He walked down the road with cars parked either side. It was early morning, but the sun was already high in the bright blue sky. Up ahead was a golden sandy beach and beyond that, the warm crystal waters of the Mediterranean Sea.
There was a breeze blowing which cooled him down slightly. He was nervous. No, he was petrified. Sweat was running down his face and his Adidas T-shirt was sticking to his back.
He kept turning around and looking over his shoulder. He had no idea how he had managed to leave his hotel room without awakening his “parents” in the adjoining room. He’d crept down the back stairs and scurried through the kitchens. He’d gone unnoticed as breakfast for more than two hundred guests was busily being prepared. He’d dodged shouting chefs and hurrying waiters, stolen a banana and a croissant from a tray, and bolted out of the fire escape. Once he was out of sight of the hotel, he’d sat on the steps of a closed shop and eaten his meagre breakfast. It had tasted foul.
Yesterday evening, while alone in his single room, he’d looked on his phone for the nearest police station. It was less than a five-minute walk, yet he’d been walking for more than half an hour now and he still couldn’t find it. He’d been down the Avenue de la Corse twice and there was nothing resembling a police station at all.
Then he saw it. Above a black door, next to barred windows was a sign which read Police Nationale. He’d thought it was a closed down shop when he’d passed it before. How could such a small building be a police station?
His heart quickened. He glanced around him once more to check he wasn’t being followed, then pushed open the door and stepped inside.
He didn’t know a word of French apart from bonjour. Marseille seemed like a very touristy place, so, fingers crossed, someone in here would speak English and understand him. He approached the desk. A dishevelled man in his mid-fifties with grey stubble and a dark tan looked down at him.
‘Bonjour. Comment puis-je vous aider?’
He looked up at him with wide, terrified eyes. ‘Do you speak English?’
‘Non.’
‘Is there someone here who speaks English?’
The policeman looked to the door then back at the young boy. ‘Où sont vos parents?’
He only understood the word parents and took a step back. He looked at the door. This had all been a terrible mistake. He should leave. Run. But where to?
‘Please. I need your help.’ His eyes filled with tears.
The policeman didn’t say anything to him but stepped away from his desk. At the back of the room, he spoke to another man in an identical uniform. Their voices were low, and they kept looking over at him. He still had time to run.
‘Hello. I speak a little English,’ the second man said in a heavily accented voice when they both returned to the front desk.
From his back pocket, the boy took out a sheet of A4 paper that had been folded into fours. He opened it up, placed it on the desk and flattened it out. It was a missing persons poster.
Underneath the red headline was a photograph of a young boy, smiling, with blond hair and blue eyes.
The boy pointed at the photograph and then at himself. He did this a few times.
‘This is me,’ he said. ‘This boy is me.’
‘This is you?’
‘Yes.’
‘You are this missing boy?’
‘Yes. I’m him. I’m Carl Meagan.’