Then, a voice, muffled. ‘Hello? Is someone there?’

Before Manolis could react, the door reopened. Fierce sunlight spewed in. Struggling to focus, he held up a hand before his eyes. Blinking away the glare, he turned back and finally saw the inside of the shipping container. There was a single bed in one corner: metal frame, foam mattress, military blanket, no sheet. The plywood floor was heavily stained. The walls were marked in certain places, deeply scratched, as if bodies had been purposely flung against them with sufficient force. The ceiling was painfully low.

And then, in the furthest corner, restrained in a chair with small rear wheels, was a man. He was facing the corner, his back to the door.

Ahmed’s face was obscured, his entire head wrapped in a white cloth. It was what Deacon called a ‘spit hood’.

‘He’s taken to spitting,’ Deacon said. ‘Become agitated and hostile.’

Deacon untied the hood, removed it, wheeled Ahmed around. The detainee blinked wildly, his face brightening as Manolis came into sharp focus.

The second guard leant into the container, his silhouette placing a portable floodlight and small battery-operated fan on the floor. He switched them on, and Manolis felt the thick air move, the cool relief, and began a gradual return to his body. Three plastic bottles of tepid water followed, rolling across the plywood. Sparrow picked up a bottle and offered it to Ahmed with a courteous smile. He gulped thirstily and clumsily, water dribbling down his chin and chest.

Deacon freed Ahmed’s restraints. The detainee immediately stood and stretched his back.

‘If you need anything, we’ll be outside,’ Deacon said. ‘Give us a yell if there’s any trouble.’

The door slammed again.

Manolis went and sat at the head of the bed. The mattress felt hot, almost damp with humidity. Around his shoes, big black cockroaches scuttled for cover.

Laying out the clear plastic bag on the bed, Manolis asked the asylum seeker if he recognised the items inside.

Massaging blood into his serrated wrists, Ahmed studied the items a moment, wide-eyed, then said, ‘No.’

His one-word response echoed throughout the bare shipping container, as if to underscore his proclamation of innocence.

‘Ahmed, these were found in your possession,’ Manolis said. ‘It is very serious.’

The detainee carefully re-examined the bag, clutching each item inside the protective plastic with analytic fingers. Manolis watched Ahmed’s eyes closely to determine if his mouth would soon be speaking untruths.

Again, he responded, ‘No.’

The security guards outside – if they were still outside – made no sound. In the corner of the container, the fan whirred away, shunting around the lethargic hot air molecules.

As if in response to his earlier reflection, Manolis went on the offensive. The detainee’s monosyllabic answers had roused his ire. Energy leached from his body.

‘No? What does “no” mean?’

Ahmed looked over at Sparrow, who now stood metallically, his warmth having faded to a leaden grey glare.