10 Evie

10

That night I dream I'm back in the belly of the whale, filthy, frightened and cold.

We started the voyage with such mixed feelings, caught between hope and dread. As time passed, the wind blew and the weather turned and sickness spread until the stench clung to my nostrils and the darkness filled my lungs.

During the long hours of boredom, people told stories and sang songs. A Syrian man could speak English. He told me that he had a son my age who was at home with his mother in Damascus. He said they were Christians who were being persecuted in Syria, and that young boys were being turned into soldiers and made to fight in the civil war.

Two men were from Pakistan. They were brothers and one of them was deaf, but the other would sign for him. He taught me how to say hello and goodbye and to sign my name.

There was a group of men from Albania, all from the same village, which I had never heard of, but they spoke of it so lovingly as ‘home' that I wondered why they had ever left.

The men rigged up a makeshift curtain at one end of the hull to give privacy to the women when we used the bucket toilet or did womanly things. But we couldn't escape the darkness or the smell or the constant movement.

If the seas were calm, the crew would open the hatches and allow fresh air into the hold. And at night, we were allowed on deck for ten minutes at a time, but only the women and children, or the men in pairs, because the crew was afraid of being outnumbered.

I counted four of them. Mostly they wore masks or made us look away when we came on deck. Only one had kind things to say to us. He was the youngest, who was not much older than Agnesa, and he was nice to her because she was pretty or perhaps because she was sicker than the others. She had kept her pregnancy a secret and Mama had used a needle and thread to alter her dresses, hiding the bump that grew below her swollen breasts, pressing against the fabric.

We ate only one meal a day. Some of the men complained of being hungry and scuffles broke out. A speargun appeared through the hatch, aimed at a Syrian man's chest. He stood up, ripped open his shirt and pointed to where he wanted the spear to go – straight through his heart. ‘I would rather die now than starve to death,' he said.

A few hours later, the hatch opened and a man pointed at Agnesa.

‘You speak English,' he said. ‘You will cook.'

Mama didn't want her to go but Agnesa raised her arms and they lifted her out of the hold. In the galley, she washed and peeled potatoes, boiled rice, made sauces, cooked pasta, stewed meat and opened cans of vegetables and fish.

When the hatch opened again, she lowered a pot of stewed meat and potatoes, which we ladled into tin mugs that were almost too hot to hold with our hands, but we ate quickly because we were so hungry. Agnesa had also managed to hide small treats under her dress, chocolate bars and biscuits, which she gave to me.

‘What are they like?' I asked her.

‘They drink too much and they tell dirty stories.'

‘About what?'

‘About us.'

I couldn't think of what dirty stories they could tell. We were trying to stay clean.

From then on, twice a day, the front hatch would be pulled open on its hinges, and Agnesa would raise her arms and the youngest crewman would pull her up, into the daylight or the darkness.

One night, when I was allowed on deck, I noticed how the men treated Agnesa, particularly the young one. He was nervous around her. Almost shy. The others didn't show their faces. I saw stars and a half moon, but there was no horizon; and if I let myself believe, I could imagine we were sailing through space to a distant planet, a beautiful new world.

This same fantasy returned to me many times in the years that followed, as I lay in bed, listening for the creak of the floorboards or the door opening, or felt the weight of someone pressing down on the mattress. I don't remember the pain of the rapes, only the faces and the waiting. Sometimes I asked myself what was worse, the act or the dread of it. The awful wondering.

I wake sticky-eyed and stumble into the bathroom, leaning over the toilet bowl. My stomach spasms, but nothing comes up except a sour taste that I can't spit away. I drink water and wait for the nausea to pass.

My clothes are neatly folded on a chair. My canvas shoes have been washed. Did I do that? Cyrus has left a note. He's downstairs having breakfast.

By the time I shower and get dressed, they have cleared the tables and the buffet, but Cyrus has saved me a serviette full of pastries and a milky coffee. Lukewarm.

‘What happened last night?' he asks.

‘I tried to help someone,' I say, not in the mood for lectures.

‘I wanted you to stay in your room.'

‘I'm not a prisoner.'

‘I'm trying to protect you. You have a brain tumour.'

‘No! You don't get to throw that in my face,' I snap. ‘My body. My choices. Remember?'

He's going to argue but stops himself. I'm not willing to let it go. ‘Did you undress me?'

‘You had vomit on your shirt and shoes.'

‘You saw me naked.'

‘You were wearing underwear.'

‘That's no excuse.'

Our voices are raised. No, it's only my voice. A waitress appears. Cyrus composes himself and apologises. I'm supposed to do the same, but I don't because I don't like Cyrus seeing my scars. It's bad enough that I see them when I look in the mirror. The coin-sized lesions on my stomach and buttocks, caused by cigarettes being stubbed out against my skin.

‘Can we start over again?' asks Cyrus, his voice softening. ‘Good morning, Evie. Did you sleep well?'

‘Like shit. You?'

‘I was worried about a friend who was late getting home. But I'm happy now.'

How can I be angry at him?

I nibble at the end of a croissant as he tells me about meeting Angus Radford's father, who warned him to stop asking questions.

‘Is Willie Radford the Ferryman?' I ask.

‘I don't think he's big enough. I mean, he's clearly a big fish in St Claire, but this is a small pond, barely a puddle. The Ferryman has international connections. He's trying to control the movement of people across borders and oceans.'

I feel an ache in my chest. ‘They know we're here now.'

‘Which is why I'm taking you home.'

‘We haven't found out what happened to me.'

‘I'm not putting you in danger. This was always a long shot.'

We sit quietly. Somewhere above us, a cistern empties and refills.

‘Who were you trying to help last night?' he asks.

‘A girl. Her name is Addie. Her grandmother owns this place.'

‘Addie must be related to Angus Radford?'

‘Her uncle. Her father runs the Waterfront Inn. Her aunt works in the kitchen.'

‘How did you get back to the guest house?'

‘Her father took me. He told me to go back to Nottingham.'

‘Did you tell him where you lived?'

I shake my head. ‘I also didn't tell him where I was staying.'

Cyrus frowns in concentration. ‘What was his name?'

‘Sean Murdoch.'

His mobile interrupts us. Cyrus answers brightly. ‘DI Carlson. To what do I owe the pleasure?'

‘What in fuck's name are you doing in Scotland?' he bellows, loud enough for me to hear every word.

‘Having breakfast,' says Cyrus, completely unruffled.

‘Don't fuck with me,' says Carlson.

‘I'm investigating Angus Radford.'

‘You are not a detective.'

‘This is a private matter.'

‘You're unauthorised.'

‘I prefer to call it unconstrained. Free to ask the questions that you can't.'

‘That's bullshit,' I hear, but I don't catch the rest of Carlson's complaint because Cyrus covers the phone and walks out of the conservatory into the garden, where the argument continues. Meanwhile, I finish another pastry and begin to feel vaguely human.

Minutes pass. They always do. When I next look up, Cyrus is standing next to me.

‘Come on,' he says.

‘What's happened?'

‘Radford's lawyer is applying for the charges to be dropped. He knows the police no longer have an eyewitness.'

‘Are they letting him go?'

‘Not yet.'

‘Where are we going?'

‘To roll the dice one final time.'