Hidden

by Miriam Halahmy

“And what if they won’t listen? Remember what Mr. Spicer said? He could be sent back and tortured or killed. We have to try to save him, please, Alix. It’s a matter of life and death.”

  Life and death. For a second Grandpa’s voice whispers in my ear, telling me his story of the war. “It’s good to be strong when you’re needed,” he’d say. Am I strong enough for this?

  I can hardly bear to meet Samir’s eyes. I look over at the man lying in a heap on the ground. We have to do something, and if we’re not going to the hospital then we’ve got to take him somewhere a bit warmer at least.

  Samir is tugging the man to his feet and they almost fall down again. I reach out and grab the man and before I can think anymore about it I’ve got one arm around our very illegal person and I’m helping him along the beach to God knows where.

  If we’re caught, we’ll all be in deep trouble. Could I be deported for this? Where on earth would they send me?

  As we stumble past the Lifeboat Station the mist has almost gone and there are now a few people on the main beach. I can see two dog walkers, at least one of whom I recognize, a jogger coming straight toward us and three weekend anglers down at the water’s edge.

  “Quickly, Alix. Where to?” asks Samir in a worried voice. I look around, feeling a bit panicky. Where do you hide on a Hayling beach? It’s just wide open spaces as far as you can see, and it’s miles to the rows of beach huts where we might be able to hide him, although they’re usually locked. “Alix!” says Samir more urgently, shifting his grip under our man’s drooping arm.

  Then I remember the little hut on the Nature Reserve. There’s a hole in the fence that me and Kim used to crawl through when we were in Junior School. We pretended we were Lara Croft acting out the games we played on Kim’s computer. I loved Lara’s cute khaki shorts and double gun holsters. I really wanted to be her when I was ten. Lara Croft could beat any enemy, overcome any obstacle. We used to practice kickboxing and ambush each other around the hut.

  Lara Croft isn’t scared of anything.

  “This way,” I call out, and start to tug everyone forward. Our man’s so weak now I’m terrified he’ll collapse on the beach in front of the dog walkers and the fishermen.

  Pushing and pulling, constantly tripping over Trudy and her leash, we manage to get through the hole in the fence and past some very prickly bushes to the door of the hut. There’s just one problem; a great big new padlock gleaming on the weather-beaten door.

  8. Roll-ups

  Everyone is looking at me. Samir has propped our man up against the door and is standing, staring blankly, hands hanging loosely by his sides. Trudy has her head cocked as if to say, “Sort it, Alix,” and even the man has jerked open his good eye sufficiently to stare at me expectantly.

  Sorry, I think, picking locks isn’t on the National Curriculum! I don’t come from a criminal family. We need a Bellows for that.

  Then I realize that Samir isn’t actually looking that worried. “There must be a way in, I’ll check around the back,” he says with a determined frown.

  “Excellent,” I say. “So when the police finally track us down, we’ll be locked up for harboring an illegal immigrant and breaking and entering.”

  But it’s only because I’m worried and frozen to an ice block. Maybe I should take Trudy and go home. But what would Samir do without me?

  Just then our man is violently sick and starts to crumple to the ground. Samir manages to catch him and helps him to sit down.

  I catch a whiff of the sick. That does it. I promptly throw up on the grass. I warned you, I think furiously, I don’t do sick. Trudy is getting too interested in the emptied contents of my stomach, and feeling weak and shaky I’m busy pulling her away from the stinking mound. So there’s absolutely nothing I can do when Samir appears from the side of the hut carrying a sheet of transparent plastic.

  “I took the window out. Quick, let’s get inside.” And he lugs the man off.

  Glad to get away from my sick pile, I stumble around the hut and see that all I have to do is step onto a conveniently placed brick and wriggle through the gap. I climb up, pushing Trudy ahead of me, and suddenly we’re all sprawled on the floorboards of a damp, empty hut. No lights, no furniture, nothing.

  Trudy starts to nose about the hut, smelling every corner. The man rolls over and wraps his arms around his body, his eyes drooping with exhaustion.

  Samir seems to be absorbed in making some kind of list. “We need blankets, dry clothes, food, candles . . .”

  He’s ticking off on his fingers just like Mum does with her online shopping. I’ve never seen him so worked up and excited. He’s usually Mr. Ice Man around school.

  “. . . maybe one of those little camping stoves, I think Naazim has one . . .”

  “Naazim? Are you going to tell him?” My voice echoes strangely in the little hut.

  Samir stops, his right hand suspended above his left, mouth opens and he’s staring straight at me, eyes wary, like a fox caught in the headlights on a dark Island lane.

  It’s gone very quiet in the hut. Trudy has snuggled up against our man—what did Samir call him? Mohammed? I can hear one of the dog walkers on the beach call out, but the sound is too faint to make out the name of the dog. If it’s Mrs. Saddler with Jeremy we’re sunk. She can smell a rat miles away.

  And then Samir takes a small plastic bag with a pack of cigarette papers and some stuff in it out of his pocket. What’s he up to now?

  Is he going to roll a joint, I think, going all tense. I’m already Miss Uncool of the Year for worrying about sheltering an illegal person, an asylum seeker who’s been tortured and is probably dying of a brain hemorrhage. But drugs! I begin to plan what I’ll say when Samir offers me a drag.

  I’m asthmatic and I’ve forgotten my inhaler. I’m allergic to cigarette wraps.

  What would Lara Croft do right now? She wouldn’t give up and go home, whining about cigarette papers. Lara Croft would make a plan to save our man. She’d probably whistle up an elephant and ride us all out of here to some safe, cozy tomb in the mountains. Lara Croft makes things happen.

  But Samir has made two roll-ups and lit them both, and even I know the smell of ordinary cigarettes. He offers me one and I take it. I’ve never smoked before and all I can think is, What would Mum say? which makes me feel about six years old. I suck cautiously on the end of the roll-up and actually it doesn’t taste too bad. It’s quite warming in the drafty hut.

  Samir sits, smoking like he was born to it. That’s why he can’t run as fast as me, he’s already ruined his lungs. He’s picking stray bits of tobacco off his lips and I can’t help noticing what a comforting color his skin is in the dim light. Not brown and not white, a sort of creamy shadowy color. I get this sudden urge to touch his hand. Does he feel as soft as he looks?

  “So who are you going to tell?” I ask cautiously.

  “No one,” says Samir, and he’s staring at me hard. “Not yet.”

  I look down wondering, If not now, then when?

  “First of all Mohammed needs to get warm and dry,” says Samir, and you can see he’s still working it all out. “We need to get him some food.” He’s looking at me hopefully.

  Questions start to thunder through my head. What will Mum say? Do I care? She and Dad are off in their own private worlds and I just seem to be here to clean the toilet and do the washing up.

  “How long do you think we can hide him for?” I say. It’ll only be a couple of nights at the most before the whole island knows, I think.

  “As long as we can. Until he is better,” says Samir. “We’ll have to find someone to help him.”

  “Like who?”

  “There are people who help asylum seekers. I need to find them on the Internet. They help people who couldn’t get into the country legally,” says Samir, and he’s speaking in a more rapid, urgent voice. “You know, like Mr. Spicer said, some people who come in illegally are genuine asylum seekers but they couldn’t convince the authorities. Mohamm
ed is one of those, Alix.”

  He gives me such a desperate look and his eyes are wide with fear and worry. I stare back at him and I must have looked the same because suddenly Samir’s face breaks into that smile which changes him completely. The line of his mustache darkens on his upper lip and the fear disappears from his eyes. “Anyhow,” he says. “Won’t it be good to have a secret from the adults?”

  Well, that presses the right button. Not that I tell Mum much these days anyhow.

  Mum! Oh my God! “What time is it?” I yell out, and practically squash Trudy as I leap to my feet. “I’ve been gone ages. Mum’ll go ballistic!”

  I throw myself up to the window and Samir calls out, “Don’t tell, Alix, promise?” He grabs my ankles and his hands feel warm through my wet socks.

  “It’s okay, don’t worry,” I call out. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. I’ll bring some food and dry clothes.”

  Then I’m gone, running with Trudy out of the Reserve, past the Lifeboat Station, zigzagging past Mrs. Saddler and Jeremy before they can stop us, and I know it’s insane, but in my head I’m kickboxing and somersaulting over obstacles all the way home. Just like Lara Croft. This is the most exciting thing that’s happened to me since forever. I can’t wait to tell Kim! There’s no way we’re going to let our man die or be deported, not after having heroically pulled him out of a churning sea, which was probably too dangerous for Lara Croft, even on an elephant.

  But when I get home everything goes out of my head. As Trudy and I run into the house we hear a moaning and there’s Mum, lying on the kitchen floor, rolling in agony.

  9. Real Life

  “Alexandra! Where have you been? I slipped over when I tried to get the butter out of the fridge.” The white plaster on Mum’s broken leg has a skid mark on it and her face is smudged with tears.

  “You should have waited for me,” I cry out, kneeling down beside her. There’s a big blob of butter on the floor and it smells horrible. I’m nearly in tears too and Trudy’s whining and trying to lick Mum’s face, which is as white as sea mist.

  “You were so long. Where were you?”

  Her hand is sort of flailing around trying to grab my arm and for some reason it freaks me out. I feel suffocated and guilty and angry all at the same time. What am I doing trying to look after some washed-up stranger when my own mum’s alone and in pain?

  I’m just deciding I’ll never leave the house again when her hand clutches the leg of my jeans. “Alexandra Miller!” she screeches, and she’s off like a robot screeching in a monotone. “You’ve been in the sea, haven’t you? What on earth were you thinking of in this weather? Can’t you see how dreadful it would be for me if you went and got pneumonia right now? Your hands are like ice. Who would look after us if you were in bed, or in hospital or worse!”

  There’s that word again. Worse.

  Mum stops to suck in air and I think one word. Dad. Dad should be looking after us, shouldn’t he? Only I don’t think it. I say it. Out loud. Mum just lies there, her mouth opening and closing like a fish, as if she can’t think of anything worse.

  I shriek at her out loud and in full Technicolor, “Why don’t you look for him? Instead of lying around here all day. You could look on the Internet, or phone someone! Because he’s somewhere, isn’t he? Not nowhere? Then he can at least give us some money because I only get twelve pounds fifty a week for my paper route. You expect me to do everything. You’re the adult. I’m the kid!”

  And then the doorbell goes.

  We stare at each other in horror and Trudy lopes down the corridor and starts pawing at the front door. I can see quite a large shape looming through the frosted glass.

  Mum says quietly, “Open the door.”

  I get to my feet and scuff down the corridor feeling as though my body weighs a ton.

  It’s Bert from opposite. “I was just passing, Alix, and thought I’d look in on your mum.”

  He’s got a big stalk of Brussels sprouts hanging in his hand and for once it’s a relief to see him. “Thought she’d like some nice sprouts,” and he hands me the stalk as he squeezes his beer belly past me into our narrow hallway. He’s got his gardening boots on and he trails mud all over the floor.

  He’s sweating in his crumpled jacket, but he goes straight to the kitchen and heaves Mum to her feet and practically carries her back to her chair in the living room.

  “Don’t worry, Sheila, we’ll call the doctor,” and he nods to me but I’m already dialing.

  I make everyone tea and then mutter that I’m going upstairs to change. Bert can chat with Mum while they wait for the doctor. I run upstairs and close my door. I never want to speak to her again. Then I realize that actually she’ll never want to speak to me again after what I said about Dad.

  I didn’t even know I thought all that stuff.

  By the time the doorbell rings again I’ve got dry clothes on and I’m planning what I need to take back to the hut. I promised Samir and I can’t just leave our man to die of cold, even if I feel bad about leaving Mum for a bit.

  I go downstairs and it’s the doctor. He’s a tall, black guy, much younger than Mum. He’s wearing a sweater and jeans, and he looks pretty casual, but he’s carrying the right sort of bag and he takes charge straightaway. Bert looks relieved as he smooths down what’s left of his graying hair. He digs deep into a torn pocket for his keys and says, “I’ll leave you to it then,” and I let him out.

  When I go back in the doctor is flicking open his bag and Mum is asking him where he comes from.

  “Nigeria,” he says. “I’m doing some research here and paying my way with temp work.”

  Then I realize what the doctor could be useful for. “Did you bang your head when you fell, Mum?” I ask.

  “Perhaps a bit,” says Mum, looking rather vague.

  The doctor feels her pulse and nods. He’s got quite a nice sort of understanding face. “Did you lose consciousness, Mrs. Miller?”

  “No.”

  “Have you been sick?”

  “No,” says Mum. But I have, I think, and so has our wounded man.

  “Is that a bad sign?” I ask anxiously.

  The doctor smiles reassuringly, his dark, smooth skin shining in the electric light. “Your mum isn’t showing any signs of a head injury, but if she starts to be sick or gets very sleepy in the next 24 to 48 hours, then you should take her to the hospital. She might have a concussion.”

  And so might our man. How on earth am I going to get an illegal immigrant to the hospital five miles up the Island without anyone like Bert, Mrs. Saddler or even flipping Jeremy noticing? I almost break out in a sweat at the thought.

  But the doctor is still going on, “. . . so your leg is fine, Mrs. Miller, but no more skating on the kitchen floor.” Mum gives a little giggle.

  The doctor leaves and it’s sort of broken the ice between me and Mum. I scramble up some eggs and we sit watching an Australian soap together. I hate soaps, they pretend to be like real life, but they’re nothing like it. Well, not like my real life, anyhow. But at least Mum and me are speaking again.

  “How is your English course work going?” asks Mum.

  “Okay,” I say.

  There’s lots of other stuff I want to say, like, If we’re not going to talk about Dad ever again, why can’t we at least talk about Grandpa? Doesn’t she miss him? He was her dad, after all, and he never let her down. But I manage to keep quiet.

  “Are you seeing Kim tonight?”

  “Dunno,” I say.

  “You can if you want, I’ll be all right,” says Mum, peering at me over the rim of her Best Mum on the Planet mug I got her last Mother’s Day.

  I’m just about to say I have more important things to do when my cell phone beeps. It’s a text from Kim. Hey party dude . . . but before I can read the rest my phone rings.

  “What time are you getting to mine?”

  “What?” I ask. I haven’t a clue what she’s on about; it’s been a really busy day.

>   “Spring Rave. School. Zak might be there. Durrh.”

  Zak’s the 12th-Year boy I kissed at New Year at Kim’s big sister’s club. Right now he’s the last thing on my mind.

  I leave Mum and shut the door behind me. “You wouldn’t believe what happened today . . .” I start, and then I stop. Suddenly I’m not sure what Kim would think. I’m not sure what anyone I know would say about this.

  “You’ve been surfing with Al Qaeda around the yacht club,” she laughs.

  Well, then, I was right not to tell her, wasn’t I?

  10. Supplies

  It’s already three o’clock and I have to catch the seven o’clock bus from Sandy Point to meet Kim at seven thirty. I haven’t even washed my hair yet. Trudy starts to scamper up and down the corridor, skidding to a halt each time at the front door and looking up at me expectantly, her tongue lolling, ears flopping back. I can’t help laughing; she looks so sweet and funny. I bend down to kiss her on my special white bit of fur over her nose. “We have a secret, Trudy. Shall we tell Kim?”

  I so badly want to. We’ve been best friends since nursery and we do everything together. Kim stuck by me when Dad disappeared and Grandpa died and I lost my place on the basketball team because I went insane and screamed at the PE teacher. And Kevin, Kim’s dad, came over when the drains blocked up and the toilet overflowed the week after Grandpa died and Kevin wouldn’t take any money from Mum. “That’s what neighbors do, Sheila,” he’d said, and we live miles away from them. Kevin even brought her a CD of her fave punk band, The Clash, when she was in the hospital and I had to stay over with Kim.

  But Kim has said some weird things this week about Samir and she didn’t seem to notice what was happening in class yesterday, all the horrible comments and Lindy saying that even two percent of refugees getting to our country was too many. But look what’s happened since then. Even I’m not sure if I should be helping Samir to hide someone from the police. If I tell Kim, what will she do? These days she always seems to be somewhere else inside her head, usually with Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. She showed me his picture once. He isn’t even that gorgeous.