4 Cyrus

4

A busker is break-dancing on a square of cardboard, spinning on his back and bouncing into a handstand. The crowd applauds, but nobody adds any money to the hat. Who carries coins these days?

The pier is busier now, as people leave the beach, forced off the sand by the incoming tide. A child gets tangled under my feet, losing hold of a balloon, which I manage to grab before it drifts out of reach.

At that moment a woman screams and I fear I've done something wrong. I look for the source of the sound. A middle-aged lady is standing on the pier, open-mouthed, pointing out to sea.

Instinctively, I begin to run. I reach the steps and other bystanders have joined her. I follow their outstretched arms until I spy a dark shape rising on a swell about a hundred yards offshore. It disappears and reappears. A seal, maybe, or a dog. No, it's more human than that.

Another shout echoes along the pier. This time a man is pointing. Beyond the white water, further out to sea, I glimpse another body in the water. And beyond that, another . . . and another.

I'm in the water, swimming against the tide, lifting my head between strokes. Reaching the first body, I grip heavy sodden wool in my fists. It's a man, floating face down. I spin him over. His eyes are open. Lifeless. He's bearded and dark-haired, dressed in jeans and a heavy sweater and a cheap orange life-jacket.

I wrap my arm across his chest, holding his head above the water, and begin kicking towards shore. The tide pushes us towards the beach. Others arrive to help me. My feet touch the bottom and we drag the body onto the sand, above the tideline. I tilt his head back. Open his mouth. Breathe into his lungs. Compress his chest. I remember my first-aid training, keeping the beat to ‘Stayin' Alive' by the Bee Gees. More bodies are being pushed towards the beach. I swim again and reach another – a woman. I press my fingers to her neck. Dead.

Two lifeguards paddle past me on kayaks. A jet-ski rears over a wave, spouting spray and weaving between rescuers. A lifeboat crew patrols the outer sandbank. All are dragging bodies to shore. Sirens are wailing on the beach, evacuating people from the water, but most have fled already, escaping to the safety of the esplanade and the pier.

The next body I reach is a child, a barefoot boy, no older than four. I carry him out of the water and a paramedic takes him from my arms. The dead are now dotted across the sand, some covered in beach towels and others receiving CPR. I don't want to count them. I want to save them. It's too late.

The sun has disappeared behind clouds and the temperature has dropped by ten degrees. Hundreds of people are still watching and witnessing. Some are in tears, others are taking photographs and videos, posting them online, updating their stories and their news feeds. Is it citizen journalism or reality TV?

I feel numb. Maybe it's the cold or delayed shock. Each time I close my eyes, I see the little boy I pulled from the water, his blue lips and dark eyelashes and hair plastered to his forehead, and the O-shape of his mouth, as though he was surprised by what had happened. He felt weightless in my arms, so small and insignificant in the grand scheme of things. What grand scheme? I want to ask. Who plans something like this?

It makes me think of Evie. Pushing through the onlookers, I search for her on the esplanade, and retrace my steps to the house with the red door. The curtains are closed. Nobody answers. I return to the pier and the fish-and-chip shop and the ice-cream parlour. I search the amusement arcades and novelty stores and the crazy golf course.

I would call her, but I don't have my phone. It was in the beach bag, which I dropped when I went into the water. What else did it have? My car keys. My room key at the guest house. Towels. Flip-flops. A credit card.

A woman is taking photographs from the edge of the pier. I ask her if I can borrow her phone. She clutches it to her chest as though I'm going to snatch it from her hands. ‘They're my pictures.'

‘Yes, I understand, but I need to call someone. It's urgent. I've lost my phone.'

She looks at my tattoos and my wet shirt, and I expect her to yell for the police.

Grudgingly, she surrenders her phone. I call Evie's number. I hear it ringing. A message triggers.

Hey, you've reached my voicemail. You should hang up and text me because you're an idiot if you think I'm going to pick up. Bye.

I begin talking.

‘Evie. It's me, Cyrus. Answer. Please?'

I wait, holding the woman's phone. She's growing impatient, tapping a non-existent watch on her wrist. I talk again: ‘When you get this message, meet me at the car.'

I feel sick. This is what happens when you take responsibility for someone. I'm not Evie's father or brother or guardian. I'm her friend and I care about her more than anyone else in my life. I know that she wouldn't just wander off or lose track of time. Equally, I'm aware that Evie knows how to hide. She concealed herself for months in her secret room, sneaking out at night, fending for herself because the world didn't know she existed.

Back on the beach, white tents have been erected and police have cordoned off the area with crime-scene tape and barricades. Forensic teams are at work, clad in overalls and face masks. The sea is no longer blue, but gleaming grey like a bruise.

The detective in charge is short and barrel-chested with a military-style haircut that makes his neck look like part of his head. I can picture him on a parade ground yelling orders to hapless recruits – a modern-day Napoleon, without the complex or the custard.

A police constable approaches me and asks if I helped pull bodies from the water. He asks for my name. ‘We'll need a statement, sir.'

The detective interrupts, snapping his fingers as though searching for an answer that has eluded him. Triumphantly, ‘Cyrus Haven!'

‘Have we met?' I ask.

‘No, but I heard you speak at a seminar about PTSD in serving police officers.'

‘In Leeds.'

‘Yes.' He thrusts out his hand. ‘DI Stephen Carlson.' His fingers crush mine. ‘We have a mutual friend, DS Lenny Parvel. She's your biggest fan. Must be nice to have a boss like that.'

She's not my boss, I want to say, but it would take too long to explain. I work as a consultant for the Nottinghamshire Police as a criminal profiler, counsellor and expert witness. The crimes are normally violent or sadistic in nature or off the scale of normal human behaviour, which is why the police want someone to explain to them why one human being would do such a thing to another. The mad or bad dilemma. I have spent my career answering this question, correcting people, often in the media, who want to blame mental illness for violence and anti-social behaviour even when there's no evidence to support this. Sometimes killers are simply bad.

I glance past Carlson to the canvas tents above the high-tide mark. ‘Who are they?'

‘Refugees. Migrants. Two boats left Calais last night. The first came ashore in the early hours of this morning near Harwich. This one must have been blown off course, or become lost. It didn't make it.' He mutters the word ‘Madness', but I don't know whether he's commenting on the crossing or the tragedy.

I keep searching for Evie in the crowd.

‘Everything OK?' he asks.

‘I've lost my friend. She was on the North Promenade.'

‘A child?'

‘A young woman. She doesn't know the area.'

I think he's going to make some crack about me having been stood up, but he defers. ‘Go and find her. We'll talk later.'

Evie isn't waiting at the car. I retrace my steps again, returning to the pier. The gates have been closed and padlocked. The restaurants and cafés won't be opening tonight, out of respect for the dead or a lack of customers.

A security guard is seated in a booth. ‘There's nobody left inside,' he says. ‘I checked.'

‘She could be hiding. She gets scared.'

I contemplate offering him a bribe, but I don't have any money. I'm shoeless, in clothes that are stiff with salt. Why should he believe me?

For some reason, he relents and keys open the padlock. ‘You have five minutes.'

I slip through the gate and begin searching every corner, alcove, doorway, nook, recess and unlocked room on the deserted pier. There is a sad loneliness about the place because the kiosks are shuttered and litter blows across the boardwalk.

I come to the public toilet and go inside the Ladies, announcing myself, hearing the words bounce back from the concrete and tiles. Glancing along the line of cubicles, I see the open doors, all except for one. I knock and say Evie's name. No answer. I crouch and look under the door. No feet.

In the adjoining cubicle, I stand on the rim of the toilet and peer over the top of the partition. Evie is below me, squatting on the toilet lid, hugging her knees, hair covering her eyes.

‘Evie? Open the door.'

She doesn't move.

‘Did something happen? What's wrong?'

Again, nothing. I gently cajole her, but she doesn't react. She hasn't acknowledged me at all.

Clumsily, I climb over the top of the partition and squeeze down beside her, unlatching the door. When I put my arms around her, she doesn't respond. I take an inventory, examining her face, her arms, her hands, her legs. I look for blood or bruises. I shouldn't have left her alone. I should have stayed with her.

Evie is holding her phone, pressing it against her chest. I prise it from her fingers and call 999.

‘I need an ambulance. I'm on Cleethorpes Pier.'

The operator wants names, addresses, nearest intersections, the nature of the injuries . . . When I hang up, I lead Evie out of the toilet block and along the pier to the gates. She follows me compliantly, matching my steps, repeating my questions back to me.

The security guard is waiting. He holds open the gate.

‘I need a thermal blanket,' I say.

‘What happened to her?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Should I call the police?'

‘Not yet.'