6 Cyrus

6

The female paramedic shines a pencil torch into Evie's eyes. ‘What did she take?'

‘Nothing. I mean, she's not a drug taker.'

She glances at her male colleague, giving him a look that says, Yeah, they all say that.

‘Did she fall? Hit her head?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Any history of seizures, epilepsy, fainting?'

‘No.'

‘Is she allergic to anything – peanuts, bee stings, shellfish, eggs?'

‘No. I don't think so.'

I feel stupid and useless because I have no answers. We ate fish and chips and ice cream. Evie had a double scoop – chocolate and fudge sundae. I had hazelnut and vanilla bean.

The paramedic is looking for needle marks or bruises or abrasions. She claps her hands loudly in Evie's ear. She holds up Evie's arm and lets it drop.

‘Is she your daughter?'

‘We're friends. We share a house.'

This earns me another odd look, as though I'm already guilty of kidnapping a child.

The ambulance is moving. Evie's eyes are open, but there's no spark of recognition or emotion. Her breath is warm, her skin is soft, her lips are moist. At any moment, I expect her to reach up and brush hair from her eyes or make some inappropriate comment.

Each time the ambulance slows at an intersection or for traffic, the siren becomes louder, as though the sound is catching up and chasing us again. I'm holding Evie's hand and the paramedic continues monitoring her vital signs – her oxygen levels and blood pressure. She types the details on a computer tablet.

At the hospital, the rear doors swing open and trolley wheels unfold and rattle across the pavement, carrying Evie through the entrance. The waiting area is crowded with the burned, bleeding, broken and feverish, as well as the clumsy, drunk, stoned and unlucky.

Evie is taken to an annexe room where I answer the same questions from a male doctor, who has the same pencil torch, which he shines into Evie's eyes. He taps a reflex hammer against her knee.

‘Does she have any next of kin we can contact?' he asks.

‘No.'

‘Do you have any proof of her identity?'

‘She has a driver's licence, but I don't know where it is.'

He scrapes the bottom of her bare left foot, looking for her toes to curl. This is called the Babinski reflex – a neurological test developed more than a century ago. He passes smelling salts beneath her nose and jabs parts of her body with a needle, checking her pain receptors.

Scrawling a note on a chart, he turns to leave.

‘Where are you going?' I ask. ‘What's wrong with her?'

‘We have a neurologist on call. I've paged her.'

Twenty minutes later, they move Evie to another room. She is lying on her back, staring at the ceiling.

‘Are you cold? Do you want a blanket?' I ask.

She doesn't reply, but I keep talking. ‘I'm sorry I wasn't waiting for you. What did the psychic say? Did she tell you your future?'

Through the partially opened blinds, I see more ambulances pulling up at a separate entrance. The bodies from the beach are being delivered to the mortuary. They are quickly taken through swing doors, out of view from the TV cameras and photographers who are milling outside.

In the waiting room, nurses and patients have gathered around a TV. I join them as a grey-haired announcer delivers the news.

‘At least seventeen migrants, including women and children, have drowned off the coast of Lincolnshire while trying to reach Britain in a small boat. At Westminster this afternoon, the Prime Minister held an emergency Cabinet meeting to consider the government's response to the tragedy, saying he was shocked, appalled and deeply saddened by the news. In Paris, the French president announced that he would not allow the Channel to become a graveyard and called for a joint European response to the crisis.'

The camera switches to a reporter standing on the beach in Cleethorpes.

‘A rescue and recovery operation has been under way for the past four hours, involving coastguard helicopters and fixed-wing aircraft, as well as RNLI boats. No wreckage has been found and the police have no idea how many migrants may still be missing. Local shipping has been contacted to assist with the search and to establish if the boat may have been struck by a container ship.'

The camera switches back to the studio, where a reporter details the number of small boats that have arrived in Britain since the start of the year.

‘Lord David Buchan, the former Tory life peer, who has campaigned for tougher restrictions on illegal arrivals, said today that the government had failed to control the country's borders and must take some responsibility for today's tragedy.'

The footage switches again. This time the cameras are focused on a grey-haired patrician-looking figure, dressed in black, standing on a footpath outside the Houses of Parliament. Gesticulating at the camera, his bushy eyebrows lift and lower as though pulled by strings.

‘Brexit was supposed to mean that we took back control of our borders. What a failure. What a joke! How many deaths at sea will be deemed enough? How many illegal arrivals?

‘These aren't all asylum seekers. Most are economic refugees. They come in a flood, and we deport them in a trickle. Meanwhile, our council housing lists are well over a million. Hospitals and schools are overcrowded. Veterans are left waiting for vital services . . .'

I hear someone mention Evie's name. A doctor appears at the door, a neurologist, blonde haired, blue eyed, in her late forties. She's wearing a loose white coat over a knee-length floral dress and reminds me of a lecturer I had at university, who was the subject of many male fantasies.

‘I'm Meredith Bennett,' she says, talking to Evie. ‘How are you feeling?'

Evie looks at her outstretched hand and very slowly matches the doctor's movements.

‘Are you in any pain?'

‘Pain,' says Evie.

‘Can you tell me what happened?'

‘What happened.'

Dr Bennett conducts some of the same tests – more pencil torches and Babinski scrapes. Finally, she looks at me, as though I've been keeping secrets from her. I explain that we were at the beach when the bodies began washing in.

‘Was Evie in the water?' she asks.

‘No.'

‘Did she see the bodies?'

‘I'm not sure.'

She asks me about Evie's medical history. Again, I'm embarrassed by how little I know. It's strange talking about Evie as though she is not in the room, yet she can hear everything that's being said.

Dr Bennett places herself directly in Evie's line of vision. She raises her hand and touches her right ear. Evie mimics the gesture, only more slowly. Then the neurologist raises her opposite hand. After several moments, Evie does the same.

Gently taking hold of Evie's right arm, she says, ‘Push against me.' Evie doesn't react. Her limbs can be manoeuvred into place like a stop-motion puppet or a mannequin in a shop window.

‘Die Katatonie,' I say, speculating.

Dr Bennett looks surprised. ‘Are you a doctor?'

‘A psychologist. I studied catatonic breakdowns. Identified by Karl Ludwig Kahlbaum in 1874. He believed the illness progressed in fixed stages.'

‘Do you remember what triggers them?'

‘Mood or psychotic disorders. Depression. Bi-polar. Schizophrenia. Drug use.'

‘It can also be caused by trauma.'

‘Evie grew up in care – a secure children's home.'

‘Was she abused?'

‘Yes.'

Dr Bennett's eyes seem to cloud. ‘The symptoms match – the agitation, stupor, and repeating words and movements.'

‘But why now?' I ask.

‘A defence mechanism. Perhaps the bodies in the water triggered a memory.'

‘How do we bring her back?'

‘There are several possible treatments. One of them being ECT.'

I picture Evie being strapped on to a table with a rubber mouthguard clenched between her teeth as an electric current is passed through her brain.

‘There must be another way.'

‘A drug – lorazepam. It's used to treat anxiety and sleep disturbances, but it can also bring patients out of a stupor.'

Dr Bennett seems to weigh up the options, mentioning possible side-effects. ‘My preference is to wait until the morning,' she says. ‘I'll give Evie a mild sedative and let her sleep. Hopefully, her mind can heal itself.'

‘Can I stay with her?'

‘You're not family.'

‘I'm all she has.'

A room is arranged in the neurology department. Paperwork has to be filled out. Evie waits, sitting in a wheelchair, staring at the wall like a dementia patient. As I wheel her towards the lift, I hear a shout from the emergency room.

‘Incoming!'

Doors swing open. A trolley barges into view, being pushed by paramedics. A drip is held shoulder-high, and stats are shouted – blood pressure numbers, systolic rates, body temperature. The detective from the beach is behind them. They found a survivor.

The patient is a teenage boy with an oxygen mask over his face. He raises his hand and pulls the mask aside, repeating the same word over and over again.

‘Motra. Motra. Motra.'

He tries to sit up. A paramedic holds him down, as a doctor prepares a sedative. The needle finds his arm and the boy's gaze goes out of focus. He slumps backwards onto the trolley bed, moaning, ‘Motra.'

Was the boy's mother among the dead? Did I see her on the beach?

‘Motra. Motra. Motra,' says Evie, as I push her wheelchair along the corridor, following a nurse.

I touch her shoulder. She stops. When we reach the room, I help her into bed and pull the covers over her. I hold up her phone to her face, unlocking the screen, before changing her security settings to let me have access.

‘I'm going to pick up some things from the guest house, but I won't be long,' I say.

‘The guest house,' she says.

‘That's right. Don't go anywhere.'

‘Go anywhere.'