by Sam Hepburn
‘I cannot believe that man was my father’s friend,’ Aliya said gasping for breath. ‘He cares only about his business and the “shame” for his community. Nothing for Behrouz. I hate people who think their stupid honour is more important than truth or people’s lives.’
I got out my phone and did a search for a number.
‘Who are you calling?’ Aliya said.
‘Khan’s.’
‘Are you mad?’
Corella’s voice rasped through the speaker. ‘Khan’s Cars, how can I help you?’
‘It’s Dan.’
There was a split-second pause. Then she said, ‘Where are you now, sir?’
‘The caff in the park down the road.’
‘No problem. I’ll arrange for the item to be picked up and brought to you at twelve-thirty.’
‘OK. Thanks.’
I thought Aliya would be impressed. Wrong. She glared at me. ‘I don’t understand. How did you know she would send someone?’
I made a ‘phone me’ sign with my thumb and little finger. ‘She was doing this when she chucked us out.’
‘What does it mean?’
‘Call me. People do it on telly when they want viewers to ring in and vote for them.’
Going by the blank look she gave me, I guessed she wasn’t a big fan of TV talent shows, but the explanation calmed her down a bit.
‘Do you want a drink?’
‘I don’t have much money.’
I shrugged. ‘I’m buying. What do you want? Tea, Coke?’
‘I will have tea.’
She followed me inside and sat down at one of the tables while I went over to the counter. When I got back she was checking the screen on Behrouz’s phone and writing on one of the napkins.
‘What are you doing?’
She turned the napkin so I could see it. She’d drawn a kind of grid and filled in all the stuff she knew Behrouz had been doing from the moment he started acting strangely at the Meadowview fundraiser till the moment that lock-up exploded: the times and dates of the phone calls he’d made and received, the texts he’d been sent, the photos he’d taken.
We drank our tea staring at the blanks on the grid, not saying much at all.
Corella had seemed trustworthy enough but I didn’t want to take any chances. At twenty past twelve, even though it was raining, I made Aliya leave the cafe and we huddled under a tree to one side of the entrance so we could see who Corella had sent before they saw us. Aliya was nervous, chewing the cuff of the hoodie I’d lent her, the brand-new Hollister one that had cost me a fortune. Did I say anything? No. She could trash everything I owned and we’d still never be even.
We were getting soaked, watching mothers hurrying past with buggies, kids wobbling along on rollerblades and old people walking ratty little dogs in tartan coats. Then a scrawny guy came down the path, tugging the collar of his jacket. He was young, seventeen maybe, ginger hair, spots. He glanced nervously over his shoulder before he walked up the steps of the cafe. We followed behind, skirting the busy seating area, while he bought a can of Coke at the counter and took it over to one of the tables. We still weren’t sure he was the right person till he started turning a bright-orange Khan’s Cars card in his fingers.
I started forward. Aliya pulled me back. ‘I don’t trust the look of him,’ she whispered.
So we hung around a bit longer, checking to make sure he really had come alone, before we went over to his table and sat down.
‘Here.’ He kept his eyes on his Coke and pushed a printout into Aliya’s hand. ‘That’s all Baz’s jobs for this week. Anyone asks, you didn’t get it from me.’ He pushed his chair back and stood up. I wanted to keep him talking. ‘You’re young to be driving a cab, aren’t you?’ I said. Feeble, but the best I could do.
‘I’m not a driver,’ he snapped. ‘I’m an apprentice mechanic. It’s a good job and I don’t want to lose it. So keep your mouth shut.’
Aliya was frowning at him, probably thrown by his broad Scottish accent.
‘Course. What’s your name?’
‘What’s it to you?’
I shrugged and held my hands up. ‘Just being friendly.’
He hesitated, as if strangers being friendly wasn’t something he was used to. ‘Connor,’ he said grudgingly.
‘I’m Dan. She’s—’
‘I know who she is.’
‘Are you a friend of Behrouz?’ Aliya said.
He scowled in her face. ‘Not any more.’
She held up the job list, her eyes cold with fury. ‘Then why did you bring me this?’
‘Corella made me. I owed her a favour. If you ask me, your brother deserves everything he gets.’
Aliya’s head jerked back as if he’d slapped her. ‘No!’
Connor dropped his fists on the table and hissed at her, ‘I used to think he was all right, but bad stuff’s happening to good people because of him.’
‘No! This is not true!’
I kicked her foot to shut her up. ‘What people?’
‘My mate Arif, for starters,’ Connor went on, staring Aliya down. ‘He’s been letting me kip on his floor and he was doing fine, sorting his visa, getting a bit of money together, never been in any trouble till Behrouz turned up.’
Aliya lifted her chin. ‘If Arif is in trouble, it is not because of Behrouz.’
‘Oh, no?’ Connor dropped his voice and hunched forward. ‘Tuesday afternoon he turns up looking shifty as hell, drags Arif behind the workshop and they’re talking together for ages, yackety bloody yack.’
‘What were they talking about?’ I said.
‘How do I know? They weren’t speaking English, but Behrouz kept pointing to something on his phone.’
I glanced at Aliya then back at Connor. ‘Was it a photo?’
‘Maybe, I couldn’t see.’
‘Did he say anything that might have been a name?’
Connor frowned. ‘I dunno, it was all gibberish to me, but maybe . . . Aerobi, something like that . . . no . . . Sarobi. That’s right. Sarobi. Next thing I know, the two of them have disappeared and Arif doesn’t come home till three in the morning. Following day he’s all agitated, checking his messages every two minutes, and there’s no sign of Behrouz. I know something’s up but Arif won’t tell me what. That evening we’re nipping out to get a takeaway and suddenly there’s four blokes in black, flashing IDs in Arif’s face and hustling him into their van.’
I sat forward. ‘What kind of van?’
‘One with “Are You Here Illegally? Go Home or Face Arrest” in letters a mile high down the side. Anyway, he starts shouting, telling them his visa’s coming through and this old lady steps over, demanding to know what’s going on and they tell her they’ve had a tip-off that he lied on his application.’
‘What has this to do with Behrouz?’ Aliya said desperately.
‘Are you thick or something? That was the night his bomb factory blew up in his face. I reckon that’s what all the whispering was about. Your brother was trying to drag Arif into some bomb-making scheme with him and his terrorist mates from Al Shaab and when Arif refused, Behrouz called Immigration and told them a pack of lies to get rid of him.’
Aliya didn’t flinch. ‘Arif was Behrouz’s friend. He would never do something like that to him.’
Connor jabbed his finger into his chest. ‘I was there. I saw it with my own eyes, and no one’s heard a word from Arif since. Nothing. Your brother’s trouble. Everyone at Khan’s knows that.’
‘Corella doesn’t believe he is guilty.’ Aliya’s voice was steady but I could tell she was having trouble keeping it that way.
‘Corella’s a soft touch. She helped me out when I had a problem with a bent MOT. But this is different.’
‘Yes! Different because Behrouz is innocent!’ She said it so loudly people were turning round.
He glared at her for a couple of seconds, too angry to speak, then he kicked the chair and stormed off.
I couldn’t believe she�
�d lost it like that. ‘What did you do that for?’ I hissed. ‘We need to get him on side.’
‘I’m sorry. He made me angry.’ She got up to go after him.
‘I’ll do it,’ I said. I caught up with him at the top of the steps. ‘Hey, Connor. C’mon.’
He shrugged my hand away. ‘You want to teach your girlfriend some manners.’
‘She’s not my—’ I stopped. Let him think what he wanted. ‘Look, she was well out of order but she didn’t mean it. She’s upset.’
‘Yeah? Well, she’s not the only one. My best mate’s gone missing.’
‘I know. But you want to find out what’s happened to Arif, we want to know what was going on with Behrouz, and they’ve got to be connected, so why don’t we swap numbers and if we hear anything, we can let each other know?’
He eyeballed me for a bit, then he nodded and got out his phone. As soon as he’d sent me his number I ran back to Aliya, pressing keys, saving it to the memory, and knocked into a man heading for the next table. He brushed off my apology but when he sat down I could see he’d spilt his coffee all down his front. I turned my back to him and dropped my voice below the hum of chatter and clinking plates. ‘Connor’s OK. He was just upset about his mate. And you’ve got to admit, Arif getting picked up the same night as Behrouz was nearly killed, it’s a bit weird.’
She looked down and nodded. ‘I know. I should never have said those things.’
‘Maybe you should tell him that yourself. I’ll send you his number. So what does Sarobi mean?’ I said. ‘Could it be Cement Face’s name?’
She was thumbing through the contacts on Behrouz’s phone, only half listening. ‘I know only a place called Sarobi. It is a town between Kabul and Jalalabad.’
‘Oh, right,’ I said, disappointed. ‘What are you looking for?’
‘The number of Mrs Garcia at the refugee centre. I am going to send it to Connor. Maybe she can ring Immigration for him and find out what happened to Arif.’
‘Would she do that?’
‘I think so. She helped us with our papers when we first got here.’ Her eyes drifted across the crowded room as if a memory had caught her off guard. I waited. Whatever it was, she was keeping it to herself.
‘Hey, you OK?’ I said.
She rubbed her hands across her face. ‘I am scared.’
Me too. Scared to go on, scared to stop, scared of the truth, scared of the lies, and right then scared stiff she was going start crying. I couldn’t deal with that.
‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘We can do this. You and me.’ Who was I kidding?
I snatched up Behrouz’s job sheet and checked the list. ‘OK, so the last job he did was this Tottenham one on Tuesday. He picked up a woman called Vera Barnes at eleven-thirty and took her to Tottenham Hale station. According to Corella, he was in the area already and took the job so he could stay round there till lunchtime.’
She wiped her face with her sleeve. ‘Yes, and lunchtime was when he took the photos of Cement Face.’
‘Exactly. So I reckon he went to Cement Face’s work, waited for him to go outside for a fag in his lunch break, grabbed a few shots of him, then drove off in a hurry.’
Aliya unfolded the napkin with her grid on it and added the stuff about Behrouz going back to Khan’s, talking to Arif and mentioning Sarobi. Even from where I was sitting, there were still more blanks on it than facts.
‘What we need is a motive,’ I said.
‘What is that?’
‘A reason for doing a crime.’
She nodded and wrote MOTIVE in big letters under her grid, underlining it twice and putting a big question mark next to it.
‘OK. Let’s go to Tottenham and see this Vera Barnes. You never know, he might have said something to her on the way to the station.’
Aliya was very quiet on the bus and the Tube. To be honest, I preferred it that way. It gave me time to think. We’d found out quite a lot in one morning. Some of it, I really didn’t like. And the thing with this Al Shaab terror group claiming Behrouz was their bomb-maker kept buzzing round my head like a fly in a can of rotting worms.
ALIYA
I’d really believed my English was good and getting better. Today I realized that knowing words would never be enough. It was the things people didn’t say, the hints and gestures, like Corella signalling ‘phone me’ with her fingers, that were going to save Behrouz. The underground station was the same, full of arrows, maps and signs sending people scurrying off in every direction. The boy seemed to understand them all, twisting and turning through white-tiled corridors and rushing down steep juddering escalators on to a crowded platform with a tunnel at the end that gaped like the mouth of a cave. I stared into the circle of black, wondering what other signs he’d been following that I hadn’t even known were there.
‘When we see Mrs Barnes, I want to ask her the questions,’ I said.
He shrugged. ‘OK. What’s your cover story?’
‘What is that?’
‘A fake reason for talking to her. You can’t tell her the truth.’
I’d forgotten that I’d have to lie. ‘I will think of one,’ I said.
The train pulled in with an ear-splitting screech. I flinched away from the clumsy whoosh of the doors. The crowd swept me inside, jamming me so tightly that I couldn’t free my hand to reach for the rail. The train gathered speed. I looked round for the boy. He wasn’t there. Maybe he hadn’t got on. I didn’t know where I was or where I should get off. What would I do? A baby was screaming, someone stamped on my foot. I couldn’t see faces, just arms and elbows jostling me. I couldn’t breathe. I closed my eyes. The train stopped. The doors opened. The people poured out like rice from a sack, carrying me with them.
‘Hey, where are you going?’ The boy caught my arm and pointed at the map above the seats. ‘It’s ages yet.’
He stood next to me swaying with the train. I didn’t speak. I stared at the web of colours on the map, reading the names, memorizing the stations, as if I was back in Kabul, studying for an exam.
Half an hour later we burst on to the street. I was so hot and sweaty from the train ride that for once I didn’t mind the rain. I tipped my head back as I walked and let the cooling drops run down my face. The street streamed with people rushing to buy lunch, some clutching paper cups and bags of sandwiches, others dashing into cafes. I felt a twinge of hunger and gave my stomach a little punch to stop it growling. A bus pulled away from the bus stop and eased into the traffic, revealing a poster across the road showing the London Eye lit up at night in a rainbow of coloured lights.
‘Have you been on it many times?’ I asked the boy.
‘The Eye? No, never.’
I was surprised. ‘Why not?’
‘We were going to take my nan for her birthday but she broke her ankle so we couldn’t go.’
‘I can see it from our flat. I would love to take a ride on it.’
‘Yeah, it’d be a laugh. Tell you what, when this is over and we’ve got Behrouz off, I’ll take you on it to celebrate.’
I shook my head and smiled. ‘No. I will take you to say thank you for helping me.’
The smiles froze on our faces. We both looked away. What if this was never over? What if we couldn’t prove Behrouz was innocent? I think we were both glad when my phone bleeped. I pulled it from my pocket. It was Connor. I put it on speaker and held it between us. Connor’s voice sounded quieter. Scared.
‘Your Mrs Garcia just phoned Immigration for me. You’re right. There’s something weird going on.’
I felt my grip tighten on the handset. ‘What did she say?’
‘According to their records, their officers questioned Arif, checked his details were in order and let him go. But that’s a lie. Five minutes after they got him in the van, they drove off.’
Thoughts swirled round my brain, turning into handfuls of nothing when I tried to catch them. The boy had his head down, rubbing the back of his neck, but I could see he was trembling.
/> ‘Will you tell this to the police?’ I asked Connor.
‘Who are the feds going to believe? Me or Immigration? And I just got talking to Geoff.’
‘Who is Geoff?’
‘One of the other dispatchers. He said some foreign bloke rang Khan’s on Tuesday afternoon, asking if Behrouz worked there, and when Geoff said yes, he slammed the phone down.’
I got out my grid. ‘What time was this?’
‘Around two. As soon as Geoff told Behrouz about it he panicked, and that’s when he went running off to find Arif. What’s it mean?’
The boy said, ‘Dunno. But keep your ears open.’
I cut the call, feeling as if I had kicked over a rock and glimpsed a vast stinking sewer underneath. I waited for the boy to say something. He just chewed his bitten fingernails and frowned at a crack in the pavement.
Mrs Barnes’s house was small and old, with bent rusty railings at the front and stalks of grass sprouting through the path. As I lifted the knocker the boy gripped my wrist. ‘Whatever she says, don’t lose it. OK?’
‘You mean I mustn’t get angry?’
‘Yeah.’
I shook off his hand and rapped the knocker hard. An elderly woman with a face webbed with wrinkles came to the door, patting a curl of white hair into place.
‘Oh, I thought it was the police. They said they’d be popping round. I can’t imagine what it’s about.’ Her pale eyes searched mine. ‘Anyway, what can I do for you, dear? Are you collecting for something?’
‘No. Um, Mrs Barnes, it is about my . . . friend.’ I was speaking too fast but now she’d said the police were on their way, I was anxious to get away. ‘He drives a minicab. I think he took you to the station on Tuesday.’
