7 Cyrus

7

DI Carlson sucks on a vape and expels a cloud of peppermint-scented vapour that looks like a winter's breath. He has found a quiet corner in the ambulance bays, taking a moment to himself. I watch him from a distance, making judgements, reading his body language, his mannerisms, his unconscious actions.

He's young to be a detective inspector and this case is probably the biggest of his career to date. He's anxious about making a mistake and keen to earn the respect of his team. He's married (the wedding ring), near-sighted (the glasses), and a new father (the dried vomit stain on the shoulder of his jacket). He's also worried about his weight and wears a fitness device on his wrist.

Understanding human behaviour isn't about intuition or second sight or ESP. Everything is evidence-based. Some people want to imagine that psychologists have Sherlock Holmes-like abilities and can determine someone's entire life story from a smudge of chalk on a coat sleeve or a cat hair on their lapel. That's not how it works, although I had a university lecturer who could pick holes in every excuse that I ever gave him for delivering an assignment late. He seemed to know instinctively when a student was hungover, lovesick, homesick, jilted, stoned, penniless, sleep-deprived or just plain horny, which was most of the time in my case.

Joe O'Loughlin taught me that being a psychologist does not involve hunches, gut-instinct, guesswork or premonitions. It is a science based upon observation and a century of empirical research into human behaviour.

I have chosen to work with the police because I want to understand why people commit crimes. What made a well-spoken university graduate studying urban preservation fly a passenger plane into the World Trade Center killing thousands of people? Why did the Yorkshire Ripper, Peter Sutcliffe, abduct and murder thirteen women, or a neonatal nurse inject air or insulin into the intravenous lines of newborn babies? Why did my brother, Elias, aged nineteen, sharpen a knife in our garden shed, before murdering my parents and twin sisters?

His actions explain most of my life choices. I became a psychologist because I wanted to stop such a tragedy happening to another family – to another child like me.

Carlson slips the vape into his pocket as I approach.

‘We found a survivor,' he says. ‘Four miles offshore, clinging to an upturned RHIB. Those boats are supposed to be unsinkable, but this one looked like it had been chewed up and spat out by a kraken.'

‘A collision.'

‘Maybe. We haven't talked to him. I don't know if he can speak English.'

Across the road, news crews and broadcast vans have taken up a section of the parking area. Reporters are doing live crosses with the ‘Emergency' sign in the background.

Carlson is still talking. ‘I'm hoping he can give us some names. None of the dead were carrying identity papers. The migrant camps in Calais are overcrowded and people are trying to cross before the weather turns cold.'

‘It was a full moon two nights ago,' I say.

‘Another reason. Four hundred small boats have arrived since May. More than five thousand people. It can't go on like this.'

Like what? I want to ask. Does he suggest we put up a ‘No Vacancies' sign? We're full. Try next door, or next year, or never.

Carlson takes off his glasses and cleans them with the end of his tie, blowing on each lens and holding them up against the fading light. ‘Did you find your friend?'

‘She's been admitted for the night.'

‘What happened?'

‘Not sure.'

‘Should the police be involved?'

‘I'll let you know.'

‘If there's anything I can do,' he says, but doesn't finish the statement because he is unsure of what he's offering. Instead, he calls after me. ‘We still need that statement.'

‘Tomorrow. First thing.'

I take a cab to the guest house. The driver, an older guy with a Pakistani accent, wants to talk to me about the bodies washed up on the beach.

‘I've been here thirty years, but I came the right way, you know.'

‘The right way?'

‘I came as a student. I studied. I worked. I applied to stay. I'm a citizen now. Married. Three children. Everybody has to wait their turn.'

‘Did you bring family members in?' I ask.

‘My parents and my uncles and my two younger brothers.'

‘Did they wait their turn?'

He looks offended. ‘It was legal.'

The landlady at the guest house gives me a new room key and I quickly shower and change into fresh clothes – jeans and a sweatshirt and desert boots. I call Mitch Coates, who is house-sitting for us in Nottingham, looking after Evie's dog, Poppy. Mitch is a freelance film editor and an odd-job man, who keeps my house from falling down around my ears.

‘How do you like the beach?' he asks, seeing Evie's name on the screen.

‘We've had a few problems,' I say.

His mood changes. ‘The migrant boat?'

‘Yes.'

Mitch's girlfriend Lilah is in the background, shouting questions. She is a nurse and has an inherent sense of empathy that comes with the uniform. I might never get off the phone. Both of them love Evie, who has a binary effect on people. You either embrace her strangeness and love her unconditionally or get as far away from her as possible.

‘I may need a favour,' I say.

‘Anything,' says Mitch.

‘I have a spare set of car keys in the drawer under the Buddha statue in the hallway. I need you to courier them to me.' I give him the address of the guest house.

‘Anything else?' Mitch asks.

‘If Evie is still catatonic tomorrow, I may ask you to bring Poppy to the hospital.'

‘You think Poppy might wake her up?'

‘It's worth a try.'

‘I'll drive them,' shouts Lilah.

‘I can drive,' says Mitch.

‘Yes, but you don't have a car,' says Lilah. They begin arguing, but in a nice way, like an old married couple who finish each other's sentences.

I end the call and collect my jacket and a phone charger, closing the door behind me. It is almost nine o'clock and the summer twilight lingers, giving everything a soft glow. Children are playing cricket in the cul-de-sacs before being summoned home to bed. Couples are promenading along the seafront or cuddling on bench seats, watching the sky darken.

The forensic tents and four-wheel-drive vehicles have gone, returning the beach to the crabs and gulls and clumps of seaweed. Tomorrow, the beachgoers will be back with their umbrellas and spades and surf-craft. Some will be sunburned, others hungover, but most will put today's events into the past and not let them interrupt their holiday.

A cab drops me at the entrance to the hospital. News crews are still parked on the approach road. The post-mortems will be done in the morning, but the task of identifying bodies has already begun. Searches of their clothes and belongings, looking for clues.

A uniformed officer is sitting in the corridor further along from Evie's room. Dozing. Vest loosened. Knees apart. As I pass, he opens his eyes and straightens. We return nods.

‘How is he?' I ask.

‘Sedated.'

I knock gently on Evie's door. She doesn't answer. A tray of food is resting on a side table. Untouched. I show her the pyjamas that I've brought her and act as though we're having a normal conversation, even though everything is one-sided except when she echoes my words.

‘You should get changed,' I say.

‘Get changed,' she mumbles.

‘Can you manage?'

‘Manage.'

A nurse offers to help and I step outside, listening to their idiosyncratic conversation.

‘I'm Sadie,' says the nurse, who has a playful Irish accent. ‘What's your name?'

‘Your name,' says Evie.

‘I just told you. It's Sadie,' says the nurse.

‘Sadie,' says Evie.

I'd laugh if I wasn't so worried about her.

Once Evie is dressed and in bed, I return. The nurse adjusts her pillows and tells Evie she can close her eyes. Evie does as she's told.

‘I wish all my patients were this well behaved,' she says, and then apologises. ‘I didn't mean any offence.'

‘None taken.'

‘Are you staying?' she asks.

I nod.

She points to a chair. ‘It's not very comfortable. If you get hungry or thirsty there are vending machines in A&E.'

After she's gone, I pull the chair closer to the bed and prop my feet on the mattress, where I can watch Evie sleeping. She breathes so quietly, as if frightened of disturbing the air, and once or twice I put my face close to hers to feel the warm exhalation.

I know I obsess over Evie. I monitor her moods and treat her differently, which she hates, but I can't help myself because I know enough about her past and worry about her future.

Clearly, a traumatic event has triggered her catatonic state – most likely the bodies in the water. Evie was trafficked into Britain as a child, making the journey by boat. I don't know the exact circumstances because Evie doesn't remember the details or has chosen to forget them. Some survivors of abuse block out what they endure. Others carry their trauma with them constantly, while a small number live in a state of permanent denial. Evie uses dissociation as her defence, escaping to another place and another time, somewhere comforting and safe.

At the same time, I'm certain that her memories of abuse haven't been erased. The worst of them are buried just below the surface of her subconscious like landmines. One wrong step and they will cripple or maim. My job is not to dig them up, but to mark where they are with tiny flags so that Evie can cross the minefield safely.

One of them has detonated and Evie has gone to her safe place. The question is – how do I get her back?