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‘Nuh. You?’
‘No.’
‘We have to help him,’ she says.
I get up and begin walking slowly back towards the hut. Even the birds and insects have gone quiet.
‘Finn?’ I yell. ‘Are you OK?’
Nothing.
Crouching low, I use the dinghy and old machinery as cover. A breeze bends the grasses. The goat bleats. A chicken flies to the top of the water tank. Finn Radford is lying on his back, his legs twisted beneath him, the pistol still in his hand. The bullet had entered through the roof of his mouth and exited from the back of his head, spilling teeth and bone and brain matter across the newly chopped wood.
I take out my phone and call 999, speaking calmly to the operator, requesting the police. ‘A gunshot victim,’ I say. ‘His name is Finn Radford. He’s dead.’
‘Who fired the weapon?’
‘He did.’
‘Has the gun been secured?’
‘It’s safe. Nobody has touched it.’
I give her my name and details and tell her that I’ll wait for the police on the road.
When I next look up, I see Evie standing over the body. I want to shield her and to get her away from here, but she ignores my words and continues staring at Finn. The bright day remains, the sun-struck sea, the white wispy clouds, the pecking chickens and tethered goat. The smell of woodsmoke and salt. And a silence to end all silences.
12
Evie
Another body. I keep adding to the dead. Would Finn still be alive if I hadn’t asked about Agnesa and Mama . . . about the ghosts? I keep picturing the gun pointing at his chin, his finger on the trigger, the blankness in his eyes. He wasn’t scared of dying. It was like he’d stopped living a long time ago and every day was an ordeal to be endured.
I have seen bodies before. Papa laid out on the kitchen table. Fisnik Sopa crushed beneath the wheels of a truck. My friend Ruby lying dead in my bed. If this world is my creation, I can make the suffering stop if I choose death. Nothing will exist without me.
From a distance, I see the flashing lights of the police cars weaving along the track, over the humped bridge. Cyrus is waiting at the gate, showing them where to park like he’s directing traffic at a garden party.
I have stayed out of the way, sitting in the passenger seat of the Fiat. Through the trees I can see the migrant camp, now deserted – the police cars made that a certainty. The cooking pot is next to the fire. The lame dog sniffs at the contents.
The police are talking to Cyrus. His hands move through the air as he explains what happened. He points to the fisherman’s hut and the woodpile and the body. The detective is taking notes on a computer tablet.
Other cars arrive. A tent is erected over the body. Crime scene tape is strung across the gate. A moment ago, the sky was blue, but now the clouds are closing in and the temperature is falling.
The detective is heading towards me, stepping across the grass like it’s covered in dog shit. He’s wearing black trousers and a business shirt and a fluorescent vest with the word ‘POLICE’ stitched across the chest. He leads me to a waiting police car and asks me to sit inside. He leans on the open door.
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Ogilvy. I need to ask you a few questions.’ He calls me ‘Miss Cormac’, which doesn’t happen very often.
‘Firstly, can you confirm your full name and age?’
I show him my driver’s licence.
‘What is your relationship with Cyrus Haven?’
‘We share a house.’
‘What are you doing in Scotland?’
‘Researching my past.’
