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He stepped closer. Mama backed away. She was trapped against the sink, looking anxiously at me. Mr Berisha ran his fingers down her cheek and neck and the front of her dress.
‘You have ten days to sell your furniture and pack your things,’ he said. ‘You will pay me whatever you raise, and I will arrange your passage to England. I will organise jobs for you and somewhere to stay.’
‘What jobs?’
‘Your English is good. You could work for one of the big hotels in London. Your daughters could do the same.’
‘And if I don’t agree?’
He leaned closer and whispered something. I didn’t catch the words, but Mama’s eyes widened, and she spun her head to look at me, letting out a groan.
That night I was sent to bed early. Mama and Aunt Polina and Agnesa stayed in the kitchen talking. Later, Agnesa lay in bed next to me, her arm resting on my waist. ‘It will be an adventure,’ she said, as she talked about England, and I fell asleep dreaming of flower sellers and chimney sweeps and magical nannies.
In the days that followed, Mama applied to get us passports. Normally it would have taken weeks, but she bribed a police officer. We opened the house to our neighbours, selling everything – the grandfather clock, the tall black wardrobe from the bedroom, three chests of drawers, a washing machine, a fridge, the TV, and Papa’s bicycle. Some of the offers were insulting, according to Mama. She said that ‘honour and reason cannot be bought’, which I didn’t understand.
She allowed me to fill a small suitcase with clothes and shoes, but I had to leave my toys behind. ‘You’re too old for dolls,’ Agnesa said, but she saw my tears and promised to buy me a new doll in London from a famous toy store.
Mr Berisha did not get his money and we didn’t follow his instructions and meet ‘his man’ in Durrës. Instead, we left the cottage before dawn and Mr Hasani drove us to Tirana International Bus Terminal. We caught a bus to Kotor in Montenegro, and another to Sarajevo in Bosnia and another to Zagreb in Croatia. At each border Mama said we were tourists or visiting friends and she always had an address to give them, but I don’t think they were real. A night bus took us across the top of Italy through Venice and Verona to Milan, where we caught a train to Padova and another bus into France.
Agnesa turned sixteen on the journey. I was nine, almost ten, and every new country was taking me further away from the only life I’d ever known – hour after hour, mile after mile – away from Mina and Mr and Mrs Hasani and Aunt Polina and Papa’s grave.
My mind aches from so much useless remembering. What does it matter? What can I hope to achieve? The past is not trying to speak to me. And even if it was, I don’t want to hear what it has to say.
Cyrus is waiting for me outside Veejay’s house.
‘I thought I’d come and meet you,’ he says.
‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’ I ask, studying his face.
‘Yes.’
‘How?’
‘Let’s take a walk.’
Crossing the road, we descend a set of stone steps beside a bridge over the Nottingham and Beeston Canal. The rain has stopped, and the sun is out, throwing shadows on the wet towpath. We walk between patches of light and shade, passing an old lady feeding the ducks from a bench and a party of tourists wearing life-vests who are paddling kayaks on the canal.
‘It could have been a diabetic coma,’ says Cyrus. ‘We won’t know until the post-mortem.’
‘It’s still murder.’
‘Yes.’
‘I told Arben he’d be safe.’
‘It’s not your fault.’
Then whose fault is it? I want to ask. Who can I blame? We are still walking but I’m so angry that I struggle to focus.
‘I’m going to Scotland,’ says Cyrus.
‘Why?’
‘That’s where Angus Radford comes from. I want to find out more about him and where you might have met him.’
A lump expands in my throat.
‘I’m not asking you to come,’ says Cyrus. ‘It’s safer here.’
