by Nick Lake
A couple of people watch us, watch me – the white girl with the Somali men – go in, and then we’re in the cool darkness of the shop, surrounded by tins and packets of strange-looking food. I recognise the brand of pasta that the pirates were always eating, boiled for hours in their big pot at the front of the yacht.
A fat man emerges from the gloom and hugs Ahmed, then Farouz. He beckons us further into the shop, where we come out of shadows into a brightly lit room, like a living room, with a rug on the floor and a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. The fat man withdraws respectfully.
Ahmed arranges the bags on a little table that stands on the rug. He starts to pull out bundles of money, consulting a sheet of paper that he has taken from his pocket. Pirates enter, go up to him, get their money and retreat out of the shop, nodding their gratitude. Some of them narrow their eyes when they see me – surprised to see me, I guess. A couple shoot questioning looks at Ahmed, but he waves them away.
Finally, there is only me and Farouz. Ahmed hands Farouz one of the bags, with the remaining money in it. It’s like a ransom in a movie, these big thick wads of cash.
It is a ransom, I remind myself. I’m basically stealing my dad’s money. This makes me giggle, and Ahmed glares at me. He says something to Farouz.
— Ahmed says we must be careful, Farouz says. Mohammed’s family will be looking for retribution.
This is a sobering thought, so I stop giggling. Farouz hefts the bag on to his shoulder, then hugs Ahmed – not one of those quick man-hugs that people in England do, but a proper embrace, affectionate. Then, to my surprise, Ahmed comes up to me, arms spread wide, and hugs me, too.
— Good luck, he says. You will need.
— Thank you, I say. Really.
And I mean it.
After that, we leave the shop. Farouz tucks his pistol inside his trousers, but I can still see it there. He leads me down some narrow, snaking streets, until we come to a shack with a corrugated iron door.
— This is your house?
— For now, yes.
We go inside. Farouz moves a chair from the corner of the room, a deep, soft one, from which stuffing is spilling. Under it is a board, which he moves to reveal a deep hole in the ground. Taking a couple of money bundles from the bag, he puts them in his pocket, then drops the bag into the hole.
— What do we do now? I ask him.
He kisses me.
— We free my brother. Then we do whatever we like, he says.
— That sounds good.
He winks.
— Maybe we will buy you a violin. And I will have my oud. We could play together.
— I’d like that, I say.
We leave the hut and follow the crazy, busy streets to the jail. As we leave Farouz’s street, a monkey sitting on a rooftop screams at us.
I’m shocked when I see the prison. I mean, I was picturing a proper structure, with big walls, and men in towers with guns. This is just an open-fronted building, like a shop, with bars across the front and men inside, right there, visible from the street. Next door is a stall where a man is selling chickens; he takes them from the ceiling, where he has tied them upside down, by the feet. They are alive, their heads shaking, and when he grabs one, it kind of squeals and clucks. Then he puts it on a filthy board, running with blood, chops off its head and throws it straight into a bucket. The chicken bangs around in there, frantic, beating out a rhythm. When it stops, the man takes it out and hands it to whoever has bought it.
— Oh god, that’s gross, I say.
Farouz raises his eyebrows.
— Before, I could never afford one of those, he says.
I notice then that the people queuing for the chickens don’t look as ill, as dirty, as malnourished as a lot of the people I have seen here in Galkayo. I feel guilty then. So I turn back to the jail and pay more attention to that.
Farouz is walking the length of the bars, obviously looking for his brother. It’s long, the prison – like, almost a city block in length. And the men are just displayed there. I can’t get over it; it’s more like a zoo than a prison.
Then Farouz stops, and there is a man in front of him, his hands on the bars, who looks a little like him, but older, more hurt. He looks like Farouz would look if you took him somewhere, rubbed dirt on him, beat him up, made him drink a bottle of vodka and threw him in a ditch.
— Abdirashid, he says.
— Farouz.
Then they speak to each other in Somali, their voices fitting into each other’s neatly, like matching jigsaw puzzle pieces, finding the quiet moments in the other’s speech. The effect is compelling, like running water.
They speak for what seems quite a long time, then Farouz spots a guard who has entered at the back of the giant open cell that is the prison. He beckons him over.
The guard strolls to where we’re standing, pushing Abdirashid out of the way with a stick. He glowers at Farouz. He is as big as an ox, with a mean expression. Farouz says something to him, and the man obviously doesn’t like it because he scowls even deeper. Then Farouz takes one of the wads of cash out of his pocket and hands it to the guard through the bars. Just like that, casual as you please.
Smoothly, like a magician, the man slides it into his pocket. Then he nods. He says something to me, laughs.
— What did he say? I ask.
— He said you brought me luck, says Farouz. He didn’t think I would get the money.
— So is he going to let your brother go? I ask.
Farouz puts a hand through the bars and squeezes his brother’s hand. His brother smiles, but there are tears in his eyes, too.
— Yes, says Farouz. Yes, he is.
I look at him, then I look at his brother, so like him in his features, and I look back at Farouz again.
— Good, I say. I’m happy for you.
And I am. I’m so happy I could burst, like something sparkling, like a soap bubble on a sunny day, iridescent with petrol sheen, floating in the air, just before it pops into soft sound and spray.
No.
No, that is not what happens.
But I imagine it afterwards.
I imagine it so many times, until it’s a scene in my head, incredibly vivid.
A film.
That I can watch whenever I like.
This is the part that is true.
I am on the dinghy, leaving the yacht, and I do think, wait, and then I do say it.
— Wait. Wait, I say.
— What is it, Amy-bear? Dad asks.
And I do get out of the dinghy, and I do go to the stepmother and say:
— You go with Dad. I’ll do it. I’ll be the collateral.
— Don’t be ridiculous, says the stepmother. You’re a child. You can’t.
— I can, I say. In fact, it’s safer for me.
— What? Why?
— You wouldn’t understand. Just, please, go. Get in the boat. I will join you soon.
All of this, too. All of this happens like I said.
— What’s going on? Tony shouts from the boat. What’s the hold-up?
— Amy wants to go with them instead, says the stepmother. She wants to swap with me.
— That’s out of the question, says Dad.
I push the stepmother towards the boat.
— Please, I say. Please. It’s easier this way.
And that . . .
That’s where it stops going the way I said. That’s the only part of what I’ve just told you that’s true.
Dad doesn’t just have a go at me and then leave it. Dad gets off the dinghy, comes up on to the deck and he shouts:
— YOU’RE COMING WITH ME, AMY FIELDS.
Then he puts his hands on my arms and he lifts me bodily into the air and hauls me over to the dinghy. He throws me in, and I land on the inflated rubber of the boat, but even so it’s hard enough to knock the air out of my lungs. I lie there, staring up at Dad as he jumps into the boat beside me and says to Tony:
— Start the eng
ine right now.
I am paralysed. I am incapable of movement.
Farouz is looking down at me, and I’m looking back at him, shock keeping my mouth shut when I should be protesting, should be doing something to overpower my dad, to get off the dinghy. I should be taking the stepmother’s place and going with them, but instead I’m running away with my dad, and Tony and Damian and Felipe. I can’t move, but it still feels like I’m running away.
Tony starts the engine and, like a reverse death scene, it coughs into life. He has a hand on the hull of the Daisy May, steadying us in the swell.
This is the moment, I think. This is the moment to say something to Farouz. But I don’t, even though I can breathe again now, even though I could speak if I wanted to. I don’t say anything.
The VHF sparks up.
— This is HMS Endeavour, come in. Is there a problem?
— No problem, Tony says into it. We’re coming.
Ahmed raises a hand in a salute.
— Goodbye, he says.
— Goodbye, says Dad, automatically polite, so British that way.
I don’t say anything, still.
I keep thinking there’ll be more time. But here’s a lesson I hope you don’t ever have to learn: sometimes, there just isn’t any more time.
Without any fanfare, Tony lets go of the hull, turns the throttle on the outboard and its death rattle, or life rattle or whatever, opens up into a full-throated roar as we ease off from the yacht.
Only then do I look up properly and see Farouz.
In full view of Ahmed, of the other guard on the deck, of the men on the destroyer, who must be watching everything, Farouz turns to face me full on, then he lifts his hand and he starts waving, waving, waving at me, not stopping, as I draw away, as the sea fills the gap between us. For one crazy moment I want to step out of the boat, to run across the waves to him – on some level in my mind I know I would have to swim, but I picture it as walking, walking on the water – and throw my arms around him.
But I don’t, of course. I stay in the boat.
Then, just when he is shrinking to where I can’t see his features any more, he puts his hand to his chest, covering his heart, and then he points it at me, hands me his heart, from all that distance away.
A strong arm helps me up on to the deck of HMS Endeavour. My overriding impression is of grey metal paint. There is a whole row of men and women in uniform, lined up on the deck, and when they see us they start clapping. The women are wearing white shirts and black ties, neat little caps. The men are wearing those sailor shirt things with the big lapels; it’s like something out of the past.
I feel myself blush, my eyes sliding around, trying to find somewhere to look. We haven’t done anything, I want to say. They didn’t hurt us, not intentionally, anyway. They didn’t treat us badly.
But I don’t say anything, because they all look so proud that we’re here, these people, and most of them not much older than me.
A man in a linen suit, not navy, steps forward to shake Dad’s hand.
— Jerry, he says. Goldblatt Bank. I’m the negotiator whose voice you’ve been hearing. This here is Captain Campbell.
Captain Campbell is wearing his hat, his epaulettes, everything. He shakes Dad’s hand, too.
— I apologise for the situation with the dinghy, he said. It’s protocol to rattle the sabre a bit, see how the enemy reacts. But, still, I’m sorry.
Dad holds his eyes for a bit, but then he nods.
— That’s OK, he says.
No, it’s not, I think, but no one is listening to my thoughts.
— You’ve all been so brave, the captain says in a soft Scottish accent. So brave. He turns to Tony. And you’re the one who was shot? Incredible.
— Just a flesh wound, says Tony.
— Well, says the captain. It’s not entirely over yet, of course. But we have prepared cabins for you all. Showers. And a phone line to whoever you want to call.
Who do I want to call? I think. Esme? The idea is like calling an alien or a dolphin, some creature that could never understand. There’s a pain in my chest, and I wonder if it’s actually my heart breaking, if that’s actually a thing that happens. It’s an hour or so from sunset now, and already the stars are out, pale in the deepening sky.
I don’t see the Plough.
I see the Camel.
And I see its missing tail.
Captain Campbell jerks his head at one of the crew, and then people move forward to hand us binoculars.
— We thought you would want to keep an eye on Mrs Fields, he says. Of course, we’ve got our eye on her, too. And our helicopter. We never would have agreed to this if we couldn’t guarantee her safety.
— You had to agree to it, I’m a bit surprised to hear myself say.
— I’m sorry?
— You didn’t exactly have a choice, did you? I say.
I don’t know why I challenge him. I guess it makes me angry, this guy with his curly red hair poking out from under his hat – not that the colour of his hair is the problem – acting like he’s all in control of this situation when he’s not. It’s the pirates who are in control, and they always have been.
— It’s been a tense three weeks, says Dad. Please excuse her.
— Of course, says Captain Campbell. Of course. There’s nothing to excuse.
I lift the binoculars to my eyes and watch as the helicopter drops the second batch of money. Again, the pirates hook it into the boat, count it. We hear Somali over the VHF that Tony is holding, and over Jerry’s, too. Then, long moments later, we see the little boat leave the Daisy May, with Ahmed and the other pirates and the stepmother . . .
and Farouz . . .
and Farouz . . .
and Farouz aboard it. I look at those washed-out stars in the sky and I see his eyes. I smell the sea and I smell his skin.
Through the binoculars, I can see the boat quite well. I can see my stepmother hunched between Ahmed and Farouz, as the waves jog the hull. I can see as she gets smaller, heading for the coast. By the time they get there, the people I see get off on to the sand are just silhouettes, stick figures, but I think I can tell which one is the stepmother because she’s taller. It’s the Western food, Western standards of hygiene.
Oh god, I think. Oh god, Farouz. He’s going back to that place, where his parents were killed, where his brother was . . . where bad things happened to his brother. Where Ahmed is grateful to take even some codeine and paracetamol to give to his kids.
But at least he’ll free his brother, I think. Then maybe they can get out of there, get to Egypt. Maybe even . . . No, I can’t let myself think it . . . Maybe even make it to England one day. To London.
Maybe even.
Some kind of discussion seems to be taking place on the beach between the stick figures.
— What’s happening? asks Dad. What’s going on? Why isn’t she coming back?
— Airborne One, sitrep, says Captain Campbell, taking a VHF from his waist.
— This is Airborne One. Situation is, one of the pirates appears to be struggling with the hostage, sir –
Noise erupts around us.
— Er, no, scratch that, sir. Pirate is hugging her. Repeat: pirate is hugging her. Over.
Farouz, I think. I smile.
— Repeat that, Airborne One, says the captain. He sounds confused.
— Pirate was hugging the hostage, says the helicopter pilot. She is walking to the boat now . . . getting in . . . She’s OK, sir. She’s on her way. Wait.
A collective intake of breath.
— One of the pirates is . . . He’s waving, sir. He’s waving at her. Over.
— OK, Airborne One, says the captain, raising his eyebrows. Over and out.
I hug myself. I hug myself tight. Dad puts his arm around me, probably thinking that I am worried about the stepmother, which makes me feel a bit guilty – not a lot, but a bit.
Then we watch as the dot that is the stepmother’s boat bec
omes a smudge, and then the smudge becomes a boat, miniature, and gradually gets bigger. I say we watch. I’m not watching, actually. Instead I’m watching Farouz, or the stick figure that I think is him.
The four-by-four that was already on the beach drives up to the pirates. Then, from the other end of the beach, two pick-up trucks arrive. They pull right up to the men who are standing just by the sea. I can make out the shapes of the money bags at their feet. The pirates hand one of the bags to someone in the four-by-four, through the window. The four-by-four reverses, spraying sand, and guns away. The sponsor, I think, Amir, getting his share.
After that, the pirates start to load the rest of the money into a truck. Farouz is with them, I think over and over, like an incantation in my head. Farouz is one of them. I strain to see if I can distinguish his shape, his profile, but I can’t. It’s too far and there’s a heat haze, making all of them shimmer.
All of them shimmering now, not just him.
As they climb into the pickup trucks, I hear Captain Campbell beside me say four words in a calm voice, and instantly I know, instantly icicles are in my spine, pressing.
— Switch to channel 71, he says.
I turn to him. I’m moving slowly, like the air is not air any more, but glue. I have a cold, foreboding feeling, standing there on the hot deck. It’s like when you’re swimming in the sea and you cross some current, or the mouth of some invisible freshwater stream, and suddenly the warm seawater mingles with something that chills your skin.
He lifts his VHF to his mouth and says:
— This is Captain Campbell on channel 71. This is Captain Campbell. Go, go, go.
No, I think. No, please. Not channel 71.
I mean, it’s not significant that it’s channel 71. It could have been any channel. But I still know what it means. I know because it’s a channel that is not 16, and 16 is the channel the pirates are using, the channel the pirates are monitoring. It could have been any channel, literally any channel between 1 and 100, and as long as it wasn’t channel 16, that same ice would have put its fingers in my back and clawed me.
