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Why does peeing feel so good? Maybe it’s like having an orgasm. I’ve never had one of those, so I don’t know if they’re life-changing or earth-shattering or overrated. I know that men look stupid when they come, all red-faced and moaning. I’ve seen their faces. I wish I could forget them.
As I leave the Ladies, I wonder if I should look for Cyrus, or tell someone that I’m awake. The cleaner has returned and is pushing a polishing machine that seems to float back and forth like a hovercraft. Another noise cuts through the dull humming of the machine. It sounds small and wet, like a kitten trapped in the air-conditioning vent. I follow the sound, reaching a room with a partially open door. An empty chair is leaning against the wall in the corridor.
I peer inside. The bed is empty. I hear the sound again. Someone is crying. A figure is huddled between the bed and the wall. A crouching boy, arms around his knees, tears shining on his cheeks. He looks at me.
‘Motra?’ he says.
I know that word. He is asking for his sister.
‘Si e ke emrin?’ I whisper, wanting to know his name.
‘Arben.’
‘A ishe në . . .’ What is the word for boat? ‘. . . barkë.’
He nods. ‘Vëlla. Motra.’
‘With your brother and sister?’
Another nod.
‘Do you speak English?’
‘Pak.’
He means a little. I step further into the room and let my eyes adjust to the darkness. Arben has stopped crying. He wipes his nose with his sleeve. He’s in his early teens with curly brown hair and hazel eyes and a gap between his largest front teeth.
A shadow falls across the square of light on the floor. Not mine. A policeman. Uniformed. Hands on hips. He’s wearing a stab vest full of gadgets.
‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘Nothing,’ I mumble, trying to duck past him. ‘I’ll go now.’
‘You’re not going anywhere. Who are you?’
‘Nobody. I heard him crying.’
‘What language were you speaking?’
‘Albanian. His name is Arben. He was on a boat that sank.’
‘Who is Motra?’
‘His sister.’
The officer reaches for his shoulder radio. ‘Tango Foxtrot Bravo to control.’
‘This is control.’
‘I’m at the hospital with the survivor. He’s talking. We need an Albanian interpreter. Can you inform DI Carlson.’
‘Roger that, Tango Foxtrot Bravo.’
I think about running, while he’s distracted, but he’s blocking the door. I could headbutt his gut and knock him sideways. Then what? I don’t have my clothes. Arben reaches out and takes my hand. His fingers interlock with mine. We’re in this together now.
A nurse arrives, looking annoyed that we’re out of bed. She is young and Irish and I remember her from last night.
‘Evie, you’re awake!’ she says, like we’re old friends. ‘What are you doing out of bed?’
