“Quick,” I hiss to Samir. “Get down into the grass and cover yourselves. I’ll try and get rid of them.”
Hoping the police won’t notice my school trousers are soaked I scramble up onto the concrete road, trying to look as if I’m out for a walk. The car draws up and Good Cop is sitting in the passenger side, the window open.
“Alix, isn’t it?” he calls out.
I walk up really close to the car so he can only see my top half and won’t notice my knees knocking with terror and cold. “Hi,” I say with a cheery smile, “catching some robbers?”
Good Cop gives a hearty laugh and Bad Cop leans over him and snarls, “Seen anyone else down here today?”
“Only Mad Murphy,” I say, and we exchange raised eyebrows. No one bothers about him.
“Well, you keep a lookout for anything strange and let us know, they’ve just stopped a boat coming around the Isle of Wight with twenty illegal immigrants in it. They’ll all go into detention in Portsmouth,” says Good Cop.
“Prison?” I ask in a worried voice.
“Just till we can process them and send them back,” snarls Bad Cop.
“What if that’s too dangerous for them?” I say.
“They get their chance to tell their story,” says Good Cop, and they drive off.
I feel as though I’m sweating even though I’ve probably got hypothermia. I wait until the car is out of sight and then we pull Mohammed to his feet and hurry him away.
Back in the hut I almost yell, “What the hell were you doing? We agreed, Mohammed, you stay in the hut, until . . . Oh God, do you want us all to go to jail?”
Mohammed can only whisper, “No, no jail, no, please.”
“Okay, Alix, he understands,” says Samir, on the verge of tears.
Mohammed’s face is gray with cold and exhaustion. He doesn’t look a lot better than when we pulled him out of the sea on Saturday. He’s muttering in Arabic as Samir helps him get into some dry clothes.
It’s almost dark now. Samir and me are about to die of cold and I need to bring Mohammed a fresh hot-water bottle and coffee if he’s going to survive the night and my clothes are soaking wet and I’ve lied to the police again.
I can’t do this anymore, I think, and feeling completely shattered I slump on the floor, hot tears spurting from my eyes. The police and Dad and Murphy and Barney and the icy water and Mohammed looking as though he’s about to die, it’s all too much.
Samir is looking at me and he reaches over and shakes my arm a little bit.
“It’s okay, Alix, it’ll be okay,” he keeps saying over and over, and Mohammed keeps muttering in Arabic as though he’s lost his mind.
And maybe he has, maybe we all have. I can’t even speak. My jaw feels locked in ice. All I can think is, What’s Mum going to say when she sees me, and what about Naazim when he sees Samir’s wet clothes? Everyone will guess, and then they’ll call the police and Bad Cop will get out his handcuffs and Mohammed will get deported . . .
“What are we going to do?” I sob.
Samir is rubbing my arms frantically, his eyes wide with fear, but I can hardly feel anything. It’s getting so dark in this miserable hut but we can’t just go home and leave Mohammed.
Then suddenly he calls my name, “Aleex, Aleex.”
His gentle voice is shaking with cold but he keeps on saying my name over and over. Then he says, “Go home, Aleex. Go home. You must to go and leave me now. I okay, I okay.”
“But you need t-t-to . . .” I try to speak through my chattering teeth.
“No, go. Go now,” he says, and he rolls over in his sleeping bag and mutters something in Arabic to Samir.
“He’s right,” says Samir in a low voice. “We can’t help him if we get sick too. We are his only hope, Alix. We have to leave him now, come back when we are feeling better, at least warmer and dry.”
My eyes fill with tears but I know they’re right, and then Samir pulls me to my feet and we stumble around to the cottage.
Mum’s surprisingly cool and mainly practical about the whole thing. We tell her we’ve been mucking about with a bit of wood on the inlet and we fell in.
“I don’t know how many times you’ve come home soaking wet, Alexandra Miller,” says Mum sharply. “But it’s not clever in this weather, and what about poor Samir? He’s not used to our English climate, are you, love?” and Samir gives a shivery shake of his head.
Then she’s fussing around on her crutches, flicking on the log-effect gas fire and putting on the kettle. “Go upstairs, you two, and find Samir some of Grandpa’s old clothes, and you, young lady, into the bath, while I make the tea,” which will be a first since she came out of hospital.
But as I lie in the soothing hot water all I can think of is poor Mohammed and how badly he needs us now. More than ever probably. What on earth was he doing out of the hut on his own? Was he trying to run away, or worse, give himself up?
31. One More Problem
I’m almost dozing off in the bath when I hear a light knocking on the door and Samir’s voice calling out, “Alix? You okay?”
“Fine,” I say. But actually I feel all hot and bothered with him the other side of the door and me in the bath with nothing on. Did I remember to turn the key?
I get out of the bath and quickly dry myself and put on my nightie and bathrobe.
When I unlock the door Samir’s standing there in Grandpa’s tatty old trousers and fishing sweater. He’s hugging a hot-water bottle Mum must have made for him.
“You look cool,” I say, but I feel so weak and tired. I lean against the wall.
Samir grins and says, “Well, I look better than you. The cold really got to you this time. Get into bed with this.” He shoves the hot-water bottle into my arms and it feels so good.
Once I’m in bed and Samir’s sitting on the end I just don’t care about anything anymore. It’s pitch-black outside the window and the wind’s howling in the tall pines along our road. My bedside clock says 5:57 p.m.
“Why did he leave the hut?” I say in a weak voice. “He’s insane.”
“He said he felt trapped, like when he was captured and tortured,” says Samir. “He just had to go outside; he only meant to wander about for a few minutes. Then that dog arrived from nowhere and chased him into the water.”
“He’s crazy, he should’ve stayed in the hut,” I say.
I can’t help thinking, If he gets caught, we’re all in deep trouble. I can just imagine Bad Cop roaring like an express train in the living room and Good Cop taking out the handcuffs with that smile on his face. He probably has a spare set for Trudy.
“Mohammed said he should have stayed in Iraq, he’s sorry he’s given us so much trouble,” says Samir.
And that’s such an awful thought we both fall silent. Samir stands up to leave, clutching a pile of dry clothes for Mohammed, and then he looks down at me and says, “You were so brave going in the sea after Mohammed again. You never stop to think of yourself, you could have drowned, you know.”
“So could you,” I mutter, embarrassed.
“Well, it’s different, I mean Mohammed is my responsibility, I have to save him.”
“No way!” I almost yell, only it comes out like a big whisper because I’m so exhausted. “He’s our responsibility, we’re in this together, right?”
Samir’s face breaks into the full monty smile.
Then he’s gone and even though it’s only six o’clock in the evening, I fall into a deep sleep.
I wake up with a jerk. The room is very dark and the wind is wilder than ever around the cottage. The clock says ten past eight and I can hear voices downstairs. A man’s voice is speaking quite loudly. It’s Dad. Or am I dreaming again? My mouth feels dry from sleep and my legs don’t feel as though they have properly woken up.
I go to the top of the stairs and I’m just about to wander down when I hear Dad say, “You’re right, Sheel, I’ve made a mess of things, but I’ll make it up to you, both of you, I promise.”
I can’t hear everything Mum’s saying because she’s crying but I hear something about Grandpa, “. . . didn’t even come to my dad’s funeral . . .”
Dad says, “How could I? Gloria had booked Elton John at the Southampton Arena for my birthday. The tickets were a fortune. I couldn’t let her down, could I?”
What about letting us down? I want to yell out, but then Mum says in a louder voice, “I mean what I say, Johnnie. I’ll go to the authorities. Alexandra needs so many things and I’ve lost my job because of this stupid leg.”
I didn’t know that! What else are they hiding from me? “All we’ve got is benefits. You have to pay maintenance for her; I want it every week without fail and you have to see her on Saturdays. She misses you, you stupid idiot.”
“I will, I said I will, didn’t I? And I mean it this time . . .”
“You’d better, because God knows what she’s up to. What if she gets pregnant with that lad?” Pregnant?!
But I forget the silent button.
Dad comes out into the corridor and sees me at the top of the stairs and says, “You’d better come down.”
So I stomp downstairs with my thunderpants face on and yell at Mum, “What do you mean, pregnant . . . ?”
But Mum cuts in, “I don’t know where you are half the time or who you’re with and you come home soaking wet and you’ve got that boy with you, Sammy, and you’re in the bath and he’s upstairs all at the same time. I don’t even know his family and . . .”
“Samir is a friend, that’s all,” I yell back, even more furious if that’s possible, “and he has a very nice auntie and a sort-of-nice brother, well, he’s a bit mean, but he’s very strict and they’re Muslims so they’re not allowed girlfriends and anyway I’m too young for sex!”
I swear their jaws drop to their boots.
Even I’m a bit shocked I said that. Imagine if Lindy or the Jayne family heard me. I’d never live it down.
But I’m not in love with anyone right now. Not like Kim and Steven and I don’t think they’re doing it anyway. “What your mum means, doll,” says Dad in a calmer voice, “is that we love you and care about you, and me and your mum . . .”
“Since when?” I say. “Like, since when is it ‘you and Mum’? It’s been just me and Mum forever! We have to do everything by ourselves and now I’ve quit my job so we’ve got even less money . . .”
“Quit?” says Mum, eyeing me suspiciously again. “Or did Chaz sack you? What have you done wrong now?”
“He’s a racist, if you must know,” I yell. “He said he came down here to get away from foreigners in London!”
“He said that?” says Mum, and she’s looking quite shocked. “But he always seemed so nice.”
“You made the right decision, Alix,” says Dad firmly. “We don’t do racism.”
Well, he passed that test at least, I think with relief. “You’ve got to concentrate on your schoolwork and go to college and not worry about money anymore. That’s our job, right, Sheel?”
And Mum sighs and leans back in her armchair and says quietly, “You’d better stick to it, Johnnie, or you know what I’ll do.”
And I know it sounds like blackmail, but she doesn’t really have a choice, does she?
Dad gets up and zips his jacket and I walk to the front door with him. He puts his arms tight around me and it feels so good to be hugged by someone who is stronger than me for once.
“How’s about you and me mosey on down to the li’l ol’ bowling alley Saturday morning, doll?” he says in American, and I can’t help giving a bit of a smile.
“Wearing my pants?” I drawl back.
“Heck yeah! Nine sharp and don’t you give me no excuses.” He thrusts something into my hand and he’s gone. When I open my fingers I see it’s a twenty-pound note. Wow!
“Alix?” says Mum, and she’s not even using the full name. I go back into the living room and she’s close to tears again. “It’s okay, Mum, honest,” I say, feeling quite worried. Should I call the doctor?
But Mum says, “Your Dad and I have made such a mess of things. You’ve been doing everything for me and all I do is snap at you, but it’s because . . .” And she stops and gives me such a sad look. But then she goes on, “Your dad thought it was best to make a clean break when he went. He thought it would be easier for you. Anyway, the Gremlin doesn’t like kids,” and her tone is really nasty.
“And you didn’t want me to see him either, be honest,” I say with a frown.
“Can you blame me, the way he walked out on me? I was furious, I didn’t see why he should have you and not me.”
She sounds so whiny I feel the anger welling up inside me again. Why should I be punished because Mum and Dad can’t sort out their problems? But I manage to keep quiet. It’s just not worth it sometimes, is it?
Mum’s still going on, “And then your grandpa died and I think I got, you know, a bit miserable with everything . . .” A bit miserable.
“Breaking my leg was the last straw. I just gave up, I suppose. Neither of us were thinking about you. I’m so sorry, darling, I’ve been so selfish.”
That does it. I’m nearly crying now and I go over and put my arms around her and we sit like that for a few minutes, sniffing into each other’s sweaters, and then I say, “Shall I make us a cup of tea?”
We stay up until late watching a James Bond movie and making popcorn in the microwave and it’s the best evening we’ve had since Grandpa died.
Only there’s still Mohammed to sort out, isn’t there?
32. Betrayed
Mum wants me to stay home today. She knows that school’s closed for teacher training.
“We could have a nice quiet day together, order a takeout for lunch.”
“I can’t,” I say, trying not to notice the disappointment in her face. “I’m meeting up with Kim and Samir in the library. We’ve got course work to do and I need some of their notes.”
“They could come here,” says Mum, brightening up at the thought. “We’ve got plenty of food for lunch.”
But I can’t, can I? Just as things sort out at home it’s all kicking up outside. I can’t remember the last time I had an ordinary day, washing my hair and downloading music onto my MP3 player. It’s only been five days since we hid Mohammed but it feels more like five years. How much longer can we keep our big secret?
Steven has arranged a meeting at the burger bar in town with some refugee rights group, and Samir wants me there so that we can decide if it’s safe to take them to meet Mohammed.
We can’t fail him now, can we?
So I take a leaf out of Mum’s book and say, “I’ve gotten behind, what with the broken leg and everything. We’ve got exams at the end of term and I’ve got to get good marks. Kim and Samir are going to help me catch up.”
Well, if she can blackmail Dad then I can tell a lie. It’s all for a good cause, isn’t it? So Mum finally agrees to let me go and then I have to squeeze out the door without Trudy, who’s jumping up at me in a total canine frenzy. “I’ll make it up to you, my angel, I promise,” I cry out as I pull the front door shut.
My phone rings as I wait for the bus. It’s Kim. “It’s my turn next,” she breathes.
Oh my God, her clarinet audition, I’d forgotten, what kind of a best friend am I? “You’ll be fine, deep breaths. I’ll see you at the burger bar.”
“Okay,” and she clicks off.
As the bus rolls forward over Langstone Bridge the water is flat calm after last night’s storm. Just like before a tsunami. Grandpa said you only know the big wave is coming if all the water sucks out from the beach way out to sea. That’s the warning it’s building up to a humongous wave, which will cover everything. It feels like our storm is gathering, with the police nosing around and Lindy at the hideout and Terrence down on the Island. If the refugee people can’t save Mohammed, then we could be completely engulfed.
If I’m honest, it isn’t my life I’m worried about. The ones who would real
ly have to ride out the big wave would be Mohammed. And Samir, Naazim and Auntie Selma.
What could Kim or me or Steven do to save them? They might go to prison here or they might even be deported back to Iraq to torture, prison or even death.
As we pull up to the bus stop I see Liam, Lindy’s boyfriend, wander past with his long, greasy hair falling over his face. But no sign of Lindy. I’m pretty certain she’s just playing a game with us. Eventually she’ll give us away either to Terrence or the police. When it suits her. She’s probably told Liam all about it by now as well.
Time’s running out. So many people are either in on this or beginning to put two and two together. How long before someone gives us away to the police?
And what about Mrs. Saddler? She’s nosing around more and more, turning up at the cottage and winding Mum up about where I am and what I’m up to. Not surprising really as she’s always charging around the beaches with Jeremy, who can hardly keep up with her on his dinky dachshund legs. I’m amazed she hasn’t turned up at the hut, booming at Mohammed to get dressed and get out of here, smartish young man!
I have to clear my head so I sprint to the burger bar. Steven and Kim are already there when I arrive panting—I’m so out of condition—and they’re holding hands under the table. Kim’s face is quite flushed but that could just be from the pressure of the audition.
As soon as I sit down she launches into this massive and detailed description, “. . . I just managed to do the chromatics when my reed split and I had to change it and my hands were trembling so much I dropped the reed packet and that cow of a conductor tutted! Can you believe that? Actually tutted at me! I nearly died. How mean can you get?”
All I can do is nod and smile and try to follow, not having a clue what chromatics or any of this stuff means. Even Steven’s eyes are beginning to glaze over and he decides to get the cappuccinos. That gives me a chance to leap on Kim.
“So come on, spill,” I interrupt before she launches into a full-blown description of the life of Mozart. “You and Steven, getting quite close?”
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