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I perch on the edge of his bed, making Florence take the chair.
‘Why did they take Arben?’ I ask.
‘He’s the only witness to the sinking of the migrant boat,’ says Cyrus.
‘Then you know who did it – the guys on the trawler.’
‘Who are both in custody.’
‘They must have passed on a message,’ says Florence.
‘Nobody except the police knew Arben’s name or his whereabouts.’
‘It can’t have been hard to work out. They were obviously watching the custody facility.’
A doctor arrives and checks the stitches on the back of Cyrus’s head, before giving him permission to go home. He issues instructions, addressing Florence. ‘You need to watch him closely in case of a delayed concussion. Headaches, dizziness, insomnia, ringing in the ears, loss of concentration.’
‘He’s in good hands,’ she says, still acting like she’s in charge. I’m the one who lives with Cyrus. The doctor should be talking to me.
A wheelchair is available, but Cyrus insists on walking. Florence automatically puts her arm around him in case he stumbles. Cyrus doesn’t push her away. I follow behind, and pay for the parking, grumbling about the cost.
I drove my Mini, which is called ‘Mouse’ for obvious reasons. Florence squeezes into the back seat with her knees almost touching her chin. Every time I look in the rear-view mirror, I see her face. None of us mentions Arben, but he’s all I can think about. I told him he’d be safe. I was wrong. I know that I don’t cause events to happen, but I feel as though I’m the trigger, the jinx, the bad-luck charm. Cyrus has another term for it – solipsism. The sense that the world would cease to exist without me, not because I’m some sort of all-powerful deity or creator, but because everything around me is a product of my imagination. When I die, my world will die.
At the house, Florence makes no attempt to leave. She fills the kettle and offers to make dinner. Cyrus is pressing a packet of frozen peas against the back of his head. We won’t be eating those. Silver linings.
‘I should have noticed them following me,’ he says. ‘I couldn’t give the police a decent description.’
‘You were ambushed,’ says Florence. ‘And you scratched one of them, which is better than a description.’
Cyrus keeps checking his phone, hoping for a message from Carlson, but the roadblocks have been up for hours, and the car hasn’t been sighted.
‘Arben needs three injections of insulin a day,’ he says.
‘What happens if he doesn’t get his treatment?’ I ask.
‘He’ll slip into a diabetic coma.’
‘Can he recover?’
‘Only if he’s treated quickly enough.’
After dinner, I take Poppy upstairs and I lie in bed, listening to the murmur of their conversation from the kitchen. Florence makes Cyrus laugh. It’s a nice sound. Later, I hear them climb the stairs together. They say goodnight. I wait for their doors to close. I hear whispers, a nervous question, a muffled answer, a shushing sound.
I should be an expert when it comes to what men and women do when they’re together – the sex bit – but I’ve never done it willingly because nobody ever gave me that choice. I know people are supposed to enjoy it and that boys brag about doing it all the time. I’ve been guilty of that, pretending to be experienced, but the truth is I’ve never wanted to do it with anyone except Cyrus and he won’t touch me. It’s not because I’m ugly or scarred or broken inside. He says there’s an age difference, but he’s only eleven years older than me and I’m an adult now.
I know he’s not going to change his mind, but that doesn’t stop me thinking about him in bed with Florence, their mouths in different places. Then my mind goes to Liam. I imagine him kissing me, lying next to me, moving when I move. Maybe I could do it with someone if I could forget all the others who came before and took it without asking.
We buried Papa in a plot that overlooked the village next to an oak tree and away from the Berisha family plot. Papa was laid to rest in his best suit with his pipe and a pouch of tobacco in the pocket, and a compass to help him find the afterlife, and apples for the journey.
It rained at the funeral. A small grey cloud appeared in an otherwise empty sky and cried upon the circle of mourners. More than two hundred people showed up. Everybody seemed to be there except for Mr Berisha, who sent a large wreath made of white carnations and ivy.
Mama kept gazing past the grave in the direction of the cemetery gates, as if waiting for someone else to arrive. She wept quietly and I held her hand, feeling grown up in my black dress. Aunt Polina reeked of perfume and kept leaning on people as she sobbed. She cried harder than Mama when the coffin was lowered into the ground.
Afterwards, we served food at the house: meatballs, stuffed peppers, roasted aubergines, olives, lamb on skewers, yoghurt sauces, baklava and Turkish delight. I carried plates and topped up drinks and eavesdropped as people told stories about Papa. Later in the evening, when the mourners had all gone, I helped wash the dishes and rearrange the furniture.
Aunt Polina was drunkenly snoring, spread-eagled across our bed. I went to Mama’s room, where Papa’s pyjamas were laid on the bedspread, his shirt above his trousers, as though waiting for him to step into them. Mama wasn’t there. I went looking for her, in the kitchen and the sitting room and the bathroom. The garden was the last place she could be. Unlatching the door, I stepped onto the path and heard a sound like a dog snarling in a cage. I wanted to run back inside, but I kept going, past the clothesline and the vegetable garden and the outside toilet.
That’s where I found her, silhouetted against the fairy lights. She was smashing Mr Berisha’s wreath against the edge of the stone wall, sending petals flying around her like snowflakes.
