“Hafiz.”
“He seemed really worried.”
“Did he?” This news fills me with a stupid amount of joy and surprise.
“Has something happened?”
I get up and walk over to the sink. “If I tell you, do you promise you won’t let it make you sad?”
“Of course.”
I tell Mum the saga of the school shirt, then I stare out into the darkness of the backyard. “I’m sorry I took the shirt, Mum. I just didn’t know what else to do. I was desperate.” I turn and look at her, waiting for her to tell me off, but instead she gestures at me to come back to the table.
“Oh, Stevie.” She shakes her head.
“I’m sorry.”
“No!” Her voice is stronger now, louder. “No, I’m the one who should be sorry.” She reaches for my hand and squeezes it tightly. “I’m so, so sorry.”
HAFIZ
First thing Saturday morning Uncle Samir and I drive to Sanctuary by the Sea. He’s going to help out with the new library while I play five-a-side with some of the other refugees. As he pulls up outside the centre I bend forward in the passenger seat to tighten the laces on my football boots.
“Oh no!” Uncle Samir exclaims as he brings the car to a standstill.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” I sit up. “Oh…”
The front window of the centre has been smashed in. The pavement outside glimmers with broken glass and the bright and cheery shopfront has been sprayed with black graffiti:
ASYLUM SEEKERS GO HOME!
The words leap from the sign, every letter a poisoned bullet boring its way inside me. Don’t let it hurt you. Don’t let it hurt you. But it’s no good. I look at Uncle Samir. He’s still staring at the centre in shock. Then he leaps into action, undoing his seat belt and opening the door.
“Come on,” he says.
Numb, I follow him out of the car. Shards of glass crunch beneath my feet. Then I have a terrible thought. Whoever did this must have broken into the centre. What if they’ve caused even more damage? What if they’ve hurt somebody? I follow Uncle Samir in through the front door.
“Hello!” he calls down the darkened corridor.
“Samir!” Rose comes running up to us, ashen-faced.
“When did this happen?” Uncle Samir says, gesturing to the debris outside.
“Last night,” Rose replies. “We only just found out when we came to open the café for breakfast. The women are so upset.”
“Is there any other damage?” Uncle Samir asks.
Rose nods; she looks close to tears. “They broke in round the back and they – they’ve trashed the place. I’ve called the police. They’re sending someone as soon as possible.”
Uncle Samir sighs and shakes his head. The sickness I’m feeling builds. I’m not even able to speak.
We file down the corridor behind Rose into the open-plan space at the back. The plates and cups and glass front of the café counter have been smashed and the tables and chairs flung all over. The green baize of the pool table has been slashed and covered in black spray paint.
“The library!” Uncle Samir exclaims. I follow his gaze over to the right of the room and have to lean on the wall to steady myself. The shelves, which had taken so long to build, are now covered in graffiti. And the books Uncle Samir had started to collect and which the school had donated have been ripped apart. The floor is littered with empty covers and torn pages.
As we walk through to the kitchen I have to bite down on my lip to stop myself from crying. There’s destruction and debris everywhere. Bags of rice have been slashed and spilled all over the counters. The contents of the rubbish bins have been tipped onto the floor and the white walls are covered in graffiti. All of it abusive. Hate is literally dripping from the walls. Adiam is sitting on a chair in the corner, rocking backwards and forwards, crying quietly. Uncle Samir leans against the counter, his head in his hands. I think of Adiam and the other women and how much joy this kitchen has given them. How cooking and sharing their traditional dishes provided them with a little slice of home, a reason to feel happy again after so much fear and pain. And now suddenly it’s gone.
I want to kick something. Smash something. Yell until I lose my voice. But I know that if I do, the people who did this really will have won. Did I ever tell you the story about the boy who couldn’t control his temper? Dad’s voice echoes in my mind. Yes, you did, and I learned the lesson.
“Well, don’t just stand there,” I say to Uncle Samir, my voice cracking. “We’ve got work to do.”
Stevie
As soon as I’ve finished my paper round and picked up my wages from Tony I head straight to the record store. If I don’t buy the guitar now I never will. And if I never do it I’ll never change the tragic story that is my life. As I walk along Lansdown Place I try not to think about Hafiz. I try, but I don’t succeed. Firstly, it’s really hard when he lives across the road from where I’m going and secondly, I still can’t get over the fact that he came to my house last night – especially as he’d been out with Lucy. It doesn’t make any sense. Unless… An awful thought occurs to me: what if Lucy sent him for her shirt? My heart sinks. I bet that’s what it was. I’d been planning to buy a new school shirt with my paper round money, and now I feel doubtful about buying the guitar. What if I don’t make any money from busking? I won’t be able to go back to school.
As I get closer to the tiny coffee house opposite the art gallery I smell the rich aroma of coffee. The coffee house is on my weekend paper round. It’s my favourite place to deliver to. Mainly because they always give me a free coffee to take away. If it’s cold and raining I get a free cake too.
“Hey, Stevie!” Rick, the American hipster owner, calls out to me. He’s wearing his usual uniform of rolled-up trousers, brogues and blazer. He crouches down and starts writing something on the chalkboard outside. “You stopping by for a coffee?”
I shake my head. “No, I’m on my way to buy a guitar actually.” I nod across the street to the record store.
“No kidding?” Rick stands up and smiles.
“Yep, and then I’m going busking.” I’m working on the theory that if I tell people what I’m planning, I’m going to have to do it.
“What’s up? Paper round not paying enough?”
I shake my head. “’Fraid not.”
Rick looks thoughtful for a moment. “Tell you what. Why don’t you come by one afternoon and play me a tune. If I like what I hear maybe you could have a regular spot. I could pay you in coffee, cake and tips.”
“Seriously?”
“Sure. Why not? We had musicians playing all the time at my old coffee house in Brooklyn.”
“That would be amazing!” And terrifying, but I don’t tell him that. “Thank you so much.”
“No problem.” He crouches back down and continues writing on the chalkboard: MAY YOUR COFFEE KICK IN BEFORE REALITY DOES.
I carry on walking along Lansdown Place with a spring in my step. This is a sign. It has to be. I need to keep the faith and buy the guitar.
HAFIZ
I’m not sure what has happened to me. I know I should be angry, despairing, raging at humanity, but I’ve been taken over by the desire not to be beaten. Since seeing the attack on the refugee centre I’ve become a man on a mission. First, I went with Uncle Samir to buy some paint, then I went to the five-a-side pitch and told the guys what had happened and got them to come to Sanctuary by the Sea. Now half of them are repainting the sign at the front of the centre and the others are helping to clean up the mess inside. I’ve popped out to get some more paint. This evening, once the centre has closed, we’re going to redecorate the kitchen.
I hurry along North Street. It’s crowded with shoppers. I scan their faces – any of these people could have attacked the centre. Any of these people could want to send me home. I walk faster and faster. They’re not going to win. They’re not going to beat me. I’m tired and worn out but I can’t quit now or I’ll have nothi
ng. It feels as if I’m deep into extra time in a gruelling football match, but I’ve got to keep going – keep running – keep chasing victory.
Stevie
It feels so great to be holding a non-broken guitar again. To own a non-broken guitar again. Even if it isn’t my beloved guitar from the shop in Brighton. And even if it’s the first guitar I’ve ever owned that wasn’t given to me by my dad. It’s still a guitar and it’s a start. As I tune the strings I smile at Simon and say thank you for about the thousandth time.
“You’re very welcome,” he replies from behind the counter. “So what are you going to call it?”
I look at him blankly. “Call it?”
“Yeah. You’ve got to give your guitar a name.” Simon comes out into the shop and starts putting some new records on the shelves. “All the best guitarists give their instruments a name. Willie Nelson calls his guitar Trigger. Stevie Ray Vaughan has a Stratocaster called Lenny. And B.B. King had his beloved Lucille.”
Hmm, I definitely won’t be calling my guitar that – it sounds way too much like Lucy.
Simon puts some records into the bargain basket by the counter. I make a mental note to check them before I go. “Maybe you could name it after your favourite musical inspiration.”
I start to smile. Of course. I hold the guitar up in front of me and whisper, “Hello, Danny.”
Naming my guitar after my dad proves to be a stroke of genius because now, as I prepare to busk for the very first time, I need all the moral support I can get. In the end I was way too nervous to busk in Lewes, afraid I’d be seen by Lucy or Priya or anyone from school, so I’ve come to Brighton instead. I walked for what felt like miles until I found a suitable pitch. A side road just off North Street. It’s not too busy but not too quiet either. After all, I do need to make some money, especially as I spent the last of my cash on the train fare up here. I rest against the wall and start tuning up. I’m directly opposite a cosmetics shop, and the air is filled with the sweet scent of lavender bath bombs. The strings don’t really need tuning but I have to buy a bit of time, ease myself into this. I feel so nervous and exposed, I might as well be standing here naked. This thought definitely does nothing to help. My fingers are trembling so much I’m not even sure I’ll be able to play but I can’t chicken out now. I can’t go home penniless, especially when Mum is making such an effort. My disappearing yesterday seems to have shocked her out of her gloom. She even said she was going to go to the mental-health drop-in that Dr Ennis recommended.
I place my open guitar case in front of me, and strum. I’ve decided to start with an acoustic version of “Don’t Stop” by Fleetwood Mac, one of my favourite songs from my dad’s collection. “You’d better not let me down, Danny,” I whisper to the guitar and then I close my eyes and start to play. Closing my eyes is the only way I’m going to be able to do it. At least this way I can pretend I’m back in my bedroom. But it’s hard to pretend you’re in your bedroom when all you can hear is chatter and laughter and car horns and seagulls. It’s not until I’ve finished the first verse that I’m able to tune out the background noise. It feels so good to be playing again – to sing the hopeful lyrics, to lose myself in the music. My voice gets stronger and louder as my confidence grows. I hear a clink and open my eyes a fraction to see two shiny coins in my guitar case. I close my eyes again and carry on singing. As I reach the final chorus I hear another clink and see that a handful of people have actually stopped and are standing watching me. This is so shocking I forget the next line. I close my eyes again and somehow get back on track. And finally I reach the last note. A small ripple of applause surrounds me. I open my eyes and prepare to say thank you. But no words come, because there, standing in front of me, is Hafiz.
HAFIZ
The moment I heard the husky voice echoing out from the side street I knew it was Stevie but I didn’t know how it was Stevie. Like, how she could be singing and playing the guitar here, in the middle of Brighton. It didn’t make any sense. So I followed the sound off North Street and there she was, standing outside an ice-cream parlour, singing and playing with her eyes shut. A small crowd had gathered around her, nodding their heads or tapping their feet to the melody. There’s something about the way Stevie plays and sings that’s so mesmerizing. I’m struck with a mixture of awe at how good she is and amazement that such a powerful voice could come from such a thin body. And now, finally, she’s opened her eyes and she’s looking right at me.
“Hafiz!” Her pale cheeks flush pink. “What – why are you here?”
A man comes over and drops some money into Stevie’s guitar case. “That was brilliant,” he says. “One of my all-time favourite songs.”
“Mine too,” Stevie says. “Thank you.” Her eyes look greener than ever in the bright sunshine. “What are you doing here?” she says again.
“I need to get something from the shops, for Sanctuary by the Sea. What are you doing here?”
“I’m busking,” Stevie says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. This is what I love about her – that she’s always so full of surprises. “I – uh – I need to make some money.” Her smile fades and she looks embarrassed.
I fumble in my pocket and pull out some change.
“No!” she says sternly as I’m about to drop it in her guitar case.
“What?”
She shakes her head. “I can’t take your money.”
“Why not?”
“Because.”
I smell the unmistakable scent of victory. “Why do people put money in a busker’s guitar case?”
“Because they like their music,” Stevie mutters. “But…”
“Exactly.” I drop the coins in the case. “And I really like your music.”
“Do you?” She looks so earnest.
“Yes.”
“Even though I…” She looks down at the floor.
“Even though you what?”
“Stole the shirt.” Her voice is barely more than a whisper.
“You didn’t steal the shirt. You got it from that lost place.”
“Yes, but…”
“You thought nobody else wanted it.”
“Yes, but…”
“You’re not a thief,” I tell her firmly.
“But…” She breaks off, starts fiddling with her guitar strings. “What about Lucy?”
“What about her?”
“Aren’t you upset that I upset her?”
I frown. “Why would I be?”
“Because…” Stevie looks away. “I don’t know. I just thought you might be.”
“Well, I’m not.” I think of Uncle Samir and the others back at the centre, waiting for me. I feel really torn. Then I have an idea. “What are you doing tonight?”
“Oh. I—” Her expression brightens then darkens again. “I said I’d hang out with my mum. We were going to watch a movie.”
“Oh. OK.” The disappointment I feel at this seems way out of proportion.
“Why?”
“It’s OK. It was just that the refugee centre was attacked last night and—”
“What?” Stevie’s black-lined eyes widen.
“It was attacked and broken into. They trashed the place – especially the kitchen – so some of us are going to repaint it tonight, after the café’s closed.”
“I can’t believe someone would do that,” Stevie says, shaking her head.
“Yeah, well…”
“I want to help,” Stevie says determinedly. “Can I check with my mum and let you know later?”
“Are you sure?”
Stevie nods.
“Thank you. Uncle Samir and I will be coming back to Lewes this evening to pick up Aunt Maria. How about I call round then, on our way back to Brighton?”
“OK.” Stevie starts tightening one of her guitar strings. “My mum said… Did you come round to my house last night?”
“I did.”
“Why?”
I stuff my hands in my pockets, look up an
d down the street. “I was worried about you. I wanted to make sure that you were OK.”
“Ah. Well, uh, thank you. I’m fine.”
“Yes. I was very relieved when I saw you get home.”
“What do you mean?”
Spectacular own goal from Hafiz! my inner commentator mocks. I can feel my face burning. I look away. “I waited at the end of your road,” I explain. “On the wall under the tree.”
“But why?”
Ooh, he’s never going to win this challenge, my inner commentator sighs.
“Because your mum seemed so worried.”
“Did she?”
“Yes. And that made me worry too.” There, I’ve said it. I wait for Stevie to frown or burst out laughing but she just looks at me and grins.
And now I don’t even feel embarrassed. I feel back-of-the-net happy.
Stevie
As I walk up the hill from Lewes station I feel a weird mixture of heavy and light all at the same time. Heavy because I’m laden down with my new guitar and a bag full of shopping and pockets full of money. Light because I have a new guitar and a bag full of shopping and pockets full of money. My plan worked. I speculated and I accumulated. I now have a new school shirt, a couple of days’ worth of food and pockets full of money. Admittedly I got the shirt from a charity shop and the food came from the cut-price supermarket and most of the money I have left is in small coins but still. My busking was a success. This whole day has been a success. I have a guitar again and a whole new way of making cash. Plus I saw Hafiz. I feel a pang of sorrow as I remember what he told me about the refugee centre. I think of Adiam, who made us dinner the night we went there, and how happy she’d been in spite of everything. How could people destroy something like that? How could they want to hurt the people who’ve been through so much and have so little?
As I let myself into the cottage I hear a sound that makes me do an instant double take. Music. Music that isn’t coming from me or my record player. I follow it into the kitchen. The window is wide open and a gentle breeze is causing the wind chimes hanging from the curtain rail to dance. Mum’s standing on a chair reaching into one of the top cupboards, wearing her Rolling Stones T-shirt and faded jeans. The radio’s on and a rock anthem from the nineties is blaring out. It’s so weird to hear music in the kitchen. Even weirder is hearing Mum humming along.
Don't Stop Thinking About Tomorrow Page 19
