AllFreeNovel
Share Us
The sun has disappeared behind clouds and the temperature has dropped by ten degrees. Hundreds of people are still watching and witnessing. Some are in tears, others are taking photographs and videos, posting them online, updating their stories and their news feeds. Is it citizen journalism or reality TV?
I feel numb. Maybe it’s the cold or delayed shock. Each time I close my eyes, I see the little boy I pulled from the water, his blue lips and dark eyelashes and hair plastered to his forehead, and the O-shape of his mouth, as though he was surprised by what had happened. He felt weightless in my arms, so small and insignificant in the grand scheme of things. What grand scheme? I want to ask. Who plans something like this?
It makes me think of Evie. Pushing through the onlookers, I search for her on the esplanade, and retrace my steps to the house with the red door. The curtains are closed. Nobody answers. I return to the pier and the fish-and-chip shop and the ice-cream parlour. I search the amusement arcades and novelty stores and the crazy golf course.
I would call her, but I don’t have my phone. It was in the beach bag, which I dropped when I went into the water. What else did it have? My car keys. My room key at the guest house. Towels. Flip-flops. A credit card.
A woman is taking photographs from the edge of the pier. I ask her if I can borrow her phone. She clutches it to her chest as though I’m going to snatch it from her hands. ‘They’re my pictures.’
‘Yes, I understand, but I need to call someone. It’s urgent. I’ve lost my phone.’
She looks at my tattoos and my wet shirt, and I expect her to yell for the police.
Grudgingly, she surrenders her phone. I call Evie’s number. I hear it ringing. A message triggers.
Hey, you’ve reached my voicemail. You should hang up and text me because you’re an idiot if you think I’m going to pick up. Bye.
I begin talking.
‘Evie. It’s me, Cyrus. Answer. Please?’
I wait, holding the woman’s phone. She’s growing impatient, tapping a non-existent watch on her wrist. I talk again: ‘When you get this message, meet me at the car.’
I feel sick. This is what happens when you take responsibility for someone. I’m not Evie’s father or brother or guardian. I’m her friend and I care about her more than anyone else in my life. I know that she wouldn’t just wander off or lose track of time. Equally, I’m aware that Evie knows how to hide. She concealed herself for months in her secret room, sneaking out at night, fending for herself because the world didn’t know she existed.
Back on the beach, white tents have been erected and police have cordoned off the area with crime-scene tape and barricades. Forensic teams are at work, clad in overalls and face masks. The sea is no longer blue, but gleaming grey like a bruise.
The detective in charge is short and barrel-chested with a military-style haircut that makes his neck look like part of his head. I can picture him on a parade ground yelling orders to hapless recruits – a modern-day Napoleon, without the complex or the custard.
A police constable approaches me and asks if I helped pull bodies from the water. He asks for my name. ‘We’ll need a statement, sir.’
The detective interrupts, snapping his fingers as though searching for an answer that has eluded him. Triumphantly, ‘Cyrus Haven!’
‘Have we met?’ I ask.
‘No, but I heard you speak at a seminar about PTSD in serving police officers.’
‘In Leeds.’
‘Yes.’ He thrusts out his hand. ‘DI Stephen Carlson.’ His fingers crush mine. ‘We have a mutual friend, DS Lenny Parvel. She’s your biggest fan. Must be nice to have a boss like that.’
She’s not my boss, I want to say, but it would take too long to explain. I work as a consultant for the Nottinghamshire Police as a criminal profiler, counsellor and expert witness. The crimes are normally violent or sadistic in nature or off the scale of normal human behaviour, which is why the police want someone to explain to them why one human being would do such a thing to another. The mad or bad dilemma. I have spent my career answering this question, correcting people, often in the media, who want to blame mental illness for violence and anti-social behaviour even when there’s no evidence to support this. Sometimes killers are simply bad.
I glance past Carlson to the canvas tents above the high-tide mark. ‘Who are they?’
‘Refugees. Migrants. Two boats left Calais last night. The first came ashore in the early hours of this morning near Harwich. This one must have been blown off course, or become lost. It didn’t make it.’ He mutters the word ‘Madness’, but I don’t know whether he’s commenting on the crossing or the tragedy.
I keep searching for Evie in the crowd.
‘Everything OK?’ he asks.
‘I’ve lost my friend. She was on the North Promenade.’
‘A child?’
‘A young woman. She doesn’t know the area.’
I think he’s going to make some crack about me having been stood up, but he defers. ‘Go and find her. We’ll talk later.’
