“They could not all pay, no. These smugglers want much money. And Ranim and I, we could not help. We both work, we clean offices at night, but it is not good job, and not good pay.”

“Samir’s family was going to follow?”

“Yes. When Samir could send them money. But sometimes the men with boats, they make you keep paying. Samir very young. Only thirteen. They could make him work many months before they say he has paid them what he owes.”

“Well, he got here,” said Banks.

“But what happened? The paper my friend showed me said someone stabbed him.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Hadeed, but that’s true. Yes.”

An expression of pain passed across his face. “But why? He was only a boy. He never hurt anyone.”

“We don’t know why. Until you came here today, we didn’t even know his name or his nationality.”

Ranim put her head in her hands and wept. Her husband comforted her. When her tears had subsided, Banks asked if they would like more tea, or coffee. Aimar asked for a glass of water for his wife and Banks fetched it. Annie sat next to Ranim and helped comfort her. Banks was beginning to feel sick and angry. Samir had come all this way, suffered God only knew what trials and tribulations in his rite of passage, only to end up dead in a wheelie bin, without even an identity.

“I won’t keep you much longer,” Banks said after handing the glass of water to Ranim. “Do you know if Samir traveled legally at any stage? Would he have been through the formalities when he arrived here?”

“I do not know. But maybe I think not.”

“It doesn’t matter. I mean, we are not from immigration. It’s just a matter of checking with authorities to see if we have any record of him entering the country. Was he an asylum seeker?”

“He was scared young boy,” said Aimar. “I think he maybe just get off boat and run.”

“I want to try and arrange for his parents to come to claim his body. I can’t promise you anything, but I will—”

“No!” Aimar shook his head. “No. You do not understand.”

“What don’t I understand?”

“Ali, and my sister Lely. They cannot come here now.”

“Why not?”

Aimar grasped Ranim’s hand. She was weeping again. “Because they are dead,” he went on. “All dead. Mother. Father. Sisters.”

“My God,” said Banks. “How?” But even as he asked, he knew it was a silly question.

“Bomb,” said Aimar, and with tears in his eyes and a kind of matter-of-fact finality, he made a flying and diving gesture with his hand, then mimicked the sound of an explosion.

Chapter 7

7