'Isn't that going to cost me a lot more money?'

'Look, I know it's a bit more expensive than we talked about. But we're in Miami. It's the law. We're duty bound to drive a soft top.'

The World Has Turned

They come here from all over the world: Guatemala, Honduras, El Salvador, Panama; Cyprus, Bangladesh and Brazil. They come weekly from Melbourne and Darwin, bi-monthly from Yokohama and Hong Kong. Every nine days they sail in from Casablanca; every eleven, from Santa Cruz. Cargo ships, tramp ships, freighters, tankers, and mail boats eager with parcels. Twenty metres, thirty metres, one hundred metres long; capacity fifty thousand metric tons. The Marie Marie, the Mathilde Mathilde, the Columbine Columbine, the Quetzal Quetzal; the Delight Delight, the Deluxe Deluxe and the and the Ever Decent Ever Decent. Hulking containers, piled high like Lego bricks, stowed neat and tidy on their bows. Red cranes, black hulls, blue-painted railings; their great engines wheezing in the sun. The world flows through this place every hour of every day, it is an axis on which the earth turns. But we can't get close to them, these adventures, these vessels. We can't get anywhere near.

Michael and I wait at the visitor's desk. There are doc.u.ments to be queued for, appointments to be made and ID cards to be handed out. It could take all day, but you're from England, they say. Well in that case, it could take all week. There is no one here with time spare to talk to us and we're getting in their way, we can feel it: the indolent slowing down the industrious. But if we want to, if we need to, there's another office we can visit, a place where we can check out the current shipping schedules. And this, I think, is all I really need. To know this ship arrived and departed, just like the German said it did: to know for certain that it was here.

The Grunhilde Grunhilde docked in Miami on Christmas Eve, she stayed in port less than twenty-four hours. No one will talk to us about stowaways. It's a sensitive issuedrug smuggling, immigrationand security here is brisk and tight. But it's clear that this thing could be done, couldn't it? One man? In a trunk, in a case, in a crate? If he had the money and the time and the sheer determination, an individual, a person, could have done this? docked in Miami on Christmas Eve, she stayed in port less than twenty-four hours. No one will talk to us about stowaways. It's a sensitive issuedrug smuggling, immigrationand security here is brisk and tight. But it's clear that this thing could be done, couldn't it? One man? In a trunk, in a case, in a crate? If he had the money and the time and the sheer determination, an individual, a person, could have done this?

What person? What man? If we think a crime's been committed in the Port of Miami, then they'd like to know all about it. Forget it, we laugh. It's purely hypothetical. In truth, we were only wonderingyou know, just the two of usif such a thing were even possible. They'd like us to wait where we are. They have time to speak to us, now. But we can't hang around, we must be going. Didn't we say, we're running late. For what? For something. A swim, a meal, a drink; a sudden burning desire to visit Mickey and the gang at Magic Kingdom. We're tourists, we're dumb, we don't want to be causing any trouble, and the last thing we'd want to do is upset the authorities.

We retreat as fast as we can; the cruise ships honking and bellowing behind us, warning them not to let us go. But it's too late now, we're back on the road, heading out towards the golden beaches. I'm wondering if Daniel left this same way. In a truck? In the boot of a car? And where would he have gone to, that first night, that first hour? Where exactly would he have ended up?

'Where to, Shorty?' says Michael. 'Where do you want to head next?'

'North,' I say. 'Let's go further north. All the way up to Sunny Isles.'

Michael puts his foot down and accelerates, and the hot air blasts hard against our faces. I have black sungla.s.ses on and a scarf around my head, I look like Grace Kelly's mutant sister. We look to all the world like we're enjoying ourselvesthe soft top down, the radio onbut deep down I'm overcome with nerves. The apartment building where my teenage self lived seems almost mythical to me now. I sometimes wonder if the five of us were ever there. The open plan rooms, the rough concrete balcony, the air conditioning unit with the furred up vents that coughed like a consumptive in the night. My mothers tights drip-drying in the bathroom. My brother's socks stinking up the hall. My father with his feet up and a beercan in his hand flicking through the weather channels like a man possessed. He liked to watch CNN in the evenings because you could find out what the weather was doing back at home. He dearly liked to keep track of it. If it was raining in London, he'd say, don't you miss the rain? If it was sunny he'd say don't you miss the English summer?

My mother didn't seem to miss any of it. At least, she never joined in with any of his lamentations. She just kept quiet and got on with things: waxing her legs, poisoning the c.o.c.kroaches, making sure the five of us were halfway presentable; Sylvie's long hair brushed and bunched, Daniel's sports kit neatly folded and half ironed. These memories seem wilted to me somehow, and I dearly want them to shine. As different as it is now, this city, this place, a piece of our history is etched into it. It's the last place we lived as a complete family.

Beyond the gaudy splendours of South Beach, the island begins to exhale, sagging like a new year's eve Christmas tree, weighed down with one too many baubles. You travel through time as you travel south to north, from the art deco thirties to the beige-coloured seventies, then back round again to the fifties. The buildings are tired up here; sloppy, run down. Why make the effort, who'd be coming up here to see them? They are your middle-aged uncle in his favourite pyjamas surprised when you come round to visit unannounced. They are the pot luck dinner that you pull from the fridge, cold ham and chicken with leftovers. Beyond the golf courses and the high rises and the last good restaurant, beyond the slick of Golden Beach and Bal Harbour. The bulldozers have their eye on these low rise condos and cheap motels, but the original buildings are blessedly plain here. They are scruffy and worn, and I like them.

'This part more like you remember it?' says Michael, noticing my smile.

'Yeah,' I say. 'I think I recognise some of it.'

'Think your building will still be here?'

I don't know. I can't say. New development is everywhere, but I dearly hope so.

Siesta Pines has been spruced up. By this I mean its exterior has been painted a mixture of almond pink and key-lime green. The European-style shuttersthey are fake, they don't open or closeare sickly and bright, and the plaster walls are muted and salt stained. I stare at the building like I would at a ghost, but it was here all along, always has been. It simply carried on its life without us. The disaster, our our disaster didn't touch it. Michael takes my hand and we walk round the scrubby gardens to the pool. There's a locked gate there now, there didn't use to be, and we have to wait for someone to leave before we can make our way inside. The chairs around the sun deck take my breath away. Some are newwhite, with candy striped fabric seatsbut a few are scratched and old and bottle green. Hard moulded plastic that makes your bottom ache, whose surface sticks to your skin when you perspire. disaster didn't touch it. Michael takes my hand and we walk round the scrubby gardens to the pool. There's a locked gate there now, there didn't use to be, and we have to wait for someone to leave before we can make our way inside. The chairs around the sun deck take my breath away. Some are newwhite, with candy striped fabric seatsbut a few are scratched and old and bottle green. Hard moulded plastic that makes your bottom ache, whose surface sticks to your skin when you perspire.

'Stop making that noise, do you have to make that noise?'

'It isn't me, Mum, it's the seat seat.'

The pool, was it always this colour, this washed out and grimy grey-blue? I remember it being clearer and brighter. The tiles that line it are exactly the same, thoughthat flirty mermaid still swimming on the bottom, her blond curls spilling down her narrow back. I spent hours in this swimming pool staring at her through my goggles: eye to eye, nose to nose, face to face. I'd poke my tongue out and pull all kind of faces but she never did anything but smile back at me. I liked it that she smiled, I appreciated it. I valued her blessed lack of moods.

At the rear of the building the old awnings have all been torn down. They used to flap around like flags when it was windy, and if ever there was a strong and sudden gust in the night, the noise would wake me out of my sleep. Three flights up is our apartment. I can see it, right now: our front door, our old window frames, our same bra.s.s knocker, our doorbell. And I feel...what exactly? Crushingly, overwhelmingly homesick.

'You want to go and ask if we can look around? You want to knock on the door?'

It turns out that I do.

There's no answerthere's n.o.body homeso we rise up on tiptoes and peer through the sheer net curtains. Whoever lives here now has shocking taste. Swirly gold carpets, a mess of florals and pastels, and sofas still dressed in their tough plastic covers. The layout is exactly the same as it was when we lived here: over to the right, the tiny kitchen where we'd all crowd together to eat our breakfast; down to the left, along the hallway, my parents' room with its little en suite shower room. How happy was my mother to see that? To have a place to wash and dress and put on make-up that wasn't blighted by the mess and dirt of her children.

'Hey, what is it? Are you crying?'

I don't know, I hadn't realised that I was. But over to the left is another narrow doorway, it used to say Claire's roomStay out! Claire's roomStay out! I remember how relieved I was when I stepped inside this flat, how pleased I'd felt about getting my own place to sleep. Daniel and I had been forced to share a bedroom after Sylvie came along and I couldn't wait to have my privacy back. What surprised me, what shocked me, what I didn't expect, was that I found it hard to sleep alone. The truth wasand I'd never have admitted this to Danielthat for the first month or so, I sort of missed him. There were nights in the old house back in London when I'd been all too glad to have him around. I remember how relieved I was when I stepped inside this flat, how pleased I'd felt about getting my own place to sleep. Daniel and I had been forced to share a bedroom after Sylvie came along and I couldn't wait to have my privacy back. What surprised me, what shocked me, what I didn't expect, was that I found it hard to sleep alone. The truth wasand I'd never have admitted this to Danielthat for the first month or so, I sort of missed him. There were nights in the old house back in London when I'd been all too glad to have him around.

Late One Evening in a Car

Most of all I remember the sound that it made, the click of the front door closing. He didn't slam it, he just pulled it gently shut. I imagine he did this so he wouldn't wake us up, but already it was far too late. We had stirred, Daniel and I, an hour earlier, alerted to the sound of our parents' shouts: my mother's voice high pitched and shrill as a fish wife's, by father's lungs rumbling like a bull's. The walls were thick enough in the ramshackle house where we lived that we couldn't quite pick out the words, so we had to make do with just the rhythms. Up and down their voices went, rising and falling as they crisscrossed the room, all good detail soaked up by the heavy curtains. If I closed my eyes it sounded like a rock song about love, alternately soft and pleading, then wild and stern.

'What are they arguing about?'

'How should I know?'

'Shall we fetch a gla.s.s?'

'What for?'

'We can put it to the wall. If we put it to the wall and lay our ears to it, we'll be able to hear what they're saying.'

My brother wouldn't have it, he wasn't interested. He switched on his pocket torch, picked out one of his astronomy magazines and began to flick idly through the pages.

'You're going to read read?'

'Yes.'

'Now?'

'Why not?'

'How can you read at a time like this?'

Daniel didn't bother to answer. He yawned so wide I could see the fillings in his teeth, and concentrated harder on his magazine. I watched him squint in the half light but I could tell he wasn't actually reading it, he was too agitated to absorb the words. His toes tapped back and forth under the covers and his index finger kept returning to the exact same spot on the page. Every so often he'd catch me frowning at him, at which point he'd cough or clear his throat and turn the magazine to a fresh article.

'Interesting, is it?'

'It's OK.'

'What's it about?'

'Black holes.'

'What are they?'

'They're what's left after a star collapses and dies. If you got caught up inside of one you'd be crushed as thin as a strand of spaghetti. Everything that enters it gets trapped inside.'

I thought about this for a while. A hole you couldn't get out of. Me as thin as spaghetti.

'You're sure I wouldn't be able to get out again?'

'No, you wouldn't. Not ever.'

'Why not? If I really wanted to I'm sure I could do it. I'm better at climbing than you.'

'Nope, not a chance. That's the power of gravity, keeps you exactly where you're put.'

'I see.'

'No, Fats, I don't think you do.'

Clever clogs. Swot pants. Show off. Taking the p.i.s.s out of my puppy fat.

'They're not bothering you, then? Mum and Dad?'

He gave a shrug.

'You don't mind the noise?'

'No, not really.'

'You don't care that they hate each other, then?'

'They don't hate hate each other, Claire, it's complicated. You're too young, you wouldn't understand.' each other, Claire, it's complicated. You're too young, you wouldn't understand.'

d.a.m.n it. I didn't like it when he did that. When had that started, exactly? When had he got so much bigger than me? The second he'd reached his teens he'd seemed to roar away from me like a rocket. It happened so fast; it was as much as I could do to keep up with him.

Some quiet now. A moment of stillness. No more raised voices from down the hall. Daniel and I glanced at one another and crossed our fingers, offering up all kinds of secret pacts to G.o.d. I promised to do my homework if they would stop shouting for good. I promised to hang up my clothes and brush my teeth and be nice to the girl in my school with the lazy eye. It looked in two directions at once, it was creepy; her eyelashes were always covered in a sticky yellow crust. All of these promises to no avail. A brief slip of silencea minute, a minute and a halfthen they started it up all over again.

The argument crackled on like a bonfire. Every time you thought they'd reached the end of it, the whole thing would spontaneously reignite, as surely as if someone had opened a door and poured oxygen onto the dying embers. I began to feel a little uneasy. It seemed this disagreement had a life of its own and that my parents were losing their battle to control it. It was louder, more intense than it had been, with a deep and forbidding undertow. I closed my eyes tightly, put my fingers in my ears, but still I could hear their vibrations: m.u.f.fled, woolly and soupy, reaching in and pulling me under.

'Hey, fat-face. Come on, let's get up.'

Daniel had climbed out of his bed. He was standing right next to me in his pyjamas, shining his torch under his chin so he looked like a ghost. In ordinary circ.u.mstances this might have made me jump, but I knew he wasn't doing it to scare me.

'You've got b.u.m fluff,' I said.

'No, I haven't.'

'You have, on your cheeks. Mum said what it was and it's b.u.m fluff.'

He should have given me a dead leg or dead arm at that pointhe usually would havebut this time he decided not to bother.

'We'll go downstairs,' he said. 'To the back room. We won't be able to hear them down there, not if we put the TV on.'

This seemed to me to be a mixed blessing. I liked the idea of not being able to hear them, but I was a little afraid to leave them both alone. What if something happened? What if they set about one another with a hair brush or a torn-off chair leg? One of them might need us; they might need the two of us to intervene. On top of all that, most worrying of all, if we went downstairs we'd have to negotiate the haunted landing. There was no light on out there, not even from the bathroom, and we couldn't risk the chance of putting one on in case my parents saw us.

'Claire, are you coming down, or not?'

Decisions, decisions. Daniel was already on his way. I had no option but to follow him.

I held on tight to my big brother's hand as he guided me across the landing, then on past Sylvie's room and down the stairs. Astonishingly, no ghosts appeared from the shadows and even though Daniel had said I ought to expect it, we didn't come across any giant spiders with teeth like knives. There was a moment with a rogue moth that might have caused us some problems, but even then I managed not to cry out.

'Phew.'

'Phew.'

'We made it.'

'Yes, we did.'

It was only then that I realised Daniel had been scared, too.

The house seemed larger in the darkness. It was sprawling, ill kempt and ill cared for and we'd only moved there because my father had promised to do it up. We'd been here two years already but he'd never seemed to get round to finishing it. It struck me, sitting there on the sofa in the dark, that it must have been a struggle to take care ofthe dusty floors without carpets, the walls with no plaster, the half-built kitchen and the rusty, dripping taps. Dad often had to work weekends or late into the night and I imagined my mother sitting here on her own, long after we'd all gone to bed: watching the TV, reading a book; smoking a secretive and strange-smelling cigarette.

'Shall we put on the TV?' I said, to the quiet.

'Yes,' Daniel said, 'I think we should.'

Mum had told us that the TV stations stopped broadcasting at midnight, but Daniel and I had long since decided this was a lie, an elaborate ruse drummed up by our parents to make sure we stayed in our beds. When we were fast asleep we knew full well that it came back on again; all kinds of programmes, all manner of adventures: war films and weirdness and nakedness.

'It's blank.'

'Really, is it? Try tuning it to a different station, then.'

Daniel had been hoping for a Dracula film or an episode of The Sky at Night The Sky at Night, I'd been hoping for an episode of Dallas. Instead there was the low shush of white noise and a screen of fizzing black and white pixels.

'It's true, then?'

'Seems so.'

'Shall we try listening to the radio instead?'

I nodded but we never switched it on. The sounds in the house had begun to warp and change shape. Upstairs, Sylvie had started bawling, they had finally woken her up. We crept to the door and listened as hard as we could, but we sensed all the shouting had stopped. Mum was comforting Sylvie now and Dad was thumping about in his wardrobe.

's.h.i.t, be careful. He's coming down.'