One Last Dram Before Midnight

by Denzil Meyrick

  She could see them alighting from the bus now. Though she was cold and tired, she was pleased to be part of this, proud to be the social worker dedicated to helping these lost souls settle in the town.

  ‘Look, Badr,’ said Faiz. ‘A big new moon. It is a good sign – your name!’

  ‘Yes, my love, you’re right,’ she replied and tried to smile. ‘If this is to be our home, we must make the best of all the good omens.’

  The little girl she was carrying, no longer lulled into sleep by the motion of the bus, began to stir. ‘Ayisha, my precious one, we are nearly home. Soon you will sleep in a bed of your own.’ She kissed her daughter’s forehead as the child stared in silence, her deep brown eyes taking in these strange new surroundings.

  ‘Hasan, quickly now!’ Faiz shouted to his five-year-old son, who had found a playmate on the journey – a local child of a similar age. Though they didn’t share a common language, the two boys had amused themselves on the back seat of the half-empty bus, both sets of parents relieved that their respective offspring had something to take their minds off the long journey from Glasgow to Kinloch.

  Hasan – accustomed to obeying his father immediately – turned and ran towards him, pausing for a heartbeat to wave shyly to his new friend.

  ‘Good boy, Hasan. It is time for us to be taken to our new home. Come with me,’ he said, taking the tousle-haired child by the hand.

  Miss Steele wiped away the condensation on the car window with a glove and immediately spotted her new clients. She pushed open the car door and emerged, shivering, into the cold.

  The woman was tiny, of slender frame, and wearing what looked like a man’s sheepskin coat of a fashion long forgotten. Her hair was covered by a bright blue scarf which matched the colour of her leggings, tucked into black Ug boots whose seam had temporarily been repaired with silver duct tape. The woman was holding a child – a little girl, Steele thought, as she watched the foursome move to the rear of the bus to collect what luggage they had. The husband, who walked behind his wife, was tall, painfully thin and dressed in sand-coloured jeans above garish fluorescent trainers; he was huddled into a ski-jacket from which poked wisps of foam lining through holes in the sleeves. The little boy bringing up the rear looked adorable; all big eyes and purpose, striding out behind his father, he was also in tatty jeans, and a thick blue duffel coat, several sizes too big for him. It was clear that the Karim family had been the recipients of donated clothes that had seen better days and Miss Steele felt a twinge of pity.

  ‘Mr Karim!’ she shouted, chasing after her clients as quickly as her short legs would allow. ‘Mr Karim!’

  The man turned round, his mouth agape, a sudden look of fear etched across his features. For him, the sound of his name being called brought back terrifying memories. ‘I am Faiz Karim,’ he called back in halting English.

  Miss Steele was panting by the time she caught up with the family. She took a few moments to catch her breath in the frosty air. ‘I’m Jane Steele,’ she said, holding out her hand, ‘and I’m here to take you to your new home.’ She saw the confused look on Faiz’s face, so decided to say the whole thing all over again, this time much more slowly.

  ‘I’m sorry, my husband’s English is not good,’ said the tiny figure of Badr Karim. ‘I am so pleased you can help us. My husband has some money left and can pay you for your kindness.’

  ‘Oh, goodness, no! Not necessary,’ replied Miss Steele, unwittingly deploying her slow Foreigners’ Voice, despite Mrs Karim’s obvious fluency. ‘Please, get your bags and come with me. I’ – she pressed a palm to her chest – ‘will drive’ – the mimicking of steering a wheel – ‘you to your new house.’

  Badr Karim was not sure what made her smile most: the thought of being – at last – safe, or this rotund lady in the huge padded jacket’s attempt at conveying the act of driving. Although she was shivering, for the first time in a very long time it was definitely through cold, not fear.

  Soon the family were being led towards Miss Steele’s car with the council logo on the side.

  ‘Why do they stare, Father?’ whispered Hasan, drawing his father’s attention to the small knot of people standing nearby.

  ‘We are new. They have come to greet us.’ To indicate this to his son, and in an attempt to be polite, Faiz Karim waved hesitantly to the bemused onlookers.

  ‘I’m telling you, Betty, no good’ll come of it.’

  ‘Och, they look like nice folk to me. Look, the man’s waving at us, May.’

  ‘He might be waving now, but he’ll not be waving when he’s marching down Main Street with a machine gun, blowing us all to Kingdom Come.’

  Ignoring her companion, Betty returned Faiz’s wave. ‘And would you look at that wee boy, the poor wee creature. Not a picking on him – no, nor any of them.’

  ‘Sure, they do that on purpose to get sympathy. I saw it on that American news channel the other night. It’s all an act to pull at your heartstrings.’ May looked on, her mouth curling in disgust.

  ‘What American news channel? I just watch the BBC, me. Reporting Scotland, Jackie Bird. I’ve never heard her say anything of the kind.’

  ‘Naw, of course you wouldn’t. She’s just a puppet for the government. That Boris Johnson likely writes down everything she’s to say. It’s the proper news from America that counts – they tell the punters how it really is, none of this propergander business.’

  Betty eyed her friend dubiously. No matter what May said, she thought this family looked lost and scared; and her heart went out to them.

  ‘And another thing,’ said May, watching the family load their pitifully few items into the council vehicle, ‘they’ve hardly a stitch of clothing, nor anything else. You know fine who’ll be paying for that – aye, me and you, that’s who.’

  ‘How exactly will you be paying, May O’Halloran? You’ve not worked since two thousand and five,’ objected Betty indignantly.

  ‘Is it my fault I did my arm in that time when I fell on the ice? It’s all down to the doctors that don’t know how to mend it. You know me, Betty. When it comes to work, I’m always first in the queue.’

  ‘Aye, to get home! You were absolutely mortal drunk when you slipped on that ice. I was there, remember.’ With that, Betty turned her attention firmly back to the visitors.

  ‘They don’t look very welcoming,’ said Badr to her husband, eyeing the locals with some dismay.

  ‘Nonsense, that lady just waved to me. Like everything, it will take time. But, you’ll see, we’ll soon make friends and feel at home here. You have such good English, Badr, it’s me who should feel like a stranger.’

  His wife raised an eyebrow and thanked Miss Steele as she helped strap Ayisha into the back seat.

  Without warning, a large explosion rent the air, followed by a flurry of smaller bangs.

  ‘Quick! Down, get down!’ shouted Mr Karim, throwing himself and his son to the ground, the little boy whimpering.

  Only when the noise stopped did he dare look up from the cold concrete upon which he now lay, sheltering his trembling son with his arm.

  He was amazed. Who were these people? They stood still, despite the explosions. They hadn’t budged an inch. Maybe it was true what he’d read about these Scottish folk: fearless warriors, a brave nation. As he picked up his son, Miss Steele rushed towards them, talking quickly and gesticulating. He didn’t understand a word. All he wanted to do now was get into this car and to his new home before the bombs went off again. They had abandoned everything they owned, walked hundreds of miles, and endured the terror of the sea in a hopelessly overcrowded rubber boat, just to end up here. His heart sank in his chest.

  ‘One thing’s for sure, Betty. They’re not too happy with Guy Fawkes night, and that’s a fact.’ May O’Halloran turned on her heel and headed off into the night to begin the rumours about the strangers from Libya who had come to stay in Kinloch.

  II

  DCI Jim Daley and DS Brian Scott walked along Hillcross Roa
d, the main route through what had been a council estate, or ‘scheme’ as they were called locally. Most of the houses were now privately owned; the bright colours, double-glazing and extensions testament to the fact.

  ‘This isnae like the scheme I grew up in,’ said Scott. ‘I’m reckoning none o’ these folk have tae burn their doors because they cannae afford coal tae keep the hoose warm.’

  ‘Thankfully, time’s moved on, Bri . . . well, for most folk. I’m sure there’s somebody burning their dining-room table to keep out the cold, even now.’

  ‘They’ll no’ have tae eat their ain pet rabbit.’ Scott grimaced.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘My faither . . . we were a’ sitting at the kitchen table. It was a Sunday. I was getting knocked intae this chicken. Right tasty it was – the best chicken I’d ever eaten. I says tae the auld yin, “Here, where did you get that chicken fae, Mum? It’s lovely.” She just looks at me, a’ guilty like. “Och, it’s no’ chicken, son,” says my faither. “It’s rabbit. I’m afraid tae say Thumper had tae make the ultimate sacrifice tae put food in oor bellies. I’ll get up the hill an’ catch you a new pet soon.” Wae that bombshell, he wiped his mooth and off tae the pub.’

  ‘He was all heart, your father.’

  ‘Aye. If he’d stayed oot the pub a wee bit mair we widnae have had tae eat the family pet. But there you are. I’m sure I’ve telt you that story before.’

  ‘Yes, come to think of it, you have.’ Daley stopped to take a piece of paper from his pocket. ‘Thought so, this is the house here.’

  In front of them was a semi-detached house. No expensive double-glazing or extension here; the house looked grey and unloved, with peeling, faded paint on the window frames and the front door, and a clump of vegetation sprouting from a gutter. Much the same as the house next door, Daley thought. That one was in the same state of dilapidation, apart from a pimped-up old hatchback sitting on a concrete-slabbed driveway that had once been the front garden and was easily accessed by a gaping hole in the hedge. The car was bright yellow, boasting a wide selection of go-fast stripes, stickers and other adornments. Loud music thumped from an open upstairs window.

  ‘That’s mair like it,’ said Scott. ‘This is the kind o’ place I remember. Pure shite.’

  Daley opened the rusted iron gate, and he and Scott made their way to number 76, their destination.

  Daley knocked smartly on the door, causing small flecks of paint to fall onto the step in front of him. After a moment, the door opened a crack to reveal the gaunt face of a dark-haired man.

  ‘I’m DCI Jim Daley from the local police.’ He smiled as he flashed his warrant card. ‘This is DS Brian Scott. Can we come in?’

  Rather to his surprise, the man let out a yelp, and, instead of admitting them to the house, slammed the door shut.

  ‘And hello to you, tae,’ remarked Scott.

  Daley was just about to try again when the door opened, wider this time. A petite woman in a headscarf who looked every bit as thin as the man they’d just encountered looked out at them.

  ‘Can I help you? My husband says you are the police,’ she said in perfect English.

  ‘Yes. I’m DCI Jim Daley. I thought we’d pop by and say hello. I know how difficult things have been for you.’

  ‘Oh, yes, yes, of course.’ Mrs Karim stood back from the door to admit the policemen into the hallway.

  She showed the two men to the spartan but tidy lounge and a grey sofa that had seen better days. It was bookended by two armchairs that looked equally tired. The blue carpet was threadbare. Under the window sat a battered, fold-down wooden table and a widescreen television, incongruous in the room amid a random collection of more personal items.

  The man of the house eyed the policemen with an anxious expression while addressing his wife in rapid, strained tones. A little girl clung to his legs and peered at the visitors with wary eyes. When Daley leaned forward to speak to her, she quickly sought refuge behind her father.

  ‘I’m sorry my husband didn’t let you in immediately. Where we come from a visit from the police is something to be feared. Please, can I get you something to drink? We only have tea, but it is good.’

  ‘Oh, don’t go to any trouble. We’re just here to introduce ourselves. I can understand how hard it must be to have travelled so far, and under such awful conditions. If there’s anything we can do to help, just let us know.’ Daley fished a business card from his pocket and handed it to Badr. ‘You’re safe here in Kinloch, I assure you.’

  ‘Oh, thank you so much.’ She relaxed and smiled. ‘This is my husband, Faiz. Sorry that he doesn’t have much English, but he is eager to learn.’

  ‘That’s not a problem, Mrs Karim. My Arabic isn’t too great, either. Come to that, Brian’s English isn’t as good as yours. So, where did you learn?’

  ‘Oh, my father was a teacher. He told us children that the world was changing and to get on in the future we would need to speak English well. I’m glad now that he did . . .’ She looked momentarily tearful but composed herself.

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  ‘Not at all. My father was assassinated before we left Libya. There is no rule of law any more, only evil men seeking what is good for them. I almost wish Colonel Gaddafi was back.’ She paused as she saw the look of horror on her husband’s face at the mention of the deposed leader. ‘Sorry. He was a tyrant, of course, but at least we had order. We knew our boundaries. Now in our country we have no such boundaries – no one has. Instead of one tyrant there are hundreds, thousands.’

  ‘Here, lassie, you don’t need tae make excuses. We’ve had oor own tyrant here. I’m no’ sure John Donald was any better than Gaddafi . . .’ Scott stopped in his tracks, pulled up by a black look from his superior at the mention of their notorious old boss.

  ‘What’s your name?’ asked Daley.

  ‘I am Badr. I am pleased to meet you both.’ She held out her hand. ‘Everyone has been so kind. Miss Steele – from your council – she gave us this television and would take no money. This house is more than we could have hoped for. We have food, we have all we need, and we are safe.’

  ‘I heard your husband got a fright when you arrived the other night.’

  ‘Yes, we all did. We didn’t know about your tradition of fireworks. When you hear explosions in our country it means only one thing.’

  The little girl had appeared again from behind her father and was now holding his hand, sucking her thumb, staring at the detectives.

  ‘And what’s your name?’ asked Daley.

  ‘This is Ayisha. We hope that for her at least the memories of our past will fade and all she will know of life will be here.’

  There was the sudden bang of a door and the sound of a wailing child. A little boy burst into the room and ran straight into his mother’s arms, ignoring the visitors.

  Daley watched as his mother whispered into his ear, her voice soft and soothing.

  ‘What’s up wae the wee one?’ asked Scott.

  ‘He was out playing in the back garden. The old man next door shouts a lot – so does the other man. Hasan will get used to it. Already in his short life he has faced much, much worse.’

  The policemen stayed for a few more minutes chatting to the Karims before leaving them to their new home. They seemed like good parents, decent people, damaged by events beyond their control. Ultimately, after so much fear and uncertainty, they were just happy to have somewhere to call home.

  ‘Hey, where are you going, Bri?’ shouted Daley as he watched his colleague head up the path of the house next door.

  ‘I’m going tae find oot why this guy thinks he’s got the right tae make wee boys cry.’ Scott knocked on the door loudly.

  An old man finally appeared. He was thick-set, with a head of lank, greasy grey hair sticking up in tufts above a pockmarked face. Daley reckoned the man was in his late sixties, but it was hard to tell. One thing was for certain: he had the bulbous purple-veined nose of a hea
vy drinker. Rather than invite the officers in, he stood framed in the doorway, a disgruntled look on his face.

  ‘I was just wondering when the polis was going tae make it next door. They’ve been here for days now. I want them oot!’

  ‘Whit?’ exclaimed Scott, staring at the man in disbelief. ‘I’m here tae speak tae you. What’s your name?’

  ‘I’m Tam Arbuthnot, what’s your name?’

  ‘DS Brian Scott, and this is DCI Daley. Tell me, what did you say to the boy next door tae send him running tae his mother in floods o’ tears?’

  ‘Oh, I see. Instead o’ checking them – these people – you’re here tae harass me. Well, I’ll tell you, I’m fae Kinloch an’ proud o’ it. Folk like that don’t belong here and that’s a fact. How would I now what made the wee boy cry? It was nothing I said tae him. He canna understand a word o’ English anyway. Likely never conversed with a civilised man afore.’

  Scott raised his eyebrows at the thought of what Arbuthnot might mean by ‘civilised’. He noticed movement in the hallway.

  ‘What’s up, Papa?’ A tall, heavily-built young man had appeared behind Tam Arbuthnot. He was smoking a roll-up and had an unpleasant stain on his faded red T-shirt.

  ‘The polis! Here tae warn me tae be nice tae they immigrants next door, Gordon.’ He pointed a gnarled forefinger at Scott. ‘Well, yous can go and dae something mair useful. Maybe look intae who they really are. I canna sleep in my bed thinking o’ what might happen. We’ll be in the front line if that bastard decides tae let loose.’

  ‘You listen tae me,’ said Scott. ‘Another racist outburst like that and you’ll be coming doon the station, got it? Just you leave the Karims be. I’ll be keeping an eye on you. I hope I make myself clear.’ He looked over the old man’s shoulder. ‘And I take it you’re the one responsible for that racket up the stairs, young man?’

  ‘Aye, it’s called music – what o’ it?’ protested Gordon Arbuthnot with a sneer.

  ‘I’m calling it breach o’ the peace. Get you up an’ turn it off before you take a wee trip doon the road.’