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‘We’ve had a few problems,’ I say.
His mood changes. ‘The migrant boat?’
‘Yes.’
Mitch’s girlfriend Lilah is in the background, shouting questions. She is a nurse and has an inherent sense of empathy that comes with the uniform. I might never get off the phone. Both of them love Evie, who has a binary effect on people. You either embrace her strangeness and love her unconditionally or get as far away from her as possible.
‘I may need a favour,’ I say.
‘Anything,’ says Mitch.
‘I have a spare set of car keys in the drawer under the Buddha statue in the hallway. I need you to courier them to me.’ I give him the address of the guest house.
‘Anything else?’ Mitch asks.
‘If Evie is still catatonic tomorrow, I may ask you to bring Poppy to the hospital.’
‘You think Poppy might wake her up?’
‘It’s worth a try.’
‘I’ll drive them,’ shouts Lilah.
‘I can drive,’ says Mitch.
‘Yes, but you don’t have a car,’ says Lilah. They begin arguing, but in a nice way, like an old married couple who finish each other’s sentences.
I end the call and collect my jacket and a phone charger, closing the door behind me. It is almost nine o’clock and the summer twilight lingers, giving everything a soft glow. Children are playing cricket in the cul-de-sacs before being summoned home to bed. Couples are promenading along the seafront or cuddling on bench seats, watching the sky darken.
The forensic tents and four-wheel-drive vehicles have gone, returning the beach to the crabs and gulls and clumps of seaweed. Tomorrow, the beachgoers will be back with their umbrellas and spades and surf-craft. Some will be sunburned, others hungover, but most will put today’s events into the past and not let them interrupt their holiday.
A cab drops me at the entrance to the hospital. News crews are still parked on the approach road. The post-mortems will be done in the morning, but the task of identifying bodies has already begun. Searches of their clothes and belongings, looking for clues.
A uniformed officer is sitting in the corridor further along from Evie’s room. Dozing. Vest loosened. Knees apart. As I pass, he opens his eyes and straightens. We return nods.
‘How is he?’ I ask.
‘Sedated.’
I knock gently on Evie’s door. She doesn’t answer. A tray of food is resting on a side table. Untouched. I show her the pyjamas that I’ve brought her and act as though we’re having a normal conversation, even though everything is one-sided except when she echoes my words.
‘You should get changed,’ I say.
‘Get changed,’ she mumbles.
‘Can you manage?’
‘Manage.’
A nurse offers to help and I step outside, listening to their idiosyncratic conversation.
‘I’m Sadie,’ says the nurse, who has a playful Irish accent. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Your name,’ says Evie.
‘I just told you. It’s Sadie,’ says the nurse.
‘Sadie,’ says Evie.
