5 Cyrus

5

Evie is sitting on a low stone wall with her arms wrapped tightly across her chest, holding a book. A gust of wind stirs up an eddy of dust on the pavement and lifts her hair from her forehead.

‘I borrowed it,' she says. ‘I had to promise to bring it back.'

‘That's how libraries work,' I say, taking a mental inventory of her demeanour and body language, concerned about her state of mind. She shows me the photograph. ‘He was on the boat that picked us up.'

The caption reads: Cameron Radford, aged 19, died in the fire.

‘Are you sure it's him?' I ask.

She nods. There's another photograph on the same page – a fishing trawler. The Arianna II.

‘Could this boat have been the one?' I ask.

‘I don't know.'

‘Where were you picked up?'

Evie spells the name because she doesn't know how to pronounce it properly.

‘A . . . V . . . I . . . L . . . E . . . S.'

‘That's in northern Spain,' I say, surprised. ‘I thought it would have been France.'

‘I know the difference,' Evie says irritably. ‘There was a harbour and a square lighthouse and old buildings.'

‘Who else was on board?'

‘People like us. Migrants.'

‘How many?'

Evie struggles to remember. I try to help her fill in the missing pieces, asking her to concentrate on the small details. How many men? How many women? Where were they from? Where were they going? How long did it take?

Evie is shaking her head. ‘I don't know. I can't remember.'

‘Try harder.'

‘I'm trying.'

‘Do you remember a fire? What about the rest of the crew?'

She covers her ears, saying, ‘I can't, I can't, I can't.'

Her eyes have lost focus and I can almost see her mind beginning to slip away from me. I say her name. She doesn't respond. I wave my hand in front of her face. She doesn't blink. I touch her arm near her elbow. She jerks it away, glaring at me accusingly.

‘I lost you for a moment,' I say.

‘I didn't go anywhere.'

She holds up the book, pointing to the author's name. Ronald L. Edwards.

‘He's a local historian. The librarian gave me his address.'

The landscape changes as we drive north. The trees become more gnarled and spindlier, and the heather looks like lichen clinging to the rocks. Black-cloaked rooks lift off fences as we pass and return to the same spot, as though tethered by invisible strings.

Ronald Edwards lives in a village outside of Fraserburgh. His flat-fronted granite cottage has white-painted sash windows and an old-fashioned doorknocker in the shape of a lion's head. It echoes through the interior, summoning an old man dressed in baggy shorts and a Scottish rugby jumper. He has white-grey hair, fluffy above his ears, and wrinkles that fold into more wrinkles around his eyes.

‘Where are mah groceries?' he asks, stepping onto the pavement.

‘Pardon?'

‘Those eejits said between ten and twelve.'

He looks at Evie and frowns. She holds up the book. ‘Did you write this?'

He grins, ‘So, you found the other one. Weren't many copies printed. Labour o' love that one.'

‘We wanted to ask you about the sinking of the Arianna II,' I say.

‘Well, you'd best come in. Time for a brew.'

He leads us along a cluttered passage, weaving between boxes of books that are resting precariously on top of each other. There are more books stacked up the stairs and on the first-floor landing.

‘Ah'm not a hoarder,' he says. ‘I just cannae throw anything away. Apart from my first wife. She got recycled. Married again.' He winks at Evie.

The cluttered kitchen has more books and folders. He fills a kettle and makes a pot of tea, putting sugar, milk and shortbread biscuits on a tray.

Finally seated, he opens a hip flask and pours a splash into his tea. He waves it towards me. I decline.

‘I'll have some,' says Evie, holding out her mug.

Mr Edwards looks at me, as though seeking permission.

‘It's her choice,' I say.

He pours a splash into her mug. Evie takes a sip and makes a face. Lesson learned.

‘You have quite a library, Mr Edwards,' I say.

‘Call me Fishy. Everybody else does.'

‘You were a fisherman,' I say.

‘Christ noo! It's what yer might call an ironic nickname. Ah get seasick in the bathtub. Why are you so interested in the Arianna II?'

‘It's a personal matter,' I say, trying to protect Evie.

‘Aye, well, that was Willie Radford's boat. He lost his youngest son. Only nineteen.'

‘What happened?' I ask.

‘A fire in the engine room, triggered an explosion. The boat sank before help arrived.' Fishy gets up. ‘Wait here.' I can hear him going through boxes in his study. He returns with a bound folder.

‘The Maritime Accident Investigation Branch sent a team from Southampton to interview the crew and take statements. This is the final report.'

I read the summary page, which describes the Arianna II as a twin-rig steel-hulled trawler built in 1970. Length: 17.44 metres. Beam: 6.49 metres. Draft: 2.24 metres.

The Arianna II departed from St Claire on 14 September 2010 with a crew of four and voyaged to its North Sea fishing grounds. For the next eight days it fished Dogger Bank about 130kms off the Yorkshire coast, trawling for white fish, processing the catch after each haul. At night the trawler drifted with a lookout in the wheelhouse while the remaining crew rested.

On 22 September, the trawler began the journey home. At 21.30, approximately 100 nautical miles east of Aberdeen, a smoke detector began sounding in the engine room. The skipper, who was at the helm, sent a deckhand to investigate. When the door to the engine-room was opened, the deckhand saw heavy smoke and flames. He raised the alarm and tried to extinguish the blaze using retardant, but the open bulkhead door added oxygen to the fire and likely triggered a flashover explosion. The deckhand was blown backwards against the bulkhead, suffering critical injuries. He was dragged from the engine room by the skipper, who sustained burns to his face, neck and hands. The engineer performed CPR, but could not resuscitate the deckhand, who died of his injuries.

The skipper and remaining crew fought the fire with portable chemical fire extinguishers and brought the blaze under control, but the explosion had caused a breach in the hull and water was welling up underneath the main engine. The skipper set up the port general service pump to draw from the engine room bilge, but the inflow of water overwhelmed the pump.

By 22.05 it was clear that efforts to stabilise the situation were failing and the skipper raised the alarm with the coastguard by transmitting a ‘Mayday' call on both very high frequency (VHF) and medium frequency radios; he also pressed the VHF digital selective calling distress button, and manually activated the emergency position indicating radio beacon.

On receiving the Mayday call, the Aberdeen Maritime Rescue Coordination Centre immediately tasked the coastguard rescue helicopter from Inverness and the RNLI Aberdeen lifeboat.

Using a VHF radio, the Arianna II skipper discussed the situation with the skipper of the nearest vessel, Neetha Dawn, a trawler that was 15 nautical miles south-east of the Arianna II. Neetha Dawn responded, along with two other fishing boats that were more distant.

Water continued to rise in the engine room and at 23.00 the electrical power failed when the auxiliary engine stopped, preventing further use of electric pumps. As the situation deteriorated, the crew donned immersion suits and life-jackets.

At 23.15 water had entered the main cabins and Arianna II was listing to starboard. The life-raft was launched and the crew abandoned the trawler, carrying the body of the deceased crewman. The Arianna II was observed to sink at 23.43, approximately 93 nautical miles (180 kilometres) east of Aberdeen (Latitude 56.94093° N, Longitude 0.867896° E) in 300 feet of water.

The Neetha Dawn spotted the life-raft at 00.16 and took the survivors on board. The coastguard rescue helicopter reached the scene fifteen minutes later. The injured skipper and engineer were winched from the deck of the trawler before being transferred to the Aberdeen Royal Infirmary .

The RNLI lifeboat, Bon Accord, from Aberdeen, rendezvoused with the Neetha Dawn at 03.15. The body of the deceased deckhand was transferred to the lifeboat. The remaining crewman chose to remain on board the Neetha Dawn for the voyage to St Claire.

I pause from reading. ‘Why isn't anyone named?'

‘Marine accident investigations aren't about apportioning blame,' says Fishy. ‘Otherwise, witnesses might not cooperate.'

‘Do you know who was on board?'

‘The skipper was Angus Radford, Willie's eldest boy. His two brothers were the crew, Finn and Cameron, along with their cousin, Iain Collie, who was the engineer. Angus suffered burns to his face and hands. Iain Collie had smoke-damaged pipes.' Fishy taps his chest. ‘He died of throat cancer a few years back, which might have been unrelated, but he'd never been a smoker.'

‘What caused the fire?'

‘No way of knowing for certain,' says Fishy.

‘Did they salvage her?'

‘She sank too deep.'

‘But they found the wreckage? They sent divers?'

‘Would have cost a fortune.'

He points to another section of the report.

Investigators could not inspect the machinery or hull of the Arianna II to determine an exact cause of the fire and explosion. However, observations by the crew during the accident provide some clues as to the source of the blaze. The deckhand who discovered the fire reported seeing flames in the vicinity of the generator, located on the port side aft in the engine room.

Over time a hose could have become worn from contact or loosened through vibrations, allowing fuel to leak into the engine room. Leaking fuel or fuel vapour may have come into contact with a hot surface, igniting the fire that subsequently triggered the explosion.

I finish reading and lean back from the table, glancing at Evie, asking an unspoken question. Does she remember any of this? She shakes her head.

‘What's the range on a trawler like the Arianna?' I ask.

Fishy does a quick calculation on a piece of paper, mumbling to himself about cruising speed, fuel capacity and distances. He shows me the figure.

‘Could it reach northern Spain?' I ask.

‘It's a fishing boat, not a pleasure cruiser.'

‘But could it get there and back?'

‘In theory.'

‘How long would it take?'

‘Four, maybe five days, but they were fishing Dogger Bank.'

‘How can you be sure?'

He shows me an attached map labelled Figure 1 in the report.

‘The Arianna II was carrying an AIS transponder, which gave its location every few minutes via satellite. This shows the patterns it was fishin' each day. Dogger Bank is the UK's largest sandbank and one of its biggest fishing grounds.'

The map is marked by a series of tight lines, displayed in red, that seem to zigzag across the ocean. Each position is time coded, showing the location of the trawler when the signal was sent to the satellite.

‘Can the transponder be turned off?' I ask.

‘Aye, it happens. They call it going dark.' Fishy makes inverted commas in the air with his fingers. ‘Some skippers don't want other boats knowing where they're fishing, or they might be doing something illegal. But do it too often, or for too long, and you'll trigger a coastguard search or have the authorities asking questions.'

‘They're worried about smuggling.'

‘Or illegal fishing.'

Evie has been running her fingers along the edge of the table. ‘Eight days seems like a long time to be at sea,' she says.

‘Not really,' says Fishy. ‘A trawler won't come home without a catch, unless equipment breaks or they're running out of fuel.'

I look again at the map. Evie doesn't remember a fire or explosion, which means the loss of the Arianna II could be unrelated to her past. Maybe she was on a different boat.

‘Did Angus and Cameron ever work for other skippers?' I ask.

‘Aye, maybe. Angus and Finn had been fishin' since they were wee lads, but Cam was different. Like it or not, he was heading off to university when the semester started.'

‘Did he have a choice?' asks Evie.

‘Not the way of things. Willie Radford had three sons and only one boat. Angus was the eldest. He was always going to inherit the Arianna. The other boys had to make their own way.'

I look at Evie, hoping she has another question because I'm out of ideas. Nothing is any clearer. Whatever answers there are seem to be locked inside her head and she won't give me the key. I know the reason. Self-preservation. Sanity. Survival. Some memories are buried for a reason. How else do we carry the past?