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by Miriam Halahmy

  “That’s what your grandfather would have liked!” Mum used to joke.

  Grandpa told terrific smuggler stories when I was little. “The Langstone Gang were notorious,” he said once when we were having breakfast before school. “They brought in all the things the government wanted taxes for, such as spirits . . .”

  “Why did the government want to tax ghosts?” I’d asked.

  Grandpa laughed and finished buttering my toast. He often took me to school back then. We’d go in his old Nissan Sunny.

  “Not those sort of spirits,” he said. “Drink, you know, like whisky and brandy.”

  “Oh, that,” I said, nodding casually. The adults drank brandy on birthdays sometimes.

  “They smuggled in tobacco . . .”

  “For your pipe?”

  Grandpa nodded, “And lace, fine silks and wine.”

  “Didn’t the police catch them?” It all seemed very exciting, sailing around Hayling Island with smuggled stuff in your boat. Did smuggled mean stolen?

  “They didn’t have police hundreds of years ago. Customs officers chased smugglers. But the Gang was too clever. They didn’t keep their contraband on the boat; they towed it behind them, beneath the surface of the water. Then if the customs boat appeared they’d cut the towline and the cargo would sink to the bottom.”

  “So they lost it?! What’s the point?” I giggled.

  “Aha!” Grandpa would twinkle. “They knew exactly where they’d dropped their contraband and they would go back at low tide and find it. The customs fellas hadn’t a clue.”

  “You’d know where to find the countryland again, wouldn’t you, Grandpa?” I’d say. I always got the long words wrong when I was little.

  “Wouldn’t he just!” Mum laughed, and Grandpa would sit back in his chair, a knowing look on his face, sucking his empty pipe.

  What would Grandpa think of people smugglers? I wondered, watching froth drip slowly down the side of the beer glasses. What would Grandpa say about those scumbags who pretend they are bringing terrified asylum seekers to a new and better life?

  “Mohammed just wanted to die when he fell in the sea,” Samir had told me. “He’d never been so cold in all his life. Iraq is really, really hot. I remember when I first came here; it felt like I was living in a giant air-conditioning unit, twenty-four seven.”

  “Wow, Alix, you’re a real star!” Jaxie’s shrill voice breaks into my dreams and I turn, towel in hand, drying the last of the glasses.

  I shrug. “It’s nothing.”

  “Clearing the lunchtime crockery, I wouldn’t call that nothing, where’s that lazy sister of mine?” Jaxie digs into the pocket of her jeans and pulls out a five-pound note. “Here, slave wages.”

  “Thanks, Jaxie!” I grin and go back outside.

  Kim’s sitting up, throwing the last of her chips to the swans. We jump back on our bikes and pedal furiously to the big pharmacist in the village.

  The pharmacist is very helpful on infected wounds.

  “But it sounds like you really need to get your uncle to a doctor. I’m sure he needs antibiotics,” she says anxiously.

  She’s very thin and quite young-looking really, and even though she’s wearing a white coat I think she could be just a student. I can see she bites her nails right to the edge.

  “My uncle hates doctors,” I say, and Kim nods. “So we’ll just have to manage by ourselves.”

  We come away with a huge bag of antiseptic wipes, creams, dressings and miles of surgical tape.

  “Do you know what to do with all this stuff?” I ask Kim. She shrugs. “Trial and error, I suppose.”

  We cycle back to my house, dump the bikes and collect Trudy, who’s desperate for a walk. Then we go off to the beach. As we arrive outside the hut I get this strange feeling, as though something has changed.

  I climb through the window, calling out warily, “We’re back.”

  But Samir and Mohammed are both jammed up against the wall, their faces creased into worried frowns, and standing in the middle of the hut is Lindy!

  Oh my God! Now we’ve had it!

  19. Criminal Record

  “What’s she doing here?” I say in a voice hoarse with shock. Mohammed and Samir shrink even farther against the wall, and Kim bends down to hold Trudy’s collar.

  “You promised,” breathes Samir in a voice brimming with accusation and hurt.

  “What?” I say.

  “You told, didn’t you?” Samir says, flashing an angry look in Kim’s direction.

  I look to Kim.

  “It wasn’t me, Alix!” says Kim, and I know it wasn’t.

  I swivel around and square up to Lindy. Standing so close to her in that damp hut, I think about her heckling, “Two percent too many!” in class and how she unfurled her spear-nail in Samir’s direction. If she lets loose with that thing now it’ll have to be a Lara Croft moment, with me kicking her hand away while Samir lugs Mohammed out of the hut. Trouble is I haven’t a clue which leg to use.

  “What do you want?” I demand, trying to look hard. She’s about my height and her pale face is covered in freckles, her frizzy red hair pulled back tight into a band. She’s wearing a very short denim skirt, a white zip-jacket with a furry hood and floppy suede boots.

  She gives me a look as if to say “oh puhleese” and says in a bored voice, “Just hanging out. It’s a free country.”

  “Are you meeting Terrence on the beach?” asks Kim in her most worried voice. She’s crouching on the floor beside Trudy looking like she wants to sink through the floorboards.

  “Maybe,” says Lindy, and I feel myself tense.

  Kim and I exchange looks. She gives me a quick shake of the head, urging me not to wind Lindy up.

  So I say in a slightly more friendly voice, trying to sound sort of casual, “How did you know we were here?” But inside I’m already flinching as I see her straighten her fingers out. “Saw you when I was waiting for Liam down at the pillbox.”

  “Liam from the carnival?” I ask, and Lindy nods but she’s not looking quite so confident. Liam’s about twenty, with shoulder-length greasy hair and acne scars all over his face. He absolutely never speaks.

  “You’re not going out with him!” snorts Kim contemptuously, before she can stop herself, and I see a hurt look flicker across Lindy’s face.

  Now who’s doing the winding up? Thanks a lot, Kim. But then I have another thought. If Lindy feels sort of embarrassed, maybe she does have a human side. Let’s hope so, because right now we don’t need any more enemies.

  “Who’s he?” says Lindy, pointing the nail at Mohammed.

  “My cousin,” says Samir quickly.

  “Yeah, right,” says Lindy, and she gives a loud sniff. I feel myself getting all hot and angry. Kim lays a cool hand on my arm as if she can read my mind, and I stay under control. For now anyhow.

  Then Lindy says, “So, what’re you doing here?” She throws a contemptuous glance around the hut. How does she manage to make me feel so small? Just like Jess Jayne.

  “They’re just camping out,” I say, and it sounds so lame.

  Lindy reaches out one booted foot and pokes the end of Mohammed’s sleeping bag. He shifts his legs gingerly.

  “Hiding out, more like,” says Lindy with a nasty laugh. I hear Samir suck his breath in sharply.

  “On the run, is he?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” It’s Kim, speaking in the voice her clarinet teacher uses when she moans she can’t play something. Kim mimics her beautifully and even Lindy’s face flickers for a second. “Like we said, just camping out.”

  Lindy doesn’t say anything but she’s looking all around the hut and then she spots the bags from the chemist.

  “Has someone hurt themselves?”

  “Don’t say anything,” warns Samir. “You can’t trust her.” But Lindy’s already riffling through the bags, pulling out tape and dressings.

  “Must be a big cut. Is it him?” She points to Mohammed’s bruised fac
e. “This stuff’s useless for a black eye.”

  “What makes you such an expert?” asks Kim.

  “St. John’s Ambulance,” says Lindy.

  “You’re kidding?!”

  “No,” says Lindy slowly, as if she’s speaking to a complete retard. “I’ve been going for months. I’m going to be a paramedic.”

  “In your dreams.” Kim laughs. “They’re hardly going to take someone with a criminal record.”

  She means the shoplifting.

  Lindy gives Kim a hard stare. I tense, ready to leap at Lindy if she swipes out with that claw, and then she says in a loud voice, “They chuck it out once you’re eighteen.”

  The ringtone for Kim’s cell goes off and everyone jumps, even Lindy.

  Kim pulls her phone out of her pocket and says, “It’s Mum.”

  I nod to her, and we all stay quiet. No point in making the adults suspicious.

  She answers it. “Yes. No. With Alix. Do I have to? Okay. Yeah, yeah, I’ll leave right now.”

  Kim puts her phone back in her pocket and says, “I have to go, Alix. Mum wants us all to go to the Home and see Gran. She’s not very well again.” She gives my arm a squeeze and I nod reluctantly.

  On my own again, I think as I watch her wriggle out of the window, and how am I going to persuade Lindy to keep this secret?

  “Don’t tell Terrence anything, Lindy. Will you? We can trust you, right?” I give her a pleading look.

  Lindy just examines her nails looking bored.

  Samir mutters something to Mohammed in Arabic and then Mohammed unzips his sleeping bag and slowly gets to his feet. Even though he looks a bit less wild now that he’s had a shave, Lindy looks surprised at facing a full-grown man. She takes a step back and trips. Mohammed reaches out and catches her arm.

  “Aleex okay,” he says in a low, weak voice. He’s swaying on his feet slightly. “You help Aleex, okay?”

  Lindy’s pale face goes red and she snaps, “All right, keep your hair on,” and brushes the hand off her arm. Smoothing down her skirt, she says, “Haven’t seen Terrence for days anyway. Couldn’t care less about him. Hope he’s dead.”

  Samir and I exchange looks. We have no choice but to trust her, and maybe if she really knows first aid she can be useful right now.

  Samir helps Mohammed to take off his, well, Grandpa’s, sweater and show Lindy the wounds. Lindy doesn’t even flinch, which makes me feel like a right wimp.

  “Didn’t you get scissors?” she says scornfully, rummaging about in the bags. “Who gave you this stuff? And no disposable gloves.”

  She’s pulling out tubes and packets, heaving a big sigh as if we’re just a bunch of idiots, which, let’s face it, in relation to emergency treatment of war wounds, we are. Where on earth did she learn all this? I’ve never seen her so much as put her hand up in school. I thought she was totally dumb.

  “You’ll have to change it tomorrow,” she says. “He’s got pus. It’s all infected.” There’s a dirty piece of gauze in her hand and she grabs a plastic bag. “Here,” she snaps at me. “Hold this open.”

  I do what she says.

  When she’s finished and Mohammed is getting dressed again, she says, “He needs antibiotics.”

  “We know,” I say, watching her carefully.

  Mohammed murmurs something as he lowers himself with difficulty back into the sleeping bag.

  Samir nods and says, “It’s feeling better, Lindy. Thanks.”

  “I’m off then,” says Lindy.

  And the weird thing is she doesn’t ask anything more about Mohammed. That feels almost as bad as asking loads of questions. I go outside the hut with her and say, in a quiet voice, “You’ve been brilliant. Remember, just our secret.”

  She hesitates for a second and I even think about offering her money.

  But then she turns away and walks off through the bushes and trees, back toward the road.

  Where is she going now?

  20. On the Beach

  “I have to go,” says Samir.

  “Me too,” I say, but I’m still worrying about Lindy. You just can’t trust her, she’s meaner than the Jayne family and she’s a Bellows. Everyone steers clear of that family. The oldest brother is in prison. They’re all thugs. For all we know she could go straight to Terrence and his gang and give us away.

  Samir murmurs something to Mohammed who’s already half asleep again. Then we climb out the window and start to push through the bushes around the hut and I’m thinking, it’s actually not that difficult to spot from the beach. Lindy saw us coming this way, so who else might? Mrs. Saddler? Chaz?

  “He can’t stay here forever,” I call over my shoulder to Samir.

  “I know,” says Samir. “I’m working on it.”

  “And we definitely can’t trust Lindy,” I say.

  We crawl through the hole in the fence and walk around behind the Lifeboat Station as the Solent opens out in front of us.

  It’s very cold but clear and you can see the outline of West Wittering on the other side of the water just a mile or two away to the southeast. At low tide when the sand flats off East Head are uncovered you could almost swim there.

  “It reminds me of the Tigris,” says Samir, his hands shoved in his pockets, the hood of his sweatshirt pulled over his spiky hair.

  “There’s a sea in Baghdad?” I ask.

  Samir laughs. “The Tigris is a river; it goes right through the city. Iraq is the land of the two rivers, the Tigris and the Euphrates.”

  I have to admit I haven’t really thought much about Samir’s country before. “So what is there in Iraq other than rivers and bombs?” I ask, not really concentrating because I’m wondering if I could fit a run in before it gets dark. Me and Trudy could do with the exercise.

  Samir’s gone all quiet again and I look over at him staring out to sea. Is he wondering how long it would take to sail to Baghdad? I mean, you definitely can’t swim there. Even my geography’s not that pathetic.

  “That seems to be all the people here know about Iraq. Bombs and killings. There’s so much more . . .”

  His voice fades away and I’m a bit stumped so I say, “Do they have fish and chips in Iraq?” and Samir grins.

  “We used to have picnics by the river. My dad used to buy fish fresh from the fishermen. Then we’d cook it with mint and garlic on charcoal under the palm trees. Everyone does it, we call it mazgouf.”

  “Mazgouf.” That felt good to say. I can almost smell the barbecue. And palm trees? “Do you get coconuts?”

  “Not in Iraq,” says Samir. “They’re date palms. We have the best dates in the world and we make this syrup called dibis. It’s sweet like honey. You dip your bread in it.”

  I’ve never seen a real palm tree but I always thought it would be cool to climb one barefoot like they do on telly.

  “So your palm trees, do they bend over like the trees on Hayling?” And I point to the scrubby trees on the edge of the Nature Reserve. The wind has pushed them so hard they look like they are going to tip over.

  “They bend in the wind really low but they never fall down,” says Samir. “My father used to say we Iraqis are like the palm trees. We’ll never break, whatever happens to us. Our roots are too deep in the land.”

  “You must miss it a lot.”

  We’re walking fast now to keep warm and Samir says, “What I miss is playing football after school with Daoud.”

  “Who?”

  “Da-oud,” he says again slowly. “It’s like David. He was my best friend since we were born. We did everything together, always sat next to each other in class. I don’t have a friend like that here.”

  He looks at me and our eyes lock for a few seconds. Then he looks away and I kick about in the sand wondering what to say. He must feel so lonely sometimes, his parents dead and everything he knew, friends, school, shops, all gone.

  I look at the sea over the tall grasses waving about on the dunes and think about everything I love about my home, the be
aches and the surfing waves and all the different birds, which are like old friends really. The air smells of salt and seaweed with a whiff of engine oil dumped by tankers crossing the Channel miles away.

  My family have lived here forever. What if I never saw it all again?

  Samir is rolling up a cigarette. He lights it, takes a drag and passes it to me. I take a small puff and pass it back.

  “Naazim would go mad if he knew I smoked,” he says. “Once Daoud had a cigarette,” he says, and gives a little laugh. “He stole it from his uncle. We were only six. We thought we were really tough lighting up. Took us almost a whole box of matches to even get started. But when we took a puff we couldn’t stop coughing and then Daoud was sick all over his new shoes!”

  I say jokingly, “Smoking can kill you . . .”

  “Bombs can kill you,” cuts in Samir.

  Once again we fall silent. There’s a lot of difficult stuff to avoid, I think, and then I decide that there is something I really need to know.

  “If you’re worried they’ll deport Mohammed, why do you think your family are safe here?”

  “No, it’s not like that,” says Samir, and he digs his hands in his pockets and looks away. Then he says, “We have proper permission to stay now. It’s called refugee status. We’re not asylum seekers anymore, we can work and I can go to school. That’s what Mohammed needs.” He sucks back the last of the roll-up and stubs out the end on a rock. “It’s my job to find someone to help him.”

  “Our job,” I remind him, and he gives a little nod. “And we have to do that before Lindy starts blabbing and Terrence kicks off.”

  We reach the road and as I watch Samir go off on the bus I can’t help wondering who on earth can magic up a brand-new life for our asylum seeker.

  21. Secrets and Lies

  As I stroll home from my paper route the next morning I get a mega shock. In front of our house is a police car. Have they discovered the hut and found Mohammed? What’s Mum going to say? I’m about to be arrested, maybe even deported.

  “Had a burglary?” It’s Mrs. Saddler, nosing around as usual. She’s leaning over her garden gate, Jeremy sniffing at her heels. “Lot of comings and goings at your house lately,” she goes on, eyeing me curiously.