9 Evie

9

My eyes feel like they're weighted down with warm stones. Slowly, I force them open, letting in light. Edges take shape. Shadows. Colours. I'm in a strange room with a bed and lockable cabinet and grey carpet squares and vertical blinds and an ugly black-and-white print on the wall.

Cyrus has gone, but his jacket is still hanging over the chair. I felt his presence earlier, when he leaned over me and placed his cheek next to mine, his lips within kissing distance. I wanted to make a sound, but I couldn't speak.

Vaguely, I remember the journey in an ambulance and a white room and bright lights and doctors who talked to me and about me. Asking questions. Issuing instructions. I didn't respond. My lips and limbs wouldn't sync with my brain.

Awake now, I need the bathroom. I contemplate ringing the buzzer on the wall near my head, but I don't want to pee into a bedpan with a nurse watching. There must be a toilet nearby.

I'm wearing my fire-engine-red pyjamas. I don't remember getting changed. I hope Cyrus didn't see me undressed, naked, all pale and blotchy and scarred with cigarette burns.

Pushing back the covers, I swing my legs to the side, testing the floor and my strength. I wobble towards the door and crack it open, peering along the wide, brightly lit corridor. A cleaner's trolley is parked opposite, sprouting brooms and mops and bottles of chemicals. Beyond that I see a sign for the Ladies. Cautiously, I cross the threshold, my bare feet leaving footprints that fade on the tiled floor.

Why does peeing feel so good? Maybe it's like having an orgasm. I've never had one of those, so I don't know if they're life-changing or earth-shattering or overrated. I know that men look stupid when they come, all red-faced and moaning. I've seen their faces. I wish I could forget them.

As I leave the Ladies, I wonder if I should look for Cyrus, or tell someone that I'm awake. The cleaner has returned and is pushing a polishing machine that seems to float back and forth like a hovercraft. Another noise cuts through the dull humming of the machine. It sounds small and wet, like a kitten trapped in the air-conditioning vent. I follow the sound, reaching a room with a partially open door. An empty chair is leaning against the wall in the corridor.

I peer inside. The bed is empty. I hear the sound again. Someone is crying. A figure is huddled between the bed and the wall. A crouching boy, arms around his knees, tears shining on his cheeks. He looks at me.

‘Motra?' he says.

I know that word. He is asking for his sister.

‘Si e ke emrin?' I whisper, wanting to know his name.

‘Arben.'

‘A ishe n? . . .' What is the word for boat? ‘. . . bark?.'

He nods. ‘V?lla. Motra.'

‘With your brother and sister?'

Another nod.

‘Do you speak English?'

‘Pak.'

He means a little. I step further into the room and let my eyes adjust to the darkness. Arben has stopped crying. He wipes his nose with his sleeve. He's in his early teens with curly brown hair and hazel eyes and a gap between his largest front teeth.

A shadow falls across the square of light on the floor. Not mine. A policeman. Uniformed. Hands on hips. He's wearing a stab vest full of gadgets.

‘What the hell are you doing?'

‘Nothing,' I mumble, trying to duck past him. ‘I'll go now.'

‘You're not going anywhere. Who are you?'

‘Nobody. I heard him crying.'

‘What language were you speaking?'

‘Albanian. His name is Arben. He was on a boat that sank.'

‘Who is Motra?'

‘His sister.'

The officer reaches for his shoulder radio. ‘Tango Foxtrot Bravo to control.'

‘This is control.'

‘I'm at the hospital with the survivor. He's talking. We need an Albanian interpreter. Can you inform DI Carlson.'

‘Roger that, Tango Foxtrot Bravo.'

I think about running, while he's distracted, but he's blocking the door. I could headbutt his gut and knock him sideways. Then what? I don't have my clothes. Arben reaches out and takes my hand. His fingers interlock with mine. We're in this together now.

A nurse arrives, looking annoyed that we're out of bed. She is young and Irish and I remember her from last night.

‘Evie, you're awake!' she says, like we're old friends. ‘What are you doing out of bed?'

‘I needed to wee.'

‘She was sneaking in here,' says the officer.

‘I didn't sneak anywhere!'

‘I'll take her back,' says the nurse.

‘She's not going anywhere,' says the officer. ‘She can understand him.'

The nurse looks at me for confirmation. ‘You've spoken to him?'

I nod.

‘Ask him if he's a diabetic.'

I don't know the word for diabetic in Albanian, so use the English word, which seems to work. Arben talks quickly and I ask him to slow down.

‘He lost his insulin when the boat sank,' I say.

This seems to confirm what the nurse already knows. ‘Tell him we've stabilised his blood sugar levels.'

This takes another feat of memory and guesswork to translate.

Arben interrupts, whispering, ‘V?lla? Motra?'

‘What happened to his brother and sister?' I ask.

‘We're still searching for more survivors,' says the policeman.

‘What should I tell him?'

‘Just that.'

Footsteps. Running. Cyrus pushes into the room and scoops me into his arms, squeezing me so tightly that I almost break wind.

‘You need a shave,' I say, complaining. Blushing.

‘You're back,' he says, as though I've been missing, or on holiday.

I brush his arms away and straighten my pyjamas, feeling my cheeks glow. ‘Can we go home?'

The police officer is adamant that I'm not leaving, but Cyrus has a soft-spoken way of winning people over and finding a compromise. I'm allowed to return to my room until morning. Cyrus folds back the covers and tucks them around me like I'm a child.

‘You promised to wait for me,' I say. ‘But you weren't on the pier.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘I saw the bodies in the water. You were carrying a little boy and . . .' I don't finish. ‘I want to go home.'

‘After you've talked to the neurologist.'

‘The who?'

‘She's a brain specialist. We need to find out what happened.'

‘I know what happened.'

He waits for my explanation, but I don't have one.

‘Sleep,' he says, turning off the light and leaning back in a chair, propping his feet on the bed.

‘You frightened me,' he whispers.

‘I frightened myself.'