Sami's Silver Lining

by Cathy Cassidy

  ‘Where were you last night? Aunt Zenna scolds at breakfast. ‘I waited up till past eleven!’

  ‘Sorry, Aunt Zenna,’ I say. ‘I should have called. We went busking in Birmingham, then had a pizza together. I lost track of time!’

  She sighs. ‘Let me know next time you’re going to be home late,’ she tells me. ‘I worry, Sami! Anyway, this parcel came for you.’

  She pushes a small, lumpy package across the table towards me, and I know at once it is the charger I ordered online for my father’s phone. Suddenly, I want nothing more than to leave that voicemail, tell my father I made it, reached Britain, found Uncle Dara and Aunt Zenna. I want to tell him I’m playing in a band, drawing again, looking for silver linings. I want to tell him about Lexie.

  I go back to my bedroom and take out the phone, plug it in. I have no idea if it will take a charge – perhaps it just won’t be possible to revive it after all this time. I have to try, though.

  At first, there is no sign of life, but, five minutes on, the phone buzzes softly and the screen lights up, showing a battery symbol with the tiniest sliver of red. My heart leaps.

  I force myself to sit still, to sew a few bits of treasure into the lining of the old overcoat. It’s almost finished, and I’m trying to pluck up the courage to show it to Lexie and possibly also Louisa Winter. I need to know if they think it’s crazy or, possibly, cool. With invisible stitches I attach a couple of magpie feathers found in the park yesterday, blue-black and silver white, then slide the coat back on to its hanger and check my own phone. There’s a message from Lexie telling me to look on the Lost & Found Facebook page because Soumia’s video is going crazy.

  I click through to the band’s page and there is the clip of us performing ‘Song for the Sea’. When I look more closely, I see that the video has been shared over three hundred times and has had more than ten thousand views. It is going viral. I know that when Marley sees this he’ll practically explode, and I laugh out loud, riding an adrenaline rush, because this is way better than any single could have been. Our song, out there on the internet, maybe raising awareness and making people think … It’s kind of awesome.

  I go back to check my father’s mobile. Now the red stripe is wider, and when I swipe the screen, the home page appears. I click on the phone icon, ready to leave my message, and that’s when I see it: the little red marker that says there are five unread voicemails.

  The breath catches in my throat.

  I pull the mobile free, click on to the oldest voicemail message and press play. Suddenly the world falls away.

  I hear my mother’s voice, tearful and panicked. The words are Kurdish, the words we spoke at home, between ourselves. They seem distant and unfamiliar to my ears now.

  ‘Karim, are you there?’ my mother says. ‘Please call me back on this number, tell me that you and Sami are safe. Roza and I were picked up by a fishing boat and taken to a small island called Ios. We are OK, but we cannot stay here and I’m frightened, Karim. I don’t know what to do. Call me, please, as soon as you get this message –’

  Abruptly, the voicemail ends and the screen goes black; the battery is dead again. The phone slips through my shaking fingers and on to the floor.

  These were the messages from my mother.

  Karim, are you there? Please call me back on this number, tell me that you and Sami are safe. Roza and I were picked up by a fishing boat and taken to a small island called Ios. We are OK, but we cannot stay here and I’m frightened, Karim. I don’t know what to do. Call me, please, as soon as you get this message … ask to speak to Ali. He will get a message to me.

  Please call me back on this number, Karim. I need to know that you and Sami are safe. Roza and I are staying for the moment in a small house on the coast, sharing with another family from Syria – this is Ali’s mobile. His wife, Maria, is Spanish, and they have three daughters, one the same age as Roza. The family are paying one of the fishermen to take them to Spain. They say they will take us also, but I cannot go without you, Karim, without Sami …

  We have waited three weeks and there has been no word. My friends say we must face the truth, accept that we are alone now. We cannot stay here, and they say we have a much better chance in Spain than trying to get to mainland Greece and making the journey across Europe on foot. The boat is quite a big one, and the fisherman is kind and well used to such trips. He says we must leave very soon, before the weather turns, but I do not want to believe that I have lost you, Karim, lost my Sami. I think my heart will break. Should I go to Spain? Should I wait? Please call!

  I know you will not hear me, Karim. I know in my heart that you are not listening, but still I cannot give up hope. I want to tell you that Roza and I are in Spain now, in a town called Malaga, a busy city where we can pass unnoticed. Ali and Maria have arranged false papers for us, so I can work, but I am afraid every day that someone will find out we are not supposed to be here. We have new names. We are illegal. How can that be? How can a human being be illegal? Oh, Karim, I wish we were all together. You would know what to do.

  This will be my last message, Karim. I need to let go of the past and move on. Sometimes I dream of the life we hoped for in London. It seemed so impossible, but I should have listened, Karim, I should have trusted you. We could have been there now. Without you and Sami, what is the point? I do not have the strength to travel on to Britain – not now, perhaps not ever. Roza and I are safe here, we have rooms to live in, enough money to buy food and clothes. Roza goes to school every day and is almost fluent now in Spanish. In my heart I know that you would find me if you could, but I cannot bring myself to give up hope. I will wait for you both. I love you both, always.

  23

  A Boat to Spain

  Someone is howling, a harsh, guttural sound that seems to tear the air apart. I am on my knees on the bedroom floor, hunched over, stabbing at my father’s phone with one finger, but it’s dead, dead, dead.

  ‘Sami, Sami, what is it?’ Aunt Zenna is saying. ‘What’s happened? Are you sick?’

  ‘Where does it hurt, Sami?’ my uncle’s voice asks, and I want to tell him that it hurts everywhere: in my heart, in my soul, in every single cell of my body, but I cannot seem to find the words. Still the howling goes on, and after a while I become aware of my uncle’s strong arms around me, my aunt’s cool hands stroking the hair back from my brow, and the noise softens slowly to a quiet sob.

  My cheeks are wet with tears, my throat raw with crying, and I understand at last that the howling was me.

  ‘My mother,’ I whisper. ‘My sister … I think, maybe … maybe they’re still alive.’

  The world turns upside down. I lose track of time, lose track of everything. I am anchored only to the past, but I am not alone with it as I was once. My social worker Ben appears, a frown of concern crumpling his brow. He listens to the voicemails, talks to my aunt and uncle, makes endless calls on his own mobile. ‘We must not get our hopes up,’ he tells us. ‘These messages were sent, what, two years ago? Three?’

  ‘The first message dates from just after the wreck – so, yes, three years ago,’ I say. ‘The last message, a year and a half, I think.’

  ‘We have never had a case like this,’ Ben says. ‘It’s unheard of. We’ve sent for a Kurdish translator – once we have an official transcript of the messages, we can move forward.’

  ‘You’ll call the number?’ Uncle Dara asks. ‘We have to know if my sister and my niece are alive! My sister is a British citizen – please, help us to find her!’

  ‘We’ll do everything we can,’ Ben says. ‘It may take time – it is important to go through the proper channels. Finding missing persons – refugees – in mainland Europe … well, it can be a little like looking for a needle in a haystack, as you can imagine. We will do all we can, Sami, I promise you.’

  He shakes my uncle by the hand and claps me on the back awkwardly, before leaving the flat. He doesn’t seem to understand that I’m sick with fear and longing, that I can�
��t eat, can’t speak, can’t even think. All this time I had my father’s mobile phone, and not once before now had I tried to find a charger for it. If I had, I’d have known that my mother and sister had survived the wreck. If only, if only, if only.

  At some point, I remember I’m supposed to be meeting Lexie, and send her a message to cancel.

  Sami: I’m not going to make the park today. Everything’s gone crazy. I charged my dad’s old mobile like we talked about and there were FIVE messages from my mum. I think my mum and sister might be alive! x

  Lexi: OMG! Sami! For real? xoxo

  Sami: For real. Can’t believe it. Feel numb. Can you tell Marley I won’t be at practice? Can’t think straight! x

  Lexi: Have messaged the others, don’t worry about anything. This is amazing, Sami. BEYOND amazing. Can I come over? xoxo

  Sami: Sure. This waiting for news is driving me mad. Think I’m in shock. Can’t get my head around it. See you soon. x

  One by one my friends appear – Marley swears and tells me not to worry if I have to miss a couple of rehearsals; Bex growls and tells me that miracles do happen; Happi brings cupcakes and the promise that she’ll pray for my family to be found. They each stay a while, drink Aunt Zenna’s sweet treacly coffee, and leave again. The others message me good-luck wishes and ask if there’s anything they can do, but there’s nothing anyone can do, of course. Nothing at all.

  Then Lexie comes, bringing no gifts, no promises, just a small tortoise in a cardboard carrying case. She puts her arms around me and I rest my head on her shoulder.

  ‘What if they are alive, Lexie?’ I whisper.

  ‘If they’re out there, they’ll be found,’ Lexie says. ‘You have social services on your side. They’ll know what to do, who to contact.’

  ‘My social worker says it will take time,’ I tell her. ‘He says it’s like looking for a needle in a haystack. They don’t seem to understand that I’ve waited forever already … I don’t think I can be patient! Over a year since the last message – anything could have happened.’

  ‘They’ll be found,’ she repeats. ‘Oh, Sami, it’s the saddest story – but I think there’ll be a happy ending!’

  I know this must be hard for Lexie; she carries the hurt of her own loss too, after all, yet there is no anger, no envy in her. We curl up together on the sofa, Mary Shelley roaming across the carpet, and my aunt forgets her prim and proper ways and smiles benevolently as if the little tortoise is an honoured guest. Well, she is, I guess.

  As for Lexie, my Aunt Zenna practically hugs her to death.

  The Kurdish translator comes to make a transcript of the messages, then goes away again. Jake calls to tell me that Louisa Winter has called Footsteps to Freedom to see if they can help me, and to pass on the message that I am not alone.

  ‘I can’t stand this,’ I groan. ‘It’s driving me mad. Are they still in Spain? Did they try to come to Britain? I have to know!’

  ‘Your mother is a British citizen,’ Aunt Zenna says. ‘She and Roza would be safe and legal here. But wouldn’t she have found us by now?’

  I frown. We had no address for my uncle and aunt because my grandfather had disowned them and thrown away their letters. Thanks to the tall stories my grandfather liked to tell, we’d believed they lived in London, when actually they were in Millford all along. Footsteps to Freedom had traced them in the end, but it took a long time.

  ‘You just have to wait,’ Lexie says. ‘See if the powers that be can track them down.’

  And that’s it, really. I feel helpless, in limbo, waiting for social services or the government or Footsteps to Freedom – someone, anyone – to do something.

  I blink, my heart thumping, and scramble to my feet.

  ‘What if I don’t wait?’ I say, my voice shaking. ‘What if I do what my mother asked, and ring the number she gave me? If someone answers – anyone – they’ll know where she is, surely?’

  ‘Sami, no!’ my aunt cries when she sees me grab up the mobile phone. ‘What if you hear something you don’t want to hear? We should wait, do as we’ve been told!’

  ‘Do you think I don’t fear the worst already?’ I fling back at her. ‘I believed that they were dead, Aunt Zenna, until this morning. I have to do this. And, besides, they didn’t tell us not to ring …’

  I see hope flash across her face, watch my uncle rise from the kitchen table where he has been altering a three-piece suit.

  I click on the first voicemail, write down the number that left the message, and call it from my phone. There’s a strange beeping noise, and then a woman’s voice speaking in Spanish.

  ‘Can I please speak to Yasmine Tagara?’ I ask in English, then switch to Kurdish and finally Arabic. ‘Please? Do you know her? Do you know my mother?’

  There is silence at the other end of the phone, and then the voice says, in Arabic this time, ‘You are Yasmine’s son? Samir?’

  If Lexie and Aunt Zenna weren’t holding me up I think I would fall, but I manage to stay upright. ‘Yes, this is Samir,’ I say. ‘Is it possible to speak to my mother?’

  There is another silence, and I can’t tell if it’s because I am calling Spain and there’s some kind of time lapse, or if it’s something worse.

  ‘Samir,’ the woman says. ‘Yasmine and Roza are no longer here. They flew to Britain a month ago. They’re living on the south coast, awaiting assessment.’

  24

  The Beach

  There is one thing left to tick off our list of dates: a trip to the beach. I didn’t think I’d ever want to see the sea again, but Lexie says the English Channel is very different from the Aegean Sea, that the British seaside is something that everyone has to experience at least once.

  We’re on the train, Lexie and me, with Mary Shelley on the seat between us in her cardboard carrying case, the top part open so she can peek out. Any chance of romance is squashed flat by the presence of my aunt and uncle, sitting just across the aisle, sharing a puzzle book and eating baklava.

  ‘You OK?’ Lexie asks me.

  ‘Sure,’ I lie. ‘It’s just – a bit of a weird situation, that’s all …’

  This is an understatement. I remember one winter’s day in Greece when one of the older kids had found a dead rabbit by the side of the road, killed by a passing car. It’d been a long time since any of us had eaten fresh meat, and he’d been so proud of his find and determined that we’d finally have a feast. The trouble was, he had to skin and gut and clean the rabbit first. I remember the rabbit’s face, calm and still and beautiful, one glassy amber eye staring blindly at the sky. I remember how the boy tried to peel off its skin like a fur glove, how he’d scowled and sworn and finally given up. I remember the stench of blood as he’d sliced along the animal’s belly, pulled out the entrails in a wet, twisted tangle. He roasted the meat in the fire and claimed it was the best thing he’d ever eaten, but none of us had the heart to join him.

  My guts feel like that poor rabbit’s, all twisted and torn and pulled about.

  Mary Shelley pokes her head out of the box, and I lift her out and sit her on my lap and let her climb up my T-shirt to look out of the train window as the world slides past in a blur. She will like the beach, even if I don’t.

  Lexie is playing with her mobile, checking the views on our busking video. ‘No way,’ she says, holding out the phone for me to see. ‘Two hundred thousand, three hundred and climbing … that’s amazing! And loads of likes and shares and comments. Our Facebook page has more than ten thousand followers now – that’s tripled in just a few days!’

  ‘Wow,’ I say, but my voice sounds leaden, numb. A few days ago this news would have made me elated, buzzed, on top of the world, but right now nothing matters but finding my family.

  ‘Bobbi-Jo did us a favour, dropping us that day,’ Lexie says. ‘We’d never have got Marley to agree to go busking otherwise … and look how that turned out! Fate steps in sometimes, Sami. You have to trust that things will work out. Like now, with your mum …�
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  ‘What if they’re not allowed to stay?’ I ask.

  ‘Your mum’s a British citizen,’ Lexie says. ‘She has a right to be here, and Roza too. Have faith.’

  She lets her head drop on to my shoulder, and we sit in silence, Mary Shelley between us, all the way to the coast.

  We leave my aunt and uncle eating ice cream on a bench and head along the shore, hand in hand. We pick our way between people slumped in striped deckchairs and families loafing on fringed blankets. We kick off our shoes and carry them. I roll the cuffs of my jeans as high as they will go. We walk until the crowds thin out, drifting closer and closer to the water’s edge, the incoming tide teasing our bare feet.

  We stop for a while, setting Mary Shelley down on the sand. She lifts her head to sniff the air, then turns and marches away from the water, a small, determined creature, a Hermann’s tortoise native to much warmer climes who has accidentally found herself on this island and plans to make the best of it. We have that much in common, Mary Shelley and I. Hard shell, soft centre, bucketloads of determination.

  ‘I don’t think she likes it,’ Lexie says, and I shrug, because I don’t really like it either. The past’s long shadow throws a chill over everything, even this day that in different circumstances could have been fun, an adventure involving candyfloss and fish ’n’ chips. Instead, it’s an echo of the day I lost my father to the sea, lost my mother and my sister too. Three years on, a different place, a different beach, a different lifetime … maybe, just maybe, I will get my mother and my sister back.

  Lexie is crouched on the beach, talking softly to Mary Shelley. I smile and walk into the waves, shivering a little at the shock of the cold water. Lexie has her back to me, following Mary Shelley on a stroll across the shore, and I turn back to the sea, the oncoming tide, feeling more alive than I have in years.

  I remember crawling out of the sea on a different beach, the day my life fell apart. The sea did its best to take me, that day. It wrapped its arms around me, held me tight. Surrender, it whispered in my ear. Stay. Instead, I’d chosen to live. My hands clawed at wet, gritty sand, my face grazed against rocks as they dragged me ashore. I’d slumped on the beach and seen the sun rise as the volunteers wrapped me in blankets. I’d vomited salt water on to the sand.