12 Cyrus

12

DI Carlson finds me in the waiting room of the MRI suite. He's holding a calico beach bag with my mobile phone, car keys, credit card, two towels and my flip-flops.

‘Someone handed this in at the station,' he says.

‘My faith in humanity has been restored.'

‘I'll need more proof.' He glances through the observation window. ‘Your friend can speak Albanian.'

‘Evie was born there.'

He runs his fingers over his short-cropped hair. ‘I need her help.'

‘She's not an interpreter.'

‘The boy keeps asking for her. He's frightened. Jumping at shadows. Evie might be able to reassure him.'

‘I heard there was another migrant boat this morning.'

‘It came ashore further south. Sixteen on board.'

‘What about the bodies at Cleethorpes?'

‘Afghans, Syrians, Libyans and Iraqis. It could take us weeks to come up with names.'

‘I met a young lawyer last night, who has text messages from someone on board the boat that sank.'

Carlson is suddenly interested.

‘The messages suggest it might have been deliberately sunk.'

The detective doesn't hide his scepticism. ‘Who is this lawyer?'

‘She works for Migrant Watch.'

‘A do-gooder.'

‘The texts are genuine.'

‘Bring them to me . . . and her.'

Evie emerges, wearing the change of clothes that I brought her from the guest house – jeans, a cotton blouse and red Vans. I introduce her to Carlson, who asks if she'll sit with Arben for the interviews. Evie is not a natural volunteer or joiner of things because her better angels are elusive, but she agrees to help because she feels sorry for Arben.

Back in the main hospital building, we meet the official police interpreter, an elderly man with a bushy grey moustache and eyebrows that dance on his forehead when he speaks. He says something to Evie in Albanian. She nods but doesn't reply.

‘Grandpa smells funny,' she whispers, pinching her nose.

‘Be nice. He's old,' I reply.

‘Try ancient. A fossil. A dinosaur. A wrinkly. A coffin dodger.'

I put my finger to my lips. ‘Shhhh.'

Carlson summons us into Arben's room. The boy is sitting up in bed, propped up on pillows. His face looks bruised, and his eyes are red-rimmed, but they brighten when he spies Evie. Chairs are arranged around the bed. Cameras and recording devices have been set up and tested.

I take a seat near the window, making sure that Evie can see me. The protesters have gone quiet outside, having been moved further away from the hospital buildings after complaints from patients and visitors.

Carlson begins slowly and addresses each question directly to Arben, who is answering in English when he can. We learn the boy's full name: Arben Pasha, aged fourteen. He grew up in a village outside of Tirana, the Albanian capital, with his two siblings, Besart, nineteen, and his sister Jeta, seventeen. Their mother died of cancer three years ago. Their father went to the Middle East to find work and didn't return. Besart had looked after his siblings since then, working as a tour guide during the summer and training to be a mechanic at a garage owned by a family friend. Jeta had won a place at the University of Tirana but didn't have the money to study.

One day Besart borrowed a customer's car to take Arben to an endocrinologist because his blood sugar levels were spiking, causing periodic blackouts. Returning to the garage, he was arrested by police and charged with stealing the vehicle. Before the trial, Besart sold all of the family possessions and he and Arben and Jeta caught a speedboat across the Adriatic Sea to Italy. From there they travelled by bus and train to France and spent three months living in a migrant camp on the outskirts of Calais. They were twice evicted by police and slept under bridges and in abandoned warehouses.

Besart did odd jobs during the day. Picking up rubbish off the beaches or weeding gardens, earning enough to buy them food. There were problems in the camp. Violence. Robberies. Some of the young men were harassing Jeta, trying to get her alone. Besart bought a knife to better protect her, carrying it in his sock.

As the weather grew warmer, they began visiting beaches south of Calais every night, hoping to find a boat that would take them to England. They would hide in the sand dunes, scanning the beach, watching for departures.

They had no money to pay a smuggler, so they tried to talk their way on to boats or sneak on board. One trick was to hide in the sandhills until the last moment. As the boat pushed off, they would sprint across the sand and try to scramble on board, but they were beaten back by passengers who feared the boat would sink if it carried too many people. After each failure, they returned to the camp, hungry and exhausted.

Besart barely slept, working all day, scrounging for food, and watching the beach at night. He met a Serbian called Keller as they waited in a food queue. Keller had big hands and a big laugh and had once been a fisherman. He said he could steer a boat to England if they could find one.

Together, they began collecting money from migrants, who each paid what he or she could afford. They drew lots to choose who would get a place on the boat. Besart found one for sale. He met the broker on the beach at Sangatte. He asked for the money up front, but Besart said he'd get paid when he saw the boat and checked it was seaworthy. They arranged to meet the following night, but it was a trick. Besart was jumped by three men who stole the money and left him with two broken ribs.

‘How did you get a boat?' asks Carlson.

‘Besart found another one.'

‘He stole it.'

Arben shakes his head.

‘We checked,' says Carlson. ‘The owner of the boat reported it stolen.'

‘He sold it to us.'

‘Your brother was a people smuggler.'

‘No!'

The interpreter has a habit of copying Arben's tone and volume, as though dubbing a foreign film. He is also inclined to use more words than Arben does, which makes me wonder if he's embellishing the answers.

Eventually, the questions begin to focus on the crossing from Calais. Arben describes waiting on the beach for the boat to arrive. The tide was coming in and they had difficulty getting everybody on board.

‘How many people?' asks Carlson.

Arben asks for a piece of paper and begins to draw a picture of the RHIB, with small stick figures representing the migrants. He holds the pencil in his fist like he wants to stab the page. Counting the figures, he estimates there were twenty people, including four women and two children.

‘Do you know their names?'

‘Only some, like Keller.'

‘Tell us about the crossing.'

‘Another boat was leaving at the same time but did not come with us. People were shouting because some men had swum out from the beach and were trying to take over the other boat, but Keller helped fight them off.'

‘What time was this?' asks Carlson.

‘I don't know. It was dark. I was seasick. Besart told me to sit at the front and to watch the lights on the shore and I would feel better. The stars came out and the wind dropped. Keller steered us along the coast.

‘I must have fallen asleep. When I woke, we had changed direction and waves were lifting and dropping us into holes in the sea. I asked Besart how much longer and he kept telling me to be patient.'

Evie interrupts and corrects the interpreter. ‘His brother said to him, "You waited for the little thing. You can also wait for the big thing."'

The interpreter nods to Evie, but I can tell he's annoyed.

Arben continues. ‘We stopped and swapped fuel tanks. That made people sicker because of the fumes and the movement. I slept again, but woke to a bright light shining in my eyes. It came from the deck of a boat. The men on board were shouting at us, telling us to turn back.'

‘These men – they spoke English?' asks Carlson.

Arben nods.

‘You have to answer for the recording.'

‘Yes.'

‘How many men did you see?'

‘Two, maybe more.'

‘Did you see their faces?'

‘Only shadows.'

‘What did they say?'

‘"Go back! Turn around!" Besart said we were going to England. "Not tonight," said the man.'

‘Is that all?'

‘They swore at Besart and told him we'd all drown. One of them pointed to Jeta and another girl and said they could come to Britain, but the rest of us had to go back. Besart refused.'

‘Did you notice any markings on the boat? Numbers? Letters? Flags?'

The interpreter explains this to Arben, who begins another drawing. The only sounds in the room are the air conditioning and his pencil scratching on the page. The lines form and join, rendering a squat-looking boat with a central wheelhouse.

‘A fishing trawler,' says Carlson. ‘Did you see a name?'

‘No.'

‘What happened then?'

‘They threw a rope across the water, saying they would tow us back to France. Besart threw it back. They sprayed us with hoses. Sea water. It was cold. People were yelling. We were scooping water out of the boat with our hands while Keller steered away. The boat followed. Then it went quiet. We could no longer hear the engines or see the lights. Keller wanted to slow down so that we could empty the water, but Besart said we should keep going. The stars had gone. Nobody talked. We prayed.

‘The sky was beginning to grow light when the engine stopped. Keller said there was water in the fuel line. He and Besart began trying to fix it. That's when we saw the boat again.'

‘The same one?' asks Carlson.

‘Yes.'

‘How can you be sure?'

‘It was the same,' says Arben adamantly. ‘It came quickly, with the sun behind, pushing white water. We shouted and waved, but it did not stop or slow down.'

‘Could it have been an accident?' asks Carlson.

‘They saw us. They heard us,' says Arben. ‘We were thrown into the water. They turned and came back. We were yelling and crying. They wanted us to die.'

‘Did you have life-vests?'

‘Not all of us.'

‘Could you swim?'

‘I am a good swimmer – I won medals at my school – but I cannot swim faster than a boat.'

‘When did you last see your brother and sister?'

‘Besart found me. He pushed me onto the broken pieces and swam off to find Jeta. He didn't come back.'

Arben wipes his eyes with his pyjama sleeve, embarrassed by his tears. Evie hands him a tissue. He shakes his head. She insists. He takes it. Blows his nose. Bunches the tissue in his fist.

Carlson suggests they take a break. He motions me to the corridor. It's not until I'm away from the room that I realise that I've been holding my breath for much of the past hour, trying not to make a sound.

‘There were twenty people on board,' says the detective. ‘We have seventeen bodies in the morgue. That means two migrants are still missing.'

‘You have to keep looking.'

‘That's not my call. HM Coastguard is coordinating the search.' Carlson tugs at his left ear, a nervous habit. ‘Arben could help us identify some of the victims.'

‘You want to show him dead bodies?'

‘Photographs.'

I consider the possible psychological impact on Arben, who has already been traumatised. Confirmation that his brother and sister are dead could make this worse.

‘Can you give him more time?' I ask.

‘I don't have that luxury.'

Back inside the room, DI Carlson pulls his chair closer to Arben's bed and produces a computer tablet. The interpreter explains to Arben that the police and coastguard are searching for survivors, but that some bodies have been recovered.

‘We need your help,' says Carlson, as he calls the first image to the screen. It shows a young man, whose face seems to have been sculptured out of white-grey wax. His eyes are closed, but the eyelids are bruised from lividity. Arben takes a look and turns his head away.

‘Was he on the boat?'

‘Yes.'

‘Do you know his name?'

‘No.'

Carlson swipes and another photograph appears.

‘Keller,' says Arben.

More photographs are shown. With each new one, I feel as though I'm watching a game of Russian roulette, waiting for the lone bullet to spin into the firing chamber.

Arben's breath catches in his throat.

‘Who is it?' asks Carlson.

Arben runs a finger over Besart's face, his hand trembling. ‘My brother.' He looks at Evie, wanting an explanation.

‘Your brother is dead,' she explains.

‘No. No. No. Not true.'

‘I'm sorry,' says Evie.

Arben is sobbing.

‘I think that's enough,' I say.

Carlson grudgingly agrees, sliding the computer tablet into its case.

‘Motra?' asks Arben. ‘Jeta. My sister.'

‘Are there any young women among the dead?' I ask.

Carlson shakes his head.