by Holly Watt
A plane tracked across the sky towards Heathrow. Casey’s eyes followed it aimlessly.
‘But what could you have done?’ she asked quietly.
‘I don’t know. We didn’t know. We had a job. Orders. These were our allies . . .’ His voice hardened. ‘In the morning, the Afghans would be all bright and breezy. As if it was normal, just what they did. And maybe it was. And we needed them. We were miles from anywhere else. We needed them, and they knew that.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Sorry for who?’ He still had his back to her. ‘Bacha bazi, that’s what they called it. Boy play. We just looked the other way.’
Across the park, London spiked into the sky. The Shard, the Gherkin, the BT Tower, tens of millions of lives.
‘We didn’t do anything,’ Ed said tightly. ‘We just got on with it.’
‘It wasn’t your fault.’ The words were automatic.
‘And then when we went out to Salama together,’ he spoke very quietly, ‘again, you and I. We just watched. We didn’t do anything . . .’
‘I’m sorry,’ Casey said. ‘So sorry. I didn’t know.’
He spun round towards her.
‘So I can’t ignore those girls now,’ he said.
Despite herself, she felt that flood of relief. ‘Do you mean . . .?’
‘I mean I’ll come to Bangladesh.’
For a second, she couldn’t speak. ‘Thank you, Ed.’
‘One condition,’ he said.
‘What?’ Anything.
He glanced round. ‘Sure?’
‘Yes.’ She didn’t have to think, agreed blindly.
He sat down on the other end of the bench, stared across the city.
‘This is the last time, Casey. Do you understand?’
She knew what he was asking.
‘After this, I don’t want to know anything more.’ He had turned towards her, his eyes hard. ‘I can’t know any more. It’s too much. It’s endless.’
So that no one can say, ‘I didn’t know.’
‘I just want to get on with my life,’ he said. ‘You have to promise me, Casey. You have to choose. I’ll come to Dhaka, but this is the end of it.’
Casey ducked her face away.
You have to choose.
‘Casey?’
She looked up, London blurring.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘All right.’
As soon as the words were spoken, she felt the shock of regret. But his shoulders relaxed.
‘You think I’m a coward.’
‘No. Never.’
He was staring past her. ‘I will never forget, you know. I will never forget those screams out beyond the light.’
31
Just a few days later, they flew into Dhaka.
The day was slowing into evening as Ed and Casey walked down the long corridors of the old airport. A golden light sloped through the windows, and men clustered in glass smoking-rooms, clogged like lungs of soot.
The airport was sweltering, the Bangladesh spring burning into summer. There would be a few more months of searing heat, and then the crackling flood of the monsoon.
Casey was wearing a long loose dress over baggy trousers. Bangladesh was a Muslim country, and believed strictly in modest dress for women. The gold wedding ring was tight on her finger. She smoothed down the pale blue cotton, trying to breathe easily.
She straightened her shoulders, the surge of excitement coming from nowhere: I’m here, really here, all on red.
She glanced across at Ed, unfamiliar with his darkened hair.
‘It’ll be all right.’ He touched her arm, just once, because they could never be sure. And Casey grinned up at him as they approached passport control, carefree, happy, easy.
Never talk to strangers, that old chant. Never get into their car.
But she did it time and again. And every time could be her last. A roll of the dice too far.
Casey glanced around the airport, looking for spies. The Bangladeshi faces stared back, indifferent.
‘You’re playing on their turf,’ Dash had said, just before they left. ‘Are you sure about this, Casey? Really?’
‘We have to,’ she’d said. ‘We have to take the chance.’
‘We don’t.’
‘I do.’
And she stepped forward through the airport.
Dominic and Emily had met them at the airport back in London, to hand over their passports. Casey could see that Emily had been crying.
‘I have to be there,’ Emily had tried one last time. ‘I have to be with Poppy as soon as she is born. Please don’t make me wait here, Casey. Please.’
But she handed over her passport all the same, Casey staring down at it. Pretty Emily, seven years ago, smiling in an elegant shirt and jaunty earrings. A photograph taken before the smile was blurred by sadness. Casey felt that pang of sympathy again.
‘Dominic’s passport is quite old,’ said Emily. ‘It’s nearly full, actually.’
‘It’s all helpful,’ said Casey. ‘I am sorry you can’t travel with us. But if they spotted you . . . If they guessed . . .’
‘I know. And you need our passports anyway.’
They placed their two passports side by side for a second. Emily and Casey, Casey and Emily. There was a smudge of blue paint on Emily’s wrist, and she scrubbed at it, almost angrily.
‘They’ll do,’ Emily admitted, glancing between the two photographs. ‘We could be cousins.’
Casey stared at the grey eyes, the long brown hair, the scattering of freckles, and wondered about all the lives she might have lived.
The airport babbled around them.
‘I know what you must think of me,’ said Emily again.
Dominic and Ed had stepped away from them, separated momentarily by a caravan of baggage trolleys, trundling past in a long line. There were children shrieking, a mother wiping a nose. Come on, Mia, for heaven’s sake.
Emily stared with a naked jealousy that almost hurt.
‘I know why you did it,’ said Casey. ‘It’s all right.’
‘The worst thing,’ said Emily, almost to herself, ‘is that you never even know when to start mourning. “It can take ages,” people say, trying to help. “You’ve only been trying a year!” Then it’s two years, three years, four. And then there are the miracles. “Great-Aunt Jennifer, she didn’t have her first until she was forty-three! She was convinced she couldn’t! Imagine!” ’ Emily swallowed. ‘You don’t even know when to grieve.’
The line of trolleys had passed.
‘Have you ever lost a baby?’
The question startled Casey, and she recognised the irony as she flinched away from the intrusion.
She looked across at Emily. ‘No,’ she said.
‘Have you heard of phantom limb syndrome?’ Emily asked. ‘It’s almost like that, losing a baby. Rationally, you know they’re gone. But some dark recess of your mind won’t quite believe it. Can’t quite believe that the world could be so cruel. It’s a shock, the memory, every single time. That something so intrinsically a part of you just disappeared one day. Ceased to exist, just like that. Your mind sends back those flashes, bursts of pointless pain. There she is. In a playground, as you pass a school. There she is. Just waiting for me.’
They stood there in silence.
‘I am glad though.’ Emily tried to smile. ‘That you are going to find out about these people. It is horrendous. I can’t imagine what it must be like for that girl, Romida. Her life.’
Her voice was interrupted by an announcement over the loudspeaker, a bored woman listing delayed planes.
Emily crouched down. She had brought a huge suitcase with her, unzipping it now. It was filled with baby paraphernalia, and she showed it to Casey now. The tiny pink babygrows and the Pampers. The milk formula and the baby wipes. There was even a book about looking after a baby for the first few days. ‘If you’ve got nothing better to read on the flight.’ Emily tried to make it a joke. ‘But it does come ve
ry highly recommended.’
Casey kneeled down, picking up a little changing mat.
‘We will take very good care of her, Emily.’
‘I know.’ Emily repacked a grey baby sling. ‘I know. There’s also a car seat. And the travel cot. The instructions are included . . .’
Her voice trailed away.
‘Remember,’ said Casey gently. ‘You have to stay low-profile now, both you and Dominic. Don’t answer your phone. If someone from the clinic calls you, I will ring them back from a Bangladeshi mobile. And you can’t stay at your home for a bit, either. I’m sorry. If the clinic somehow realises you’re still in this country . . .’
‘I know.’ Emily wiped her eyes. ‘We were going to go away anyway. Go away and come back – surprise! – with a baby. Tell everyone she came a bit early. Somewhere in England though.’ She almost smiled. ‘Because I’m not allowed to fly any more, of course.’
Now, Emily handed over a bankcard too. ‘The Post will reimburse you,’ Casey promised automatically.
Emily shrugged, gave her sweet smile. ‘It hardly even matters any more.’ She looked across at Casey curiously. ‘Are you scared?’
‘No,’ said Casey. Then: ‘A little,’ she admitted.
‘Please don’t take any risks,’ begged Emily. ‘I can’t bear it.’
‘I won’t,’ Casey lied.
Then a smile that was almost a conspiracy spread across Emily’s face. ‘There’s a payment due to the clinic after the baby gets safely back to England. Quite a big one. They’ll want you to get back here, for that.’
‘Thank you,’ Casey smiled. ‘That is helpful to know.’
‘Please hurry back,’ said Emily. ‘As soon as you have got Poppy. Please.’
‘We will come home as soon as we can,’ Casey promised. ‘I don’t want to be out there any longer than we have to be.’
‘I’ve been reading up,’ said Emily. ‘About bonding, and attachment, and emotional transfer. It all just seems so ridiculous now.’
‘As soon as possible,’ Casey repeated.
Emily stared across the airport. At the crowds, the orange signs, the clumsy clutter of suitcases. ‘None of this,’ she said, ‘was ever in my dreams.’
She turned to Casey. ‘We never meant to hurt anyone.’ Her voice was more urgent. ‘We were just like everyone else. We thought the good outweighed the bad.’
Those decisions, a million taken every day.
‘It won’t be long,’ said Casey. ‘We’ll be back soon.’
Emily’s eyes were fixed on Casey’s. ‘Please,’ she said. ‘Please just bring me back my baby.’
32
There was a long queue at passport control. The airport was filled with tired Bangladeshi men travelling home. Ed and Casey had flown to Qatar first, and on the flight to Bangladesh they were surrounded by the poorest workers, looking awkward on plush airline seats.
Going home, though. Going home. Because they might have been in Qatar for months, these men. Years, even. Building the palaces and the towers, the stadiums and the follies, all in that blazing heat. For decades, Bangladesh has sent its workers abroad, for some sort of chance. Any sort of chance, really.
Now Ed held Casey’s hand as they got closer to passport control. She glanced down for a second, seeing their fingers intertwined, her knuckles white.
‘OK?’ she asked.
‘I’m fine.’
On the other side of the border, Casey hid their own passports deep in her luggage. Dominic’s and Emily’s passports were in her handbag, easy to reach. Casey slid her hand into her bag for a second and traced the gold lettering, just for a second.
In the Name of Her Majesty . . . to allow the bearer to pass freely without let or hindrance . . . Always taken for granted, those most precious words.
And then they walked out into the chaos of the airport, staring round the crowded room as the mosquitoes buzzed about them.
A man glanced at them, looked away. Burton-Smith, read his sign. Casey felt the surge of adrenalin as they walked towards him, with those nervous smiles. Would he guess? Would he know? Would he bite?
‘Dominic and Emily.’ Ed held out his hand, the words solid, so respectable. ‘How do you do?’
As he spoke, Ed wrapped his arm around Casey, and she melted into his side, smiling round at the man.
The man lowered the sign, black eyes flickering over them. Casey forced herself to breathe, the nerves twining in her throat. Please.
‘Welcome to Bangladesh,’ the man smiled, with a half-bow as he swept the sign across his heart.
And Casey’s smile was real, at once.
He was wearing a beautiful black suit, his English impeccable. This must be the man who brought Theo to Vivienne, Casey thought, in that hotel lobby those years ago. Taller than most of the Bangladeshis, and looking down at the airport as it rushed around him.
‘I am Raz,’ the man grinned.
Raz clicked his fingers at an elderly Bengali man beside him, who snatched up their luggage.
‘Please, Mr and Mrs Burton-Smith, do come with me.’
There was a sharp intelligence in Raz’s eyes, and the sense of a snake uncoiling as he began to move across the concourse. Do not underestimate this man, Casey thought.
Raz led them through the crowds, to a shiny black Land Cruiser. In the stale heat outside the airport, the traffic was chaos. There were no road markings, cars flooding along haphazardly. The green tuk-tuks slipped through impossible gaps, forcing their way past with shouts and squawks. The hooting was relentless: a toot on the horn instead of indicating, always. Everyone kept out of the way of the brightly painted buses – so battered already, the victors of a thousand clashes – as they thundered along.
Many of the buildings along the airport road were unfinished, the steel rebar springing into the sky like a metal fountain. The main road into the city was lined with shacks, smoke lingering in the air.
Raz sat in the front seat, beside the old driver.
‘I will take you to the hotel.’ He smiled back at them. ‘You must be exhausted after your long flight.’
‘Thank you.’ Ed nodded his head once, as Dominic might. ‘It’s a bugger of a journey.’
‘You are early,’ Raz said. ‘I thought you were coming in a few more days.’
They had only called him from Qatar, unstoppably late, hoping that the confusion would tilt the balance their way, very slightly.
‘We couldn’t wait any longer.’ Casey put a giggle in her voice. ‘I am sorry if it is inconvenient. But we just had to be in Bangladesh. We had to be near our daughter.’
‘It is no problem at all,’ said Raz. ‘I am just worried you will have nothing to do. Dhaka is not exactly designed for tourists.’
He laughed to himself, as if it were a private joke.
‘There are elections coming up,’ he went on. ‘That means demonstrations, curfews. You shouldn’t travel to some parts of the city at all, because it might be dangerous. Bangladesh is not always an easy country to operate in, as I am sure you know.’
‘Poppy,’ said Casey. ‘Where is she?’
The hint of desperation was so easy.
‘Everything is coming along just as it should,’ said Raz patiently. ‘But she is not here yet, of course. She will be born soon. You mustn’t worry yourself, Miss Emily.’
A person, made to measure. Not here, not yet. No.
‘I would like to meet her,’ said Casey. ‘The lady carrying our child.’
‘I am afraid that is not possible right now.’ Raz looked apologetic. ‘You must understand, the woman is very tired at the moment. These last days are hard.’
‘Of course,’ Ed interrupted Casey. ‘We understand completely.’
‘Is she in Dhaka?’ tried Casey. ‘Or somewhere nearby?’
Raz turned round, and gave her an easy smile.
‘The baby will be brought to Dhaka in a few days,’ he said. ‘It is all as we promised.’
The driver dodged ro
und a tuk-tuk, which was trundling the wrong way down the motorway towards them, a Bangladeshi flag flying from its roof.
‘Have you ever met Dr Greystone?’ Casey asked lightly.
‘Dr Greystone?’ Raz sounded blank. ‘I have never met this Dr Greystone.’
Casey stared out of the windows. There was water everywhere in this city: in puddles, in canals, in pools under motorway bridges. A dilapidated lorry hurtled by, piled high with sacks, a small boy clinging to the very top. The lorry’s driver was old, with a beard that would have been white, had it not been dyed the startling henna orange. The small boy waved at her.
‘We were thinking,’ Casey said brightly, waving back, ‘that as we have a few days here, we might head down to Cox’s Bazar.’
Chittagong, Bangladesh’s industrial powerhouse, was 150 miles south-west of the capital Dhaka, further down the Bay of Bengal. Cox’s Bazar was beyond Chittagong, another four hours along the coast.
Not far north of the Burmese border, Cox’s Bazar was the closest thing to a tourist resort in Bangladesh. Named after Captain Cox, hero of the East India Company, the ramshackle town sprawls along one of the longest beaches in the world, almost a hundred miles of sand.
The Bangladeshis thronged to Cox’s Bazar at this time of the year, the women swimming fully dressed in the sea, the hawkers hustling to and fro. Photo? Sunhat? Photo?
‘Cox’s Bazar is a nice place to go,’ said Raz cautiously. ‘Certainly, for a few days, you might enjoy yourselves there.’
The Rohingya refugee camps were an hour’s drive further on from Cox’s Bazar, spreading over hundreds of acres just to the north of the Myanmar border. Cox’s Bazar itself had been flooded with aid workers, who had been commuting down to the camps for years now. The big humanitarian agencies blockbooked the holiday hotels for months at a time, almost smothering the tourism.
‘Those women will be somewhere in the area around Chittagong and Cox’s Bazar,’ Casey had insisted to Miranda, back in the office. ‘The man Hessa spoke to had a Chittagong accent, according to her mother.’
‘Maybe,’ Miranda had shrugged. ‘You can’t be sure. They could be anywhere. In the outskirts of Dhaka, wherever. And just because he has a Chittagong accent, it doesn’t mean he still lives there.’
