Close to the Wind (3 page)

Malik used his mouth to breathe. He couldn’t smell the damp if he didn’t use his nose …

Papa sat very still in the chair and watched the boy till he fell asleep.

He was tired himself. He had forgotten the effort it took to look after a child. He hadn’t had to do it since Maria was a girl and even then, if he was honest, it was his wife who had brought their daughter up.

He stretched and stifled a yawn. He needed some sleep – he couldn’t take another night keeping watch
while Malik slept and, anyway, they were almost safe. They hadn’t seen a soldier since they left the cellar that morning and it made sense that the warlords and gangsters were moving east, up into the back of the town and away from the coast.

Perhaps now that the ship was at the dock, the peacekeepers would arrive and secure the port. They might already be here. Papa thought they should be safe here in this house, but he still ought to be careful; there were no guarantees. It only took one rogue jeep, one rebel on the make, sniffing round to see what he might find. They would shoot you as soon as look at you. It didn’t matter that you had a child, not if they didn’t like the look of you.

He watched the sleeping boy. Malik’s arms and legs were relaxed, spread out across the mattress like a spider. There was a corner that was free, down by his feet. He might be able to lay his own head there. He thought about it and dismissed the idea. He should try to stay awake, and if he slept at all then he should sleep across the door. Yes, that might do. He could use the rucksack as a pillow. If he emptied the pockets it would be soft enough for his head. He stood up and stretched out his arms. He was so tired he could sleep anywhere. It wouldn’t make a difference.

He stepped softly round the mattress, holding the rucksack in one hand, taking care not to wake Malik. Then he sat down on the floor with his back to the door and took a coin from his pocket. He walked it over the back of his fingers, from one side of his hand to the other and back again. He had learned his tricks as a child, in a summer out of school when there was nothing to do but idle away the days, and once your fingers had the knack they never lost it.

But he should go easy on the boy. It was difficult to learn new tricks – it took practice. He should be pleased that Malik even wanted to try. Papa smiled at the thought of his grandson with his hand in his underpants, but then he just as quickly became sad because the truth of it was that he hardly knew the boy. These last few days had taught him that. So many of the things Malik said or did came as a complete surprise.

Papa knew he hadn’t given Maria the support she might have expected, bringing her son up on her own like that. He regretted it now that he was afraid for her. And if he had spent more time with Malik when he was growing up, then he might have known what to do when he had pulled the child from the wardrobe, the boy’s eyes wide with fear
and the first question on his lips, ‘Where’s Mama?’

Papa pulled at his beard. So many questions and not enough answers. He had tried to keep the boy calm. He had given him answers when he could think of them and some of them were true.

Mama had to leave with the soldiers because they had urgent business that only she could attend to.

Mama had asked Papa to come and collect Malik from the house.

She had hidden him in the wardrobe to keep him safe till Papa got there and she would meet them at the docks in time to board the ship.

Papa had made a game of packing. That had been a good idea. He had got Malik to go around the house and find things for him. The string. The tools. The gaffer tape. They might all come in useful and it helped to keep his mind busy – Malik was calmer when he had something to do.

Papa had shown him the coin trick to pass the time. It didn’t do any harm to make him believe something can disappear and reappear, as though by magic. And the boy certainly had a good imagination; Papa had noticed that. If he was given the space and time to think, who knows what questions he might ask?

Malik was determined too. Like the way he hadn’t wanted to give up on the dying dog. That dog had really got to him. And that was strange. Of all the things.

Papa put the coin back in his pocket. He moved the rucksack closer to his side so he could lean against it and go to sleep. Then he remembered that the back door was still unlocked and he sighed quietly, left the bag where it was, took hold of the torch and started down the stairs.

He ran the tap in the kitchen and scooped the running water up to his lips with the palm of his hand. The droplets fell onto the empty cans below and they sounded like rain on a tin roof. Papa turned off the tap, picked up the yellow bucket, emptied the cans into the corner of the kitchen and replaced the bucket under the tap. He caught a glimpse of the stars from the window and he turned off the torch and stood at the glass to admire them. There was the North Star, Polaris. Papa looked for the Plough.

When the gate to the yard opened, Papa quickly stepped back from the window.

He saw the figure of a man enter and then a second, the outline of their felt hats sharpened by
the moonlight that cast their shadows on the pale brickwork of the back wall.

Papa hurried back into the hall, felt for the bannister, climbed two stairs at a stride, and when he reached the top remembered the kitchen door to the garden was still unlocked. He hesitated in the darkness, one hand on the railing, as he heard the door creak open.

He woke Malik by holding a finger to his lips so he would know not to speak. He could see the fear in Malik’s eyes as he picked him up from the mattress, but the boy didn’t make a sound and Papa carried him over to the wardrobe, put him down in the corner and closed the door tight.

Malik drew his knees up under his chin. He hadn’t had time to think, didn’t know what was happening and he could see nothing in the pitch-dark of the wardrobe.

He listened for any sound that might give him a clue. His head became one giant ear that was primed for the faintest noise. He leaned close to the wardrobe door but heard nothing except his own heartbeat, so
heavy in his chest that it felt like a hammer on an anvil. He waited, closed his eyes and concentrated.

What had happened? What could be so dangerous that Papa had hidden him in a wardrobe? Someone must have come to the house. Perhaps it was soldiers, like the last time. Malik concentrated but still heard nothing. It might not be soldiers. Soldiers would make more noise, wouldn’t they?

He put a hand on the edge of the wardrobe door and pushed it open so that a crack appeared in the dark. He put his eye up close. The candlelight flickered across the floorboards and he saw Papa standing behind the open bedroom door, his knife held up close to his face in trembling fingers.

Papa was waiting to surprise them, to pounce out and attack whoever came into the bedroom. Papa would protect him.

Malik heard footsteps in the room below. One voice spoke and he heard a second voice answer. So there were at least two of them. He saw Papa fidget and the sight of him stepping from one foot to the other made Malik think of the toilet. His bladder swelled immediately to the size of a watermelon and he wished he’d gone when Papa had told him to. He put his hand to the front of his trousers and held
himself and his heart beat on the top of his ribcage as though it was hoping to be let out.

He saw the edge of Papa’s blade glint in the candlelight and Malik remembered how sharp it was. He’d be safe with Papa. But Papa glanced across to the wardrobe and then lowered the knife to his side. What was he doing? Papa stepped delicately from behind the door and tiptoed over to the candle. Had he changed his mind?

In the room below, the men were walking up and down, talking to one another. Why weren’t they whispering? If it were Papa and Malik, they would be quieter. Much quieter.

Malik’s legs were trembling. He really did need the toilet now. He was tingly and short of breath. He was ready to burst.

He watched Papa kneel and pinch the wick between his fingers. The room went dark enough that Malik could see nothing. A moment later there was a footstep, so close that Malik could have reached out and touched the foot that made it, and then the door of the wardrobe opened fully and Papa stepped quietly in beside him, pulled the door closed and slid down the wooden panel till he was crouching in the bottom of the wardrobe, his kneecaps jutting
up against Malik’s own, the stiff leather of his shoe pressing uncomfortably against the top of Malik’s thigh.

Papa was hiding. The same as Malik. He was hiding and hoping the men would go away.

Malik clenched every muscle in his body but it was no good, he really did need the toilet and he no longer had a choice, he needed to go right now. He began to cry and his nose began to run and the tears were warm on his cheek and his trousers were warm, right there where his hand was, and everything was running water. He could already smell the urine.

He felt a moment of joy at the relief, but it was only a moment and then the shame gripped his heart so tightly it was painful and it didn’t seem to matter about the men any more.

Papa touched Malik’s arm, found his hand and held it tightly.

There were footsteps coming up the stairs and voices that became clearer as they came nearer. Someone entered the room and stopped just inside the bedroom door.

‘There’s no one here, Angelo.’ It was a man’s voice. ‘We were wrong.’

Another set of footsteps on the stairs.

‘See that? We even have a mattress to fight over.’

The men spoke casually. They weren’t frightened to raise their voices. But they didn’t sound like soldiers.

‘First piece of luck we’ve had all day.’

Malik held his breath, clenched his lips together to stop the sobbing.

‘What’s with the rucksack?’

‘Where?’

There was a pause.

‘Someone must have been here.’ There were a couple of quick steps on the floorboards. ‘Yes. Look. There’s a candle.’

Papa put his face close. Malik felt his breath on the tip of his nose when Papa wet his lips and muttered, ‘I know him.’ At least that’s what Malik thought he said, though he couldn’t be sure whether he had heard it or imagined it.

Someone said, ‘You don’t think …’

There was silence.

A floorboard creaked right beside them, then quite suddenly the door of the wardrobe flew open and a torch lit up Papa’s face. His eyes blinked in the brightness, but instead of leaping out with his knife
Papa stayed where he was, crouched and flinching in the bottom of the wardrobe.

And then someone said a name. ‘Salvatore? Is that you? Salvatore Bartholomew?’

Papa took a deep breath and opened his eyes. ‘Hector Valentine!’ Papa struggled to stand up. He stepped from the wardrobe and the torchlight followed his face. Malik crouched in the dark corner of the wardrobe, watching the men, unsure whether they had seen him or not.

Papa brushed his clothes with the back of his hand in an attempt to salvage some dignity. He spoke as though they were all meeting up in a bar or a café. ‘What are you doing scaring an elderly man in the middle of the night?’

Hector Valentine hugged him. ‘I don’t believe it!’ He laughed loudly and let Papa go. ‘Salvatore! You’re alive. No, I really can’t believe it. Alive and well. And sitting in a wardrobe at the docks. Ha! Who would believe it? Are you here for the ship?’

Papa let go of the man. ‘Yes. Of course. And you too?’

Hector took off his hat. He was a lot younger than Papa. He had a side parting that threw a large wedge of brown hair onto the forehead above his
tortoiseshell spectacles – it bobbed as he shook his head. ‘Yes. Yes, of course. We’re here for the ship as well.’ He gestured to the man who held the torch on them both. ‘Salvatore, this is Angelo Vex. Perhaps you already know one another?’

Malik could only see the shadow of a man, a
silhouette
of his hat and jawbone.

Papa gave a little bow. ‘I know the name.’

Hector turned from one man to the other. ‘Vex, this is a friend of mine, Salvatore Bartholomew. An old client of many years. He runs a factory over on the east side, up near the Terminus.’