‘What on earth is going on?’
‘The child is kidnapped.’ Gamu shakes Caro’s arm. ‘I’ve seen this before at work. She says she been kidnapped. Men did this to her. They keep them, use them – I have seen this before at the hospital. I’m telling her we will get the police.’
‘NO,’ shouts the girl. She starts to stir once more, her feeble body struggling under the heft of her pregnant belly.
‘OK. No police. NO POLICE.’ Caro holds the girl’s face, makes her listen. ‘You hear me? No police. Can we move this out of the public area, people? Gamu, Isabelle, you help me get her into my office.’
Just like a leaf, the girl is swept up. Her drama has flurried us all. We, the waiting room, are changed and ruffled. In one corner, a teenage mother dabs her eyes. Two men frown and look away, and a granny scolds a wailing child. It takes a moment or two for us to settle, before the space the girl was in is filled by someone else, and we recalibrate, move on.
I turn my head from Caro’s office. Raise my voice. ‘Next –’ Three phones ring at once. I lower my gaze, pick one.
I’m learning how to be a refugee.
6.
We are late, late, late. Blood pounding as I jog, then slow, then jog again. Backpack bouncing, Rebecca’s arms are round my windpipe, snake-tight. A black circle bursts inside my eye. She’s there, she’s still there: Deborah is standing by the car, arms folded, her face drawn. Her ankles are crossed; she is tight and crossed. I should have got her to pick us up outside the flats, save this mad hurrying down streets we barely know, but I’m ashamed. Smashed glass everywhere, it would rip the tyres off her car. Litter and dog-waste, rude words on the walls insulting each visitor. Each inmate.
Yes, inmate. That is how I feel and I can tell her none of this. I cannot say why I’m late, or why my daughter is with me. I should have said, texted, phoned. All these various ways in which we can communicate, and I choose none of them. I don’t even tell her how hard it is for me to understand her time, that my one o’clock is your seven o’clock. It makes no sense, but it is so. The fact exists and, daily, I negotiate it.
I set Rebecca down on the pavement, feeling the ice-wind on my neck. Her clinging has sheltered me; she has been the substitute for my scarf which is wound tightly round her neck, the edges tucked inside her coat, across her chest. My beautiful baby is my reason and my excuse. I hope Deborah understands. I watch the pavement, watch my daughter’s booted feet. My brain feels light and transparent. I am a jellyfish.
‘I am sorry we are late, Deborah. This is Rebecca.’
Deborah unfolds herself. Her long coat is open, flapping, and her legs are clad in some tight, green material like the sprites in Rebecca’s library book. I pray Deborah sees the tear-stained eyes, that she knows. A good teacher knows. She walks to where we are, sinks down on long, slim haunches.
‘Hello, Rebecca. How are you? My name is Debs. D-e-bus. Can you remember that?’
Amazingly, Rebecca nods.
‘You all wrapped up cosy then? Because we’re going on an adventure. You like adventures?’
Again, Rebecca nods. Deborah stands up. ‘Oof. My old bones are stiff.’
Rebecca smiles.
My friend Debs feigns astonishment. ‘Wow! What a beautiful smile. You got teeth in there too?’
A giggle, another nod.
‘Good, because you’ll need to bring your teeth as well, so you can eat all the nice food I’ve brought. And guess what – we’re going to eat it outside! It’s called a picnic. Pic-nic. Yes? Does that sound good?’
Rebecca considers. Looks at me. This time I’m the one to nod. ‘That sounds very good, I think. Thank you, Debs.’
I call her this to see if she notices – is the contraction too familiar, meant only for children? – but she is busy opening doors. We get Rebecca in the back seat of the car. Debs sits her on a folded blanket, then fusses with the seatbelt, eventually placing part of it under Rebecca’s arm. ‘We don’t want to hurt your neck, eh?’ To me, she says: ‘I could have hired a car seat too. If you’d said.’
‘I’m sorry. We had . . . no time.’
We speak over Rebecca’s head, one of us either side. Our faces are too close. Debs suddenly stares at me. ‘Abdi! What happened to –’
My jaw hovers, loose. Useless as my fists. I grope to find some words, but she slides over the space I’ve left, refocuses her attention on the seatbelt.
‘There you go, missus. That’s you all tucked up safe. Right, come on. Let’s go. Abdi, in you get.’
I drop into the front seat, put my bag between my feet. The chair is cushioned to hold my body much more generously than train seats do. Smells better too. A tiny blue tree swings from the mirror. The gentle bounce of it is hypnotic. In here, with the warm air purring and waves of fragrance breaking, I let myself relax. As we drive off, the car begins to ping. A melodious single note that’s quite pleasant. Debs, though, taps the dials before her, turns her head, searching for its source. ‘What is that? I hate new cars. They’re far too fancy for their own good.’
This makes no sense at all. Fancy is special, pretty. How can it be too much?
‘Ach – it’s you,’ she says at last. ‘Abdi, you need to put on your seatbelt.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say again. ‘I did not know.’
Heat rising on my face. My clumsy fingers, pulling on the length of webbing, unsure of where and how to fasten it. Even the simplest things. I cannot do the simplest of things. Driving appears hugely complicated, so I leave Debs to mumble and fuss. We move through the crowded city’s streets, passing domes and spires. A mighty religious place. Broad dark rows of apartments, lower and more attractive than mine. Each grey and sand and rosy glitter of stone is substantial. Bright shops and bustling people, who move with purpose and intent. I would like to live in this separate city. We move through greener areas, where the houses stand apart, are bigger. We stop and start, spin circles, scale water, cross other roads. Debs tuts at every junction. The roads are so busy. Frequently, the car makes another strange noise – which I know is not my fault. It’s a grinding like bones on rock, or my boat-hull as it finds, and rises on, the shore. Get into gear, you stupid thing. She shoves and forces, hisses a word that’s painted on our foyer wall, and we jerk into the flow of vehicles beyond. Her knuckles are pressing through her skin as she wields the wheel before her.
Deborah is scared. My heart makes a fist: I’m touched she’s made all this effort for me. Embarrassed – again – that I can’t repay this, and angry, angry, angry that I am here and she is here, being kind. What will we talk about, on this imbalanced journey? She has forced herself to drive because of me; we are late, because of me; we are silent, because of me. And if I speak, it will distract her. She is a woman fixated on being kind.
I turn to check Rebecca. Lulled by the motion, she’s drifted off. Probably exhausted too, after our . . . siege this morning. I don’t want to think about that, so I keep looking, looking deeply at my girl although my neck is twisted and pain shoots round my skull. Soft in sleep, Rebecca’s face is . . . her mouth is. Her mouth is her mother’s. The fist makes a dagger, and I let it tear me. Just a little or I will bleed to death. The pain makes me quick and alive, it splashes over me, reminds me who I am. Look forward, I must look forward. Glancing across at my driver. The fringe of her hair is damp; she pushes it away. Quick snap, heel of hand, and the image is so familiar as I see her, see Azira standing next to me, the fly on her brow, the cloth of her blanket falling as she flicks it it is my wife alive there is nowhere for me to focus. To run.
She is calling me. I’m here, Abdi. Can’t you see me? I’m here.
And if I don’t answer? She is so clear. Feeding my longing. What if she goes and does not come back? I have never seen her so clear, here in the warmth and safety of this car. My daughter sleeps. My driver drives. I sink into the bitter memory. I close my eyes, and I let myself bleed.
Only Azira was there. Stripped to the waist, sluicing herself
from our broken basin. Washing was a luxury; I knew she would have saved the water from cooking or some other chore. Here was not fresh sea with the salty bite of life, nor was it shallow scoops of muddy water discovered after rains. Here in the camp was barren air and plastic jugs and drips from grubby, rationed tanks. All my Azira wanted was to be quiet and clean. Being alone was a luxury also.
The man who ran the schoolhouse had been talking to the children about his God, and about Hell. I helped there some days. We’d no paper, no books, but we could teach the little ones songs. One day, I showed them how to make woven nets from scraps of wire and straw. I had to walk quite far to reach the school; it was near where they kept the Christians – which made some people stay away. Not me. To escape into learning was a pleasure. The schoolhouse was just another concrete frame of open walls, sheltered by a ragged tent, but inside, the man – Paolo – had pinned up a map and some pictures. He was a priest, a mzungo imam. He put fresh, leggy straw on the floor most days, and nailed a sheet of silvered glass to one of the dowel posts so it captured the harsh white light from outside, made it bounce around the tent. A soldier had come and made him take it down – in case of fire, was his reason, but I think he wanted it for himself. Anyway, I listened to Paolo talking about his Hell, and it seemed to me that Hell must be a place of mirrors, where all the badness you’d ever done was shone directly back at you. But not just that; the mirrors would reflect every thing and every one you had feared or despised the most, those horrors you would spend your whole life running from. My Hell would be a place so full of people that their limbs slithered over you like fish, a huge shoal of fish that eddied and copulated and ate and bickered and lay flap-flap dying, but never dead in the net that held them all, swinging far above their sea.
I didn’t move any further into the shack. Didn’t want to disturb Azira, or interrupt the sight of her working herself clean. The spread of her muscles flexing as she dipped and rose, as she brushed off flies and held her blanket. How long, since I had held my wife? Unless you wished to rut like animals, how did men and women ever love in this teeming sewer? I stood watching as the water pooled in the twin wings of her collarbone, as it beaded her breasts and navel, making webs of spun sunlight across her body.
‘Oh!’ Azira’s breath was sharp. ‘You frightened me!’
I came nearer, conscious our baby was sleeping on a mat in the coolest corner. There were no cool corners, really. Tin and plastic bake in the spite of the sun.
‘You’re frightened of your husband?’
‘No, silly boy. Not you.’ Her smile I can’t I cannot bear her smile I cannot bear the loss of her smile . . . ahh . . . Am, am I’m sorry I’m sorry, so think, think yes.
Yes, I can do that. I can remember the feel of her smile. Slender and curving, like her body.
‘It’s shadows I’m scared of,’ she said. ‘Why were you lurking there?’
I was against her. One thumb falling on to her bare nipple.
‘Ah. Oh, no, Abdi.’ Her eyes darted to the thin and fluttering door-cloth. ‘No, don’t, Abdi.’
‘Where are the Mursais?’ My thumb traced widening circles, my other hand taking her by the edge of her blanket-skirt. We shared with the Mursais, a garrulous family of five.
‘Oh. She is . . . she is taking the children to the doctor again. They still can’t keep anything down. A-a-a.’ Like she was sipping boiling water. ‘Oh, that’s nice. They can’t keep anything inside either,’ she sniffed. ‘The little one never made it to the la –’
‘And Dires?’ Moving my mouth along her neck. Her head tilted to accommodate me.
‘With his miraa-mates, I suppose. Chewing khat like a dumb cow. Adbi, I don’t like it when he – Abdi!’
Then my mouth was on her breast, both hands clamped to her blanketed buttocks. A pearl of milk glistened at her nipple, so sweet to taste that it made me crazed. My hands drove up the length of her skirt folds, and she was seizing me. My modest, shy Azira, who loved me so much she couldn’t help it, and we were inside one another’s minds as well as flesh. Skin and bone and muscle and brain, we were all one creature and our son slept his beautiful sleep and I loved my beautiful wife.
‘We can’t – have – anotherbaby.’ Panting the words into me. Me, licking her nipple and her, clutching my head.
‘How can – we –’ I couldn’t find my breath ‘– when you’re still nurs – oh. Ohzirazira. Oh.’
I know she felt it too. Not the push and the press of us, but the love, how we were perfect. Since our son was born, the few times we’d been private, oh it was wonderful. I wasn’t hurting her any more, she was open, we fitted as we should.
I didn’t know. Older boys joked about it, of course they did. The joy of a nice tight wife. They talked of opening their gift, but it didn’t mean we knew.
What man would want to tear his wife?
I hear my baby stirring.
What man would let her die?
Rebecca snuffles, her anorak rustles. I hear Debs speaking. ‘Hiya, sleepy head. We’re nearly there, you know.’
What man would let his baby die?
Forcing my eyes awake. Limbs heavy. A rhythmic beating in the space above my aching nose. My dull, conniving brain leaves the mists of one world to creep into another. It is a wounded animal; I should leave it to rest. But I can’t. There’s too much pressing on it.
My bag crinkles with the sheaf of letters I’ve brought. I know Debs will ask about the school; she must think I brought Rebecca to distract her. And maybe I did, a little. But we were late. If I’d taken Rebecca all the way to the minister’s house before I set out to meet Debs, that would have been another thirty minutes. I think, then, she might have driven away. Complained to Simon that I was ‘unreliable’ or ‘not committed’ and that would be a black mark, privileges withdrawn, my name on a list.
I don’t know.
So do I tell her? Tell her I was late because I was hiding behind my own front door? That my daughter was hysterical, that the old bastard in the next flat was threatening us again? Actually, he is not that old. Grey, yes, and hunched with the anger of poverty and disappointment. But not particularly old. I think, however, that he is a bastard. Yesterday, he put a leaflet through my letterbox. Of course, I never saw him do it, but I heard him. I know his cough, his shuffle. He shuffles when sober and clatters when drunk. The leaflet was from people called the Scottish Defence League. I guessed what it would contain, but I read a little of it anyway.
Refuges, assylum seekers, migrants.
This country, this city, this scheme is awash with them. They live in houses you could have, they take your benifits but pay nothing themselves. We pay for them to live in lugxury, while we loose out.
Ask yourself how they got here? If things are so bad, how did they get out? Can you afford to fly abroad? Criminals, scroungers, liars and cheats –
That was as far as I got. I have it here, with all the other letters, but I do not think I will show it to Deborah. It will only make things worse, because she’ll want to ‘do’ something, like with Rebecca. And what is done cannot be undone.
Today, when I was getting Rebecca ready to go out, I heard him again, scrabbling at our door. Rebecca heard him too. We went very, very still. She was holding her breath. Last week he had shouted at us on the stairs, called her a fucking monkey. He was above us, we were walking down the stairs and I told her to keep walking. Making too-bright smiles and talking loudly about the sweeties I would buy her and all the time he’s bawling down: Haw! Err a perra fucking monkeys. So, when I heard him sniffing at our door and I felt my child solidify in the place we had made safe . . . I could not bear it. I might be a refugee, a humble-grateful shadow, but I am still a man. I marched to the door, flung it wide.
‘What is it that you want?’ I may have raised my voice, a little. His face is always ugly, but today it gleamed like greasy metal. There was a shine of fury on him and a stink of stale alcohol. Blind hate: this face is universal; I should have said n
othing, closed the door. My daughter was watching me.
He swayed on my doorstep, blinking his yellow-rimmed eyes. ‘Who-a fuck d’yithink you’re talking tae, ya fucking monkey bastirt?’
‘I am talking to you.’
‘Away tae fuck, yi cheeky cunt. I’d my way, yous’d aw be put doon like fucking dugs. You no take a fucking hint? Stealing our money, our fucking jobs –’
‘But you do not have job, I think?’
While he was frightening, he was comic too, in his ill-fitting shoes and his leering gait and I had a cold desire to show him this. My mistake. For all he was drunk and disgusting, I suspect my neighbour had been a fighter in his time. His action was more of a reaction, it was an impulse separate from his brain. Before I finished speaking, his head flew down and forward, crashing into the bridge of my nose. Unprepared, I struggled to keep my balance, was aware of Rebecca screaming as I fought to blink away the starbursts and keep my footing and push him away from me, my child. He dipped back to come at me again, and I slammed my body against the door, using all my dizzy weight to force it shut. Hearing him howl as the wood caught his flesh, his foot? I didn’t care, just kept pressing and pressing until the latch clicked and we were safe again.
Safe. There’s a fine word. Solid and flat. It opens softly, closes definitively. We make many sentiments out of language, but I find, often, they are lies. They don’t mean to be, these supple, helpful, laden words, but what you imagine and what I imagine from the weight of a single word – well, it may be very different. I hear an ss in ‘safe’; the sibilant hiss of snakes who blend like grass and strike when there’s nothing there. I knew the man was lurking outside and I knew, when he finally shuffled off, that he would pounce, spring, bite, be back. Telling Deborah this will only diminish me further. When beggars wait outside our church, Mrs Coutts always says: ‘Och, that’s a wee shame.’ I am nobody’s shame.
This Is Where I Am Page 8
