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‘What about Arben? What happens to him?’
‘Children’s services will find him somewhere to live.’ ‘A children’s home.’
‘Or a foster family.’
I’ve been in children’s homes. I grew up in them. I wouldn’t wish that upon my worst enemy. ‘He can come and stay with us,’ I say.
‘We’re not foster carers and he needs support.’
‘You’re a psychologist.’
‘Who has a job to do.’
We take a taxi into Cleethorpes and find my car where I parked it yesterday, opposite the beach. A shimmer rises off the bonnet of the aging Fiat, and the air smells of salt and seaweed and the bins from a nearby restaurant. A yellow notice is pinned beneath the wiper blade. A parking fine. Cyrus curses and tosses the balled-up ticket onto the back seat of the car.
‘Was Arben telling the truth?’ he asks.
‘Mostly.’
‘Meaning?’
‘He lied about his brother buying the boat.’
‘It was stolen?’
‘Uh-huh.’
We drive out of Cleethorpes, squinting into the afternoon sun, which is being chased by a bank of grey clouds intent on spoiling the day. I think of Arben. Instead of starting a new life in a new country, he has been cast adrift, stateless, homeless, an orphan. That was me once.
Cyrus has gone quiet, but I know something is bothering him. Finally, he speaks. ‘The two young women are missing.’
‘You think they were picked up.’
‘Or they could have drowned.’
He doesn’t believe that. The men on the trawler had offered to take the women with them.
‘What are you going to do?’ I ask, but I know the answer. ‘Can I help?’
‘You have a dog to look after.’
‘I can leave Poppy with Mitch.’
‘Not this time.’
When is there ever a time?
14
Cyrus
Lungs busting, legs burning, knee-joints pleading, I sprint the last quarter-mile through silent streets, racing Poppy home. I collapse on the back step, listening to the Labrador drink from her water bowl, panting between gulps.
I woke early, having dreamed of a dead child, weightless in my arms. Evie was in the dream. She was lying on the beach in wet clothes and a cheap life-vest, staring into the sky with pale dead eyes.
I try not to read too much into the dream because psychologists, like doctors, make lousy patients. We either over-diagnose or self-medicate, or fail to seek help. I’m guilty of that. Instead of talking to someone about my past trauma and ongoing dreams, I tell myself that I’m a healer not a patient. And I had my fill of therapists and counsellors after my parents and sisters died. They fussed and fretted over me, telling me how I should be feeling, when I simply wanted to be left alone. That’s why I don’t push Evie to talk about what she’s forgotten or repressed.
Florence Gatsi isn’t answering her mobile. I text her again: We have to talk.
