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‘We were hungry.’
‘You weren’t supposed to socialise with the boy.’
‘Oh, come on, don’t try to blame me for this. Nobody thought Arben was in any danger, because if you had, you wouldn’t have let him leave Birchin Way.’
Carlson grunts in response, conceding nothing, covering his arse because he knows he’ll be held responsible. If I hadn’t escorted Arben it would have been a social worker. These men didn’t care. They attacked in the middle of the day in a public place in front of witnesses and CCTV cameras. It was brazen and bold and ruthlessly efficient. What more evidence do they need of a larger conspiracy, yet nobody seems to be listening, not Carlson, or Derek Posniak of the NCA, or Simon Buchan. They think the Ferryman is a myth and that ultra-nationalism is a European problem. Now we’ve lost the only witness to the sinking, a boy who could lead us to the truth.
My Fiat is being vacuumed and dusted for clues. In the footwell of the passenger seat I notice the diabetic kit bag. Arben doesn’t have his insulin pens or glucose tablets. How long will he last without them? Twelve hours? Twenty-four?
Carlson is on the radio, issuing descriptions of the assailants and the vehicle. A young constable appears at my shoulder. ‘I’m assigned to take you to hospital,’ she says.
I start to protest until Carlson yells from his patrol car. ‘It’s not negotiable.’
30
Evie
The woman at the hospital reception desk has a sunburned nose and matching red hair that makes me think her head is on fire.
‘Visiting hours are over. It’s family only,’ she says.
‘I’m family,’ I reply.
‘What relationship?’
‘I’m his wife.’
She looks at me dubiously. ‘A child bride?’
‘I’m twenty-two,’ I say, showing her my driver’s licence.
‘You don’t have his surname.’
‘That’s patriarchal bullshit – why should a wife take her husband’s name?’
Florence chooses that moment to interrupt. ‘I’m Cyrus Haven’s lawyer.’
That’s a lie! I let it pass.
‘And she’ll sue your arse if you don’t let us see him,’ I add.
Florence hushes me. ‘I’ve got this, Evie.’
Who put you in charge? I want to say, but the receptionist seems to take Florence more seriously than she does me.
‘The police brought Dr Haven to the hospital two hours ago,’ she says. ‘We need to make sure he’s OK.’
The woman types our details into a computer and makes a phone call, seeking permission. Her desk is covered in knickknacks and ornaments, including a coffee cup full of novelty pens. I play with her Newton’s cradle, swinging one silver ball into the others.
Click, clack, click, clack . . .
She stops them swinging. ‘Dr Haven is in the Emergency Department.’
‘Thank you,’ says Florence. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’
‘That wasn’t so hard,’ I add, swinging the silver balls again.
We find Cyrus sitting up in bed eating a bowl of fruit jelly. What is he – six? The bandage around his head is like a half-wrapped turban. Florence is first to his bedside and gives him a hug. I push past her and put my arms around him but suddenly feel self-conscious and go stiff like a board. Why can’t I hug someone like a normal person?
