I met my sister for lunch today, before coming through to Edinburgh (clever Caro has arranged an afternoon appointment with our MSP, to catch the tea-time news). Brought Azira’s picture with me, so that Gill would understand.
We ate, we talked, she blanched.
‘Jesus.’
‘I know. And it may be wishful thinking, but it sounds real. Rebecca wasn’t play-acting. I thought if I could get her story checked out in some way . . . obviously I’m saying nothing to Abdi. Not yet.’
Gill picked up the photograph again.
‘Yeah, but look at her. She’s gorgeous.’
‘So?’
‘I said look at her, you idiot. You of all folk should know what happens in refugee camps. There was an article in the Sunday Herald last month – it’s around one in three women, maybe higher –’
‘Shut up. I know.’
‘Well, have you ever thought maybe Abdi didn’t look back on purpose?’
‘Don’t be so bloody stupid.’
‘OK, you know him, I don’t. But from what you and Richard have told me, he’s a very proud man. Maybe he couldn’t cope with the thought of what else might have happened to Azira. And maybe you going digging round where you’re not wanted is a totally crap idea. The guy’s already had one breakdown.’
‘Piss off, Gill. You’re telling me I should just leave her there?’
‘You know, you swear much more than you used to.’
‘Excuse me –’ I ordered another beer. ‘You wanting anything else?’
‘Nope. And you’re drinking more.’
‘I’m not, actually. I’m just not hiding it.’
‘Oh sister dear. You’re such a thrawn besom.’ Gill kissed me on the cheek. ‘Gotta go. We have an HMI inspection tomorrow. Joy of joys. Look, you do what you’ve got to do.’
‘I will.’
She got up. ‘Just think about worms and cans, yes?’
‘Mm. You’d better go and cook your books. I’m off to get the train.’
Gill’s hand hung on the back of the chair. ‘How’s wee Rebecca doing, anyway?’
A quiet dazzle inside me. Glad that she asked, that my wee sister really cares and that we come from a family that cares, despite my dad’s protestations. Callum would have cared too.
‘Good. I’ve got her on some Primary Two readers already. I think Abdi’s coming round to the idea of school after Christmas. D’you still think you could swing it?’
‘Leave it to your fairy-sister. If I still have a job after tomorrow, that is.’
‘Ach, the inspectors will love you. Everybody loves you.’ I reached up to hug her. ‘Even me.’
Inside the Scottish Parliament, where we are standing, light pours in from the ceiling. It paints us brighter than we really are, enhances profiles and upturned faces with noble glows. The MSP is nearly finished, the cameras are swivelling to the soapstar. Virtually no one is looking at Gamu as she stands quietly to one side, observing her worth being measured. An appeal has been lodged with the Home Office, all we can do is wait. And keep on shouting. I go over and squeeze her hand.
‘Will we go home now?’
‘Yes. Please.’
I have the picture of Azira on the noticeboard, which hangs on the wall to the left of my PC. Beside the noticeboard, in front of my computer, is my window, from which I can see my street. Azira watches me from between a Scottish Economic Society calendar (they send me one every year, bless them) and a carry-out menu for the Golden Tandoor. I can see Mrs Gilfillan moving stiffly in her front room. She is watering her ferns. Next door to Mrs Gilfillan, Naomi’s kids are playing with their new au pair, who is just as smiley and efficient as Rula was. Naomi, when I see her now, keeps her head down and is brisk, trailing out a ‘Hi there’ only when she’s past. I rarely reply. Lovely bouncy Allison is walking with her children; no, now she waits patiently as the wee boy stops to examine his reflection in an oil-rimmed puddle, which is beautiful. Music lifts from the open window of the dance school and the trees are gradually giving up their leaves. All Azira can see is the top of my head – and the wall behind me, which badly needs a paint. I unhook my noticeboard, turn it so it rests diagonally across the corner of the broad windowsill, facing outward, with the edge nearest me balanced on my desk.
What does my little sister know?
In front of me are two letters. I slit open the first one. I can’t make out the postmark, but it’s been franked by the Red Cross. My hands are trembly; the paperknife slips, the bobbly brass head of it (an oversized thistle) dips forward and the knife presses up, catching a fragment of hangnail. Just a totey wee strip of skin, but, man, it stings.
I read. I read it again.
Dear Mrs Maxwell
Apologies for the delay in responding, but I am currently overseas and our mail is being forwarded by the Red Cross. I understand from my former employers Light of the World that you’ve been trying to get in touch with me, in regard to tracing a refugee by the name of Azira Hassan. As you may know, I no longer work for Light of the World, but it’s my understanding that Mrs Hassan travelled with her husband and child from the Dadaab Camp in Kenya to the UK approximately two years ago now. I think it would have been the November possibly? Can I suggest therefore that you contact the Home Office, or failing that, the Red Cross Tracing Service, for information on where the Hassan family were then sent.
I’m sure you’ll appreciate that we worked with many refugees, so it’s not possible for me to keep tabs on them all. Good luck with your search.
All the very best
Rose Gray
My excitement plummets as I read, then bounces, right at the end. Rose has sent this message on heavy notepaper, the kind which you order with your name and mobile telephone number inscribed on the bottom of the page. It’s dated two weeks ago. I pick up the phone. Dial, my heart playing with my ribs.
‘Hello. Rose Gray.’ Her voice is cheery and hopeful. But definitely Glaswegian.
‘Hello,’ I say. ‘Sorry. But is this Rose Gray from Donegal?’
‘Eh – who is this, please?’
‘You don’t know me, but my name is Deborah Maxwell. I’m hoping to speak to the Rose who used to work for Light of the World?’
‘Yes. That’s me.’
‘Oh, sorry. I was told you were from Ireland.’
‘When I was a baby, yes. I’m sorry – what’s this in connection with?’
‘You were good enough to send me a letter about Azira Hassan? From Dadaab?’
‘Azira . . . Hassan? Oh yes . . . yes. I was quite surprised when Light of the World got in touch. But, like I said –’
‘Sorry. Can I . . . sorry to interrupt you. I don’t think they told you why I was trying to find her. I’m sorry – this is so weird, you being Glaswegian. You see, Abdi and his daughter made it here, to Glasgow – that’s how I know him. But he believes his wife was killed in the camp – on the very day they were leaving.’
‘Oh my God. But that’s not possible.’
‘Were you there?’ I don’t mean this to sound accusatory.
‘I . . . well, no. We set up the transportation, then left it to the local agents. That happens quite often, you know. I mean, Light of the World is a small charity, and I was covering several camps – not just in Kenya, actually.’
‘Of course. I’m not . . . look, I only ask, because I’m not quite sure what happened the day they were due to leave. Abdi says there was an ambush – men on horseback.’
‘Al-Shabaab?’ It comes in a gunfire crackle.
‘I don’t know. He’s never given them a name. But apparently they struck just as the trucks were loading up.’
‘Do you know where they were loading? Was it the south gate? Bloody hell, I bet it was the south gate – they were expressly told not to leave from that location.’ She halts, draws breath in. ‘Sorry. Sorry, on you go.’
‘I don’t know much more, really. Abdi and his wee girl escaped, but Azira was attacked and dragged away, along wit
h several others. Nobody knows what happened to them thereafter. There’s a slim chance that she wasn’t killed. Maybe. Her wee girl says she saw her being put on to a horse.’
‘Oh Jesus.’
‘Look. Abdi doesn’t know any of this – he thinks his wife is dead. All I want to do is find out if there are any records of an incident, if any bodies were recorded, names of people killed. Anything. And if there’s even a glimmer of a hope that Azira wasn’t killed, then I want to try and find her. What I need from you is the exact date they were scheduled to leave the camp. And any contacts you have, or advice you can give me on how I go about getting those records.’
I fling this last requirement in like it’s a request for eggs or milk, all tumbling out in the rush. As if, slipped in with such subtlety, Rose is bound to go, sure, no problem and rattle off the home telephone number for the Head of the UN. She doesn’t.
‘Suffering God. Where to begin . . .’
‘That’s what I was hoping you’d know. Is it the UN we speak to? Or the Kenyan police –’
‘Je-sus no! Ach,’ there is a squelching sound, like she is rubbing her eyes or her nose, ‘it’s complicated. Really, truly complicated. I can’t believe this. It’s the very thing we were trying to avoid.’
‘What is?’ But I don’t think she hears me.
‘Problem is, soon as you start asking questions, any semblance of records or evidence – if there ever was any – will disappear. The only people you’ll ever get the truth from are the refugees: people who were there, who actually saw it. And even then, the moment they hear a mzungo asking for help, they’ll tell you anything you want to hear. For a price, of course.’
‘So what do I do?’
‘Deborah, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Deborah. Do you have any idea how big Dadaab is? I mean, it’s not even the one camp. There’s three of them, three great big filthy hellholes full of people disappearing every day. Charities: we go in like SWAT squads, wheech a handful of them to safety – and then you hear this.’
The fire in her’s all sputtered out. Voice gone to ash.
‘Have you got an email address, Rose?’
‘I do.’
‘Let me email you a photo I have of Azira. Please.’
‘For why? D’you think if I send it on to the camp some beady-eyed policeman will track her down?’
‘But you must still know people there. People you could trust.’
‘Deborah, I thought I could trust my transportation agents. We’d been using the bastards for the last five or six years.’
She says this with such venom that I am knocked off course. ‘Och God, I don’t know then. Maybe Rebecca just made it all up, maybe your agents are fantastic. But whether Azira lived or whether she died – she bloody well didn’t make it out the camp. And your agents never reported that, did they?’
I hear a massive sigh. My ragged finger’s singing. Flayed flesh grating on air. I take it in my mouth, suck it.
‘No,’ Rose says softly. ‘No, they did not.’
The line goes quiet. Has she hung up on me? As I say hello?, all miffed and querulous, she goes: ‘Ach, right. Here’s what we’ll do then. You know how I’m with Oxfam now?’
I murmur um, don’t want to interrupt her flow which I sense is building to a solid plan.
‘Well, we’ve a new sanitation project launching in Dadaab. I’m not strictly involved, but part of my job is overseeing operational human resources. Now, I’m scheduled to be visiting Nairobi next month, but what I could do is work in a couple of days at Dadaab too. On the basis of visiting our water guys. Only two days at the most, mind. This lot work me like a Trojan – you’re lucky you caught me at all.’
‘You mean you’d go out there yourself?’
‘Quickest way I can see. I know the girl, know the feckers who arranged the pick-up. And I daresay I’ll still know the safest hand to slip a bribe in.’
‘Right, of course. Bribes. How much are we talking?’
‘Depends how high I need to go. US dollars usually hit the mark. Ach, don’t worry – they have a bureau de change there. Right next to the camel-slaughter-and-sacrifice house, so it is.’
‘I’ll give you whatever you need. You have no idea how grateful I am, Rose.’
‘I’m promising absolutely nothing, mind. There’ll only be the one of me, and I’ll have to do some proper work too, else they’ll not pay my board and lodgings!’
She lets out a trill of crystally laughter, and if I merely thought she was wonderful before, now I’ve fallen in love with her.
‘Can I come?’ Three syllables release themselves from my unsuspecting mouth. What?
‘Seriously?’
‘Yeah, I’m serious.’ Suddenly, I am. ‘What would I need to do? Do I need a visa, jags, what?’
‘Holy moly . . . Um . . . I’m not . . . Look, Deborah. I don’t know you from Adam. This is not a holiday we’re talking about. It’ll be roasting hot, it’ll stink the enamel off your teeth, break your heart – and it’s as dangerous as buggery.’
‘Aye, but will there be karaoke?’
There’s a beat before she laughs again. ‘Tell me. Do you do duets?’
We exchange email addresses, Rose says she will send a checklist. I’ll have to pay my own way – and a sizeable donation to charity would be nice – but she’ll try to arrange for me to get a press pass to accompany her. I’ll say you’re a freelance, doing a piece on the water project or something. Might give you that wee bit more leverage when we get there.
I put the phone down, shocked. Sit for a full ten minutes until my pulse quietens and the saliva quits gushing in knots.
God oh God oh God. I am going to Dadaab! I want to run outside and scream it. How wonderful, how brave! How utterly bloody mad. But what if what if what if.
What if I go back to Africa, and find a life to save.
It’s grown dark since I first sat down here. Hard edges of my street smudged by lamplight. We have special wrought-iron lanterns, installed by the conservation society. Very grand and curly-black, very solid. But they’re an illusion. There’s no Leary coming with his taper to flame the gas. We’re all electric here, all mod cons. I remember the vast bareness of Africa, the circle of Callum’s arms around me, the unseen presences that whine and howl. What will it feel like, to sit on the edge of the bush again? Is it even bush in Kenya? I have no idea, and it’s too late to ask. What if I don’t find out what happened to Azira? What if I do? What if Abdi is horrified?
I am shivering. Cup of tea, I think. Although whisky might be warmer. I reach to switch off the computer, and my sleeve brushes some paper off the desk. The other letter. I retrieve it from the carpet. Open it. It’s actually a postcard inside an envelope. There’s no return address, and the message is brief. In simple rounded hand it says:
Dear Madam
I write to thank you for being a friend to my daughter when she is living in Glasgow. I am told you found for her a good place to stay. I think Rula did not have so many friend. It is good that you were for her there. I am most kindly thanks to you and write to advise you that she is home now safe. We have buried her beside her mother. It is very beautiful there. You can see river. For you it makes I can imagine her with friends. This means very much.
With my grateful thanks
P. Kadyrov, Esq.
I lay my head on folded arms. Keep staring out the window.
20.
‘Any chance of a refill, big man?’ Dexy waves his empty glass. ‘Just gies the can but.’ His short legs drape over the arm of my couch. Politely, he took his boots off when we came indoors, so it’s only his threadbare socks which swing against the newness. Rebecca watches, open-mouthed. She knows the penalty for jumping on the couch.
‘Oh, here, here. Turn that up, man. You heard this song? It’s fuc – it’s brilliant, so it is. You like music, hen? Gonny do a wee dance for us?’
There’s a knock, sorry no. A chap at my front door. I mea
n my front door is being chapped, not that there is a man. I put my glass down, go to let Debs in. Rebecca is staying at hers tonight, because I have an early start at college. Our English class meets at nine, and we’ve been getting in a guddle – Rebecca and I, not the class. Little heap of beer cans . . . kick them out of sight. Yes. Early rises no longer suit Rebecca; she is not sleeping so well; has once more been wetting the bed. Mornings see her fractious, huffy almost, like I am to blame. But I never shout at her. Except when she wrote ‘couch’ on the back of our couch. Debs says this is more reason she should go to school, and I am thinking she is right. About the Lara woman, I’m not so sure. It seems this wilful unease has grown since their meeting. Debs wants to take her again, but I have said no.
Have you spoken to Rebecca? Asked her how she feels about seeing Lara?
No. I said I do not want to know.
‘Hiya!’
Deborah has cut her hair. It shimmers in neat flicks, elongates her neck. Her neck. I am aware I smell of alcohol.
‘Here, there’s that money I owe you for those comics.’
I demur, she insists, crumpling paper money into my pocket it is my jeans pocket, does she feel it as her knuckles graze me? I have imagined it but not her perfume, which angers me. Her perfume disturbs the atmosphere.
‘No, please –’
‘No. I said I’d pay. Hello, mucky pup! Whatya –’ Debs halts midway into the lounge room, pressing her purse into her breast. ‘What’s he doing here?’
‘Oh-ho,’ smiles Dexy. A thin smile. ‘It’s yirsel, doll. Lookin good. Not. You put on weight?’
‘Abdi?’
Her eyes are flint. It is my medicine, these pills dull thought and reflex, but they seem to heighten my sense of smell. That is all. It is the beer and it is my medicine. I am going to stop them. Soon. Now. I want to drum my fingers. I swallow. ‘Deborah. You remember Dexy? Well, we have some very good news.’
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