13 Evie

13

The police are packing things away – the cameras, microphones and extra chairs. Arben has become an afterthought, still propped up in bed, watching them leave. The interpreter has discovered the tray of sandwiches and is stuffing his pockets like he hasn't eaten for a week.

‘Would you like a sandwich, Arben?' I ask loudly.

The interpreter mumbles something with his mouth full of food and crumbs clinging to his moustache. He grabs his hat and heads for the door. Arsehole!

I'm alone with Arben, trying to think of something to say. Cyrus would know. He's good with words and deals with stuff like this.

‘Why did you want to come here?' I ask, instantly regretting the question.

Arben opens his hand and examines the soggy tissue within, as if it might hold the answer.

‘Why did you?' he whispers.

It's a simple enough question. I could tell him that I grew up reading Mama's old copies of Hello! magazine, which were full of stories about famous people who lived in manor houses, or that Agnesa dreamed of marrying Prince Harry and living in a castle, but the truth is, I had no choice. I was only nine years old.

Cyrus knocks gently on the door and signals that we're leaving.

‘Are you coming back?' asks Arben.

I don't know what to say. I grab the drawing pad he was using and jot down my mobile number.

‘If you need someone to talk to, you call me, OK?'

He takes the page and folds it into squares, then puts it into the pocket of his pyjamas.

Outside in the corridor, I have to run to catch up to Cyrus.

‘Where are we going?'

‘Home.'

‘What about Arben? What happens to him?'

‘Children's services will find him somewhere to live.' ‘A children's home.'

‘Or a foster family.'

I've been in children's homes. I grew up in them. I wouldn't wish that upon my worst enemy. ‘He can come and stay with us,' I say.

‘We're not foster carers and he needs support.'

‘You're a psychologist.'

‘Who has a job to do.'

We take a taxi into Cleethorpes and find my car where I parked it yesterday, opposite the beach. A shimmer rises off the bonnet of the aging Fiat, and the air smells of salt and seaweed and the bins from a nearby restaurant. A yellow notice is pinned beneath the wiper blade. A parking fine. Cyrus curses and tosses the balled-up ticket onto the back seat of the car.

‘Was Arben telling the truth?' he asks.

‘Mostly.'

‘Meaning?'

‘He lied about his brother buying the boat.'

‘It was stolen?'

‘Uh-huh.'

We drive out of Cleethorpes, squinting into the afternoon sun, which is being chased by a bank of grey clouds intent on spoiling the day. I think of Arben. Instead of starting a new life in a new country, he has been cast adrift, stateless, homeless, an orphan. That was me once.

Cyrus has gone quiet, but I know something is bothering him. Finally, he speaks. ‘The two young women are missing.'

‘You think they were picked up.'

‘Or they could have drowned.'

He doesn't believe that. The men on the trawler had offered to take the women with them.

‘What are you going to do?' I ask, but I know the answer. ‘Can I help?'

‘You have a dog to look after.'

‘I can leave Poppy with Mitch.'

‘Not this time.'

When is there ever a time?