Divinity Road (29 page)

It takes me half an hour to display my illustrations.

They cover a large enough area to take the edge off the bloody walls and when I crawl into bed having swallowed my tablets, I fall asleep quickly.

***

When I wake up this morning and survey my decorating handiwork, I feel a great sense of satisfaction, as if something significant has happened, as if we have turned a corner. Today when I pray, I sense for the first time in a long while that I have a direct line to God. I feel certain that this is connected to the Somali’s absence, as if previously he had found a way to block my prayers.

Outside it is icy though clear, the weak sun making no inroads into the night frost. The garden seems in sterile limbo between death and a new dawn and I take my tea out and stand on the lawn in the arctic sunshine. I wander down to the bottom of the garden and admire an ivy-clad tree that towers over the fencing. I spot a bird’s nest in one of the lower branches and climb up to retrieve it. It is empty of course, but a beautiful piece of engineering and I carry it into the house with me, lay it down gently on the table in my room.

My mind is buzzing, full of newly-hatched plans. I make a second pot of tea, fetch a scrap of paper and a pencil, then sit down to begin a ‘to-do’ list.

Before I can start, I become aware of the state of the kitchen. I find bottles of cleaner and bleach under the sink, a bucket and mop outside the back door, and set to work on the table, the floor and bin. As I scour the sink, I feel the therapeutic benefits of cleaning, enjoying the sweat on my brow, the strain on my arm muscles. Still not satisfied, I fetch a black bin bag and begin removing all the packets and tins from the shelves. I toss everything out, half-empty jars of coffee, old cereal boxes, packets of instant noodles, cans of peas, herbs, stock cubes, pasta and rice. I am ruthless, sparing nothing except my tea tin, sugar, the cutlery, pots and pans.

I remember the fridge and attack it with bleach after emptying it of its contents. A second bag is required for the margarine and eggs, the mouldy cheese and curdled milk carton. I hardly notice the foul stench and work in a frenzy of concentration until, finally pleased with my efforts, I stand back and admire the naked simplicity of my kitchen. Only now can I relax enough to make a start on my project list. My first action, I think, should be to buy a gift for Doreen to express my gratitude. My second to contact my Eritrean friends to set up a get together to celebrate my release from hospital and my new-found dynamism.

I have a marvellous idea. I will purchase some Ethiopian jazz CDs, those produced by your favourite artists, and a CD player. I have a strong sense of certainty that if I commence playing your music, it will act as a kind of aural beacon, signalling to you my whereabouts, helping to bring closer the moment of our sweet reunion.

I make another decision. I can no longer abide the appearance of my room, even with my display of sketches, so I add a tin of paint to my shopping list. I check my room for cash and am relieved to find my savings intact, hidden inside a pair of socks in my wardrobe, then make haste for the city centre. I burn with impatience on the bus ride into town, buy a portable CD player, visit three different music shops in order to locate an initial collection of four disks, collections by Tesegue-Maryam Guebrou, Getatchew Adamassu, Alemayehu Eshete and Lemma Demissew. I sense your approval. I feel sure that this will hasten your return.

I cannot think what to buy for Doreen. After nearly an hour of searching, I settle on a ladies quartz three-piece set consisting of a watch, matching bracelet and heart-shaped pendant.

I get off the bus at the retail park a mile from my home, stand in front of the paint aisle in a DIY superstore, unable to choose a suitable colour to paint my walls. Eventually I pick an unassuming, soothing eggshell blue. I add a brush to my basket, then struggle home with my purchases eager to start broadcasting your music and to set to work on my bedroom walls.

As soon as I get through the front door, I sense that someone has been inside the house. The kitchen looks as scrubbed as I had left it, but something is altered, the angle of a chair perhaps, or the position of a dishcloth. I approach the Somali’s locked bedroom door and put my ear to the smooth surface. Silence. I realise with a jolt that I have left my own bedroom unlocked. I open the door with dread and survey the mess with my senses attuned for the slightest signs of disturbance. How could I have been so careless?

It is impossible to assess the damage, he is far too clever for that, and I realise that I will have to take drastic measures. I fetch a black bag from the kitchen and begin the same process of ruthless cleaning that I carried out earlier. Out go most of my possessions, gifts and cast-offs from my Eritrean friends: the handful of DVDs, the portable television I seldom watch, a Hand of Fatima key ring and several novels. They all feel tainted.

I collect up armfuls of soiled clothes. The washing machine in the kitchen has long-since stopped working and I cannot summon the patience to seek out a launderette, so I fill a bath with hot water, add detergent from the kitchen, then heave the clothes into the soapsuds to soak. Back in my bedroom, I cannot relax. I fetch the hoover from under the stairs and run it around the filthy carpet. I strip my bed, add the bedclothes to the bath, wipe my table, scrub the skirting. I yank off my sketches from the wall, but before I start the re-decorating, I need to finish the room’s purification.

It is almost bare now, nothing remaining except the
Qur’an
, my architectural works, the Bible and the bird’s nest. I cannot bring myself to throw these out but I have left my mobile on the table, and I know he will have tampered with it, so reluctantly I add it to my bin bag.

Before it goes, I check it one last time for messages. I see that there is a voicemail from my solicitor. The message is short and to the point – my appeal has been heard in court and rejected. There is the possibility of a further appeal, but she would need to see me before that to discuss how we could build on our current case. I have nothing more to add, I think. Nothing more to give. I put the phone into the bin.

At the bottom of the wardrobe, I have kept my case file, all the documents I have collected from my solicitor and the Home Office, and this too I decide to dispense with. Then I remember the bathroom. My bathbag lies where I have left it on the shelf above the basin. It looks untouched but how can I take any chances? Out goes my toothbrush and toothpaste, the soap and paracetamol. With the greatest unwillingness I add my medication to the rubbish. It is too great a risk to take.

Now, for the first time since my return, I feel some relief. My bedroom is now bare, and before I open the paint pot and dip my brush in, I set up my new music player, and slip on the Alemayehu Eshete CD. The music is fluid, tantalising. I hum along as I slap paint onto the walls. Everything is getting better, I think, and I am convinced that these are more than vacuous words. It feels like a golden beginning.

It is now evening and I stand in my room surveying my work. The blue reminds me of the sky at home and, by extension, of you, my flower. Together with the music, which I have not stopped broadcasting since midday, I feel I have everything in place to make contact with you. I am waiting, my sweet...

***

Two days have passed. Yesterday I had just finished my early morning prayers and was filling the kettle when two of my Eritrean acquaintances called in. They have been trying to phone me. I do not tell them what I have done with my mobile. I lead them into my kitchen. They comment on its tidiness with, I suspect, a note of envy.

I fix the tea and we make idle conversation. I am careful to listen vigilantly to everything they say, to comment on their stories and even add one or two of my own.

I borrow a mobile and text Doreen. I tell her I am going on a short holiday with some of my friends, a two-week tour visiting compatriots in Birmingham, London and Cardiff. I tell her I will contact her when I return. When my visitors leave I agree to meet up today at a café in town run by a sympathetic Sudanese family.

It is odd, but since I stopped taking the pills, I have felt more vibrant, more full of energy than ever in my life. I am aglow, riding a wave of positive vitality. I feel I can do anything if I put my mind to it. Oh, my darling, I know you are so very close.

It is a beautiful afternoon, chilly but bright. I have been playing your music on a loop since I first bought it. I have left the Tesegue-Maryam Guebrou CD playing in my bedroom and hum a refrain as I wait at the bus stop. The guitar plays like fingers down my spine, the drum caresses the nape of my neck, the saxophone whispers lewd suggestions in my ear. A middle-aged woman in fur-lined boots and a red anorak sits next to me nursing her shopping trolley and I have to fight off an urge to break into song, to tell her about its significance, about you.

At the café we are served tea and chickpea cakes. I eat a little out of politeness. There are ten of us, fellow Eritreans I have not seen for months. They have all heard of my hospitalisation. They are solicitous in their enquiries, and I find their consideration touching.

I question them about their latest news, making a point of asking after their families and then, shortly before I make my apologies and leave, I tell them that my friend Derek, has invited me to his home in Scotland for a few weeks, that I will get in touch on my return. I tell them about my misplaced mobile and promise to text them my new number once I buy a replacement. Walking down the street towards the bus stop, I feel an enormous sense of release.

Back at my house, I am busy changing the CD when I notice that the blue of my walls is changing, that it is darkening, becoming more intense. I stand up, back off, then move in close, run my fingers over the surface. There is no doubt in my mind. The red underneath is pushing through to the surface. It is seeping out of the pores of the wallpaper, tainting the purity of my soft pale azure.

I run through to the kitchen where I have stored the paint pot and brush. I haul them into my room and begin slapping on a fresh coat. I do not stop until every surface is glistening wet.

I clear up, return my room to its bare simplicity and sit at the table with a cup of black tea and this notebook. I am restless with excitement. I have cleared the decks in every way, tied up all my loose ends. Now all I have to do is wait.

***

A month has passed since my last entry. A month of killing time. For what? Of course, I thought I was waiting for you, but perhaps in all honesty I knew that this was just a fantasy, that actually I was waiting for something else. For some other, more realistic conclusion.

I have never felt anything more exciting, more addictive, more all-consuming, than that sweet rush of hope I was experiencing. It superseded all my more trivial needs, hopes and aspirations. Its raucous screams of delight drowned out all the humdrum voices around me. Its dazzling explosions of colour blinded me to the scenes of everyday life. I closed my eyes and clung on as I was taken for a glorious, devil-may-care ride. I accelerated and felt as if I was travelling upwards at the speed of light. And then, the inevitable, I peaked, then faltered and finally began the free-falling plunge towards reality.

That, my dear, is what I have been through. Two weeks of frenzied mania. During the day, consumed by a need for action, but unable to leave the house for fear of missing your arrival, I sought out projects to burn off the excess energy.

I sketched the towers and castles of my fantasies, copied out lists of English vocabulary, made copious notes from my architecture books and my Bible. I discovered a bag of abandoned tools in a shed, a pile of timber, and built a tree house for the horse chestnut at the bottom of the garden. I stripped off the grimy, cracked lino in the bathroom and sanded the floorboards below by hand.

The only dark cloud on my horizon was the red seeping through my paintwork, and time and again I felt compelled to apply another coat of paint, then another, racing off twice more to buy extra tins. At night I could not rest and did not even attempt to sleep. When I could not contain myself in the confines of the house, I hurried onto the streets of Manchester for hours at a time, returning only at dawn. These were the occasions when I would eat, lamb curries or kebabs from all-night takeaways.

Eventually, after several days of this frenzied agitation, I would find myself able to doze on and off in the early hours of the morning. Then, my energy recharged, the cycle would begin again.

I can remember little of these weeks beyond a sense of urgency, of impatience, of restless anxiety.

When the crash came, it was sudden and brutal. It seems to me that there was no single event that prompted it, no clear-cut trigger, just, perhaps, an accumulation of despondency. A clash between hope and helplessness, my imagination fertile with thoughts of you and the children, my reality barren and desolate.

This time, when I woke from my light doze, I found myself unable to rise, to wash for prayers, to brew my tea and play my CDs. This time I was struck down, bereft, crippled. All my anxieties, my loneliness, my fears seemed to gang up on me. It was a complete mental and physical paralysis.

I stared up at the ceiling. My plans to read two chapters of my architectural textbook, to wash my laundry in the bath, to clear some of the flowerbeds of weeds, now seemed ludicrous, the madcap projects of an eccentric stranger. I needed to urinate yet even carrying out that action seemed overambitious.