This Is Where I Am

by Karen Campbell

  On her face is spattered shit.

  I touch my own face, smell my hands. Hear a cough of laughter through the wall and I’m out on the landing, at his door, at the old fucker’s door. Pounding it with fists and feet, another kick, another, at the flimsy fake-wood door. The door jerks open like he is waiting, like he cannot wait. I fall inside.

  ‘Get the fuck away fae ma door, ya fucking black bastard!’ My neighbour is before me, in a vest and striped pyjamas. I push him in his grey, weak chest.

  ‘My daughter is covered in shit!’

  ‘Well, she’ll smell better than she did before then.’

  Then I am bawling at him and he is bawling at me, but my voice is louder, mightier.

  ‘Why do you torment us?’

  ‘Get the fuck oot ma house, ya darkie cunt.’ He tries to strike me, I slap his face, he lunges and we tumble back on to the landing. He is smaller, but fleshy, I could kill him, I could hit him and hit him and never stop, my back strikes something which moves and swings, and we fall in a heap through another door. Hard head crashing on hard floor, his arm falling backwards and away as his fat body is carried by its own momentum to teeter at the top of the stairs. Hanging for a heartbeat that is fast and slow before he plunges, arse first, down the staircase. I hear the clatter, hear his anguished yells. Cower until the noise stops.

  Like a noble savage, I crawl back to my own house.

  ‘Police! Open the door, sir.’

  It is happening again.

  Azira and I had been living with the priest for nearly a year. Forgive us our trespasses. Alas, I had made a mighty enemy. It wasn’t as if the police actively sought us out, but if they were bored or simply passing, they would come inside our house. Kick things over, take our food. Sporadic but systematic, over and over. Four times also, I had been arrested for theft (of what, I was never informed); four times in the eighteen months since I hit that policeman – that is nothing, I know – but the last time it took me some weeks to recover. On each occasion, Azira was spared. I didn’t know why, but I told her it was a good jinn, that’s what protected her.

  ‘Jinn bring only bad luck.’

  ‘That’s not true. What if it’s a good spirit? You have a good spirit, baby, so it makes sense you have good jinn protecting you. That and God.’

  ‘Well, why doesn’t he protect you too?’

  ‘But he does. Look at me – I am still alive!’

  Physically, I was. But there was always the blank and solid fear of waiting, then the terror-spikes each time they came. Sometimes the tattooed one would be there, but he was a generous man, he liked to share sport with his friends. That last time, they’d taken my backpack, made a totem of it by throwing it in a tree. My Azira rescued it for me, later.

  ‘That was him,’ I said, when she presented it to me (and when I had washed a lot and slept a little and my mouth had ceased bleeding). Dirty, scuffed but essentially intact; me and my backpack both. ‘Yes? The one who threw it? He was the one who tried to hurt you?’

  ‘No?’ She was puzzled. ‘Why do you think that? It was a young idiot who chased me. Pale, pale eyes: very ugly. Not that old leather man. Huh – I could have easily run from him.’

  Ah. To the uniforms then, I am just a random madman. I almost understood their chagrin, if not their enthusiasm. Paolo had insisted we move into his home. ‘You are my best teacher, Abdi; it’s an investment. Whoever is doing this to you might not stop at a beating next time. Can the police not do anything about it?’

  I hadn’t told him it was the police. Why would he believe me? And he might think I had brought it on myself. It was so important to me that he believed I was a good man. So I lied. Casual robbery and brutality was an everyday occurrence in the camp; I let him assume I was the victim of some tribal ‘bad blood’. The Mursais were desperate that we leave, especially Mrs Mursai. It was her home, too, that was being violated. ‘I told you, Abdi. I told you not to go after them.’

  Azira loved it at Paolo’s house. There were real walls and a generator and a big white fridge, into which she never tired of putting jugs of milk and water. All still covered in damp muslin, of course. She planted a garden, growing khajaar and straggly beans. Our little girl grew stronger every day, and we had changed her name to Rebecca.

  ‘It is from the Bible,’ I told my wife. ‘I should like you to read the Bible. I am going to teach you letters.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘So that when Paolo talks to us about the Bible, you can form your own opinion.’

  ‘Oh, Abdi, you are such a sweet man. I am allowed to have an opinion?’ Gleaming with suppressed laughter. Her tongue moistened her lips, and she came closer to me.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, grabbing her waist. ‘To go with the many, many you already have.’

  We talked a lot about becoming Christians. It was a gradual certainty, if that makes sense. When Paolo told me all the stories of Christ, showed me how he was not a prophet but the Son of God, I believed him. Wholly and absolutely. The certainty permeated me until it was not a separate sense at all. Azira was less sure. It didn’t help that Paolo and I talked sometimes in Italian. He could speak sufficient Somali for the classroom, but when he was seized with an urgency of explanation or exaltation, he lapsed into his native tongue. These were the times he transported me with his convictions.

  ‘All we know is what we have known,’ I told Azira. ‘What our parents and our grandparents instil in us. When do we choose what we believe? This is simply another path to God; it’s a path that tells me I should follow it. Don’t you like to learn?’

  There were a few Christian families in the camp, and we talked of their relative freedom, how their daughters were schooled alongside their sons. Azira was scared, I think, that she wouldn’t see our son again. Then Paolo talked to her, and we prayed. A great peace was in the room that night. In the smoke and lamplight I felt the spirits of my grandfather, my mother and my father. They were holding our boy and smiling.

  ‘Strathclyde Police! Would you please open the door?’

  A steady, steady thump. Me lying on the covers on top of Rebecca’s bed with one arm beneath her, the other over her shoulder, moving my hand to cover her ear. She sleeps on, exhausted from her tears.

  When the police came inside Paolo’s house, they never said please.

  Carefully, I slip my arm from under my daughter and wriggle from the bed. A raw pain resonates as foot connects with floor. That’s right: I am burned. I had forgotten. Slowly, I hobble to my front door, open it.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Can we come in, sir?’

  And, if I say no . . . ? Wordlessly, I stand aside. Two young men in black uniforms enter my house, one of them wiping his feet on the mat outside before he does so. I made that from an offcut as well – brilliant purple flowers dulled with mud. But it is the mat inside that they both notice. Charred and filthy. I was going to throw it out, but it is too late now. It stinks and smoulders in a badge of shame. The taller of the two doesn’t look at me. He’s too busy circling the toe of his boot across my ruined mat, although he’s not wiping, like the other policeman did. He’s examining. ‘Mm-hm. And your name is?’

  Is that not what I should be asking you?

  ‘Name?’ he says again.

  ‘Abdi Hassan.’

  ‘Right, Abdi.’ He has a large mole beneath his left eye, which stretches and shrinks as he speaks. ‘We’re here about your neighbour, Mr Bullmore. Boo-ool-more? Just nod or shake your head. The man next door?’

  I nod. ‘Yes.’

  ‘He says that you threw him down the stairs. DOW-WIN THE STAIRS. Is that right?’

  ‘Excuse me, Mr Hassan.’ The smaller man steps closer to me. ‘Can I just establish something. Are you able to understand English OK? English? Ou vous préférez français?’

  The tall one sighs – at me, his colleague? I’m not sure.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ I say. ‘I speak English well.’

  ‘OK, good. So, the reason we’re he
re is that your neighbour Mr Bullmore is currently in hospital. He’s alleging you broke into his flat and engaged him in a stand-up fight. Now, I see that there’s been a bit of damage to your doormat here. I wondered if –’

  ‘We wondered if you’d be able to answer a few questions,’ says the one with the mole. ‘We can either do this here, or we can go down the police station –’

  ‘My daughter is sleeping.’

  ‘I see.’

  The small one tips his hat back from his face. ‘Look, all we want to do is try and clear this up. So maybe you can tell us your version of what happened?’

  ‘Am I being arrested?’

  ‘No, no, of course not –’

  The taller man folds his arms. ‘No yet, pal.’

  I lower my head. ‘I am a refugee. I keep quiet, I want no trouble.’

  ‘Did Mr Bullmore provoke you in any way?’

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘To push him down the bloody stairs.’

  Mr Mole is getting angry. As am I, but the anger is leavened by blind fear. It seeps through everything else, gathering its authority. My leg quivers. Aches swell in my bladder. From the bedroom comes a thin wail.

  ‘I think you have woken my daughter. Can you stop shouting, please?’

  ‘Look, pal. You sure you know what being a refugee means? It means you’re here on trial, aye? You start beating up old men and that’s the fast track to a one-way ticket home. You understand?’

  ‘Mike, keep it down, eh?’

  Rebecca, bleary-eyed, is shuffling towards us. A fierce tug in my heart. She is my miracle.

  The smaller one bends down, removes his hat. ‘Hello, wee yin. What’s your name?’

  ‘She is called Rebecca. And she is very distressed.’

  ‘Want a shot of my cap?’ He hands her his hat. ‘Whoah – nice wellies there by the way. You go to bed in them?’

  Rebecca sidles into me, and I reach to touch the top of her head. ‘Ssh, mucky pup. It’s OK. Everything is OK.’ I wink, stick out my tongue. She hides her face in my thigh. The hat drops to the floor. ‘It’s OK. Aabo is just talking to the men.’

  The policemen are conferring in the corner of my hall. ‘Well, I think we should get the gaffer. This is a racial incident, we’ve a wee kid involved –’

  ‘Gonny step into my office, eh?’ says the mole one. They move into my kitchen, so I can only hear fragments of conversation:

  Obnoxious old bastard – Christ, I’d of chucked him down the stairs . . .

  That’s no the fucking point, but . . . assault . . . concussion . . .

  Aye but where’s your corroboration? No witnesses . . . old boy’s a piss-head . . .

  They whisper some more, then re-emerge, the small one talking into his collar. There is a pause. Another, tinny voice responds, the small one says: ‘Roger. Noted.’ He turns his attention to me. Sees his hat dishonoured on my piecemeal carpet and comes over to retrieve it. ‘OK, sir.’ Moving and sweeping me through my own hall, we are corralled like cattle towards Rebecca’s bedroom. For one terrible pace I calculate how many seconds it will take to run and seize a kitchen knife. But the policeman does not go inside her room, only stands at the open door.

  ‘What we’re gonny do is leave you now, so you can get the wee one back to bed. OK?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘But our sergeant’s on her way to speak to you. If needs be, she’ll decide if you’ve to come in for a formal interview. If that’s the case, we’ll make provision for Rebecca –’

  ‘No! You cannot take my daughter!’

  ‘Abdi, calm down, you hear me?’ He lays his hands on my chest. Not hard, but the pressure is full of potential. Under his touch, my heartbeat is magnified. ‘Just calm down. Nobody’s going to take your daughter. You can get someone to come and sit with her. But you must let our sergeant in when she arrives, all right?’

  ‘Aye, and we’ll no be far,’ calls the mole one. ‘We’re just going to interview your other neighbours. See what they can tell us.’

  ‘All right, Abdi? We’ll speak to you later.’ The smaller one replaces his hat, goes towards his colleague. ‘Goodnight then.’ My front door is closed on me. Severing the air, pushing foul smells upwards.

  It is a jinn, a bad jinn swallowing us.

  10.

  ‘I cannot believe you’ve got me into this.’

  ‘Oh shut up and quit looking suspicious.’

  ‘Does it have to be in the middle of a park?’

  ‘Well, you say I never go out any more. You should be glad we’re on an adventure.’

  ‘Bloody wild-goose chase, if you ask me. Are you sure this is the right place? We’ve been here forty-five minutes already.’

  Gill is shivering beneath a beech tree. Her slim fingers are wrapped across her trenchcoat, her boot-heels too pointed for the soft, cloggy mud. Dusk has brought shadows, and the faint rising moon bleeds white across the park. Unearthly, bone-coloured narcissi point skinny trumpets skywards. There is not another soul around.

  ‘So why couldn’t your pal come again?’ says Gill.

  ‘She’s not my pal. Naomi is just a neighbour. And she couldn’t come because she doesn’t want to be “seen in suspicious circumstances”. Her husband’s a judge or a QC or something.’

  ‘Big wows – and what about me? I’m a bloody headmistress. I don’t want to be caught with my pants round my ankles either.’

  ‘What a lovely turn of phrase you have, dear.’

  My wee sister Gill. Two years between us, and she’s been striving to erase the gap ever since she could breathe. Followed me round school like a cullie dug – but why won’t you play with me, why? – followed me to uni, then followed me into teaching. Got married the spring after my summer wedding, got pregnant four months after I did, moved into a house slightly nicer than ours then . . . whoosh. One day I looked round and she wasn’t there. Behind, I mean, in her rightful place. All of a sudden, my wee sister had overtaken me. Headmistress of a very good state primary school, mum to two beautiful teenagers, possessed of a chic bob, svelte hips and a floaty, elf-like wardrobe. Gill is what you would call petite. Everything that is dainty, neat and groomed, while I am a shapeless bag. And somewhere along the way, Gill has developed elder-child syndrome.

  ‘It’s too cold to hang about – you should zip up your jacket. And your Russian spy can’t be that desperate if she’s not even bothered to turn up on time.’

  ‘Rula’s Chechen, not Russian – and she sounded pretty desperate when I spoke to her earlier.’

  Today at Scotland Street had been the first time I’d succeeded in talking to Rula since Naomi nominated me her download-buddy.

  ‘I mean, you deal with these migrant people every day, don’t you?’ Naomi had said, once I was ensconced in one of her velvet armchairs, being plied with G&T.

  ‘Well no. I do an occasional volunteer shift at the Refugee Council.’

  ‘Exactly. The thing is, Rula sounds like she’s in a bit of a pickle. Since she buggered off –’

  ‘You mean since she had her claim for asylum refused? Is that what actually happened?’

  Whenever you saw Naomi, not actually conversing with her, but when she passed by the window or you saw her in the car, her default expression always struck me as one of barely-contained impatience. That evening, it was considerably more overt. I like to think I bring out the best in people.

  ‘Since Rula left us in the lurch, I’m not quite sure what she’s got herself mixed up in. But the upshot is, she appears to owe rather a lot of money, and I’m getting utterly sick of her telephoning me.’

  ‘Have you asked her what it’s for?’ I said. ‘Maybe we could get her debt counselling or advice with repayments? Has she launched an appeal against the decision?’

  ‘How would I know?’ Naomi uncrossed linen-clad legs, reached for her tumbler. ‘No, Debs, this is the problem. I don’t want to know. I just want her to stop annoying us. So much so, I’m prepared to help her out – on the p
roviso she leaves us alone. I mean, Duncan’s in a very delicate position –’

  ‘That’s good you’re going to help. But you could maybe also say to her –’

  ‘Now, this is where you come in, Debs. I can’t say anything at all, that’s the thing, because she doesn’t have a bloody mobile. Just calls me from a payphone as and when the mood takes her. And I absolutely can’t get involved in any meetings with her, not when I haven’t a clue what she’s up to. So . . .’ ice-chunks clinking as she took a sip of her drink ‘. . . ah. You just can’t beat a G&T, can you? Yeah, so how would it be if the next time she calls, I give her your number? Then you could arrange to meet her and hand over . . . well, like I say, I don’t mind helping her out. A little. As long as you stress that she must never phone us again.’ She set the glass down, was all bright smiles. ‘And you can give her all the refugee leaflets and helpline numbers you like, if you think that’ll help. Oh, Debs, it would be such a relief to have a proper professional helping Rula.’

  Good old Naomi. I can see why she’s such an effective businesswoman. So that, in a gullible nutshell, is why I’m loitering in the middle of Maxwell Park with my wee sister Gill as bodyguard and £500 in my purse. And maybe there’s some creeping sense of atonement too, but we won’t go there. It’s not my fault Rula ran away. I did nothing wrong. Fair enough, I did nothing at all. What is a sin of omission but a slipping instant which you could have caught, but didn’t? My bodyguard stamps petulant, neat feet. ‘Fecking May? Did nobody tell the weather? Och, c’mon, Debs. Can you not just phone and find out where she is? I’ve left Richard in charge of dinner –’