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‘Yes.’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘It was the same,’ says Arben adamantly. ‘It came quickly, with the sun behind, pushing white water. We shouted and waved, but it did not stop or slow down.’
‘Could it have been an accident?’ asks Carlson.
‘They saw us. They heard us,’ says Arben. ‘We were thrown into the water. They turned and came back. We were yelling and crying. They wanted us to die.’
‘Did you have life-vests?’
‘Not all of us.’
‘Could you swim?’
‘I am a good swimmer – I won medals at my school – but I cannot swim faster than a boat.’
‘When did you last see your brother and sister?’
‘Besart found me. He pushed me onto the broken pieces and swam off to find Jeta. He didn’t come back.’
Arben wipes his eyes with his pyjama sleeve, embarrassed by his tears. Evie hands him a tissue. He shakes his head. She insists. He takes it. Blows his nose. Bunches the tissue in his fist.
Carlson suggests they take a break. He motions me to the corridor. It’s not until I’m away from the room that I realise that I’ve been holding my breath for much of the past hour, trying not to make a sound.
‘There were twenty people on board,’ says the detective. ‘We have seventeen bodies in the morgue. That means two migrants are still missing.’
‘You have to keep looking.’
‘That’s not my call. HM Coastguard is coordinating the search.’ Carlson tugs at his left ear, a nervous habit. ‘Arben could help us identify some of the victims.’
‘You want to show him dead bodies?’
‘Photographs.’
I consider the possible psychological impact on Arben, who has already been traumatised. Confirmation that his brother and sister are dead could make this worse.
‘Can you give him more time?’ I ask.
‘I don’t have that luxury.’
Back inside the room, DI Carlson pulls his chair closer to Arben’s bed and produces a computer tablet. The interpreter explains to Arben that the police and coastguard are searching for survivors, but that some bodies have been recovered.
‘We need your help,’ says Carlson, as he calls the first image to the screen. It shows a young man, whose face seems to have been sculptured out of white-grey wax. His eyes are closed, but the eyelids are bruised from lividity. Arben takes a look and turns his head away.
‘Was he on the boat?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know his name?’
‘No.’
Carlson swipes and another photograph appears.
‘Keller,’ says Arben.
More photographs are shown. With each new one, I feel as though I’m watching a game of Russian roulette, waiting for the lone bullet to spin into the firing chamber.
