The Refugee

by S A Tameez

  He stood under the shower for a while, allowing the warm water to gently massage the back of his neck. His left shoulder felt stiff, something that he’d had problems with a few months back — a trapped nerve that never really fixed itself. He went to see a physiotherapist about it but only managed one short session, for, by his next appointment, the therapist was dead — shot dead by a trigger happy 14-year-old Daesh recruit. No one knew why he shot him. The boy probably didn’t know why he did it himself. It’s the kind of thing that happens when you fill the head of a young boy with hate and give him a gun. It gives him the license to kill.

  He began to cry, something he had started to do a lot lately. He punched the tiled wall in anger before turning off the shower. Am I any better than the people I talked against for so many years? He asked himself. I have blood on my hands just the way that 14-year-old boy does, except I am not a 14-year-old boy! It should have been me that died from a cut to the foot, not Maryam. She is... she was innocent and a good person, which is far from what I am.

  He looked in the mirror and noticed his jaw seemed to be unaligned. It had become seriously painful and Ahmed knew that he had to something about it. He screamed in agony as he gripped his face with his hands and forced it back into place. There was a loud click and the intense rush of pain charged through him like an electric shock.

  Ahmed quickly dried his eyes and grabbed the white, bathrobe when he heard a knock at the door.

  “Mr...” The voice of Henry, the receptionist, emerged from behind the door. “I have with me the tailor you requested and the finest hairdresser in the whole of the town.”

  “Just a minute...” Ahmed looked around for few seconds before deciding to hide the bag in the middle compartment of the brown chest of drawers.

  When he opened the door, a huge smile on Henry’s face greeted him. Behind him was a short, plump old man in a smart three-piece suit. He had a bow tie that was partially covered by his pointy grey beard. Next to him stood a tall, weedy man, wearing enough hair spray to make a small hole in the ozone. He had white shoes without socks, and red trousers complimented by a purple shirt. Ahmed could have sworn that he was wearing makeup. His blemish-free skin looked like it had been sanded down and his lips were shimmering like stars on a clear night.

  “What the hell have I got myself into?” Ahmed muttered to himself.

  By the time they had finished with him, Ahmed was looking like a new person. His hair, at the persuasiveness of the hairdresser, was restored to its once younger colour of deep brown, complimenting his strong hazel eyes. He was perfectly fitted with a dark grey suit, a white shirt, and smart black shoes. His grubby bag had been replaced with a posh briefcase.

  And although he looked the part, inside he didn’t feel any different. If anything, he felt worse. He was a useless husband, a neglectful father, and now a well-dressed killer. The perfume that had been squirted on him could not conceal the odour of a murderer any more than the soap could clean the blood off his hands. He gazed into the large mirror on the wall and thought, you monster!

  He couldn’t bear to look at himself any longer. He eyed the bed like a starving man would eye up a plate of warm food. He wanted to collapse. After all, sleep was the closest feeling to being dead. He already felt dead. He’d died the moment he killed a man with his bare hands; or maybe even earlier, perhaps, when that guard stomped on his wife and he could do nothing. Either way, he was dead… dead from the inside. The one thing that stopped him from completely shutting down, was the thought of Malik. He had been missing for 5 days. He had to find him.

  He opened the door and looked each way down the corridor, making certain that the hairdresser and tailor had gone before closing it and locking it from inside. He opened the bag and took out all the contents. He transferred the gun and wads of bank notes into the new brief case, then opened the little black book. It had been filled out with very neat handwriting. Filled with names and telephone numbers in a thick, blue ink. Among all the well written and perfectly aligned words, one page stood out. Scribbled on it were the words, ‘Stelios Solicitor’. It was not in uniform with the rest of the neat writing, Ahmed didn’t think it was even written with the same pen. It had an address and a telephone number. Maybe this is the very clever solicitor that gets them off the hook if they get into any trouble abducting children. Which was ironic, as Stelios was a name formed in tribute to St. Stylianos, an orthodox saint and, “the protector of the children.”

  Ahmed had a feeling that this “Stelios” would probably be a good place to start looking. He had the address and the telephone number, but what was supposed to do? Just blast in there and demand answers? He closed the briefcase and decided that he would figure it out when he got there. He looked up at the large, elegant clock on the wall. It was six o’clock in the morning. He had wasted enough time already.

  Ahmed used the phone in his room to call the desk and was greeted by a chirpy Henry.

  “I need a taxi - oh, and… I need a phone, a mobile phone.”

  “I know just the taxi company, they are the best in…”

  “That’s fine…” Ahmed interrupted, not at all interested in the quality of travel that he was going to receive. “I need it fast and what about a phone?”

  “I will have a car outside in the next twenty-minutes.” There was a short pause, “…In… ten-minutes?”

  “Good.” Ahmed responded.

  “And what type of phone are you interested in? There’s such a huge variety these days, I mean the camera on my one is just…”

  “I don’t care what type… it needs to be able to make calls, there is no other requirement.”

  “Of course, I will have someone pick one up for you in the next…”

  “I need it by the time I get to the taxi, if you can do that I will give you another thousand Euros.” Ahmed hung up.

  After ten-minutes exactly, Ahmed was met by a black Mercedes taxi. He could see Henry running towards him, he was sweating and flustered.

  “Here… here you… go…” he said, panting from the sprint, and handed him a sealed box with a phone. It was a simple phone, with only the essential functions — exactly what Ahmed wanted.

  “It has a sim card already in it, so you just need to turn it on and it’s ready. Ahmed handed Henry the thousand Euros and got in the taxi.

  “Erm… will you be coming back?” Henry asked, “I mean just so I can have your room ready, that is.”

  Ahmed paused for a few seconds, not knowing what the future had in store for him.

  “I doubt it…” Ahmed responded.

  “Well, we’ll have your room ready anyway.” Henry smiled.

  Ahmed gave the taxi driver the address that was scribbled in the book and the car drove off, leaving Henry practically skipping back to the hotel. Ahmed couldn’t help but smile as he watched him.

  10

  The taxi dropped him off at the entrance of a busy town.

  “The firm is on Aplotarias street,” the taxi driver said in a strong accent. “It’s a pedestrian zone so I cannot take the car inside, but it’s not much further down.”

  I’ve heard that before, Ahmed, reflected. Sounded just like the driver that took them to the refugee boat… not much further indeed.

  The street was littered with shops, coffee places and restaurants, a vibrant mix of modern and old architecture. It had a steady flow of people, most appeared to be locals. Even with the hustle and bustle of a market town, there was an aroma of peace and calm in the air, reminding him of what Syria was like, once. People going about their business in harmony — living and letting live.

  He arrived at the address he’d been looking for. It was a tall building with a large brown door. He paused for a moment and stared at the door’s old brass handle. It was gleaming like it had just been polished. Ahmed could see his reflection in it.

  So, what now? He asked himself, I suppose I better improvise. He opened the door and stepped inside. Immediately, he was greeted by a brawny secu
rity guard. Why would a solicitor’s firm have a security guard? Ahmed thought.

  “You have appointment?” the guard asked in a deep voice.

  “Erm…” Ahmed began, having to think of the Greek he needed, “no, I am here on business and needed some papers signed.” What the hell am I talking about? he thought. Just shut up!

  The guard looked at Ahmed up and down before saying, “Step this way.” The guard escorted him to a large oak desk which had a lady sitting behind. She looked around fifty or fifty-five, but had retained some of her youthful features and beauty. The small see-through food container, packed with salad explained her healthy size.

  “How can I help you?” she asked in perfect English.

  “I am here on business and need some help with getting some paperwork verified.”

  “May I ask what paperwork it is?” she asked, peering over her thick framed glasses.

  Ahmed fell silent. Although he was now quite adept at lying, he had no idea what to say.

  “Erm… it’s really not something I am willing to discuss with anyone other than a solicitor, no offence.”

  The lady smiled. “Of course. But the solicitor is very busy and normally requires me to find out exactly what a client wants before I can pass the case forward.”

  Ahmed put the brief case on the desk. “Maybe if I show you some of the paperwork, you could run along and see if he is interested in helping me.” Ahmed took out five-thousand Euros, paperwork that everyone understood, and put it on the desk. The lady looked at the money and then picked up the phone. She rolled back in her chair, turned away from Ahmed, and spoke quietly, so Ahmed couldn’t tell what she was saying. She swung herself back, hung up the phone, and rolled her chair forward. She looked at the security guard and nodded.

  “This way sir,” The guard instructed. Did it work? Did it actually work? Ahmed thought. Maybe it didn’t and the security guard was going to kick me out, or perhaps worse.

  Ahmed followed the guard through an unusually long and dimly lit corridor. The ceilings were high and the walls were covered with pictures in large, heavy-looking frames that seemed old and expensive. Mostly scenic images, sand, sea, and skies. All equally beautiful and classically painted. All looked like they belonged in a museum.

  They stopped at a door and Ahmed could feel the thickness of the red carpet under his feet. He looked down and observed the carpet but then got distracted with how ridiculously shiny his black shoes were. They gleamed so much that he could use them as a mirror if he needed to. The guard knocked on the door and then waited. They waited a while. Ahmed looked at the guard and thought, is he not going to knock again? He only knocked once and maybe the person behind the door didn’t even hear him. But the guard didn’t knock again and they continued to wait. Ahmed was tempted to say something after the subtle cough failed to give the hint. After another few minutes, a voice emerged from behind the door. “Come in.”

  The guard opened the door and gestured for Ahmed to go inside. Ahmed took a deep breath and had the sudden urge to swallow repeatedly. When he walked inside he was met by a lanky man with a pot belly. He had thin brunette hair that was brushed over to cover his bald head. Despite the brush over, his forehead was noticeably large and looked frozen, as if it had undergone Botox injections.

  The guard, who remained outside, closed the door behind him. The tall man, who was sat comfortably behind his desk, gestured for Ahmed to sit on the empty chair opposite him.

  “Please, have a seat,” he said in a polite tone. Ahmed sat down, clenching the briefcase tightly. The room had a bit of an echo due to its size and stupidly high ceilings. You would need scaffolding just to change a lightbulb in place like this, he thought. The man’s desk had a computer, some neatly stacked paper and a single picture frame.

  “So… how can I help you? Mr…” Ahmed hadn’t thought of what name he would give and found it was one of those moments when nothing sprung to mind.

  “Ahmed… my name is Ahmed,” he responded, knowing that if he took any longer the man would probably get suspicious. There was a short pause.

  “OK, Mr Ahmed, what is it that you need?”

  “Yes, I need some help with getting some paperwork signed,” Ahmed said confidently. “I am here on business from overseas.”

  “OK, I am sure that I can help you with that. Can I see the paperwork?””

  “I was told that a man called Stelios would be able to help me.”

  The man leaned back in his chair, an expression of shock filling his face. His eyes expanded and he swallowed uneasily. The name Stelios obviously triggered something.

  “Interesting…” the man said, his hand now reaching for the phone, “and who, may I ask told you that?”

  Ahmed knew that something was wrong. Maybe ‘Stelios’ was code for something, maybe he was Stelios and was worried that I was an undercover police officer. Either way, soon as he picks up that phone, it will be game over.

  “Erm… let me show you the paperwork.” Ahmed said and quickly opened the brief case. He rummaged through the bank notes and removed the gun. Quickly pointing it directly at the man, he said, “If you make a noise or touch that phone, I will blow your brains all over that nice painting behind you. And that would be a real shame as it really is a great painting.”

  The man paused and held out his hands. He looked petrified as he stared down the barrel of the gun. Ahmed surprised himself by not allowing his hands to tremble.

  “What do you want?”

  “I am looking for my son... and I think you might know how I can find him.”

  “What do you mean? How would I be able to help?”

  “I think you might know about children being abducted from a refugee camp.”

  “That’s absurd! I have no idea what you’re talking about.” The man stood up. “I have security in this building and if shout now, they will come bursting in here.”

  “Unfortunately for you, they will not make it in time,” Ahmed raised the gun to his face level. “Now, sit down!” Ahmed glanced over at the picture frame on his desk and smiled. It was a picture of three children standing together in a landscaped garden; two boys and a girl. “Are these your children?” Ahmed asked. The man nodded slowly.

  “They are beautiful... I am sure that they will miss you very much.”

  The man sat back down. He loosened his tie and undone his top button. “I don’t know anything about kids getting abducted, I swear!”

  There was a strong possibility that the man was telling the truth and that he had absolutely no idea about the children being abducted, but Ahmed wasn’t convinced.

  He realised it wasn’t going to be easy. He put the gun in his pocket and stood up. “Get up!” The man remained seated. “I said, get up, now!” The man did as he was told, shaking.

  “We are leaving the building. My gun will still be pointing at you. If you try to alert anyone, make a noise or if I even get the slightest hint that you are trying to get the attention of anyone, I will kill you. In fact, you are going to have to try very hard to stay alive — do you understand?” The man didn’t respond.

  “I said, do – you – understand?”

  The man nodded. Beads of sweat began to form on his unusually large forehead.

  “Good. Now we are going to leave and go to your car — you do have a car, right?” The man nodded again. “And you will tell your receptionist that you have to go to a meeting that has just come up and will be back shortly. Are we clear?”

  “Yes...” the man said quietly. “Where are we going?”

  “Let’s go. Now.” Ahmed, couldn’t give him an answer even if he wanted to as he had no idea where they were going, he just knew that he couldn’t get what he wanted here.

  They walked steadily through the corridor, Ahmed remaining a few steps behind the man with his hand on the gun. What am I doing? This is never going work! The receptionist seemed pretty crafty, she’ll just take one look at us and she’ll know something is wrong… Maybe this guy
will signal to call for help and before I know it the guard will be spraying bullets at me. There’s a big difference between a trained security guard with a gun and me with a gun. But what choice did he have? The man wasn’t going to speak here; he had to get it out of him, somehow.

  As they approached the end of the corridor, the man, surprisingly, kept perfect composure. He made direct eye contact with the lady at reception and spoke firmly. “Something has just come up and I need to go a meeting. Please rearrange any appointments that I have for today.”

  “OK, will do,” she said and then looked at Ahmed who was following behind, with one hand holding the brief case and the other in his blazer pocket. She then looked away and began typing on her computer.

  The security guard opened the door for them and they were nearly out.

  “Wait!” the guard said just before they got out. Damn it! Ahmed thought, I’ve had it, he’s figured out something is wrong... I knew it, it was a stupid idea. Ahmed clenched the gun tighter, thinking that any second now he would have to take it out and shoot. He had already killed two people, what’s another three, right? He braced himself and tried to remember whether he had taken the safety off.

  “Here, take this,” the guard said as he handed the man an umbrella, “it looks like it’s going to rain.”

  “Thanks,” Stelios said, taking the umbrella. Ahmed felt himself sigh with relief. He didn’t want to get into a shootout with the butch security guard, nor did he want to blow a hole in the back of Stelios’ head.

  They walked out of the door and into the busy street. People were walking around, shopping, and enjoying themselves. Ahmed felt strange knowing that not one of them had any idea that he was armed and taking this man captive. He moved in closely behind him and brushed his back slightly to let him know that he was right there.

  “Try anything, and you’re dead,” Ahmed whispered in his hostage’s ear.

  “Where are you taking me?” Stelios asked, his voice shaking.

  “To your car. You’re going to take me to your car.”