Fyfe grabbed his own piece of outdoor furniture, plopped himself down. Resting the piece comfortably on his hip, he re-pointed it squarely at Manolis’s heart.

‘Now the reffo, Omari, well, he was startin’ to be a problem. Onions said he was becomin’ a troublesome and dangerous figure among the other reffos.’

Manolis struggled to comprehend. This description of Ahmed didn’t at all sound like the self-effacing young man he’d interviewed twice.

‘How exactly?’ Manolis asked. ‘Was he threatening them?’

‘The opposite.’ Fyfe snorted a laugh. ‘Omari was becomin’ vocal, political, argumentative, which began to fire up the other detainees. Onions was worried about his authority bein’ undermined, about the peasants stormin’ the gates, about a mutiny, bad press, and his arse bein’ fried.’

The sergeant explained that Ahmed had been stirring the pot, talking to his colleagues, plotting, protesting, rioting.

‘And for that, Onions blamed our darling schoolteacher cos she was actually encouragin’ Omari to speak up.’

Manolis nodded subconsciously. He’d have been speaking up too. And loudly.

‘On top of that, I gave that prick Onions no choice,’ Fyfe said proudly. ‘I threatened to blow the lid off his little operation.’

Manolis looked at Fyfe blankly.

‘What, you think I don’t know what’s been goin’ on up at the brown house all this time?’ Fyfe added.

Without warning, he slumped forward. He pinched the bridge of his light-bulb nose and squeezed his temples, deep like irrigation ditches. Exhaling, he began to mutter. He spoke of a young girl, unkempt, bare feet, big black eyes. She’d one day run into the station and into his very arms, her slick, teary face leaving a wet imprint on his work shirt. This hadn’t been long after the detention centre opened. He gave her food, water, wiped her snotty nose and moist cheeks. She stayed silent for a long time, unwilling to speak, not even to share her address.

‘But she didn’t have to tell me where she lived,’ Fyfe said. ‘I could tell.’

He returned the girl to the centre, met with her mother, asked her what had happened. Her daughter had needed to use the toilet, but the woman feared to take her there after dark. So she’d taken her outside and pulled down her pants, holding her in a squatting position near the ground. A security guard on routine patrol shone a torch at the young girl’s vagina. Embarrassed, she was unable to finish. The guard then refused entry to the staff toilets. The girl later wet herself.

‘Pretty traumatic for a little kid,’ said Fyfe.

Manolis nodded solemnly. He eyed the gun barrel, still aimed at his vital organs.

‘The woman told me another guard asked to see her daughter havin’ a shower,’ Fyfe continued.