by Ruth Dugdall
Jodie laughed like this was a big joke, but Amina told herself that if she could learn all of this it may indeed be all she needed.
Auntie takes Fahran upstairs, leaving Amina to wash the pots. Jodie stands by the window, waiting to be collected, tugging at the hem of the red dress to try and pull it down. Though she doesn’t speak, Amina can hear her breathing, fast and heavy, like it was when they were on the boat. She knows Jodie is scared.
The white van finally arrives and Amina wonders where Uncle Jak had spent the night, or if it is simply that he woke before them. He is sitting in the driving seat and another man, who looks younger, is beside him. Whilst the younger man jumps out, Jak remains in the van, dabbing at his cheek with a tissue. Amina sees him use the rear-view mirror as a guide, he licks the tissue then dabs again. When he pulls it away Amina sees that Uncle Jak is bleeding.
Now that the other man has left the van, Amina can see that he is not much older than she. He has curly dark hair, but most of it is hidden inside a green woollen hat. His eyes are like the gorse in the winter, a very fine copper, and his skin is as dark as Amina’s. He could be Samir, if not for his smile, which Samir stopped doing long ago. Jodie has noticed the boy too, and as he walks into the kitchen she stands taller and sucks in her stomach. She thrusts out her hand to him. “Salam alaikum. I’m Jodie.”
He takes her hand, holds it for what seems to Amina to be too long, appraising Jodie in her tight red dress. “Wa alaikum. I’m Malik. I think you are coming with us today.” He barely notices Amina, shrunk as she is against the sink.
Jodie looks over her shoulder at Amina and winks, following Malik back to the white van with the swimming pool picture on the side. It is then that Amina remembers to call, “Ask them about Reza and Safiyya. Please find out where they are.”
But the van door shuts and Amina is not sure if Jodie heard her. She returns to tidying the kitchen.
Satisfied that everything is clean and neat, Amina heads to the stairs, wanting to return her prayer mat to her bedroom and to comb her hair through now it is dry. On the first landing she sees that Fahran’s bedroom door is open. She slows, eager to see him, resolving to speak with him this time.
But when she looks inside the room Fahran is lying on his bed and Auntie is cradling him. Beside her, on the floor, is a white tub of water and a roll of bandage, some scissors. She is trying to soothe him but the boy won’t be soothed, his mouth is open in a silent scream. Auntie looks up to where Amina is standing, revealing the desperation she is feeling. It is something Amina recognises, she had seen it on Omi’s face when Pizzie had the fever. And also more recently, when the Algerian police came and asked questions about Samir. Both times Omi had looked desperate, fearful that she was losing a child, and Auntie now reveals that same madness in her eyes; she would do anything to help her boy.
“What’s wrong with him, Auntie?” Amina asks gently.
Auntie shakes her head, as if even saying the words would be bad luck. Seeing her like this, and thinking of her own mother, Amina takes a brave step forward, longing to comfort her or help the boy if she is allowed. Fahran is barely moving, his face his pressed into the bedding as he emits a long, low sound of suffering. If she was at home, she would run to the elders for help, as Omi used to say, “Ask the experienced one, not the doctor.” The elder would boil herbs and make a poultice to take away whatever curse has taken hold. But here, in the west, it is the doctor that knows best.
“Why you not take him to the hospital, Auntie?”
Inside her gnarled hands she holds her son’s smaller pale hands. She rubs them gently, as if to bring the blood back there.
“I am afraid.”
Amina understands then, that they are in Luxembourg without papers. They are illegal. And if Auntie takes her boy to the doctor she would have to tell them so. They would send them all home, and the local Brotherhood would punish her for trying to leave, for breaking sharia law. And then there would be no schools and no jobs and no better life. Not ever.
“You are afraid of being sent back to Algeria,” Amina whispers, but Auntie looks at her like she is a fool.
“Not that,” she says, in her usual voice, the one she reserves for reminding the girls how stupid they are. “I am afraid to hear what is wrong.”
And this is something Amina finds harder to understand, but she is not a mother, and she reasons to herself that maybe she will one day.
“But the doctor would give medicine, Auntie.”
She looks at Amina again. This time there is nothing but unbearable sadness in her eyes. “I don’t know if there is enough medicine, Amina. I fear this is an illness that even the clever doctors here cannot cure.”
It scares Amina, what Auntie says. Surely the clever doctors here can cure every illness? And how can the boy be so very sick, when he is so young? There must be something that can be done. She moves forward, hoping to comfort the boy, and hearing her approach he lifts his head. Auntie is quick to place a bandage, skilled with snipping and taping it in place, but it is too late. Amina has already seen. Where an eye should be is a black space, a hollow hole rimmed with yellow puss.
Day 3
Ellie
“Fuck you!” she screamed, again and again, as loud as she could. She used her nails, and when one cut the bulldog’s cheek, making him yell in Arabic and then French, she stabbed him again, this time into his eye, and was glad that he screamed. As he doubled over, she kicked him in the groin.
“You fat fuck,” she yelled, pushing past him to where the back of the van was open, but squeezing in the tight passageway between the van and caravan, jumping down and landing in a heap on the gravel.
Other caravans were packed together, closed doors and drawn blinds, and Ellie could see it was very early. No-one was looking out, though someone must have heard her scream. She knew the fat fuck couldn’t wedge himself easily to follow her, but she could hear him breathing, speaking in swift French into his mobile.
She ran, down and through the maze of caravans, turning at each corner, to find a way out of the Glacis. She was so close to home, just a few miles away, if only her pounding heart and pumping feet would take her there.
She could see the ferris wheel, high above. If she could make it there she would be close to the road, she could make a car stop for her. The fairground was a ghost town, all of the rides boarded up and she pushed herself on, though the sickness was back, her head pounded and her muscles ached. She ran, passing the roller coaster, the waltzers, energised by her freedom which was so close, so close she could hear the cars on the road, and also the blood in her ears, the beat of her heart in her throat.
The fairground was surrounded by a metal barrier, but she could climb it. She had to climb it. She reached the grill, her trembling fingers finding the holes in the metal and her feet stumbling, straining to climb, but there was nothing to grip. The cars went past too fast, she screamed at them for help, sore-throated and open-mouthed, but if they could see her they couldn’t hear, and didn’t stop.
She slammed her palm onto the wire, pressed her face to it as if she could push her body through the metal, turned at the sound of running feet, bracing herself for a fight.
It wasn’t him. It was Malik. Relief flooded her, made her weak, she slid as he put his arms around her.
“You’re shaking!” he said. “Ellie? It’s okay.”
And, needing to believe him, she let him hold her, support her as she stumbled away from the fence as the bulldog rounded the corner, stopped, put his hands on his knees to draw raggedy breathe.
“It’s okay, no need to be scared,” Malik said again, and she thought he was speaking to her. But then he added, “I found her for you, Uncle. But I think it’s time we left the Glacis.”
Bridget
Her mother stood at the lounge window, still waiting. Watching the street, though the only movement was people leaving for work, a couple of keen joggers.
Bridget felt like screaming, she was so close to
it that she had to put Ellie’s rabbit into her mouth to stop herself. And she had to stop herself because if she started screaming she feared she’d never be silent again. The feeling started when Achim announced that he was once again abandoning her.
“The Parents’ Association are having a meeting at the school, so I’m going to go. The more attention we can get, the quicker we’ll find her.”
“Don’t leave me, Achim.”
“There’s nothing I can do here,” he’d said reasonably. But nothing about this was reasonable, and the fact that he could have sat with her, for him to simply share her pain, would have been doing enough.
But he had disappeared, out into the world that hid Ellie, leaving her to wait by the window with only the police officer for company, returning with no news, but looking a decade older, and disappearing upstairs to his study.
She bit the rabbit again, driving away the frustration she felt towards Achim. He was so busy pushing the police to do something, hounding Ellie’s friends and the school, pacing the city, that he had forgotten her. He hadn’t given her any of the attention she so desperately needed, not a moment of love. In fact, he acted with the same disregard and absence that had defined their relationship since they had moved from Heidelberg to Luxembourg. She knew their marriage was in trouble, but she had believed it was fixable. Until now.
And still, life had to go on. Gaynor had to be taken to and then collected from school, and thank God that Cate had offered to do that for her. Bridget simply couldn’t face seeing the other mothers, their sympathy and pity. Achim may be able to handle it, but she couldn’t.
Bridget could only continue to watch at the window, screaming silently into the body of the plush rabbit, until Ellie came home. All she could do was try and explain, and hope that it wouldn’t be long before Ellie would read her words. She took the notebook from the drawer.
Dear Ellie,
Maybe tomorrow you will come home.
You are lucky, to have that sense of home. It was one of the things I lost, with all my travelling. When I was out in the field, the locals were usually polite and glad to see me, but they also kept a respectful distance, which reinforced that I was a visitor to their country. I asked my driver once why this was, why none of the locals came for a drink after work, why they never invited us to their homes, and he said it was because they knew we’d leave. They were protecting themselves from any more pain, having already felt more than enough for one lifetime.
My first placement was in Botswana for nine months. I had a break, and then was sent first to Tunisia, and then to Algeria. It doesn’t sound much, three placements in my short career with MSF, but it was enough. Each time, before and after, I’d go to Brussels for briefing and support and then board a plane back to England. That flight was the worst time for me. I still thought Durham was home, but when I was back, everything felt wrong. How was it that the buildings stood derelict, yet still more were being built? How could people be buying things with such ease, as if money was meaningless? All the wasted food. I was a stranger in my own land. Friends drifted away, and I didn’t care. They were frivolous, shallow. My parents, your grandparents, weren’t interested in hearing my stories, my mum would say it was too sad to hear of families torn apart by disease, but really I think she just didn’t care. More concerned that her neighbour Sheila had just bought a caravan in Hartlepool, or with my father’s dangerously high cholesterol level. They hadn’t seen what I had seen, and after a short time I learned not to speak about it. I went on the temporary nursing register at the local hospital and waited for my next mission to come through.
Waiting is hard.
What I feel now, Ellie, as I wait for you to come home, is that same desperate aloneness that I felt between missions. MSF had a policy of enforced breaks, they gave us this space to avoid burnout, but I couldn’t cope with normal life. I drank and I smoked then too. This is full disclosure, Ellie, I’m not going to hide anything from you, not anymore. I feel I’ve been pretending for too long.
I want to drink now, I’m desperate for something to numb my brain, but I’m scared that if I start I won’t stop. The last time I had wine was at Schueberfouer and I bitterly regret that now. It affects the judgement.
Instead I go to your room, telling myself I’m searching for your cannabis stash, but really you are the drug I need. Your smell is everywhere. The hair bands, still with strands of blonde silk caught in the nylon. I lie down on your bed and hope that, wherever you are, you are comfortable. That you are being looked after with the same care I used when I was caring for the children in Tizi Ouzou. I ask a god I don’t believe in to give me this, it is all I ask in return for those months I spent nursing strangers. Please, God, let my daughter be safe and well.
Let her come home now.
Cate
“Hello, Cate. It’s Eva Schroeder speaking. You may recall that I teach Amelia German… we spoke yesterday afternoon?”
Madame Schroeder. The teacher who had been giving tips on self-defence. Calling her at ten thirty in the morning and sounding tense.
“How did you get my number?” But even as she asked, Cate realised that as a teacher, Eva would be able to access all parents’ details. Then, quick on its heels, another thought. “Is Amelia okay?”
“She’s fine. I’m not calling about her, it’s about Ellie Scheen.”
Cate was surprised, but also keen to hear news of the girl. “Has she returned home?”
Eva made a sound that made Cate think she might be close to crying. “No. I’m afraid not.”
“I’m so sorry. Bridget must be beside herself.” Cate had thought about getting in touch properly, after seeing how distressed she was, but knowing that Olivier was now working on the case and that it was one of a teenage runaway, plus Amelia’s comments that Gaynor had seen Bridget hitting Ellie, she thought it was wiser not to get involved. Who knew what family dynamics were ticking away under that particular time bomb?
“So, what is it you want, Madame Schroeder?”
There was a surprised pause. “But you said you’d help.”
“I said I’d help with self-defence class, but I may have been…”
Irritated, the teacher cut her off. “You’re the only person I know with any direct knowledge of criminals. You told me, you’re a probation officer. And you want to help.”
“Hang on, Madame…” Cate had meant that she could give a talk to the children on avoiding danger, something like that. Her offer was limply constructed, and now it was coming back to bite her.
“Ah, there is the bell. I must go to my next class, but let’s arrange a time to meet. The Fischer café near the school, under the Bouillon car park? I have a free period after lunch for lesson preparation, so we can meet for an hour and a half. That should give us enough time.”
“Enough time for what? Honestly, Madame, there’s nothing I can do to help find Ellie. Teenagers run off all the time. I did it, for a few days. My sister did it. Ellie is sure to come home soon.” But even as she said it Cate remembered that her own sister had been gone for sixteen years before she returned.
There was a pause on the other end of the phone.
“Okay, Madame Austin, I really must go. But you should understand that Ellie’s mother does not believe she has run away. I will tell you more when we meet. Twelve o’clock, yes?”
Cate slid her phone back into her bag, immediately regretting agreeing to meet.
The Fischer café was ugly. Even though the sun was blistering, the interior was gloomy, the tables by the window closed off by strategically placed chairs so the only free table was near the toilets. Madame Schroeder was already seated in the corner, sunglasses on her face despite the dull light within the place. She was not what Cate had expected from her voice. For a start, she didn’t look German, with her small features, her dark eyes and chocolate-brown hair pulled into a girlish ponytail. She looked young, too young to be so serious. And she seemed nervous when she offered Cate her hand to shake.
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“Please, call me Eva.”
“Cate.”
Cate ordered a bottle of Rosport water, a small one as she wasn’t planning on staying for long, and joined her.
“It’s so hot,” Cate said, sliding into the seat. “I’m not used to it.”
“A mini-heatwave,” Eva agreed. “Dogs die on days like this. But you wait, later there will be a storm.”
Eva nursed her glass of freshly pressed orange juice, waited until Cate was seated and launched into a speech. Cate liked her directness, though it puzzled her too.
“Thank you for meeting me, Cate. I knew you were not lying when you said you would help Ellie. She was in my class for eighteen months, ever since she first arrived at the school. German should have been her mother tongue, given that she was raised in Heidelberg and it is her father’s nationality, but she was too used to speaking English at home, so I gave her some extra help. She was a pleasure to teach, very vivacious, she had a real spark to her personality. I think people always say things like that when someone is missing, but it is true.”
“Nice girls still run off, Eva.”
But even as she said it she regretted her flippancy; she’d seen the impact around the school that very morning, immense and immediate. Word had spread among the ex-pat community and Cate guessed from the lack of cars in the kiss-and-drop area that some parents were keeping children at home until more was known about Ellie’s disappearance.
Eva and Cate sat across from one another, occasionally the waitress glanced up from her newspaper, but no-one else was there. Most locals went to the bistros for lunch, and the café’s main trade was in takeaway coffees for those about to jump on a bus. Cate noticed Eva’s hand was tight on her glass and when she removed it she left a paw of sweat; whatever her motivation was for getting involved, it was powerful. She had the zeal that Cate had seen in social workers before they burned out.
“I’m guessing,” said Cate, “that you haven’t always been a teacher.”
