14 Cyrus

14

Lungs busting, legs burning, knee-joints pleading, I sprint the last quarter-mile through silent streets, racing Poppy home. I collapse on the back step, listening to the Labrador drink from her water bowl, panting between gulps.

I woke early, having dreamed of a dead child, weightless in my arms. Evie was in the dream. She was lying on the beach in wet clothes and a cheap life-vest, staring into the sky with pale dead eyes.

I try not to read too much into the dream because psychologists, like doctors, make lousy patients. We either over-diagnose or self-medicate, or fail to seek help. I'm guilty of that. Instead of talking to someone about my past trauma and ongoing dreams, I tell myself that I'm a healer not a patient. And I had my fill of therapists and counsellors after my parents and sisters died. They fussed and fretted over me, telling me how I should be feeling, when I simply wanted to be left alone. That's why I don't push Evie to talk about what she's forgotten or repressed.

Florence Gatsi isn't answering her mobile. I text her again: We have to talk.

This time she replies: Am I in trouble?

Not from me.

Moments later, her name lights up my screen.

‘Where are you?' I ask.

‘Nottingham. Nadia just had a call from the police. They want her to identify her brother's body.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘So am I.'

We arrange to meet at a café in the Lace Market. Florence is still in her motorcycle leathers. She kisses both my cheeks like we're old friends and her dreadlocks brush against my neck. She takes a seat, one trousered leg crossed casually over the other, her arms stretched out along the armrests.

‘Where did you stay last night?' I ask.

‘With Nadia.'

‘How is she?'

‘Devastated. She still hasn't told her parents in Khartoum.'

I order coffee. Florence chooses a herbal concoction that smells like my grandmother's perfume. We share a chocolate brownie, but she picks out the chocolate chips.

‘Where is home?' I ask.

‘London. I share a house in Camden with some mates from university.'

I ask her about Migrant Watch and how long she's worked for the charity.

‘It was set up about five years ago by Simon Buchan.'

‘The philanthropist?'

‘And the brother of Lord Buchan.'

The statement is delivered with a raised eyebrow. The Buchan brothers are notable siblings who sit on different sides of the political aisle. Simon is younger and less visible, staying out of the headlines and the society pages. From the little I know, he made his money in the City, working as a hedge fund manager or an insurance broker.

His brother, Lord David Buchan, is a former Tory chairman; he was made a life peer back in the noughties, but famously tore up his membership of the Conservative Party during the Brexit referendum, when he campaigned for Britain to leave the European Union, which he called an economic and social failure, full of corrupt politicians and rent-seekers.

‘Have you met Simon Buchan?' I ask.

‘Once or twice,' says Florence.

‘I don't think I've even seen a photograph of him.'

‘He's very private,' says Florence. ‘Sometimes he listens in on our Zoom conferences. He asked me a question once. He wanted to know the demographics of the migrants being resettled in Britain – their education levels, training, that sort of thing. He wanted us to stress what a positive effect they could have on our economy – filling skills shortages and low-paid jobs, paying taxes, contributing to society.'

Florence picks up a brownie crumb with her wetted forefinger.

‘How long have you been a lawyer?' I ask.

‘I qualified three years ago.'

‘I'm impressed.'

‘Why? Because I'm black or because I'm a woman?'

‘You look so young,' I say, sensing the danger.

Florence laughs. ‘Nice save.' And grows circumspect. ‘I'm not supposed to have foreknowledge of any of the small boats that leave Europe.'

‘But you did this time?'

She nods.

‘There was a second boat that left Calais at the same time,' I say. ‘It arrived on a beach near Harwich in the early hours of Saturday morning with twenty-seven people on board, all safe and well. It took the usual route, the shortest crossing, but this one went further north. Why did they separate? We need to talk to someone on that other boat.'

Florence taps her forefinger against her lips. ‘All new arrivals are being processed at a former RAF base near Peterborough. I could take you there, but I need something in return.'

‘What could you want from me?'

She raises an eyebrow, as though I'm flirting with her. ‘The survivor, Arben Pasha, somebody has to represent him.'

‘He hasn't applied for asylum.'

‘He will.'

Outside, I direct Florence towards my car, but she has other ideas.

‘It's quicker on the bike.'

She points to a gleaming black and chrome machine. She opens a side pannier and pulls out a spare helmet.

‘You're kidding me,' I say.

‘I'm a very safe rider.'

‘I might not be a safe passenger.'

‘Just do what I do and hold on.'

She throws her leg over the bike and folds the kickstand. Turning the key, the machine rumbles into life. Florence pats the leather seat. Clumsily, I slide behind her, gripping the sides of her jacket. She grabs my hands and pulls them tight around her waist, saying, ‘Don't let go.'

The Kawasaki vibrates beneath me as we pull away, weaving between stationary cars at a red light and accelerating on the green. Florence shifts her weight, leaning into the first corner. I fight the urge to counter gravity, trying to match her movements. At the same time, I don't want to press my body against hers for obvious reasons. As though sensing my reluctance, she taps the front brakes and I slide closer to her.

Once we reach the countryside, she opens up the throttle. Trees and fences and farms flash past and instantly my senses are magnified. The outside world pours in, and I smell every whiff of grass and hint of cow pat and the mossy earth of riverbanks.

An hour later we pull up at the boom gate of the migrant reception centre, which has a sentry box and fences topped with coils of razor-wire.

‘Visiting hours are over,' says the square-shouldered guard, sitting in his box.

‘We couldn't get here any sooner,' Florence says.

‘Rules are rules.'

‘I'm a forensic psychologist who works with the police,' I explain. ‘I'm looking for any of the migrants who arrived over the weekend. I'm hoping they can shed light on the small boat tragedy in Cleethorpes.'

‘Without an appointment, I can't let you inside,' says the guard, sticking to his script.

‘If you call DI Stephen Carlson, he'll vouch for me.'

‘Not my job.'

I'm close enough to read his nametag. I open my phone and type the details.

‘What are you doing?' he asks.

‘I'm informing the detective in charge of a murder investigation that I can't interview possible witnesses until tomorrow because private security guard Gary Parkinson won't give me access.'

He hesitates. ‘Who said anything about murder?'

‘I did. Just now.'

Hitching up his trousers, the guard walks back to his booth and returns with paperwork. Minutes later, the boom gate pivots upwards on a counter-weight, and Florence takes us along the gravel access road, parking near the admin building.

Across an old parade ground, dozens of migrants and asylum seekers are sheltering beneath shade-cloth and trees. Young children are playing with bright plastic toys and a painted pull-along wagon.

Florence approaches the nearest group and asks if any of them are recent arrivals. The women, many with headscarves, turn their faces away from me. A man approaches. He's in his thirties with a full beard and deep brown eyes.

‘Can I help you?' he asks in impeccable English.

‘I'm a lawyer,' says Florence. ‘I'm looking for any of the migrants who arrived by boat on Saturday morning.'

‘What sort of lawyer?'

‘I can help you with asylum claims.'

The man laughs bitterly. ‘They're going to send us back. No exceptions.'

‘They can't do that. Under the Human Rights Act, everyone has the right to seek asylum.'

‘Yet, here we are, locked up like criminals.'

‘You're being processed.'

He looks at me, as though I might offer him more hope.

‘Where are you from?' I ask.

‘Lebanon. My name is Mikhail. I'm a Christian. My uncle is a politician. He was murdered by the Hezbollah. If I go back, they will kill me too.'

Florence gives him her business card. ‘Call my office.'

Mikhail studies the cardboard square, as if memorising the details.

‘We're trying to find anyone who left Calais four days ago,' I say. ‘Another boat left the beach at the same time.'

‘Yes. We left together,' says Mikhail. He takes out his mobile phone and opens a video. The footage shows a young boy on the sand, with his arms wrapped around his mother's legs. Behind her, men are standing waist-deep in water, holding an inflatable boat steady as waves roll past them. Beyond the broken water, a wide, black sea stretches out into the darkness. The time code on the footage is 20.42.

The camera pans to reveal a second RHIB. A lone man is bent over the outboard motor, trying to get it started. People are standing in the water, waiting to get on board. Most are not wearing life-jackets. The mother is lifted on board the first boat, clutching a bag to her chest. A man wades back to the beach and picks up her child, a small boy, and lifts him over the waves. I remember the boy I carried from the water. He was about the same age. My chest hurts.

‘Why didn't the boats cross together?' I ask.

‘They weren't given permission to go.'

‘I don't understand.'

‘They had no money . . . no permission. We paid.' He rubs his thumb and two fingers together.

‘Permission from whom?'

He makes a shushing sound, wanting me to lower my voice. His own drops to a whisper. ‘The Ferryman.'

‘Who is that?'

‘The man who must be paid.'

‘Does he have any other name?'

‘Only that one.'

I point to the footage. ‘This other boat went north along the French coast and then north-west. Why take such a long route?'

‘To avoid trouble.'

‘What trouble? The coastguard?'

He makes a dismissive gesture and picks dirt from beneath his fingernails.

‘Seventeen people are dead. Two are missing,' I say.

‘Someone rammed their boat,' adds Florence. ‘They were murdered.'

I look for empathy in Mikhail's eyes but can't find any. Either he's a sociopath or his reserves of sympathy are exhausted. It's like he's being told about a natural phenomenon, a great migration of animals, moving from one place to another, where many die on the journey, while others carry on with no time to grieve or question the losses. But this isn't about the great circle of life. People have died needlessly.

‘Did you know anyone on the other boat?' I ask.

‘Perhaps some of the men. I might have met them in the camps.'

‘What about Besart Pasha – an Albanian?'

‘Maybe.'

A barking yell echoes across the parade ground, where a group of men have gathered to watch us. A change comes over Mikhail. It's like watching a cloud pass across the sun, draining the warmth from the air.

Urgently, he whispers, ‘I cannot talk to you. Not everybody here can be trusted.'

One of the distant men makes a gesture with his hand, twisting his wrist. I can't tell if it's a question or a threat. Then he puts his fingers together and makes another signal.

Mikhail backs away from us, shaking his head. Pale. Frightened.

‘Did they know they were in danger?' asks Florence.

‘We're all in danger,' he mumbles.

The other men have gone, carried away like smoke on the breeze. Mikhail joins them. Even the children have disappeared, leaving the toys behind.

‘What just happened?' asks Florence.

‘We asked the wrong question.'

‘The Ferryman sounds like a crime boss or a cult leader.'

We're back at her motorbike. Florence pulls her dreadlocks together and dons her helmet.

‘What about Arben? When can I see him?' she asks.

‘It's too late today.'

‘Tomorrow?'

‘I'll do my best.'

The motorbike rumbles. I slide onto the seat behind her.

‘Where are you going to stay tonight?' I ask.

‘I haven't decided.'

‘I can offer you my guest room.'

She gives me a look, as though assessing my motives.

‘The guest room?' she asks, seeking confirmation.

‘Yes.'

‘Good. I wouldn't want you to think that I'd tumble into bed with some guy I've just met.'

‘You won't be tumbling anywhere.'

Her right eyebrow arches. ‘Not unless I trip.'