AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I’d laugh if I wasn’t so worried about her.
Once Evie is dressed and in bed, I return. The nurse adjusts her pillows and tells Evie she can close her eyes. Evie does as she’s told.
‘I wish all my patients were this well behaved,’ she says, and then apologises. ‘I didn’t mean any offence.’
‘None taken.’
‘Are you staying?’ she asks.
I nod.
She points to a chair. ‘It’s not very comfortable. If you get hungry or thirsty there are vending machines in A&E.’
After she’s gone, I pull the chair closer to the bed and prop my feet on the mattress, where I can watch Evie sleeping. She breathes so quietly, as if frightened of disturbing the air, and once or twice I put my face close to hers to feel the warm exhalation.
I know I obsess over Evie. I monitor her moods and treat her differently, which she hates, but I can’t help myself because I know enough about her past and worry about her future.
Clearly, a traumatic event has triggered her catatonic state – most likely the bodies in the water. Evie was trafficked into Britain as a child, making the journey by boat. I don’t know the exact circumstances because Evie doesn’t remember the details or has chosen to forget them. Some survivors of abuse block out what they endure. Others carry their trauma with them constantly, while a small number live in a state of permanent denial. Evie uses dissociation as her defence, escaping to another place and another time, somewhere comforting and safe.
At the same time, I’m certain that her memories of abuse haven’t been erased. The worst of them are buried just below the surface of her subconscious like landmines. One wrong step and they will cripple or maim. My job is not to dig them up, but to mark where they are with tiny flags so that Evie can cross the minefield safely.
One of them has detonated and Evie has gone to her safe place. The question is – how do I get her back?
8
Cyrus
At some point during the night I wake to the sound of an argument in the hospital corridor. Evie is still asleep. I go to investigate. A young black woman is arguing with the police officer who is guarding the survivor.
‘How did you get past the front desk?’ he asks. ‘You’re not supposed to be here.’
‘He can tell us what happened,’ says the woman. ‘He knows the truth.’
She’s dressed in motorcycle leathers and carrying a full-face helmet. She ducks under his arm. The constable blocks her way and talks into his shoulder radio, calling for back-up.
Boots echo along the tiled floor as more officers arrive, surrounding the woman, pinning her arms to her sides and marching her towards the main entrance.
‘They weren’t supposed to die,’ she yells. ‘They were murdered.’
The automatic doors open and close. I follow from a distance and watch a sergeant lecture the woman beneath a neon light where a cloud of moths is circling the brightness. He lets her go and she walks towards a motorbike, parked near the access road. Zipping up her jacket, she flicks the straps from her helmet, before spinning to confront me. Eyes flashing. ‘What’s your problem?’
‘I heard what you said to the police – what did you mean?’
Cautiously, ‘Are you a reporter?’
‘No. I was there today – on the beach – when the bodies washed ashore. You said they were murdered.’
‘They were. Did you see the survivor?’
‘He’s a boy, maybe thirteen or fourteen.’
‘Did you talk to him?’
‘No. He’s sedated.’
Her dark brown eyes travel the length of me before resting on my face. ‘The migrant boat was deliberately rammed.’
‘How could you know that?’
