She turns and points to the wall beside her. Someone has written KILL THE POLICE in big dark letters. Ah, so maybe she hates graffiti – or loves the police. But enough to cry over it…?
“It was so weird.” Stevie’s face is shiny with tears. “When we were coming down the steps into the bunker I had this flashback. Only it didn’t feel like a flashback because I couldn’t remember it happening in the first place, but I saw my dad writing something and then … there it is.” She points to the wall again.
I stare at her in disbelief. “You saw your dad writing that?”
She nods. “We came here on holiday once – when I was little. I remember coming into the bunker with him and my mum. He told me this was where he lived when he was little. He was kidding – obviously. But I’d totally forgotten what he put on the wall until just now – and it’s still there!” She smiles dreamily. “It’s so weird to think that my dad did this.”
“Yeah.” I’m really confused now. “So, your dad, he didn’t like the police then?”
“What?” She frowns, then looks back at the wall. “Oh – oh no! He didn’t write that! He made the heart. Look.” She grabs my hand, places my fingers on the wall. “Can you feel it?”
Now I’m up close I can see a heart carved into the wall. There are some words inside, beneath the graffiti about the police. I start tracing the letters with my finger – S – T – E – V – I – E.
“He carved my and my mum’s names inside,” Stevie says quietly.
“Wow.”
“Sorry for getting all emotional.” She wipes her eyes. “It’s just that I haven’t… My dad … he died.”
A sudden thin beam of sunlight pours through the slit in the wall. It catches the side of her face, making her pale skin glow. She looks so beautiful. Like a china doll.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. And I am. My worst nightmare is Stevie’s reality. She has actually lost a parent.
“It’s OK,” she replies. “Even though I’m crying I’m not really sad. Well, I am, but I’m happy too. Do you ever get that – where you feel happy and sad at the same time?”
I nod.
“I mean, it’s really horrible that my dad’s gone, but finding this – it’s like getting a message from him.”
I think of how my dad’s voice keeps popping into my head, how reassuring it feels. “It is a message from him.”
Stevie stares at me and for a moment it’s like everything stops – the wind stops blowing, the waves stop crashing, the sunshine fades – and we’re suspended in the middle of it all, in this bunker, held together by our gaze. And then she looks away, back to the wall. “We don’t have to go down to the sea if you don’t want to,” she says quietly. “When we were in your kitchen I felt so strongly that we had to come here, and at the time I thought it was so I could get you to face your fear, but maybe…” She breaks off and starts tracing the heart with her finger again. “Maybe it was so I could discover this.”
“Maybe it was both,” I say, looking back through the slit in the wall to the dark rectangle of sea.
Stevie
I follow Hafiz out of the bunker. The sun has disappeared and the sky is covered in thick grey cloud. I can’t believe I cried in front of him. But most of all, I can’t believe it didn’t feel embarrassing. Maybe it’s because he’s cried in front of me – the night he spoke to his dad. It’s weird because Hafiz and I are from such different backgrounds, such different worlds, and yet it feels like we have so much in common. We keep walking on in silence until we reach the point where the footpath blends into the beach and the river flows into the sea. The cliffs loom to our left, jagged and chalky white, topped with green. It’s as if the Downs have been sliced down the middle like a giant cake.
“Wow!” Hafiz exclaims, staring up at them.
“They’re called the Seven Sisters,” I tell him. “They’re meant to be one of the most beautiful sights in all of the UK.”
“I can see why.” Hafiz takes a deep breath, then looks at the sea. The waves are wild and frothy and the air smells fresh and salty. The sight and smell of the sea always make me feel happy, but how is it for Hafiz? His hair is being blown all about, so it’s hard to see his expression. “This place reminds me of a story my father once told me,” he says. “About a sailor called Sinbad.”
I wait, unsure whether this is a good or bad thing.
Hafiz turns to me. “Do you know the story?”
I shake my head.
“One day, a very poor man who works as a porter stops to rest on a bench outside a beautiful palace in Baghdad.” Hafiz stuffs his hands in his jeans pockets and turns to face me. “As he’s resting he hears lots of music and laughter coming from inside the palace. The happy sounds make him really envious, and so do the delicious smells of food cooking, so he asks one of the servants standing outside who it is that owns the magnificent house. The servant tells him that it belongs to a famous traveller named Sinbad, who has sailed every sea. The poor man, who has barely enough money to feed his family, is angry that he should have nothing while people like this Sinbad live in such splendour. So he starts ranting to God about the injustice of it all – and Sinbad overhears him.”
“What does Sinbad do?” I ask. And I really want to know, because I can so relate to the poor man and his feelings of envy. “Does he punish him?”
Hafiz shakes his head. “No, he invites him into his palace and gives him some food and drink and then he tells him about all the hardships he endured during his adventures at sea.” He breaks off and looks back at the cliffs. “On his first voyage he and his shipmates landed on what they thought was a small island but it turned out to be the back of a huge whale.”
I start to laugh. “No way!”
Hafiz grins. “Yep. Then the whale wakes up and Sinbad is flung off into the sea. He manages to spot some proper land, and he climbs up some cliffs to safety.” He points to the Seven Sisters. “When my dad used to tell me the story I always pictured them looking just like this.” He falls silent again and stares out to sea.
I move closer to him. “Are you OK?”
He nods, then looks back at me. “I suppose I might be a bit like Sinbad.”
“Really? How do you mean?”
“He experienced so many hardships at sea. He almost died so many times, but so many good things happened to him too.”
“And that can be the same for you,” I say.
Hafiz nods. “I hope so.”
I remember what Hafiz told me about his dad telling him he needed to find his story. “Do you think maybe the Sinbad story is your story?”
Hafiz looks back at the crashing waves, then shakes his head. “No. I mean, it’s a good story but I don’t … I don’t feel it – you know, in here.” He puts his hand on his chest and sighs. “Maybe I’ll never feel that way about any story.”
HAFIZ
I gaze at the frothy tips of the waves as they crash and break on the beach. High overhead a seagull gives a piercing shriek. It reminds me of the night in the boat and the woman’s scream. I’ll never forget that scream. I’ll never forget that night. I can’t do this. I can’t go near the water. My throat tightens. I can barely breathe. I need to get away. My legs tense, ready to break into a sprint.
“We can go if you like?” I feel Stevie’s hand on my arm.
More than anything I want to turn and run away. But if I do that now, will I spend my whole life running from my fears? I think back to the first time I ever played in a cup final and the game went to a penalty shoot-out. I was the fifth player up for Hutteen and if I scored it meant we won. I’d never felt pressure like it. The entire stadium fell silent. Or maybe it was fear that deafened me. I hadn’t let that fear stop me though. I ran at the ball with everything I’d got and smashed it into the top corner of the goal. I take a deep breath. Clench my fists. And I start to run. I start to run towards the sea. My legs move faster and faster. I lose my footing on the wet stones but I scramble back up and keep going. Fear is no
t going to beat me.
“Aaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrghhhhhhh!” I roar as I charge down the beach.
And now my fear is replaced by rage. Rage that the sea should have taken Adnan and that woman’s baby and so many other lives.
“Aaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrghhhhhhh!” I roar again. Why did the sea have to take them? Why did they have to die? I keep on running and I don’t stop, not even when I reach the water’s edge. Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? A huge wave rolls in and crashes against my legs. Why? I look out at the huge, grey expanse of water. Why did you take them? Another wave crashes over me, this time reaching my waist. The spray lands on my face, salt water from the sea mingling with my tears. And then a thought pops into my head with the urgency of a newsflash: The sea didn’t kill them – other people did. The people responsible for the war, the smugglers. The violence, the greed. That was what killed Adnan and the baby. The sea was … just being the sea. I bend over and catch my breath. Another wave breaks and I remember how, when I was a little kid, my dad taught me that you shouldn’t fight against the waves when you were swimming in the ocean. “You need to let them carry you,” he told me. “You need to let go. Don’t fight.” It was those words that had saved me that night and now I feel them saving me again. I inhale a lungful of salty air. I need to let go. The tide pulls away from me and I imagine it sucking my fear with it.
Far behind me, I hear Stevie whooping and cheering, then calling out, “Hafiz, are you OK?”
I turn and look back at her on the beach. And right at that moment, a finger of pale sunshine breaks from behind a cloud, forming a pool of light on the water around me. It’s like God is sending me a message. Telling me that even on the darkest days, a ray of hope is still there. A huge wave crashes from behind, soaking me from head to foot, and I feel my fear being washed from me.
Stevie
“You’re soaked!” And the prize for stating the obvious goes to … Stevie Flynn! my inner voice of sarcasm jeers as I pick my way over the wet pebbles to Hafiz. He looks down at his sodden jeans and shrugs. “Are you – I mean, was it – OK?” I gesture at the sea. A wave crashes in, its foamy tip licking at our feet.
Now he’s up close I can see that his face is wet too.
“Do you – would you like to talk about it?”
“Yes. In a minute.” He turns and looks back at the sea. “Did you ever feel afraid of something and then realize that there was no need to be afraid of it at all?”
I nod.
“What was it?”
My face flushes at the memory. “It’s going to sound really stupid.”
“That’s OK.”
“When I was little I was sure there was a monster who liked eating children’s books living under my parents’ bed.”
Hafiz stares at me. “A monster who liked eating children’s books?”
“Yes. I was a real bookworm when I was a kid. That was, like, my worst fear ever.” I stare at him defiantly.
He bites his bottom lip, trying not to grin.
“Do you find my fear of the children’s book-eating monster funny?” I say, mock indignantly.
“No! Not at all. It’s just – surprising.”
“Yep, that’s me. Little Miss Surprising.”
“Little Miss…?”
“They was a series of children’s books, the female equivalent of the Mr Men. Never mind. The point is, yes, I have been afraid of something I shouldn’t have, because, guess what! It turned out that the children’s book-eating monster didn’t exist!”
Hafiz gives one of his dimply grins and I’m so pleased to see it I don’t care if it meant making a fool of myself in the process.
“Shocking, huh?”
He nods. “How did you discover that it didn’t exist?”
Now I’m grinning too. “My dad shone a torch under the bed and showed me that the only thing under there was a bunch of old magazines. He also put a sign on the door saying, BOOK-EATING MONSTERS, KEEP AWAY!”
Hafiz starts cracking up. “Your dad – he sounds like a great guy.”
“He was.” I feel a lump growing in my throat.
“My dad – he helped me to face my fears too. Here…” Hafiz holds out his hand.
I take it and he pulls me closer to him. The tide rolls out.
“Turn this way,” he says, pointing back up the beach. Then he takes a step back, closer to the sea. I take a step back too. “Have you ever played chase with the ocean?”
I shake my head.
“You’re not allowed to look behind you,” he says. “You have to guess when the wave is going to break and then … run!”
I can’t help glancing over my shoulder. A huge wave is swelling behind us.
“Oh no!” I yell and we both start to run.
Hafiz slips on the stones and pulls me down with him. The wave crashes over us. And now I start laughing so hard I can’t stop. So does Hafiz.
“I didn’t need to be afraid!” he gasps, wiping the water from his eyes.
HAFIZ
I don’t get home from Cuckmere until early evening. I hurry up to my room and change into some dry clothes, then head down to the kitchen, where Uncle Samir and Aunt Maria are cooking together.
“Hey,” I say, sitting down at the table.
“Hey,” Uncle Samir replies, coming over to join me. “How was your day?”
“It was good. We went to a place called Cuckmere Haven.”
“Oh, I love Cuckmere,” Aunt Maria says, opening the oven door and checking something inside. The smell of roast chicken fills the room. My mouth starts to water. But I mustn’t think about food. I mustn’t think anything until I find out the truth.
“Is my mum OK?” I ask.
“What?” Uncle Samir asks. I look at Aunt Maria. She’s standing, frozen, with her back to me.
“My mum. Is she OK?”
“Of course. Why do you ask?” Uncle Samir picks up the coasters on the table, starts arranging them into a neat pile.
“I was just wondering why she didn’t speak to me the other night, when I spoke to Dad.”
“Oh.” Uncle Samir looks relieved. “That was just because your dad no longer has a phone. He had to borrow someone else’s to call here. He didn’t want to talk for too long.”
“So she’s all right?”
“Of course.” Uncle Samir nods.
“And what about my Grandma Amira? She’s not well enough to travel. How were they able to leave her?”
“She’s safe.” Uncle Samir replies. “She’s with friends up in the mountains. Your mum and dad left her so that they could be with you.”
Aunt Maria comes over to the table and places her hand on my shoulder. “And hopefully they will be soon.”
“Yes, God willing,” Uncle Samir says.
I take a deep breath. Lean back in my chair. Maybe I imagined it. Maybe I misheard, or misunderstood. Maybe everything is OK and I can relax a little. As Uncle Samir gets up to help Aunt Maria serve the dinner I think of today at Cuckmere. I think of Stevie and how she cried in front of me. And how she whooped and cheered when I faced my fear and ran into the sea. And I think of how I managed to let go of my fear, and how the sun broke out from behind the clouds like a sign. Maybe I will be just like Sinbad, and the hardships I’ve endured will bring huge rewards. Maybe … God willing.
Stevie
When I get back home Mum’s sitting in the living room writing in a notebook. She’s dressed in a pair of jeans and her favourite Glastonbury T-shirt. This is a good sign. I feel a prickle of hope.
“Hi, Mum.”
“Hi, love.” She puts the notebook down on the arm of the sofa. “Did you have a nice time with your friend?”
Wow. I’m so unused to her asking about me it takes me a second to answer. “Yes. We went to Cuckmere and…” I break off, not sure whether I should tell her about what I found in the bunker. She’s clearly having a good day – or a better day – so I mustn’t do anything to upset her.
“Cuckmere.” Mum smiles. It’s such
a rare sight these days that I want to grab my phone and take a picture of it. It’s a real smile too. One that shines through her eyes like sunlight. I wonder if she’s thinking about our holiday there.
“Do you remember…? Do you remember the bunkers there, from the Second World War?”
Mum nods.
“I – uh – I found something, when I was in one of them today.”
“Really? What?” She sits up cross-legged on the sofa. As she’s still smiling I decide to risk it.
“I found a heart carved into the wall with both our names in it.”
Mum’s smile freezes. “Our names?”
“Yes. Stevie and Sadie, inside a heart.”
I watch her, motionless, and pray she doesn’t get upset. But to my surprise, she actually starts to laugh.
“Oh my God, that was your dad. I remember him doing it. He found a sharp stone on the floor and he…” Her eyes fill with tears. “I can’t believe you found it.”
“I can’t either.” I sit down next to her. “It was so weird because I’d totally forgotten that he’d done it, until we got to the bunker and then I had this weird flashback of all three of us. You know, like déjà vu? I knew we’d been there before. I could see all three of us in there. I could see you laughing at Dad.”
Mum nods. “He always made me laugh.”
I feel a wistful pang. I wish I could make Mum laugh like Dad did. “Do you think…?” I want to ask if she thinks we’ll ever be that happy again but I stop myself. I have a feeling I won’t like the answer.
“Do I think what?” Mum says.
“Do you think I should make some dinner? I got a load of stuff from the food bank today.” It’s weird. After my amazing day with Hafiz I don’t feel nearly as mortified about having to go there, or even seeing Miss Kepinski.
Don't Stop Thinking About Tomorrow Page 15
