by Farah Cook
This is a statement and not a question.
‘No!’ I feel my breath getting short. ‘I took the fire out before it could spread.’
The same exchange of glances. They’ve already framed a picture of me, and I read the mental headline: Divorced Pakistani carer unable to care for her mother nearly burns down family home and crashes car on historic bridge.
I shiver. I don’t want Shafi to suffer anymore as a result of my mistakes. I keep quiet. I don’t even consider mentioning that I may have seen a woman on the bridge this morning. They might think I’m mad.
‘Can you please tell me what this is really about? Why are you asking me all these questions? I was meeting a friend. I had an accident. That’s not a crime, is it?’
‘Miss Malik there’s been an incident at Caledonian Canal. We believe it happened during the time you were present. We can’t be too sure, the fog clouded—’
‘What kind of incident?’ Beads of sweat trickle down the back of my neck.
‘A young woman has been found dead.’
I feel the ache in my body swell. ‘Is it Meena?’
‘We haven’t identified her body, and can’t disclose any information at this point. Can you state the time you arrived at the Bridge of Oich this morning?’
‘It was around eight o’clock I think. Or just after eight.’
The front door unlocks. The estate agent comes in with a young merry looking couple who suddenly don’t look so merry when they see me sitting in question with two officers. We all look at each other, faces surprised and embarrassed. How could I have forgotten about the viewing this evening? I sink back into my chair and look away. Heat spreads to my ears.
‘Well, this is a surprise,’ says the estate agent. ‘I think we will have to come back another time.’ He ushers the couple out as fast as he can and leaves the front door ajar. Outside I can hear him say how deeply sorry he is. If they are still interested, he will rearrange the viewing.
‘That’s not going to be necessary,’ says a male voice. I sink deeper into my chair. The estate agent says he has a list of other homes he can show them. Homes in a good neighbourhood. And I know he means homes that weren’t on fire and mentioned in the local newspaper. Homes that don’t have police officers questioning its owner.
My phone vibrates – it’s from the care home. I need to take the call if I want to make a new appointment to see Mum. The tall one clears his throat, suggesting I don’t take the call. I wish the floor would open up and swallow me. I put the phone away. It doesn’t stop vibrating. I dig my nails into my palms, scoring my flesh.
‘Miss Malik,’ says the short one. ‘Do you happen to remember what time you arrived at Fort Augustus after you left the Bridge of Oich this morning? We believe the body of the young woman was dumped in the canal somewhere between the two bridges.
Body? Dumped? Was she murdered?
I look right at him. ‘No, I don’t.’ I really don’t want to speak to anyone. I want to be in bed. I want to disappear.
Chapter 32
AFRAH
Sunday, 22 December 2019
I’m awake, my eyes blink rapidly. I had a bad dream and the images flicker like dust. I wipe clean the sweat from my chest, and touch my matted hair, pulling it back. I open the bedside drawer. My diary isn’t in there. I search for paper, but there isn’t any in sight. I have to write down my dream. I orientate myself and stumble as I get up. The room is somewhat dark, I can’t see much except for the wide windows staring right back at me as if I were a lost soul.
Fresh cold air wafts through the windows and cools my skin. I reach out waving my hands and knock over the bottled water, which smashes on the floor. Glass scatters over my feet. I move back and sit on my bed staring into the darkness. Waves of light begin to seep through the windows. It’s a pale autumn light. I hear the rain lashing down, splatting against the windowpanes. I want to go out. I want to walk on the beach and collect broken seashells.
I hear footsteps outside and fumble to switch on the light. ‘Who is there?’ No answer. I call out again and get to my feet, taking slow steps towards the door. Someone is breathing heavily on the other side. I open the door. The corridor is black, and I feel an icy chill travel down my spine when I see a shadow is standing there. It gets closer and closer, and I can make out the shape of a woman dressed in a white dress. There’s light, a candle in her hand, and her face is veiled. She moves slowly in my direction. I slam my door shut and lean against it. The handle rattles. Someone is trying hard to get in. The door shakes, I turn around and keep pushing it back and begin to cry out loud, Go away, leave me alone! I feel my body turn weak. My arms fall to my side and I collapse onto the floor.
Carol, with her black widow-like claws pokes at the food in her bowl. I take a seat across from her, and watch the daylight flicker against her pale face. I am having porridge for breakfast. No omelette, no paratha. I peer over my shoulders.
‘If you’re looking for Zahra, she’s not here. No special treatments for you. Oh yes, we know all about them treats she’s been giving you. Why should you be given special foods when the rest of us get beans on toast? Doesn’t sound fair, does it now?’ Carol puts a spoonful of porridge into her mouth and swallows hard, her eyes never leaving mine. Why is she being so mean to me?
‘Where’s Nisha?’ I ask.
‘She’s not down. Margaret says she’s not well. Better leave her be.’
Mrs Brown stares down at me. Her presence makes me instantly feel cold. ‘What’s the matter, Afrah Bibi? The food not good enough for you?’
‘They don’t eat porridge in Pakistan,’ says Carol. ‘Liam told me that.’
‘Did he now?’ Mrs Brown interlaces her fingers behind her back.
I open my mouth to say something but the words don’t come out. I feel dizzy.
‘Hold on,’ she says. A sneeze is coming. ‘A little Myrtle sneeze.’ She shoves her nose into her elbow. She sounds like a barking mad dog. ‘Zahra is back in the afternoon. She’s on night shift today. I suggest you go to your room after breakfast and stay there. You don’t look well, you need to rest.’
‘Can I call my daughter?’ I ask.
‘Still hasn’t come?’ Carol says curiously.
‘Mind your own business, Carol,’ says Mrs Brown sharply.
‘This is my business. Afrah is my friend. Aren’t you, Afrah?’ she says mockingly.
I get up. ‘I’d like to call my daughter.’
‘Has Zahra not informed you? Your daughter is due to visit you this morning. But do help yourself. The phone is in the lounge.’ She turns and leaves, leaving a trail of cold air behind. I go down the hall, my vision becomes blurry. I think I see someone. A tall man with an ashen face. I leap to one side, and hide my face behind the curtain.
‘Yer OK?’ a voice says.
‘Leave me alone.’ When I look, no one is there.
I don’t know where I am. I lost my way. I hear the ringtone of a dial phone like the old days. I need to follow that sound. I turn to my left and find myself going down some steps, they creak beneath me. The walls are made of red bricks, and I smell cement. A single bulb dimly lit swings lightly in front of the door at the end of this corridor. I push it open. Inside the air is damp. I smell something raw. Chicken or fish.
What is this place? I walk into a table and knock my knee. The pain is excruciating, and I gently rub it away.
Where am I? Some kind of basement. There are pots here with herbs, dried meat hanging from hooks. Baskets with vegetables. Someone shouts, ‘Get out, out of here! Go before I knack on yer.’ A woman is skinning an animal and chopping the meat with a butcher’s knife. Blood is on her hands and she licks it off one finger slowly while glaring at me. I cover my mouth so that I don’t scream.
‘Afrah, wake up,’ someone shakes me gently. ‘Wake up. Nap time is over, rise and shine.’ I take a moment to establish whether this is a dream or reality. My chest heaves, sweat lines my hair. I find I am in my room. I pull the duve
t down reluctantly, on edge. The room is dark, curtains undrawn. I want to go back to sleep again. I tug the duvet close to my chest.
‘Go away. Who are you anyway?’ I peek out at a woman with chocolate brown eyes.
‘It’s your favourite carer, Zahra.’ She places a hand on my arm and shakes me gently. ‘Come on, I’ll help you get out of bed.’
‘No,’ I say. ‘I’m asleep. I don’t want to get up.’ I close my eyes.
‘You are awake now, open those beautiful eyes, come on.’
I take a look at her. She sits on the edge of the bed and says I must have been sleepwalking again because I was lying on the floor. Two male nurses found me and carried me to bed during a routine check. I tell her I can’t remember what I did. I breathe in sharply and something hurts. I pull the cover down and bring a cold hand to my nose, which feels swollen and blocked. I notice I am now taking even sharper breaths through my mouth. I stare at Zahra who detects my confusion.
The tips of her fingers draw down my face, a gentle caress. ‘You sweet thing, what is happening to you?’ She comes back with a cold compress and wet cloth. She wipes dry blood from my lips. ‘Look at that terrible bruise you’ve gotten. Does it hurt?’ She tells me to keep the cold compress on my nose to reduce the swelling. ‘What happened?’
That’s when I remember the vision, something between a dream and reality. ‘There was a woman outside my room.’ I think it was this morning, I am not sure. ‘I saw her walking down Morton Wing. She must have done this to me she, she—’ I catch my breath.
My thoughts get muddled. In my memory, I now see a woman skinning an animal. She had blood on her hands. What’s happening to me?
‘What woman? Could it have been someone who came from the outside? We’ve had some contractors come in to do fix-ups around the house.’
‘No, I don’t think so. Somebody was trying to get into my room. The door was shaking. Please believe me, I am not lying.’
‘Afrah, are you saying someone from the care home did this to you?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t see her face. It was veiled. I, I—’ I’m stuttering. The words won’t form on my tongue. I feel exhausted. I touch my swollen nose and start to cry.
‘Try to remember who she was. Did she say anything? What did she want?’
I shake my head. ‘I don’t know. Leave me alone!’
Zahra looks at me with worried eyes. ‘Afrah, are you sure it wasn’t a dream? We both know you sleepwalk. That must be how you got those nasty bruises. Now, it’s nothing to feel ashamed of. I’ve seen it happen plenty of times before. It’s quite common among most of the patients I cared for. I think you ought to stay in bed. You could do with some extra time resting.’
‘I know what I saw.’ I hear the gong. ‘It was a woman, she was dressed in white.’
‘That’s lunch. Would you like to go down?’
‘I am not hungry.’ I remove the cold compress. ‘Please, will you call my daughter? I want to speak to her. I—’ Unable to utter words again, I swallow hard. My throat feels tight.
Zahra searches for water and notices the broken bottle underneath the table. She twists the lid of another and pours water into a cup. I can’t drink it fast enough.
‘I’m thirsty. More,’ I say, feeling a line of water dribble down my throat. She refills my glass and tells me she has unpleasant news. Amira never came to visit this morning.
‘I don’t know what’s happened. Myrtle has left her a message. I am so sorry Afrah, I don’t want to worry you. I’m afraid to tell you that something may have happened to her.’
A jolt of energy pulses through me. My stomach turns over with nerves.
‘Afrah, I will do all in my power to see if I can get in touch with your daughter.’
‘Would you really do that for me?’
‘Of course I will,’ she says. ‘Perhaps you should take a shower and get dressed. It will make you feel better. Do you want me to help you?’
‘No, I can take my own showers.’ I get out of bed and I walk around in circles. I open the wardrobe and close it again. I want to look nice. I will take a shower, braid my hair. Decorate my ears and wrists. I bite my nails. ‘Do you really think Amira will be coming?’ Blood drips from my nose, tinges the carpet. I lean my head back and Zahra puts cotton into one of my nostrils.
‘I worry about you,’ says Zahra. ‘You seem a little shaken today. How about you stay in, and take your meals in your room today. Have a lie in to calm yourself down. I’ll let Myrtle know you won’t be coming out.’
‘That would be nice, thank you.’ I don’t feel like seeing anyone except for Amira. And I don’t feel like being with anyone except for Amira. My daughter will be OK, nothing would have happened to her, and she will come and see me.
Zahra smiles and tells me she’ll get a pot of tea up for me. ‘Are you sure I can’t bring you anything to eat? You’ve become so pale, so thin. How about mithai? There should still be some ladoo left in the tin I bought you.’ She opens the box but it’s empty.
‘Naughty,’ she says with a sweet smile. ‘Have you finished it already?’
I shake my head. ‘No, I haven’t.’
‘No need to feel ashamed,’ she says. ‘I can always get you more from town.’
‘I haven’t eaten the mithai!’
‘Then who did?’ Zahra puts the box away. ‘Let’s forget about it. Doesn’t matter.’
‘But it does. Somebody has been in my room. I don’t know who. My things are missing, I think my earrings—’
Zahra touches my earlobes. ‘You are wearing them now,’ she gives them a gentle rub and I feel the gold joined with my skin. ‘Don’t worry, I’m sure that very soon the rest of your things will show up. Was it a black diary you were missing? Myrtle said—’
‘I don’t care what she said.’ I lean into the armchair. I close my eyes and see the woman in white coming towards me. My heart sinks to the bottom of my stomach. I can’t help but feel I am being punished. That somebody in Ravenswood Lodge has it in for me. ‘Somebody is out to get me. You have to believe me.’
I open my eyes. Zahra isn’t there. I call out for her and the door creaks open and then slams shut. I tell myself it’s a draft of wind, nothing more. I crawl under the blanket, my body shivers. I stay in the armchair.
The curtains draw and I hear the sound of clinking cups. I peek out and see Zahra placing the teapot on the table. She hands me the mug. She swivels around the room as if searching for something. She opens and closes the drawers. Comes out of the bathroom looking confused. ‘I always put your pills on the desk. They are not there. Have you removed them?’
I shake my head, blowing on the surface of the tea. The steam warm against my face.
‘Then where could they be?’ Zahra looks into the bin. ‘There they are. Emptied into the waste basket.’ She looks at me, poised and careful as a cat.
‘I didn’t do it! Somebody has it in for me.’
‘You know that’s not true.’
The tall man with a pale face. Larry? He’s the gardener. He does not like me.
‘Where is the gardener?’ He must be hiding. I don’t recall having seen him in a while. ‘He hates me. Carol said so.’
‘I wouldn’t believe a word of what Carol says.’ Zahra pours herself a cup of tea. ‘She’s been snooping in your room. She had your bracelets, do you remember?’
I shake my head. Could that be the reason she’s cross with me?
‘Has the gardener come in?’ I go to the windowsill. He is not in the garden and there is no sign of his tools. The spade, the rake. I wonder what he’s digging when no one watches. I’ve seen him standing by the tree with the wheelbarrow as if hiding something.
‘Myrtle said Liam is running errands in town. He needed new tools for the garden to trim the trees. Don’t let his rude manners cloud you. His behaviour is no different with any of us.’
He sold the things he stole from me. ‘Perhaps he’s buried my diary.’
‘Why
don’t we get you a new one? That way you can write things in it so that you don’t forget. Isn’t that what you’ve been using it for?’
‘The diary had my memories, my dreams. Things I can revisit.’
‘Like what?’
‘Some arguments with Amira and some laughter with Amira. We don’t have many joyful moments, but one thing is for sure. I disappoint her. She is embarrassed of me.’
‘What makes you believe you embarrass her?’ Zahra places her hand on mine.
‘She says I am forgetful, and I can be sometimes. I won’t admit it to her because she’ll think I am unreliable. A superfluous woman. No one wants to feel defective like something is wrong with them. I believe something must be wrong with me. That is why she’s left me.’
‘You are here to receive the best care.’ Zahra takes a sip of tea and then looks at me with her large eyes. She lowers the mug and says, ‘You are not defective.’
All mothers at some point in life feel judged by their daughters, not once, but several times. It is unavoidable. Mothers try not to judge their daughters. The love we carry is unconditional. I don’t mind the judgement. After all, what girl wants to become her mother? Everything we say and do disgusts them. But what they don’t realise is that they are destined to turn into all what they hate. Their mothers.
I may have failed as a mother. I wasn’t prepared to raise daughters in the West, with my Eastern traditions. In my generation things were done differently. Times were harder. I have never said that to Amira, and perhaps that’s why she stood up to me. She knew deep inside I didn’t take her for granted. What she doesn’t know is how proud she makes me. If only she knew how much I love her. If only she knew what sacrifices I made.
There’s a knock on my door. ‘Afrah, we’ve found your diary,’ says the big-chested woman at the door. ‘It was in the little reading room. Nisha said she saw you leave it there and we all believe her. Nisha never lies.’ She passes it to me and leaves. My cheeks feel hot.
Zahra doesn’t say anything. Lowering her eyes, she says she will come back in a while to check on me. She walks out without turning around, without smiling. I know what she thinks of me. I hold myself back from screaming: I am not pagal!
