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16
Cyrus
My radio alarm wakes me. The newsreader has a plummy authoritative voice.
Police have abandoned the search for more survivors of the weekend’s tragedy in the North Sea. Eleven emergency vessels, two fixed-wing aircraft and three helicopters were involved in the operation when it was suspended last night due to worsening weather conditions.
The small inflatable boat capsized twelve miles off the coast of Cleethorpes in Lincolnshire. Seventeen migrants drowned, one survived and two are believed to be missing.
A Home Office spokesman told the BBC: ‘Crossing the Channel in a small boat is a huge risk. The criminal gangs that perpetuate this ruthless trade do not care about loss of life. We thank all the agencies at home and abroad who led the search and rescue operation.’
Getting out of bed, I splash water on my face, still listening to the report.
The victims of the tragedy, which included two children, were from Iraq, Afghanistan, Syria, Albania and Sudan. The sole survivor, a boy of fourteen, is still recovering in hospital and has been interviewed by police trying to piece together the vessel’s last hours.
Evie’s bedroom door is open. She must have taken Poppy for a walk. Uncompelled, which is surprising. A second thought bumps into the first one – what if she relapses? It has only been three days since her catatonia. I should have gone with her. I check my phone and contemplate calling her, but Evie doesn’t like when I hover or micro-manage. That was one of her rules when she moved into the house. I would not act like a parent or a therapist.
Downstairs, I make coffee and keep one ear out for the side gate, wishing Evie were home. Florence joins me. She’s wearing one of my shirts. ‘I borrowed this. I hope that’s all right.’
‘It looks better on you,’ I say. As the words leave my mouth, I wonder if I’m being too forward. I change the subject. ‘We have toast, instant porridge, eggs – can you eat eggs?’
‘What can I put on toast?’ she asks.
‘Strawberry jam, honey or marmalade.’
‘Jam would be great.’ She looks around. ‘Where’s Evie?’
‘Walking Poppy.’
‘This is some house.’
‘It belonged to my grandparents. They gave it to me when they retired to Limington in Somerset.’
‘My grandparents gave me a herd of goats in Nyanga.’
‘Where?’
‘In Zimbabwe.’
‘Is that true?’
‘No, but it’s a good story.’
She checks the toaster and keeps talking. ‘My parents were lawyers who left Zimbabwe when the farm invasions began. Mugabe was president and he ordered a purge of all judges and lawyers who were arguing that the land seizures were illegal.’
‘How old were you?’
‘Six. I go back every year to visit my grandparents.’
As she talks, Florence is exploring downstairs. I sometimes forget what sort of impression the house has on people. How it makes me seem like a man of means, yet it belongs to a childhood that I’d rather forget. Growing up, I explored every room, cupboard and crawlspace during sleepovers and games of hide-and-seek and Easter egg hunts. These should be happy memories, but they come tinged with sadness. The house is too big for me. It has too many rooms with oak panelling and thick dado rails and heavy plaster and dented crown mouldings and floors worn smooth with use. Some of the rooms still have nipple buttons that once summoned servants from ‘below stairs’. It is a house from a bygone era, patched up and refurbished but still creaking with age.
Excusing myself, I go to the library and phone Carlson’s number. The detective is in his car on his way to the morning media conference.
‘They called off the search,’ I say.
‘Not my decision.’
‘Where’s Arben?’
