Why?’ she asks.
‘I’m looking into Angus Radford’s background.’
‘Has Evie remembered anything else?’
‘Not yet.’
Through the glass doors, I notice Evie talking to a couple of older boys, who are driving a pick-up truck with mud-splattered dirt bikes strapped upright on the back tray. She’s smiling and laughing, pointing her front foot, tossing her hair.
