This Is Where I Am

by Karen Campbell

  Keeping it to a murmur, noticing the doctor was prepping a syringe. I’d rather have a dopey collapse than Abdi screaming his face was on fire. What Sam had said was true, though. There was no blink to him, no register. Me, the black boots, the hard beige floor. We were ghosts. My inching hand was simply not there.

  Clean and soft, the needle entered him. A vague pucker on his face, as if his finger had caught a thorn. I crawled out again, let the doctor do his job. The policeman was on his radio.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said when he was finished.

  ‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘You’ve ripped your tights, by the way.’

  ‘I know.’

  They got Abdi strapped on to a stretcher, the kind where the torso’s propped upright. Blanket whipped on and round, deft fold beneath the knees. His poor head lolling, all the pinkness of his gums spilling.

  ‘Can someone please tell me what happened?’

  Sam, the guy who’d phoned, spoke first. ‘Christ, I don’t know. Frankie here was butchering up some silverside and Abdi just fucking flipped. But it was the cow he was punching, no any of us –’

  ‘Naw, he wisny,’ said Frankie. ‘He was cuddling it, so he was. So I couldny cut it.’

  ‘Miss?’ The cop had his pen out.

  ‘Mrs Deborah Maxwell.’

  ‘Mrs Maxwell. You say Abdi has no history of mental health issues. Does he have a history of violence, then?’

  ‘No. Absolutely not – sorry.’ The paramedics, two of them now, were wheeling Abdi’s stretcher past. ‘Sorry – where is it you’re taking him?’

  ‘Southern General. A&E probably, take a look at they hands. They’re all cut to shreds. Then Psychie’ll want . . . well . . . maybe a – I dunno.’ The medic turned to the cop. ‘Are yous planning on jailing him?’

  ‘Wait, please. Look, before anyone does anything: this man is a refugee, OK? He’s come from Somalia, where he lost his wife. He lost his whole family in really violent circumstances. Frankie: you said he was cuddling the cow?’

  ‘Aye. That’s what it looked like.’

  ‘And he was fine till you started cutting it up?’

  ‘Aye. Brand new.’

  Addressing myself to the policeman. ‘This is Abdi’s first day in this job. He’s been in the UK for nearly two years. He’s a lovely man – got a wee girl –’

  ‘A wee girl? And where’s she at the moment?’

  ‘With her childminder.’

  ‘Excuse me interrupting,’ said the GP. ‘I’d better get back to surgery – you’ve got my details. I’ll phone the Southern anyway, speak to the receiving team. You can get a statement from me later, yes?’

  ‘Sure. Many thanks again, doctor.’ The cop, shifting from the doctor to Frankie and Sam. ‘You say he wasn’t directly aggressive with anyone?’

  ‘No really.’

  ‘He was fucking swinging a bloody great machete at me.’

  ‘Was he fuck. He was waving it round his head – high up, know? Like he was stopping stuff falling on him.’

  The babble of conflicting accounts got louder, another man hurried in – Maloney, who seemed to be in charge – then Richard appeared, colliding with the paramedic who was packing up his bag, Abdi rumbling past me –

  ‘Can I come with him?’

  ‘No,’ said the cop. ‘I need to get a statement.’

  ‘Can you not take it later?’

  The paramedics were trundling out the door, the fragile slump of Abdi, shrinking. He was going to fade, disappear if I didn’t keep a hold of him. Richard took the cop aside, vouching for me, for Abdi, I’m not sure, but he gave a kind of wave, like a shoo, and I disappeared after the ambulance guys.

  ‘ ’Scuse me. EX-cuse me! Can I –’

  ‘Best no go in the back, case he gets . . . you know.’

  ‘Can I follow in my car?’

  ‘Sure.’

  We were ages at the Southern. They took Abdi off, while I sat in a draughty space. He was waking up, there would be a psychiatric assessment later. When later? Nobody knew.

  Is he talking yet? He’ll be very scared.

  He’s fine.

  I didn’t want to leave him, but it was past five by this time, and I’d no number for Mrs Coutts. I phoned Abdi’s flat, on the off-chance she’d be there, and she was, she was, which was just as well, because next minute the same policeman turns up, muttering about ‘child protection issues’.

  ‘Are you stalking me?’ I said.

  ‘What if I was?’

  Pleasant-looking guy, when he turned down the dourness.

  ‘So is a mentor like a sponsor? Does he have many “issues”, your pal?’

  ‘No more than the rest of us would, if you’d seen your family hacked to death.’

  ‘Point taken.’ And he bought me a coffee, and then he left.

  Eventually, Abdi was admitted here, to this place we are visiting today. Leverndale. He came on his own. The doctor, psychiatrist?, was an identikit of the many composite chaps Callum and I used to deal with: bools-in-their-mooth when they mumbled their name, a dollop of jargon in place of a prognosis. But it was made very clear that Abdi needed no distractions.

  ‘Best he gets some rest just now. Are you his wife?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Next of kin?’

  ‘No.’

  The most they would tell me was that he was displaying signs of a ‘dissociative disorder’.

  ‘They tend to be quite common following traumatic events. I think what we may be seeing is a fractured presentation between the past and present events – what you might term hysterical psychosis.’

  ‘Like post-traumatic stress, you mean?’

  The doctor had smiled benignly. ‘Something like that.’

  I park the car beside the dustbins. Rebecca and I climb out. Low modern buildings, and the housing scheme beyond; there’s not much left of the old estate but the tower which dominates, vaguely Italianate, a pointed spire above its cupola. Leverndale. Just the name gives you the willies. Say it to anyone in Glasgow and watch them shiver. It’s a universal for ‘the loony bin’. Same as Bedlam. Dark, uncompromising. Leverage, doom. Castles and dungeons; there’ll be a grey lady hidden in these walls. I’ve told Rebecca that Aabo’s been staying at a nice place, to get a wee rest cause he was awful tired. Smart sloe eyes that do not buy this. But she colludes with me, placing her hand in mine as we leave the car park to search for Abdi’s ward.

  Rebecca has been amazing. On the day of Abdi’s admission, she followed me home, uncomplaining after I sat her down with Mrs Coutts and asked if she’d like to stay at mine. Just for the night, I promised. Then the next night, then the next. Unblinking, she watched as I took the damp sheets off her bed each morning, put them in the machine, made her lunch. I explained I’d love to make some cakes, but I wouldn’t know what kind unless she told me.

  ‘Chocli.’

  ‘Yeah? Well, how about we walk to the shop and buy some Buttons?’

  ‘ ’K.’

  At first, she hardly spoke at all. Followed me everywhere, though, copying my movements as I read the paper, did the housework. Coming a wee bit closer every day. I was careful to be quiet and steady, telling her what I was doing, offering her a wee shot of the Hoover now and then. I know, child labour. Social Work would have a fit – and they were actually monitoring me. Was I a fit and proper person? According to my respectable sister, and the Refugee Council – and that steely-grey policeman – I was. I bought her a dolly at the corner shop; a cheap, plastic fashion doll, but we were sticking close to home at that point, so it would have to do. Found it in my garden the very next day: clothes off, head planted, arse on show to the world.

  ‘Lovely. OK then. Would you rather do gardening?’

  Her wee face had screwed up.

  ‘Planting? Digging? Would you like to plant some nice bulbs instead of Cindee?’

  I’d a load of snowdrop bulbs rotting in the shed. A friend had suggested I might like to plant them in memory of Callum
.

  ‘Yes, Debba!’

  That then led to a trip to the garden centre, to buy a mini-trowel, and some carrot seeds, and lettuce and – basically everything Rebecca could tell me the names of.

  ‘Uh-huh. No pointing. You have to say what it’s called or we won’t buy it.’

  The flowers got ignored, it was the packets with the pictures of vegetables that she went for, sometimes saying the name in what I assume was Somali, sometimes English. She knew her plants, this girl. I hadn’t gardened since Callum had gone in the wheelchair, had forgotten the scent of earth cracking, its gritty friable soil and the good damp underneath. We spent hours digging furrows – I don’t mean we dug acres, just that it was a slow and laborious process. You have to pause, you see, whenever you find a worm, or when a thrush pours out a song, or a squirrel bobs across the wall. Apparently they have very comical tails. Mornings became a quick drink, then out into the garden to see what had appeared. Were there slugs? Had the foxes come? Rebecca began to hum wee tunes, potter by herself while I got on with stuff in the kitchen. And – in the space between the patient ploughing and the rush to get outside – the bed wetting stopped.

  There are no gardens at Leverndale. Construction work is taking place at the perimeter, the clink of scaffolding and mixers churning, and the ground is pitted with tyre-ruts, filled with muddy water. Before I can stop her, Rebecca charges for the biggest puddle, jumps in with both be-wellied feet.

  ‘Yaaaaay!’

  It is an unbridled shout of happiness; I can’t quell that, not even as filthy water drills her cheeks. It hits her new coat, joins the fine rain falling, the mild sky padded out with clouds. Shaded ochre, the clock tower is actually quite beautiful, in a sombre way.

  ‘C’mere, you!’

  She shrieks as I chase her, pink boots flying. Then stops. Jumps again and taps the ground with her heels. Does it again, to confirm the noise emanating from the wet rubber really is that rude. Compressed air, I guess, working against the friction of her feet.

  Rebecca beams at me. ‘Like jobbies comin’!’

  ‘No, not like jobbies! Who told you that word?’

  That’s the downside of parks and soft-play. Other people’s weans. The bogies and the bad words, the boy whose exuberance is too big for the ball-pit. But the upside is seeing her chatting, sometimes even laughing as she copies them and dives head-first down the chute. On the way home last week, we met Mrs Gilfillan, out in her strip of front garden. She was gathering hydrangea heads, gone fawn and lacy, but still with tinges of desiccated blue. As we approached, she stopped snipping.

  ‘What a beautiful child you have there.’

  A silly puff of pride about me. I could take no credit for the line of Rebecca’s nose or the nascent cheekbones that would be high and fine once the babyfat dropped away. The haze of hair I sympathised with, and struggled to contain. I couldn’t make it neat the way that Abdi did. But the wellies and the chocolate-smeared chin were all my own work.

  ‘Who does this belong to then?’ Mrs Gilfillan raised her spectacles above her nose. ‘Or have you stolen her?’

  ‘This is Rebecca. Say hello to Mrs Gilfillan, Rebecca.’

  ‘ ’Lo.’ Swinging on my trenchcoat as she said it.

  ‘Rebecca and her daddy are friends of mine. She’s staying with me for a wee while.’

  ‘And where are you from, Rebecca?’

  ‘The flat.’ Twisting the loose edge of my belt. The snap of an elastic band going off inside me.

  ‘She lives in Cardonald now – but from Somalia originally.’

  ‘Ah, Somalia, of course. Very fine features. My best friend was a Kenyan, you know. Well – you must bring her round for tea. Rebecca – stand up, don’t slouch. You have lovely long bones. Now. Have you ever had Dundee cake?’

  The wee soul was rigid to attention. ‘No.’

  School. She was so in need of school. The more Glaswegian she got, the less obedient she would become – which is no bad thing in a child, reveals ex-teacher in shock admission.

  ‘Well,’ said Mrs Gilfillan, ‘I make the best Dundee cake in all the world. So there.’

  ‘Debba makes nice pancakes.’

  It was the longest, most structured sentence she’d ever said.

  ‘Oh really? Tell you what then, you bring the pancakes, I’ll supply the cake. How’s that?’

  ‘Good!’

  It was. Delicious actually.

  ‘This is it,’ I tell Rebecca. All the wards at Leverndale have sturdy Scots names, like Balloch and Balmore. We press the buzzer, step inside. It’s tepid, dim, with odd whorls of abstract art, and the pale slop of half-moon lamps illuminating the canvases. Don’t be fooled by the swirly bits – they clearly run a tight ship here. There is a canvas, then a door, a canvas, then a door; five of each, on either side. Designed so there really is light at the end of the tunnel, the corridor stretching bleakly, coming to rest under a single, high window. In hospital, light is time. It passes and dims and wakes and falls. How cleverly they’ve blanked this out. We are in a wipe-clean womb.

  ‘To see Mr Hassan?’

  A bright nurse waits to escort us through. Abdi’s in a single room. He is sitting on the edge of the bed. A moment of bewilderment when he looks up, then it’s blasted as Rebecca hurls herself up to his lap. Her little feet kick my shins, not meaning to, but they are blind and desperate.

  ‘Aabo! Aabo!’

  She bends herself to Abdi’s shape. He corresponds, so they are head-to-head. Big hand, little hand. Kissing. Crying. It’s not my place to . . . it’s just not my place. I go back outside to wait.

  Even with your eyes no longer smarting, once they’ve readjusted to the gloom, these paintings are simply splodges. Angry blue seas of nonsense; I do not understand modern art, the slapdash random self-importance of it, there’s no concession to the casual viewer, it makes you feel ridiculous, a bystander who’s not in the gang because you don’t get how a pair of dirty knickers and half a shark are –

  ‘Debba!’ Rebecca’s shouting on me. ‘Debba! Aabo is awake!’

  Does the wee soul think he’s been sleeping for three weeks? I must not be so literal, must . . . I’m scared to see that blankness . . . if he’s gone what do . . . my bum is being shoved forward . . . no, yes . . . I’ve to hug him too. She’s trying to make me sit: no, darling. Not on his knee. I think I’d squash him. Abdi stands, before I’m forced to straddle him. We’re permitted an inch between us. He holds up his hand, not salute, not touching my face.

  ‘Deborah?’

  I echo his spread-out fingers, tip against tip. His bigger hand engulfs mine.

  ‘Hello, you.’

  ‘Hello, Deborah.’

  I get the Abdi half-smile. Shy and soft and slow and lazy, but it’s his own. He is neat and firm inside his head. I’m sure of it. More gaunt, certainly, but he is strong. I think it’s safe to ask.

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Tired.’

  Rebecca shoots him an anxious glance.

  ‘Did Rebecca give you her card? She made it herself.’

  ‘Hey? No. Let’s see it, mucky pup.’

  She drags a crumpled envelope from her coat pocket. It too is splashed with mud. The card inside is perfect. It’s a drawing of a spreading tree. It has a thick trunk and blossoms; each blossom is a series of red petals, joined like grapes on a vine.

  ‘Isn’t it beautiful? Rebecca spent ages on it.’

  She did, she spent meticulous hours drawing and shading, so that all the strands of colour are contained within the lines.

  ‘Put it here, Aabo! Put it here!’ She pats the windowsill, scattering the other cards already propped there.

  ‘She sounds all Scottish!’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘No, it is . . . good. It is her voice.’

  ‘Nice cards. Did you get one from Mrs Coutts? She asked me for the address.’

  ‘Yes. It is the one with the kitten.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Pretty. Ooh – you got fruit
too?’

  A lavish basket with a purple bow offers oranges and grapes and tempting, rosy orbs. Mangoes maybe?

  ‘From Mrs Girdwood, my minister’s wife. Yes, you may have an apple, Rebecca. They send me a card also. So did Mr Maloney. And I got this one. He, he. Read this one.’

  There’s no flowery couplet inside. Instead, three different hands have penned their own messages on the white space. In order:

  Mine’s a pint when you’re back on your feet, pal

  Still on for the football whenever you’re up for it. Take care x

  Baloney says you’re on the mince counter when you get back!

  This scrawl’s accompanied by a wee smiley face. I look at the front of the card. It’s a cartoon of a grizzly bear with an axe, chasing a lumberjack.

  ‘It is from the boys at work.’

  ‘So I see.’

  ‘Should I laugh?’

  ‘If you plan to keep living in Glasgow, then yes. It’s what we call gallus banter.’

  Rebecca’s rearranging the cards. I lower my voice. ‘How are you really, Abdi?’

  ‘Like a bloodletting,’ he whispers. ‘Sometimes, we drink from camels? Not kill, just drink, you understand. When you cut them, they struggle and go crazy. Then it flows, and they calm. They just wait.’ He closes his eyes.

  ‘Knock knock!’

  A doctor pushes the door. You know the term a shock of hair? Well, it really is; it’s big and white and woolly. Like someone’s stuck a daud of cotton wool on when he wasn’t looking.

  ‘Ah, Mr Hassan. May I come in?’

  ‘Please. This is my friend, Deborah.’

  ‘How do you do?’ The doctor’s voice batters round the room. ‘Ah, you’re the mentor lady I spoke to on Monday?’

  ‘Dr Boon? Yes, that’s right. With the Refugee Council.’

  ‘Excellent. Excellent. So. How are we today, Mr Hassan?’

  ‘I am wonderful. Look, sir. My daughter is here.’

  He nudges Rebecca forward, who is suddenly bashful. It’s the whiteness of the man’s coat, I think it scares her. Or, more probably, his bouffant hair. Says me.

  ‘This is Rebecca.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Rebecca.’