The locks were unfastened, the chains rattling free like headless snakes, and the police were shown inside. Manolis stepped into the gloom with trepidation, his nostrils flaring at the smell of stale sweat that clung in the thick container air. A cluster of blowflies, fat and moist, rushed to feast around his mouth and nose. As he waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, a raspy cough resonated from a distant corner of the container, echoing off the bare metal walls before fading into insignificance.

‘Crap,’ Deacon said. ‘Wrong box.’

‘Jesus,’ said the other guard.

Deacon pulled hard on Manolis’s arm, yanking him back into the daylight. The other guard reapplied the chains and locks to the sound of continued coughing, then the guards led the police to the next shipping container.

‘What was that?’ Manolis asked.

‘Nuthin’,’ Deacon said bluntly.

‘Who is that person? Are they okay? Was that Omari? What’s going on here?’

‘Look, mate…’ Deacon frowned. ‘You’re here to investigate a murder. So just do that, alright? Anything else has got nuthin’ to do with you.’

Manolis approached Deacon, stood in his personal space, and smelt alcohol on the man’s heavy breath, the remnants of a night binge drinking, of stress management.

‘Bullshit,’ Manolis said. ‘Answer me.’

Deacon stared him down with small crooked eyes. ‘In accordance with operational policy within the centre, detainees who become abusive, aggressive, antisocial, noncompliant, who incite mass unrest, or who have undertaken real or threatened acts of self-harm are monitored in the managed accommodation area.’ He spoke lethargically, as if reading from a work manual. ‘Reasonable force can and will be used to ensure the safety of all persons in immigration detention, staff and property. The use of force is considered to be reasonable if proportionate to the risk faced. This includes use of the enhanced escort position.’

Manolis looked at Sparrow. His expression was blank; this place was new to him too. But the detective was incredulous at what he was hearing and asked Deacon about screening for mental illness, fearing the damage that such conditions could be doing.

‘Standard operational policy, sir,’ the other guard said, in a reassuring, peacekeeping tone. ‘It’s for their safety and the safety of others.’

The second container door was opened. Manolis and Sparrow were shown inside.

The metal door slammed, plunging Manolis into a darkness blacker than any he’d ever experienced. It was immediately disorientating, his hands invisible before his face, even when he held them right before his eyes. The door’s echo made his ears ring. And then, when both the echo and ringing had faded, there was not a scintilla of sound. Not a voice outside or the wind whistling or a bird flying overhead. The blackness was suffocating and seemed only to intensify the heat of the weathering steel. Manolis felt light-headed and detached from his limbs.

‘Boss?’ said Sparrow, voice faltering.

‘Wait,’ Manolis said. ‘Just wait.’