This Is Where I Am (21 page)

‘Deborah, my darling!’ Birls when we come in, wafting a spatula.

‘Richard! It’s the cooking fairy! Love your wand.’

He blows me a kiss as my sister takes my coat. ‘You’re looking scrumptious. How are you? Secret delivery all sorted?’

‘No, she never turned up.’

‘Good, good.’ Bowling on in his pinny and not listening to a word I say. ‘Sit down then, sit, sit. So. Still hard at it with the asylum seekers? Many of the great unwashed have you adopted this month?’

I pretend to count on my fingers. ‘Well, that’ll be six now – no, actually, twelve if you include the family of Iraqis in the back bedroom. Oh, and a camel.’

‘Excellent. Camel milk’s very good for you, apparently. In fact, I’m sure we’re trialling it down south.’

‘Yum.’

Richard is the regional manager for a supermarket chain. Started as a Saturday boy at college and worked his way up to the company car and a 15 per cent staff discount. A very handy ally if you’re planning a party and need a lot of booze. Which I think is how his and Gill’s courtship began. Gill returns from the hall, closes the door to her massive kitchen so we’re all wrapped up with the sizzle of meat and onions. They have a dining table and a couch in here, a Welsh dresser tumbled with books and pottery and a French armoire containing linen tablecloths. I could live in Gill’s kitchen. There’s a pile of books on the table, a Bohemian centrepiece in place of flowers.

‘Wine?’

‘Just a wee glass. I’m driving. Where’s the kids?’

My nieces Iona and Lisa. I don’t possess them like Gill does, but they’re easy and content with me. Both students now, they don’t
have
to visit Auntie Debs, but they do. We text and email and they wander in for dinner occasionally, or we meet in town for coffee. OK. My life’s not always as bleak as I make out. My sister and her family love me, consistently, irrespective of the rebuffs and sulks and the time Gill used her key to find me sobbing in the bed I’d refused to come out of for three days. But sometimes your situation is predicated on how you
feel
, not how it really is. I shift the books so I can read their spines.

‘Iona’s at her boyfriend’s and Lisa’s rehearsing.’

‘Rehearsing? Ooh.’ I look up at my sister. ‘Can I borrow this one, please?’ I hold
A History of Scotland
aloft. ‘Rehearsing for what?’

‘If you want. Rehearsing for the concert. The one I told you about. In the Royal Concert Hall? You have a ticket?’

‘Oh, yeah. That concert.’

‘It’s for Breast Cancer Awareness.’ My wine is placed before me, gently.

I cross my arms. ‘Well, I’m not wearing a pink bra, I’ll tell you that for nothing.’ My wee sister ruffles my hair. Glasgow Uni Big Band. With Lisa on trumpet. Canny wait.

‘Gill tells me you’re going out with one of them now.’ Richard shouts above the drone of the extractor fan and the exuberant gush of the water he’s draining from his boiled potatoes. I wanted chips. Everyone knows you have chips with steak.

‘One of who, Richard?’

‘Your asylum seekers.’

‘I’m not going out with Abdi and he’s not an asylum seeker. He’s a refugee.’

‘Same difference.’

In with a big bloop of butter. Good. We’re having mash.

‘No. It’s the exact opposite, actually. An asylum seeker’s someone who arrives in this country looking for help – appealing to our better natures to let them stay. A
refugee
’s already been told they can stay.  And you have to go through a hell of a lot in between. Medicals, interviews, all sorts to prove you’re a victim of persecution. Thank you.’ I take the glass of water Gill’s offering. ‘The deal is, if you can persuade us your life was
so
shit before you got here that going back will kill you, you might, just might, be allowed to remain.’

‘And contribute to our economy by becoming
Big Issue
sellers?’ Richard dollops the mash in an earthenware bowl. I shudder. It’s the one I brought from the Transvaal. Eighteen bloody years ago and not a chip in its mud-ochre skin.

‘I tell you, there’s one stands outside our Giffnock store, looks like Gypsy Rose Lee.’

‘Economic migrant. Totally different again.’

‘Debs, he’s only winding you up –’

‘I am not. I’m thinking about the bigger picture. I’m a businessman, Debs. And we don’t have enough jobs and resources for ourselves any more. So why should it be
this
country welcoming all and sundry? We didn’t cause their wars or their famines, why should we be the dumping ground?’

Gill pours herself more wine. ‘OK, Richard, you’re not even funny any more.’

‘But if we don’t, who does?’ I want more wine, not water. Want the easy slurp and slide of warm lubricant which will polish my words and relax my neck. Above me, Richard twinkles, and I know he doesn’t mean it, but to not rise to the challenge is like laughing at an old lady falling, or a joke about handicapped kids. Even silence is complicit. Four months ago, my world was sleeping pills and sitting in my nightie.

‘Richard, you’re an arse. At least we live in a country that’s prepared to do
something
for our fellow man. And, for your information, we only take about two per cent of refugees worldwide, so we’re not exactly Mother Teresa.’

‘I love you, Debs.’ He drops a paternal kiss on my head, starts dishing out the food. ‘Sirloin steak for you, my darling wife. Sirloin steak for me, her masterful husband and – ah, yes, here’s some dry bread for our champion of the poor. Tuck in, Debs, it’s fab. I unwrapped it myself.’

‘Ha, ha.’ And we’re back in the pleasant hammock of banter in which our relationship rests. ‘Can I have my steak, please?’

‘Well, I thought you might want to take it away for the homeless –’

‘Don’t mock. But that’s something your bloody supermarkets could be doing, for starters: giving away food. All that past-its-sell-by stuff . . .’

‘Eh, for
your
information, madam,’ he passes me my plate, ‘we’ve just launched a new initiative, whereby we earmark a percentage of our apprenticeships for homeless folk.’

‘Oh, aye. Apprentice shelf-stackers?’

‘
No
. Butchery. Bakers. Fishmongers –’

‘Seriously?’

‘Yes, seriously.’

‘
Fish
mongers?’

Gill winks at me.

Just as we finish dinner, my mobile goes. I snatch it, expecting it to be Rula, have judiciously nursed my little half-glass of wine in case I’ve to dash back to Maxwell Park. But it’s Abdi. At least I think it is. I can barely hear him, his voice a shaky whisper.

‘Please, Deborah. I need your help.’

I am there in twenty minutes. One front door, ajar. One policewoman, stern. Her arm acts as a hinge, preventing entry.

‘Yes?’

‘Can I come in?’

‘Who are you?’

I hear Abdi’s voice, thin but steady. ‘She is my friend.’

‘Excuse me, please.’

I squeeze past the policewoman as politely as she steps back. A performance-piece of studied movement, where both unbend but neither concede, and I really don’t care about any of that as I take in the scene in the hallway.

One doormat – ‘Don’t!’ says the policewoman. ‘Eh, I wouldn’t stand on that’ – one doormat, soaking underfoot and emitting a stink that can only be described as shitty.

One refugee, stooped. His fists balled by his sides, he has the sly furtive movements of a dog that’s just been whipped.

‘Are you all right, Abdi?’

‘Yes.’

One little girl, sitting bolt upright in her bed. You can see her through the open door, face patterned gold by the nightlight on her wall.

‘Hey, Rebecca!’ I do a little star shape with my hand. Her mouth opens slightly, eyes stay wide.

‘I’m Sergeant Heath,’ says the policewoman. ‘Jenny Heath.’

‘Deborah. Abdi’s mentor from the Refugee Council. Eh, can you tell me what’s going on exactly?’

‘I was just leaving.’

‘What’s happening with Abdi?’

‘Nothing.’ She has a sharp, pretty face on her, and too much eyeliner.

‘Nothing for now, or nothing at all?’

They are thoughtful eyes, in amongst all that blue and black. She touches my elbow, positions and deports herself so I find myself propelled down the hall. It’s not threatening, in fact it’s quite hypnotic. We take ourselves off to Abdi’s living room, leave him standing there.

‘Abdi, you go and check on Rebecca,’ I manage to say, before the door between us is firmly shut.

‘I take it Abdi asked you to come over?’ she says.

‘Yes.’

‘So what did he tell you?’

‘That he’s been accused of hitting his neighbour.’

‘So the neighbour says. You know him?’

‘Which one?’

‘Old boy next door. Bullmore?’

There is a beat of hesitation, then I go: ‘Oh,
him
.’

‘Mmm. Now, at the moment, it’s his word against Mr Hassan’s. Mr Bullmore says he was pushed down the stairs, Mr Hassan claims he fell. Judging by the amount of alcohol Mr Bullmore has consumed, falling is certainly a possibility.’ Her stern, painted mouth has an upward tilt. Up close, I don’t think it is so stern; more a trick of the light and the uniform. ‘Unfortunately, we’ve no witnesses to corroborate either side of the story.’

‘I see.’

‘My problem is, I’ve a feeling if we don’t intervene in some way, then this is all going to escalate. I mean, I don’t know if you noticed the doormat . . .’

‘I did.’

‘And the fire damage.’

I swallow. Nod. ‘Yeah.’
Fire damage? Bloody hell
.

‘Well, Mr Hassan claims it was Mr Bullmore did that. And that there’s been an ongoing campaign of harassment. Now, I realise how hard it can be for refugees to integrate into the community . . .’ She pushes bleached hair behind her ears. ‘Tell me this. Is Mr Hassan settled here?’

‘Yes!’ My stomach lurches, drawing itself in and up. I feel it pressing on me, am conscious my breath must smell of wine and meat. They couldn’t send him back for this. Surely? My voice rises and speeds when the effect I need is calm. ‘Absolutely!’ I squeak. ‘He’s going to go to college, he’s got some job opportunities lined up –’

‘I don’t mean Glasgow, I mean this flat. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not in any way condoning . . .’ Sergeant Heath sighs, then smiles. It’s a stunt-smile, one to leaven, not to warm. ‘In my experience, when an asylum seeker or a refugee starts getting a hard time, things often get out of hand. And it’s usually the asylum seeker that ends up worse off. Of course we can investigate both allegations . . . but . . .’ she looks at the ceiling, ‘I just wondered if a fresh start –’

‘Move him away from here!’ I seize her arm, realise what I’m doing; drop it. ‘Totally! That’s what we’ve been trying to do. We were at the Housing three weeks ago, they’re supposed to be finding him another flat. But we’ve heard nothing.’

Jenny Heath arches fine-plucked eyebrows. ‘Yeah? Well, let me see what I can do.’

She returns to the hallway. Quiet murmurs, Abdi nodding with his head down, her saying words like:
no further action
and
this time, you understand?
She shakes my hand before she leaves, promises nothing. Shakes Abdi’s hand too. There is something straightforward in her gestures, they are clean and overt and I think I trust her. When she goes, I read Rebecca a story and Abdi makes some tea. Rebecca’s thumb twists into her mouth, she’s asleep before we get to the end, but I stay on, stroking the little forehead. It is soporific. I have made a spell, and if I move, I’ll break it.

‘Your tea is coming cold, Debs.’

‘Going.’ I look at my watch. Eleven thirty. Ach, I’ve time for one cup of tea.

We drink quietly, accompanied by a ticking clock and the dull clamour of someone else’s telly beneath us. Only one lamp is lit, casting a single pool of light. Abdi is in shadow.

‘Why didn’t you tell me about your neighbour? That he’s been hassling you?’

‘Hassling?’

‘Being unkind.’

‘Is my problem. Deborah.’ He is very calm. ‘Will I go to prison?’

‘No! The policewoman said no further action, didn’t she? That means the matter is over.’

‘Police say many things.’

‘Trust me, Abdi, it’s going to be fine.’ I’m assuming the sergeant didn’t mention housing to him, so I don’t either, in case I got my wires crossed. We sip and think a wee bit more. Neither of us mention the neighbour being in hospital – or Abdi’s involvement in putting him there.

‘You know, tea’s not a good drink so late at night.’

‘No?’

‘Nope. Keeps you awake. You should try hot chocolate. Rebecca would love it. That’s what Callum and I had most nights before we went to bed.’

‘Callum is your husband?’