Divinity Road (20 page)

A difficult fortnight. The temperature drops and I run out of money. At night we climb into bed together, the children and I, to keep warm. Damp has spread from the bedroom through to the bathroom and kitchen. The walls are pockmarked with spores, the air dank with mould. The solicitor has flu. The council officer has inspected and tells me she has written to Faisal requesting that he moves the meter to a more accessible location, but otherwise washes her hands of the matter.

And then, just as I grow desperate, there is unexpected progress.

First of all, an email from the Cowley landlord. Apologies for the delay in responding. A faulty server, an administrative oversight. By chance, the flat is still available but a number of people are interested. There is no time for a viewing. The first person to send the four hundred pounds deposit secures the tenancy.

Could it be my salvation? I do not have the money and run through the possible ways to raise it. Sell what belongings I have, my washing machine, the computer? See whether the council can arrange a loan? Talk to Jenny?

And then, before I have had a chance to consider my options, Faisal appears. He is unapologetic about the meter. He tells me he has spoken to the council, told them that his metering rate was fair, that I must be squandering electricity to be spending so much each week. But he is also conciliatory, and for the first time he offers me money to go. I think of the Cowley deposit and hesitate for only a second. Then tell him we will leave for four hundred. He agrees to pay me half on the spot, the rest on our departure in three days’ time.

I email the Cowley landlord back to confirm I want the tenancy. Life becomes a blur. I have forced myself to return to my classes at the Blackbird Leys campus, still have the usual to-ing and fro-ing between home and school, but have to find time to pack. Two days pass. I get a phone call from the Cowley landlord. He wants to come over the following day to sign contracts, sort out the inventory and collect the deposit. It is also the day of our departure. We agree to meet at my present address at half past ten.

The father of one of Abebe’s friends, a Kenyan boy, is a decorator by trade and owns a van. His name is Tom, he is a kind fellow and has offered to help us move. The following day I have arranged for him to help drive my belongings over to the new place. Faisal shows up early. He watches us load up, takes possession of the flat keys and hands over my final payoff. I ask Tom to take my belongings and the children to his house and tell him I will phone him with the new address once I have the keys.

I wait on the pavement for an hour until the landlord shows up. He is out of breath, clearly in between important appointments. We run through the paperwork and sign copies of the tenancy agreement. Finally I hand over the four hundred pounds. He counts out the money, writes a receipt and gives me the set of keys. He offers me his card and tells me to get in touch if there are any problems. I ask him if we cannot both go together to the flat to check that everything is satisfactory. He looks at his watch, sighs, tells me to go over to the property, that he will cut short his next meeting and meet me there within the hour.

The property is just ten minutes’ walk away. I decide to go alone, to call Tom when I arrive at the address. It is a ground floor flat, part of a small two-storey block. I check the address and try the key in the lock. I find it does not fit. I go through all the keys in the bunch. It is only when I check the address again and have made a second attempt with all the keys, that it dawns on me that something is wrong. I feel the first butterflies of panic. I fumble in my bag for the landlord’s card and ring the number. The line is dead.

He must have given me the wrong keys, I tell myself. A simple mistake. I sit on the front door step and wait. An hour and a half later, an elderly lady pulling a trolley arrives at the next-door flat and gets out her front door key. When I approach and ask her about the flat next door, she looks surprised. She tells me the same couple have lived there for fifteen years. He works for the post office, she for the Co-op. They are both at work at the moment.

Blind with mounting dread, I stumble back to the library and wait in turn for a computer. I log on, go to the local information webpage. The Cowley landlord’s details are gone.

I feel sick, make my way to the ladies, lock myself into a cubicle. I lift the seat just in time. My stomach erupts and I hurl my breakfast into the bowl. Wiping my mouth, I sit on the toilet and give in to the hot tears. Soon self-pity gives way to anger. I scold myself for my stupidity, then think of Yanit and Abebe and bully myself into a positive state of mind. I will be strong! I am strong!

I make my way to Tom’s house. I cannot bear to tell him the truth, so I explain that the flat is being decorated and ask him to store our stuff in his garage for a few days. He is polite but restless, keen to get off to work. Before he goes, he allows me a few minutes to pack a small holdall – toothbrushes, toiletries, Abebe’s asthma medication, a change of clothes for all.

I gather up the children and we walk back towards the library. Opposite, across the main road, is the police station. I go in and wait to be seen. A duty sergeant listens to my story and takes down my details. When I tell him about the deposit he raises his eyebrows. I can see he thinks I am an idiot. Who am I to disagree?

We walk over to the library. It is somewhere warm to rest and think. On the outside I suppose I look quite calm – the children certainly do not suspect a problem – but inside I am icy with fear. It is a Saturday, we have an emergency supply of a hundred pounds and are effectively homeless.

That day, yesterday, was the worst for me. We found a bed-and-breakfast on the Cowley Road last night and have enough money for tonight, too, but after that we are on the streets.

The children ask when we will be moving into the new place. I have kept to my decorating story and tell them to be patient for a few more days. For Abebe this ‘camping’ is still a novelty. I think Yanit suspects all is not well but she has not confronted me yet.

Am I failing again? I feel I am fumbling blindly, out of control, towards another disaster. I feel your gaze on me, you who are uniquely placed to judge my deficiencies. Please God, let me succeed, I have lost too much already. Any more, I fear, would kill me.

I must be strong. I will not let this setback harm the children. I will not let it affect our well-being. I am not bowed.

I have a plan. Yours in love, yours in strength.

He spends the early hours between dead-of-night and dawn face down with his cheek pressed to the sandy ground. His wrists have been bound together, his arms raised above his head in a diving position. Once, when Asrar’s screams become unbearable, he lifts his head to see what cruelty could be generating such pain. At once a foot presses down on his spine and a gun barrel prods the back of his neck. He closes his eyes and wills himself elsewhere.

When he is finally raised into a sitting position, he finds Rasheed and Munia on either side, also tied up, both dazed and terrified. He tries to catch their eye, to offer a weak smile of reassurance, but their expressions are distant, impenetrable.

There are eight or nine armed men milling around the village, two guarding Greg and the children, a couple tending the horses tied up near the kraal. He spots Husham outside one of the huts surrounded by several more militiamen. They seem to be questioning him, firing sharp questions to which he mutters muted responses. His head is bowed, his eyes averted. Two more men squat outside the hut nearest the kitchen. They are smoking, their rifles leaning against the mud Wall. There’s a shout from inside the hut that causes the interrogators to pause in their questioning. The others look up from their silent musing, their smoking, their idle chat. From the door of the hut, a bearded soldier emerges dragging Asrar behind him. Her hands are tied together like the others, but her clothes have been stripped off her. Greg takes in her nakedness, flushes with anger and shame and pity, immediately raises his gaze. Her face is expressionless, her eyes devoid of life.

***

Munia’s hands are numb, her wrists so tightly bound that the circulation has been cut off. She has spent the previous hours sitting next to her brother as her initial panic and fear has turned to a seething, icy fury. The white man had been lying motionless on his front and for a while she thought perhaps he had been killed, but he tried to raise himself once and eventually was hauled up into a sitting position. Now he sits quietly by her side as helpless as herself.

She hasn’t seen her mother since the raid, but knows that she is in the hut across from the fire. She has watched the armed men take it in turns to enter the hut, heard the screams of pain and misery.

She watches the men question her uncle. Every so often, when one of his answers displeases them, they bend down casually, swing a lazy fist in his face, slap his cheeks, grab a handful of hair and pull back his head sharply. Now his head is averted, his answers mumbled, but the last time he looked up, she saw that his face was almost unrecognisable, puffy eyes peeping through the swelling, his nose bloody and broken. The men are relaxed. They crack jokes, smoke, toy with their guns. She hates them with a passion she did not know she possessed.

There’s a shout from her mother’s hut and one of the soldiers pulls her out. Her hands are tied together and he has her by the arm, yanks her so hard she stumbles and falls onto the dusty ground by the fire. With horror, she sees that her mother is naked.

The man, bearded like a billy goat, dressed in army khaki with a pistol holster and hunting knife strapped to his waist belt, is laughing. He’s telling her mother that she is a black bitch, a worthless slave, less valuable than a goat, for a goat can provide tasty milk and delicious meat, less valuable than a dog, for a dog can stand as a guard and help when hunting. As he makes each point, he reaches down and slaps her face. Pow. Pow. Pow. Now, he is telling her, at last she has a use, a purpose, as a vessel for his fine, pure-bred seed. He reaches down and gives her a careless cuff. Pow. Now she will carry the child of a pure-bred, not a filthy insignificant slave. Pow.

There’s a scuffle to Munia’s right and she sees that her uncle has roused himself and is struggling to stand. His interrogators, momentarily absorbed in the entertainment, have not noticed his movement and by the time they realise what has happened, Husham is on his feet and has launched himself towards Goatman.

Despite his beating, he is moving fast, screaming curses, scrabbling across the dust. His arms are still bound together and Munia wonders what he will do when he reaches Goatman. Bite his opponent like a rabid dog? Kick him like an angry camel? Or launch himself through the air like an arrow?

But Goatman has stopped abusing Asrar and watches Husham’s approach with a half smile. He unholsters his pistol with a casual indifference, and shoots Husham in the head from a distance of two metres or so. There is a moment of stunned silence and then the soldiers break into laughter, cheers, excited chatter.

Munia has no time to absorb this act of obscene brutality. Now, she sees with alarm, it is Rasheed’s turn to lose his self control, to struggle to his feet, cursing and shouting that he will avenge his great uncle’s death. Rasheed is on the other side of Greg, out of her reach. She shoves Greg in the ribs, barks an urgent command to hold Rasheed back. Greg looks confused for a few seconds but to Munia’s immense relief he seems to understand, reaches out with his bound hands, catches hold of Rasheed’s sleeve, and pulls him back down to the ground. The young boy struggles but is no match for the adult’s grip.

The soldiers watch the struggle with interest, hoping that the boy will break free and provide more sport for their leader. But the spectacle is over. Goatman puts his firearm away and drags Asrar to her feet. She stands swaying by the fire, a pitiful figure as she tries unsuccessfully to hide her nakedness with her bound arms. Munia’s wrath is tight, suppressed, entirely concealed. She keeps her face perfectly vacant.

Now the Goatman is speaking. There, bitch. You see what happens to slaves who become rebellious. He gestures towards the prone figure of Asrar’s uncle lying face down in the dust at his feet. This dog tried to bite his master, so he paid with his life. Then his face softens. But these child slaves will not be foolish enough to try the same thing. He gestures to Munia and her brother. We’ll take them back home with us. They will learn to serve their superiors obediently. His smile is thin. The white man, too, may be valuable. He gives Greg a searching look, still unsure quite what to make of his presence here. As for you, bitch, you’ve served your purpose. We have no more use for you.

With that, Munia watches him unsheathe the hunting knife, move towards her teetering mother

No! she screams.

Goatman smiles again. Her reaches for Asrar’s wrists, slices through the cord. Asrar’s hands fall apart, still bunched into fists. She continues to try and cover her nakedness.

You think I’m going to kill your mother? he says to Munia. No, her only value is as a warning to other black slaves. She’s free to go now, to find her fellow dogs and warn them what will happen to them if they remain on this land. Tell them to run away, to head south to the jungles where they can live like monkeys. He laughs at his own wit.

For the first time that day, Asrar speaks. Her voice is hoarse, barely a whisper.