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‘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.’
