5. Pants
Seven o’clock Saturday morning I go out to do my paper route and I can’t see my hand in front of my face. A dense sea mist is covering our end of the Island. No one’s out, not even Mrs. Saddler with Jeremy. She’ll probably just chuck him in the back garden today. Me and Trudy run on the beach whatever.
My marathon trainer says running on sand will strengthen my muscles. He thinks I could win. I really, really want to win because you get interviewed by the papers. I’ve already decided what I’m going to say and I know it’s completely insane but it could be my one and only hope.
Dad, if you’re reading this then you know I’ve won the Junior County Marathon but it’s not worth it unless you come home or at least ring me.
How else am I going to find him? Mum never talks about him so I have to try and find him myself.
I’ll give them my cell phone number to print in case he’s lost it.
It’s freezing and my hands inside my thermal mountain gloves are already numb. I’ll probably die from frostbite. Can it actually kill you or is it just that your fingers drop off? Would that be worse than death?
I had asked Kim what she thought would be worse.
“Never hearing Mozart again,” she’d said, still running her fingers over her legs, and that was in the lunch queue.
She was really strange yesterday. I was shooting baskets with Samir after lunch. He’s always on his own and anyway he’s sort of nice, quieter than the other boys. Once we started, a couple of other kids joined in and then I saw Kim on the other side of the playground. I called out to her but she just ignored me.
What was that all about?
I didn’t get another chance to ask her. We were in different classes in the afternoon and then she disappeared off to band practice straight after school.
I shift the cart with the newspapers into my other hand and start to jog to try and keep warm. The foghorns are moaning out on the Solent, that’s the bit of sea between Hayling and the Isle of Wight where Grandpa was going to teach me to sail, only then he died. The shrouds are jingling and rattling away on the boats down at the yacht club. They make me feel a bit like one of those old sailors navigating the streets in the fog, wondering if I’ll fall off the edge of the flat world.
By the time I make it back to the newspaper store I’m a total block of ice.
Chaz hands me a mug of coffee. “You’re a proper little star, Alix. Cold as a monkey’s bum out there, wouldn’t catch no London kids out on a morning like this.”
Chaz looks a bit like a jockey, small and thin and sort of wired up all the time. He’s always dashing around the shop, straightening the papers, filling up the cold cabinet. He’s got very pale skin, with red blotches on his face. His hair is short and mouse brown and he combs it back all the time with a plastic comb he keeps in his shirt pocket.
“Bet it’s warmer in London,” I grumble, almost burning my numb fingers off on the hot mug.
But Chaz loves the Island. He tells everyone, “Wouldn’t never live nowhere else now.”
I’m so cold I sprint all the way home and throw myself down in the living room with Trudy on my lap and the log-effect gas fire up full.
I’m sort of dozing when I hear a crash and a loud scream. Oh my God! Mum! I rush in the kitchen and find the teapot in pieces on the floor and Mum running her hand under the cold tap. “Burned myself,” she says in a wobbly voice.
I can’t even doze without her winding me up, so I go upstairs to finish my homework.
By midday Mum is already comatose in front of the telly. I swear I nearly got out Grandpa’s ladder last night to climb onto the roof and knock down the aerial. Only the thought of having to talk to Mum all day actually stopped me.
“Walk,” I say to Trudy, and she jumps up with a little bark of delight.
I leap the stairs in two halves, it’s only a small cottage, and clip her leash on before she goes completely mad, crashing into the front door.
“Just off to the beach,” I call out.
No answer. Mum’s still asleep. Excellent.
Out in the street the sea mist is worse if that’s possible. I can’t even see Mrs. Saddler’s house across the road but I can smell the wood smoke from her fire. That’s one of my favorite smells, up there with lemon peel and Prada perfume, which Kim gave me last Christmas and makes me feel, well, really sexy when I wear it and we go out to a club.
We’re really too young to get into clubs and Kim is really small, she only comes up to my chin, but she has long dark brown hair with these amazing red lights in it and under the strobes they sort of glitter. I’m almost five six, which is great for running, but I’m too skinny, not really pretty or attractive like Kim.
At New Year’s, Jaxie, Kim’s big sister, who’s eighteen and works weekends in a club in Portsmouth, got us in for free. It was awesome. Kim was seriously worried about someone spiking our drinks; we only drank Budweiser from the bottle. She worries about everything. Even crossing the road at traffic lights. We danced with two of the 12th-year boys and even made out. Maybe they’ll be at the Spring Rave tonight. Kim managed to rip herself away from Mozart long enough yesterday to say, “Yes, of course we’re still going.”
Down the yacht club road the sea mist is so thick I can’t see the clubhouse at the end of the point. There’s a salty seaweed smell in the air and a lot of rubbish has washed up overnight onto the main beach on the Solent side.
The tide is in and the water is very choppy. It’s that cold gray color that makes you shiver just to look at it.
It’s getting colder, if that’s possible, and even I don’t think it’s safe to run in this.
Trudy’s already looking up at me as if to say, Isn’t it lunchtime yet?
Why do dogs only think about food?
Why do mums and dads, well my mum and dad, only think about themselves? Then I have the thought I’ve had so many times before, I’m sick of it. Why did Dad disappear off the face of the earth? He could’ve kept in touch with me at least. It’s not as if he’s a spy and switched sides, or lost his memory or become an astronaut. It didn’t always used to be like this. Dad and I used to do loads of stuff like go bowling. When we got to the bowling alley, we’d put on our special shoes, then we’d always talk American. We’d say things like Mom and fries and cookies and pants.
Dad would say, “Hey, Alix, pull your pants up,” or I’d say, “Hey, Dad, I need some new pants!” and everyone would turn around and stare and expect to see me wearing my underpants over my jeans. We’d both scream with laughter.
Then a familiar voice thuds me back to the real world. “Hi, Alix.”
It’s Samir, emerging from the mist like a ghost.
6. Into the Sea
Did you know that elephants weigh up to six thousand kilograms and yet they pad about so silently you don’t know they’re coming until they’ve practically crushed you to death? Well, Samir appeared like an elephant.
“Where did you spring from?” I snap, feeling spooked.
“I came on the bus,” he says. He looks half frozen, hunched in his gray sweatshirt and denim jacket, his hands stuffed in his pockets. “Is this where you live?”
Then I remember I’d invited him and feel a bit mean, snapping like that.
“Yes, over there.” I nod in the direction of our cottage.
“I never know what to do on Saturdays,” says Samir, kicking through some of the rubbish on the beach.
“I’m just walking my dog, you can hang out if you want,” I say, and his face relaxes into that terrific smile. I want to tell him he should flash that around in school a bit more. It makes him look taller and less of a frightened rabbit.
But instead I say, “Your brother’s a bit fierce.” Samir sort of tucks into himself and I don’t want him to think I’m being rude so I say quickly, “Families, who’d have them.”
Samir just stands there staring out to sea and I wonder how he manages to keep everything to himself. Not like me, always blurting s
tuff out.
I’m just about to suggest hot chocolate back at my house when we hear the sound of a motorboat coming straight toward us across the sea lane. The mist is still quite thick so we can’t actually see it and I’m thinking that it’s a bit dangerous out there today. I haven’t seen any other boats going out.
The engine roars as someone pulls the throttle back and there’s a lot of shouting and then we hear a single scream and a massive splash. It sounds as if someone is dumping a fridge or something at sea and then a gap appears in the mist.
I can’t believe my eyes!
“There’s a man in the water!” I yell. I look around desperately for some help, but there’s nobody except Samir. Trudy has started to bark as I run down the pebbly slope to the beach, thoughts flying through my mind. The water’s freezing and the currents here are so strong they could drag him under. He’s going to have to start swimming or he’ll drown. As I get to the water’s edge, I look around at the Lifeboat Station. It looms up through the mist but I didn’t see anyone over there earlier. I look back at the sea just as a huge wave breaks over the man’s head and he disappears. Oh God! There’s no time to raise the alarm. The currents will drag him under. I have to go in and get him. Why is this happening to me?
Then I see his head break the surface and I stop in relief, waiting for him to start swimming. But all he does is scream out and splash around, gasping for air. Another wave breaks over his head and he disappears again under the surface.
Samir has run up and I can hear him breathing hard behind me. This is the most dangerous water around Hayling Island, all eddies and currents and whirlpools.
“Never go swimming by the yacht club,” Grandpa said, almost every day. “You’ll be swept out to sea and drown. No one will save you.” It used to make chills run down my spine.
I never even paddle here. But I don’t have a choice now, I can’t leave this man to drown. Grandpa wouldn’t, would he? I throw off my jacket and kick off my shoes and I’m not sure if I’m trembling from cold or terror.
“I’ll have to go in,” I yell to Samir. “Stay here, the currents are very strong.”
Then I’m in the sea and it’s so cold my throat seizes up. I’m up to my knees almost immediately and I know if it gets to my chest I won’t be able to breathe. The man surfaces, flailing about. Just a few more steps and I’m praying to God and elephants and everything else that I don’t get swept away and Mum has to make her own dinner tonight.
The water is up to my waist. I can feel the beach dropping away sharply and the current is beginning to suck at my feet. I can’t go much farther. I lean forward and fling out my arms but he’s just out of reach. His eyes are wild with fear and his arms are flailing out in all directions. I take another step forward but I can’t feel anything beneath my feet and I jerk back, nearly falling down. The man screams and reaches toward me, just as a huge wave splashes my face, blinding me for a few seconds. When my eyes clear I can see the man is a bit nearer. It’s now or never, I think, and straining forward I manage to grab his wrist. He’s so slippery and heavy I almost let go, but Samir is in the water now and reaches us just in time. Together we heave the man back up to dry land and collapse on the ground.
I’m lying there practically dead myself and Trudy is whimpering and licking my face and then I hear Samir gasp. I open my eyes. It’s like a horror film.
I’m practically eyeball to eyeball with the man and his face is all bloody and bruised, one eye puffed up like a football. Terrified, I scrabble backward and grip Trudy to my chest so hard she yelps in pain.
“Is he dead?” I whisper, my teeth already beginning to chatter violently from the cold.
Samir doesn’t answer. He’s up on his knees, his fingers on the man’s wrist, looking for a pulse. If he’s not dead, I think, he will be soon. This bloke didn’t have time to get dressed this morning. He’s only wearing a pair of tatty shorts. Trudy escapes from my arms and starts to lick the man’s face, which seems a good idea, and then there’s a spluttering sound and Samir props up the lifeless-looking head, pushing Trudy away.
I know I should try and rub some life into his blue-looking legs. Grandpa was always going on about sailors practically freezing to death at sea. “Hypothermia. The body temperature drops quick on deck in winter,” he used to say, scanning the horizon.
But I can’t bring myself to touch the creepy flesh. Maybe he’s already dead, I think, and this is what they mean in books by being in “death throes.”
I grab Trudy’s collar and pull her away. A weird sound like shouting under water comes from the man’s mouth and he opens his one good eye and some water dribbles from the corner of his mouth. Don’t be sick, I plead silently. I’m no good if someone’s sick.
But the man isn’t sick, instead a torrent of words pours out of his mouth, at first in a very croaky voice and then louder and louder, until he’s shouting like a lunatic and throwing his arms around.
Trouble is I can’t understand a word.
7. No Hiding Place
Trudy is straining on her leash and whining while the man rages on and then suddenly Samir starts speaking. I can’t understand a word he’s saying either.
“Hey!” I call out, which is really hard because my teeth are chattering like a road drill. “What’s he saying?” It feels as though my brain has turned to ice. Maybe I’m scrambling up everything I hear.
But they both ignore me and then just as suddenly they stop. Samir stands up, his head and shoulders slumped.
“Samir, w-w-w-what’s going on?” I say.
Samir just turns and walks to the water’s edge, not noticing how his shabby sneakers begin to get soaked again. I stand up too, looking down at the man. He’s closed his good eye and his whole body is shaking with cold. He won’t last much longer out here. We can’t carry him to the cottage and I can’t run around and get Mum with the car because of her broken leg.
“We have to call an ambulance.”
Samir doesn’t move a muscle. He stands silently staring out to sea. Is he mad? “Samir, he’ll die out here,” I say. “It’s freezing!”
I’m pulling on my coat and sneakers as I speak. My fingers are too numb to tie the laces and I can’t even do the zip on my jacket. Samir has wrapped his denim jacket around the man’s shaking shoulders, but he still doesn’t seem to get it.
“Samir!” I say firmly, but he still ignores me. “I’m going home to phone for help.”
“No!” Samir turns and yells at me. Then he’s running back over the beach, his sneakers squelching. He catches his foot in a trail of heavy seaweed and, stopping to untangle it, he calls out in a softer voice, “No ambulance, no police, you mustn’t even tell your mother.”
My mother? Why not? But I find myself staring into Samir’s eyes and there’s that pleading look again, tugging away at me like the currents.
I shake my head to clear it and say furiously, “What are you going on about? He is going to get hypothermia!”
“Yes, yes, I know, he’s really cold and he hasn’t eaten for three days . . .”
“How do you know? He can’t even speak clearly.”
“Because he speaks my language: Arabic. Alix, he is an illegal immigrant, like Mr. Spicer talked about in class yesterday. He is here without permission.” Samir’s voice drops to a whisper as he says these last words and he looks nervously around in case someone’s listening.
Arabic! Samir and Naazim are from some Arab country and so is this stranger.
It’s very hard to think straight with my brain shuddering and my teeth chattering and my whole body shaking with cold.
“What do you mean? Why is he here and why on earth did he jump into the sea on a day like this? He could have been killed or worse.” Worse, there’s that word again.
I start to run up the sand dune to see if anyone else is around. What would I say if one of the neighbors went past right now?
Samir is calling up to me in a really desperate voice. “We have to help him. He�
�s run away from his country because they wanted to kill him, you know, like Mr. Spicer told us. He’s an asylum seeker, only in his case the government, the Home Office, they refused him. So he’s an illegal immigrant . . . ,” and his voice fades away.
Illegal. Oh God, and then I remember Lindy’s mocking voice, “Two percent too many.” She doesn’t even think Samir should be here, what would she say about our drowning man?
“We have to help him,” pleads Samir. “His name’s Mohammed and he’s hurt. He was tortured . . .”
“What?”
“Tortured, like my . . .” But he doesn’t finish. His eyes cloud over as he looks up at me.
“Help me to hide him, Alix. Please. Just for a couple of days.”
Hide him? Hide a stranger? I look back down to where the man is lying all scrunched up on the sand, his body shaking and twitching. His face has gone a deathly pale and his lips are literally blue. The bruised eye looks so swollen; someone must have really punched him hard. What did he do to deserve that? My feet feel as though they are sinking into the sand, and soon my whole body will be stuck fast like in a swamp and I won’t be able to run away even if I want to.
“Alix, we don’t have much time, someone will come.” Samir’s voice breaks into my thoughts. The man is groaning and shaking and Samir is pleading and the mist is clearing quite quickly now. We’ll be discovered very soon or our man will die of the cold. What should I do?
The man is shivering worse than ever. I have to make a decision. “We have to get him to the hospital, let’s get him to the bus stop, okay?” I say.
“No, we can’t! You don’t understand!” says Samir, and he’s sounding completely desperate. “He’s here illegally and the hospital will tell the police and then he could get deported straightaway. Trust me, Alix, we have to hide him, now!”
“But surely they’ve only got to look at him,” I say.
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