This Broken Land

by H M Sealey

  I sit on the little bench beside the raspberry canes. There’s very little fruit on them these days and those that do grow are small and tart. I push my bare feet into the soft, sandy soil and sigh as one of next-door’s doves hops across the ground, hunting for food with his little beak. I watch it for a moment and half smile. The old man next door is a bit of a loner, but he keeps a whole menagerie of animals in his garden. There’s a dovecote, an aviary, rabbits, chickens in a run and about a dozen cats. Gran thinks he probably sells them for food on the black market. There’s no point in having so many animals otherwise.

  To the west the sun sinks lazily below the horizon, decorating the sky with a warm, fuzzy, orange glow.

  Picking at the thyme and crushing the leaves between my fingers to release the scent, I wander for a few moments, half planning tomorrow’s lesson on the restoration of the Monarchy in my head. I know we haven’t been a monarchy for donkey’s years, the BSI wouldn’t hear of it, but I do love the romantic idea of couriers and ladies and banquets. I also love the idea of a King in a crown riding at the head of an army. I imagine Henry V on his horse before the battle of Agincourt, steely eyes and firm jaw, crying once more unto the breach dear friends and fearing nothing. I don’t think Britain’s had a King like that for centuries though. The last ones just opened hospitals and had photos taken with celebrities.

  There was a time when England was great though. England. Not Middle Britain as it’s known today, but England.

  I hear a thud and a crash from the summerhouse and I turn sharply, wondering whether its one next-door’s cats. They’re forever knocking over Gran’s plantpots.

  Gran’s blue-stained summerhouse is her own, private universe, right at the end of the garden and covered in jasmine that is so well established its roots are deep enough to survive even this modern drought. Periodically bits of it go brown and fall off, but it always recovers.

  The summerhouse is where Gran grows all her seedlings, on trays in the windows, and she sits here in the sunlight, sewing or mending where the light’s brightest. She keeps a tatty old three-piece-suite here, and books. Next door’s cats get in through the back window sometimes, last time one of them used Gran’s tray of carrot seedlings as a toilet.

  I lift the latch and peer into the dim interior, looking for the rogue cat. I make comforting little cat noises; I’m very fond of animals, but I know how upset Gran gets when her plants are spoiled.

  “Come on puss, puss,” I call. “Out you come.”

  There’s a thud and a scuffle in the corner. I grab the torch from the shelf and flick it on; then I give a squeal.

  “Oh my God!”

  “Shhhhhh!” Noor Blackwood rushes forward and presses her hand over my face. “Please! Please don’t shout!”

  I’m completely stunned. I saw Noor taken away today. How on earth is she here, in Gran’s summerhouse?

  I nod to let Noor know I’m not going to make a noise and she lets me go. For a twelve-year-old, she’s pretty strong.

  “What – Noor, you aren’t meant to be here. You could get into trouble.”

  “Please, keep your voice down.”

  “You’re hiding out in my back garden.”

  “This is Bibi Kessler’s garden.”

  “She’s my Gran.”

  Even in the poor light I notice Noor’s dark eyes roll. “Great.”

  I switch off the torch. “Look, come into the house and have something to eat.”

  “I’m fine. I can’t come into your house.”

  “Of course you can. Then we can think what to do. What happened? You were meant to go to a family in the BSI?”

  Noor’s eyes darken. “Are you really stupid? I mean, do you believe all that revisionist history you preach? Really believe it? Or are you just scared like the rest of them?”

  I don’t like how antagonistic she is. “What? Noor, how did you get here?”

  “You don’t know, do you? Your Gran hasn’t told you?” Her face collapses and suddenly she seems close to tears. Noor falls back into the tatty armchair and hugs her knees. “That means she can’t trust you. Which means I can’t trust you.”

  “Of course you can trust me.”

  Noor sniffs and rubs her eyes with a grubby sleeve. “Of course I can’t. You’re just like everyone else. Oh God! I can’t stay here. They’ll find me. I have to go.”

  I’m stung at her condescending attitude. I’m the adult, the teacher. She’s just a little kid.

  “I’m sure I can help you. I just don’t understand why you’re here. Did you run away?” I’m not sure it’s possible to run away from Social Services. And why would anyone run? They only want what’s best for everyone.

  “It’s nothing to do with you.”

  “Well, excuse me, but you’re hiding out in my summerhouse. That makes it something to do with me.”

  “Oh Elsie dear, it really isn’t anything to do with you.”

  I spin around in shock to find Gran standing in the shadowy doorway behind me, a canvas bag slung over her shoulder. She pats my arm and pushes past me, before approaching Noor.

  “Now, Noor sweetheart, I’ve brought some food and a change of clothing. Your mum’s waiting for you at the station. I’ve arranged two tickets directly to Holyhead. From there you’re on the boat to Dublin. You’ll be safe there.”

  I stare at Gran. “Gran?”

  “Hush Elsie, I’ll explain in a minute.” Gran is already pulling garments out of the bag. “You make sure you pull this hood down over your face Noor. And get rid of your school uniform.”

  Noor nods and obediently begins to strip off her mint-green and navy uniform. What is Gran doing?

  “Is she ready Bibi?”

  My heart gives another little jump as the thin, bespectacled face of Howie Steel peers into the summerhouse.

  “Just about Howie.” Gran hands Noor a pair of jeans then turns. “You know they’ll be looking for you now too?” She tuts. “Why did you have to make such a damn fuss?”

  “They took Missy Bibi, and nobody ever makes enough of a fuss.”

  “But you should have kept your head down you silly boy. We need you.”

  “I know, I know, but that woman was so callous. Don’t they care what’s happening?”

  Gran shrugs. “Her sort never cared. They keep their heads in the sand and now they have to keep up the pretence this is what they wanted all along. I’m telling you Howie, if Celia whatshername ended up on a slave market she’d still convince herself it was all our fault for not sending them enough money. She doesn’t understand the world. She doesn’t understand people. She thinks its all about wealth inequality and nothing will convince her otherwise.”

  Gran gazes into Howie’s face and strokes his cheek as if they’re more than just passing acquaintances. “There’s a ticket for you as well Howie. You’ll be safer in Dublin too.”

  Howie shakes his tousled head. “Not without Missy.”

  “I’ve already sent her details to our people over the border.”

  “Not good enough. I’m not running away Bibi.”

  “If they catch you they’ll send you to one of those Rainbow Centres.”

  “For a first offence? I doubt it.”

  Gran pats him. “Well, don’t push it. They won’t just forget about you the way they’ll forget Missy. You committed the cardinal crime of not thinking the way they want you to think.”

  Howie actually chuckles. “Let’s just get Noor back to her mother.” Then his big, blue eyes fall on me. “What about her?” Her. I don’t like being referred to as her. Like I’m in the way.

  “You leave Elsie to me.”

  He frowns. “Can we risk that? One wrong word and we’re all screwed.”

  “I said leave it to me.” Gran’s sharp voice matches her eyes. My Gran is a still-powerful woman of sixty-eight with very short, salt and pepper hair and more muscle than she hides beneath her checked shirts. “Elsie and I will have a little chat.” Gran checks her watch. “Just get
Noor to her mother.”

  Howie grabs the canvas bag and pushes back his thinning, blonde hair. “Rightio. Come on Noor.”

  Noor flies into Gran’s arms and hugs her. “Thank you so much for this Bibi. I’d have slit my throat rather than gone over the border.”

  “You’re not alone my love. Elsie’s father considered that too, when they tried to take him.”

  I set my face into its most disagreeable frown. I know so little about my dad, Gran won’t talk to me about my family, she just changes the subject whenever I bring it up. I’ve never believed they died in a car crash. There’s nothing about it on the Internet and a fatal traffic accident that killed two adults and a child would have at least made the local news. Why would she say my dad tried to kill himself?

  I don’t move as Howie and Noor slip out into the quiet garden and through the back gate that opens onto the lane. Howie’s wanted by the police and Noor ought to be in the BSI by now. What the Hell is going on here?

  “Come inside now Elsie love.” Gran put her warm, strong hand on my arm but I shrug her off angrily. Tears are prickling in my eyes.

  “Go away.”

  “Elsie, we need to talk. ….”

  “How do you know my dad wanted to kill himself? And why would anybody take him to the BSI? I’ve got bright red hair for goodness sake. Nobody in our family comes from that part of the world.”

  Gran sighs. “That was your step-dad love. Your real dad used to beat the Hell out of your mother. He had….issues. But your step dad, he was a lovely chap.”

  “I had a step-dad?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “You never told me.”

  “I have my reasons Elsie.”

  “What else aren’t you telling me Gran? Why was Noor here? Why were you buying her tickets to Ireland? The BSI lay claim to everyone of Muslim origin.”

  “And not all those of Muslim origin want to go!” Gran’s voice snaps at me. “The radical Muslims assume everyone wants their brand of Islam and the fools at NuTru believe them because, frankly, they’d believe anything as long as it’s not true. But Elsie, there were – are – lots of ordinary men and women of Muslim origin who have no interest at all in living under Shariah. Your stepfather was one of them, only he wasn’t given the choice. He was sent over the border.”

  I stare at Gran in the dark. “Then…..he’s still alive?”

  “God only knows, I doubt it. Not unless he converted back to Islam – which he might have done, to save his skin, although I wouldn’t have thought he would. Baraq had real integrity.”

  “What about my brother?” There was no car accident, I knew it.

  “Joshua was sent to one of the Rainbow Centres for re-education. They wouldn’t give me any more information. You were young enough not to need it. I had to fight tooth and nail to gain custody.”

  Now I’m so horrified my legs have started to shake.

  “Mum – mum just left us?”

  “Left you? Never. She wasn’t given the choice. She admitted to being a Christian so was declared an unfit parent. They wouldn’t have let you stay with her.”

  “My mother was a Christian?” Now I’m really appalled. A fundamentalist hater. That’s what most Christians are. Judgemental and intolerant. I can hardly believe my own mother subscribed to such a vicious doctrine. Why? Why would any decent person think that way?

  “Please come inside Elsie.”

  I nod and this time let Gran guide me over the garden and into the house. Once inside she closes the windows and checks the doors are locked before opening her little drinks cabinet and pulling out a glass decanter and two glasses.

  “I think we might both need this.”

  I don’t argue. I’m not a big drinker but right now my world is falling down around my ears.

  “What – what was Noor doing here Gran?”

  “Oh Elsie, I’m so sorry you had to find out this way.”

  “Find out what?” She places a glass with half an inch of whisky in the bottom into my hand and I swallow it in one, horrible mouthful.

  “That I…...that I help people.”

  “Help people?”

  “Lots of people. Families who want to stay together. All sorts of families. I…….I’m part of a group, a network.” She takes a gulp from her own glass and winces. “We don’t hurt anyone. We don’t use violence. But families like your Elsie, where children are taken away because parents hold beliefs perceived to be homophobic, racist, Christian, Conservative, we help them and we help the families broken up by NuTru’s policy to arbitrarily repatriate anyone of Muslim descent.”

  Gran re-fils her glass but doesn’t drink it, instead she swirls the liquid in the bottom of the tumbler at watches it move. “It used to be that the BSI demanded that everyone with at least one parent of Muslim origin was to go. Now it’s at least one grandparent.”

  “Well, isn’t it good? I mean, we have to respect the culture.”

  Gran gives me a look that’s really quite shocking; I’ve never seen contempt like that in her eyes, it makes me feel very small and very stupid.”

  “Actually, I understand the BSI’s demands. I even sympathise with them. They see the degradation and moral squalor of this country and they want to save their children from it.”

  That surprises me even more. Moral squalor? This is a country where all lifestyles are accepted and celebrated. That’s freedom, not squalor and Old Britain is internationally admired for that.

  “You’re twisting it all Gran, making things look bad. NuTru fights for true equality for everyone, but that means respecting the BSI too. It’s a balancing act, keeping everybody respectful of each other.”

  “Respect forced on a population will never be true respect Elsie.” Now Gran’s speaking to me as though I’m four years old and I’m asking why the sky goes dark at night. “NuTru doesn’t care about families.”

  “NuTru cares about everyone. Society is our family.” I repeat the slogan with which NuTru have won the last five general elections. Gran’s old, she probably doesn’t fully understand the battles NuTru have been fighting.

  Gran scoffs and swallows her second drink. “All NuTru cares about is destroying free speech and placating our neighbours over the border. Why should Noor be separated from her mother?”

  Gran looks at me with those clever, youthful eyes and I realise she’s actually asking me a question.

  “It’s not a new thing Gran. Social workers always tried to keep ethnic groups together.”

  Gran snorts. “The last I heard NuTru was assuring us all race was only a social construct.” She shakes her head and gives a condescending chuckle. “Our government Elsie, is inconsistent and mindblowingly racist. Ethnic groups my arse! When they created the BSI we were all assured it was only for those who wanted to live under Shariah. Which actually turned out to be far fewer people than anticipated. That was when whole, settled Muslim communities were moved by force. The BSI claimed their people had been brainwashed by western ideas and started demanding their people back. Only thing was, nobody really knew who their people were.”

  Gran pulls herself to her feet and picks up the bottle.

  “Another drink?”

  I shake my head, I feel fuzzy enough without alcohol to make it worse.

  “No, I’d better not either, otherwise I might say something really shocking. Like how NuTru does nothing to stop the Wolves when they attack.”

  “Gran, nobody knows where the Wolves come from.”

  Gran snorts again and pours a third whisky anyway. “Elsie, if our government didn’t know exactly who the wolves are, they’d actually make some sort of attempt to stop them. The Wolves come from the BSI, and if one of our people shot one of their people, all hell would be let loose. So they don’t dare confront them.”

  Then Gran catches me in her sincere solemn eyes with the little hoods of skin around them that make them look like jewels hiding in leather bags. “You’re too young to remember the race riots just before the ref
erendum, but they were bad.”

  “Race riots?”

  Gran nods. “There were various activist groups emerging, they all had a different grievance. The rioters started targeting the prisons, claiming institutional racism was to blame for the disproportionate number of ethnic minorities imprisoned. As soon as NuTru came to power they declared immediate amnesty for every single prisoner of any ethnic origin. Our justice system has only ever imprisoned white people since.”

  Right now Gran sounds like a hateful old bigot. What do I do? Do I tell someone? There’s so much help available for warped thinking, I can’t just leave her like this, it’s scary.

  “NuTru supports everyone Gran.” I explain gently. “Every race, every sexuality. Honestly, you make it sound like there’s something wrong with tackling the privileged attitudes left over from our colonial past!”

  Gran throws the glass into the corner and it shatters. I jump, Gran is never violent.

  “I don’t want to hear you parrot your books Elsie!” She gives a long, weary sigh and sits heavily. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to know about any of this.”

  “What you’re doing is illegal Gran.” And I don’t know if I mean the ideas she’s advocating, or the people-trafficking.

  “It is.”

  I think about everything I’ve learned this last hour. “Why didn’t you tell me about mum?”

  “Because my custody agreement means I wasn’t allowed to. Not until you were eighteen and by the time you were grown up, well, I thought you’d be ashamed of her.”

  “She was a Christian Gran, of course I’m ashamed of her! They stand for everything wrong with this country. It’s taken centuries for us to throw off those shackles.”

  Gran stares at me across a darkened room and I’m surprised by the pain suddenly visible in her eyes.

  “You’re so, so wrong Elsie.” She tells me softly. Your mother was the kindest, bravest, most loving human being I knew. Jack and I loved her dearly.” Her eyes fill with tears. “I was given the choice in front of a court, to condemn your mother or lose you. I had to say she was wrong. I had to say she was mentally ill and sick. I had to lie about Susanna or they’d have taken you the way they took Joshua.”