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‘They think we’re the authorities.’
‘The police?’
‘The Home Office. Border Force.’
We continue driving down the track. As we near the camp, I notice that one woman has remained. She is sitting on a small wooden crate beside a fire. As the car approaches, she raises her eyes, pushing hair under the veil that is slipping off her forehead. Her right arm is supported by a blue sling knotted around her neck.
‘I know her,’ says Evie. ‘She was outside the factory. They wouldn’t let her work.’
Leaving the car, we walk towards the woman, who turns back to the fire, using a twig to push coals beneath a blackened pot. The lame dog barks but doesn’t come closer.
‘Hello,’ says Evie. ‘Remember me?’
The woman looks up, waving smoke from her eyes.
‘How is your arm?’ asks Evie.
‘I can work. They won’t let me.’
‘Who won’t let you?’ I ask.
‘The one in charge.’ Dipping a spoon into the pot, she lifts it to her lips, tasting, adding a pinch of salt, stirring.
‘Where are you from?’ I ask.
‘Afghanistan.’
‘How did you get here?’
She nods towards the sea and eyes me suspiciously. ‘Are you here to arrest us?’
‘We don’t work for Border Force,’ I say.
‘It’s true,’ says Evie.
The woman breaks up twigs and feeds the fire.
‘How long have you lived out here?’ I ask.
‘Me? Four months. We work to pay off our debts, but the boss man charges us for food and for these tents.’
‘What happens if you don’t pay?’
‘We taste the coin of Charon.’
I think of Arben’s death and the coin placed in his mouth. ‘Have you ever met the Ferryman?’ I ask.
She shakes her head.
‘How do you know he exists?’
‘I have seen what happens when people don’t believe in him.’
Evie has stepped away, moving closer to the lame dog, which has fallen silent, flattening its ears and lying on its belly.
‘Be careful. He bites,’ says the woman.
Evie crouches and slowly holds out her hand, palm down, fingers curled, waiting. The dog edges closer, sniffing at her. His tail begins to sway. Evie whispers something and scratches the dog’s chin. It rolls over, wanting a tummy rub.
