‘No.’
‘How many Hinge dates have you been on, Mr Deverill?’ Cox had gone up several gears, firing questions more rapidly.
‘Maybe ten.’
‘And how many of those dates have resulted in sexual intercourse?’
‘One or two.’
‘Please be specific, Mr Deverill, was it one or was it two?’
Miles’s cheeks burned, and he became acutely aware of his parents’ presence in the public gallery. ‘Two.’
Cox chose to pause in that moment, his lips pursed in consideration, as if he needed time to digest what Miles had just said. It created an excruciatingly long silence. ‘Let’s return to your departure from Ms Kennedy’s flat. Given your history of romantic success, it must have come as quite a disappointment that she didn’t invite you to stay longer?’
‘I wouldn’t say that.’
‘Did you expect her toput out?’ Cox put the emphasis on those last two words in a way that suggested he was talking Miles’s language rather than his own.
‘I didn’t expect anything.’
‘But you would’ve been happy if she’d made a move, asked you to stay over?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Did it make you frustrated that she didn’t?’
Miles’s temperature rose at that, and he tried to slow his breathing to suppress it. The last thing he needed, in response to that question, was to appear frustrated. He took a deep breath. ‘I wasn’t at all frustrated.’
‘Mr Deverill,’ Cox said, his speech simultaneously slowing and increasing in volume. ‘I put it to you that you’re a young man whois accustomed to getting what he wants, and when Ms Kennedy rejected your advances, you reacted with anger and violence, isn’t that right?’
Cox thumped out those last three words like a slow drum.Isn’t.That.Right. And despite his subsequent protestations and denials, Miles left the witness box with a vile feeling in his stomach. There were people in the room who were ready to believe Cox’s version of events. He was sure of it.
Chapter 42
George
When George wakes from a disturbed sleep the next morning, he instantly recalls the nightmare that unsettled him hours earlier. Again, he was back at his school; again, it was their dormitory that was being subjected to the night visits; and, again, in this nightmare version of his childhood, it was him being taken from his bed in the middle of the night.
He understands, now, why he keeps going back there. This place, just like Holvine, is the kind that blurs the boundaries of consciousness, where it becomes harder to tell where nightmares end and real life begins. Fortunately, his mind has emerged fully from the depths of sleep and landed on the shores of a new day. And he should be glad of it. Soon they’ll be moving on, driving out of this miserable reserve and on to somewhere better. But glad isn’t quite the right word. Instead, he has what some people call ‘mixed emotions’. It’s a curious expression that suggests feelings can exist separately yet be all jumbled up, like marbles in a bag, when the truth is they seep and bleed into each other – anger, frustration, regret – and become a single entity, a complicated cocktail that can’t be defined by a single word. As a child, George used to findfeelings overwhelming, to the point where he visualised them as a living, breathing thing: a burning red dragon to be wrestled with. Nowadays, they are much more sedate, like a cat that winds round his ankles or curls up on his midriff when he is still.
George sits up and cranes his head to see through a gap in the curtains. Unbelievably, it’s still tipping it down outside, and the wind seems even stronger than it was last night. The rain is not only hammering the roof but also lashing the whole left side of the bus.
‘How the hell is itstillraining?’ George mumbles, not directing his question at anyone specific. ‘What is this, arainforest?’
There’s no response; the others are still dozing or lack the enthusiasm to respond. He suspects the latter. So, George lies back and listens to the sound of the rain. It’s discomforting. Just like the soreness around his cheekbone. A distant echo of the smouldering fury he felt last night. He’s also woken with a good half a dozen new mosquito bites. Since they no longer have air-con, they needed to open the windows last night, and the bitey little bastards found their way inside.
It’s maybe ten minutes before the door to the bedroom opens and Faith pads into the main area, stretching her arms above her head as she yawns. ‘G’day.’ She picks up the kettle and turns on the tap. ‘Anyone for a cuppa?’
‘Good luck with that.’
Faith sighs and replaces the kettle. ‘Ah yeah, I forgot.’ After a moment’s thought, she says, ‘Shall we have a cold one? That’s a thing, right? Iced tea?’
‘The freezer’s not working, so it certainly won’t be iced,’ George says. ‘But given that we’re on a voyage of discovery, I’ll embrace the spirit of adventure and join you for a tepid tea.’
Faith opens the cupboard containing the mugs. ‘Anyone else?’
Miles and Reubyn decline the offer, in weary voices.
