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‘I’ll walk you home,’ he says.
‘No. I’ll be fine.’
Before I can argue, he is steering me towards the main doors. Popeye and Droopy are smoking outside. For a moment, I think there’ll be another fight, but they’re scared of Sean or not drunk enough to be brave.
As we walk along the footpath, I pull loose from Sean’s grasp and bend over, vomiting into the gutter. He holds me around the waist as the orange juice, cherries and alcohol gush out of my mouth and nose, splashing my sneakers.
The flick-knife falls from my jeans and bounces on the pavement. Sean picks it up and holds it in his palm. Finds the trigger. The blade snaps out.
‘Where did you get this?’
‘It’s mine. Give it back.’
‘Who gave it to you?’
‘Nobody. I found it.’ I try to snatch it, but he holds it out of reach.
‘It’s an illegal weapon and it doesn’t belong to you,’ he says, slipping it into his pocket. I’m too tired and drunk to argue. I want to curl up in a doorway and fall asleep.
‘Come on, Snow White,’ he says. ‘It’s not far.’
How does he know where I’m staying? Addie must have told him.
The temperature has fallen further and I begin to shiver. Sean makes me wait and goes to a nearby car. Lights flash. Doors unlock. He takes a leather jacket from the front seat and puts it around my shoulders. It smells of something wild and drapes down to my knees.
‘Why did you come here?’ he asks, as we walk under the lampposts.
‘I’m trying to find my memories.’
‘Good ones?’
‘No.’
‘You’re too young to have bad memories.’
‘What would you know?’
We’ve reached the Belhaven Inn. I use the side gate. Sean watches as I fumble with the code.
‘Can I give you a piece of advice, Snow White? You should go back to Nottingham.’
‘How do you know where I live?’
‘Good night.’
10
Evie
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.
