At least, I think that might be it, but it might not be. It might also be because of what happened next. Which is, that karma came to get me. It was a funny sort of karma, which had no sense of justice or good or bad, no moral code or anything like that. Just a sense of irony, perhaps. Or sarcasm. Maybe that’s it. In the face of the sarcastic Fates, I want you to know that I’m still a bitch, no matter what.
What happened is this: my phone went off. On vibrate, we were trying to be quiet and I’m not that stupid. I took it out and looked at it, and on the screen it said... You’ll never guess. Or will you? Unbelievably, incredibly, given the timing... it was my dad. My fucking cunting bloody dad.
‘Marti,’ he went. ‘You’re still alive! Marti, my darling, my darling, darling daughter.’
‘You bastard!’ I yelled. ‘You fucking bastard! How dare you! How fucking dare you – now? Now, you bastard? Now!’
‘Hey, Marti,’ he said, and he gave that chuckle he has when he’s anxious and trying to reassure you at the same time. ‘Marti! You OK, girl?’
Everyone on the boat was hissing at me like a basketful of snakes, because, I mean, while no one was that bothered about boats leaving the shore to cross the cold North Sea, it was still a secret kind of activity; and believe me, I was screaming the house down. Big John got up to come and sort me out, but the whole boat wobbled so he had to sit down.
‘Shut your f*****g mouth or you’re going over the side,’ he hissed.
‘Marti, you OK?’ said my dad again.
‘OK. I have a situation to deal with. I’ll ring you back,’ I said. I put the phone away. And – I wasn’t mucking around here – I took the gun out. No messing. There was a collective gasp from my fellow passengers.
‘We need to go back to shore,’ I said.
Simon shook his head. ‘Shoot me dead,’ he said.
‘No such luck,’ I said. I pointed the gun not at him, at Big John.
‘Marti?’ said Rowan. ‘Are we going home?’ Home, you remember, for Rowan, being Amsterdam.
‘We need to pick up our dad first, baby,’ I said.
Simon shrugged and turned his head away, heading out to the open sea. Everyone else in the boat was begging him to turn around. John was staring at me like he meant to murder me, which he probably did. I quietly drew back the firing pin on my gun. One bullet. It had to come in handy one day.
‘Turn the boat round,’ said John suddenly. Simon glanced back to look at him. ‘Turn it round, I said,’ snarled John. Simon paused... paused some more... then turned the boat around.
I kept the gun out for the few minutes it took to get back to the shore. I had no idea if the bullet was in the right place in the chamber or not, but it was enough. John was staring at me like a viper the whole way. I didn’t care. On the way, I was thinking about things. All sorts of things went through my head. About the journey, about Maude. About Rowan.
‘Are you getting out or aren’t you?’ asked Big John.
And I said...
‘No. Change of plan.’ I dipped my head. ‘Sorry. We’re going to Amsterdam.’
It was quite funny, looking back. In fact, it was funny at the time, because every single person in the boat started moaning at me exactly as if I’d just made the taxi home from a shopping expedition go right out of its way to drop me off, and then decided not to get out after all. All of them, at the same time. Bitching away. It made me laugh.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Look, I made a mistake. That phone call. But it’s OK now. Let’s go.’
So the grumbling died down, and we pushed off again. John had to get his feet wet a second time so I was not the most popular person in the dinghy – but we set off on our way to Amsterdam, City of Sin. I tucked the gun down into my belt, close at hand, just in case I might still need it. One bullet left. It’s the great thing about bullets – you don’t always have to use them for them to work. I let out a big sigh and pulled Rowan onto my lap and rested my chin on the top of his head. I didn’t ring back – we were getting out of range anyway. I’d save that for the other side. Leaving my dad behind was like...
But you know what? I’ve had enough now, explaining everything that happens to the likes of you. So tell you what – why don’t you work it out for yourself? You’ve heard enough about me – all you ever will hear, that’s for sure. If you can’t work it out now, you never will. Enough to say that the cold North Sea slapped against the prow of the dinghy, like a hungry cat playing with a tiny mousey as we sailed off into the unknown. I held Rowan tight and prayed to my own private, nonexistent gods to carry us safely to the other side. And I thought to myself, how odd life is, that you can end up doing exactly the same thing for two entirely different reasons.
My name is Martina Okoro. I don’t know much, but what I do know is whose side I’m on. I’m on Rowan’s side. I’m on Dad’s side and Tariq’s side. I’m on the side of the NEA and the FNA and one day, when I have the time, I’m going to come back and fight for what’s mine. This England belongs to me and to people like me. One day I’ll be back, and when I am, it won’t be just three bullets I’ll be having. I’ll be armed to the teeth. Just watch me.
Acknowledgements
My partners in crime, Pete Kalu and Tariq Mehmood, have been incredibly generous with their time and efforts, reading through the drafts, putting me right and advising me on matters of race, ethnicity, politics, philosophy, all things literature and much else beside. Thanks, boys! It’s been a real pleasure.
Thanks also to Jenet le Lacheur for reading through the book and helping me out on trans issues so well. Special thanks are due to Kim Blackburn, Quen Took and Beck Simpson for providing so much passion, enthusiasm and commitment into the project. You really helped give me faith in this book.
To Muli Ameye for help on getting Marti’s mixed heritage right and to Lucy Christopher for her notes, special thanks are due.
In Italy, thanks to Pepe Bianco and Davide Pace for looking after me and helping me organise and carry out my interviews. And special thanks to George, to Mervat and to Hisham and his family for telling me their stories, and what it’s like to live in a war zone.
Thanks to Eloise Wilson for the final spit and polish, to Chloe Sackur for her efforts on the book’s behalf. And last but not least, my editor Charlie Sheppard, who takes no prisoners in making sure that the book is the best I and she can make it. Charlie, your name ought to be on the front somewhere. Thanks a million.
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