This Is Where I Am (50 page)

Ask if her daughter’s called Rebecca.

And have her go crazy inside his house? No way. I see her face; I know. OK?

After he gets her out, what then? I’ve not to approach until Mo has gone and Azira is far enough away from the compound that she can’t be seen. Inge says normal procedure is for refugees to be referred to UNHCR. They undergo case creation, then pre-screening and verification, so any gaps in their story can be filled. Defining and refining as they are shuffled in and on. Then a resettlement interview, a medical examination . . .

It can take for ever.

But she’s already
done
all this. She was going to be resettled
.

After five. Mo said it would be late, once the men are ‘on deliveries’. I need to pace, to grind my heels and press my soles in lulling ambulation and make my mind still as my body moves whatifit’s not her? Whatif we get shot or she doesn’t come and it
was
her or Mo is shot I am sick, jesusgod I’m swimming in nausea on a belly of rotten water and some orange juice Huq has offered amid joking apologies for the fact it’s not fresh.

The yellow gate cranks open. We tense, suspend our animation.

A people-carrier rolls out, turns right when we are left. Disappears behind a pile of old tyres, and we breathe in again. Ten minutes later, and Mo chugs up. He clambers from his jeep, hammers on the gate. Hammers again. Shouts theatrically.

‘What did he say?’ I whisper to Huq.

‘He says: “I have important information”.’

Mo is eventually admitted access, but his jeep remains outside. Another twenty minutes pass. We’re melting, melting. ‘Your window, please?’ Huq starts up the engine and the air-conditioning. I teach him and Inge the delights of I Spy.
Yup. D for dust
. Again. We are packed and trembling in our dinky jeep, no back seat to speak of; knees up round my ears. I look away, through the window as Huq leans in to whisper-flirt with Inge. Their heads meet briefly. Flaxen and jet. Finding each other in Dadaab. They are a beautiful couple. Please, please let them be happy. Outside, more beautiful people wrapped in cloths of cream and blue and green. A camel is led to the slaughterhouse: its graceful plod heartbreaking. My calves are in spasm; I need to move, muscles bubbling, there is a tourniquet on my legs. And then the yellow gate reopens. Huq kills the engine, winds the window down. Straining to hear over the tumult of the day, can only see an arm, then a humphy back, bowed down with a bundle.

All your worldly goods.

Thrust out into the open glare, the cloaked figure stumbles. Is weeping, I can hear her crying, then Mo appears. He shoves at her again, too rough. Too rough! Steps forward to yell into the gathering crowd. ‘What’s he saying?’ I hiss.

Huq translates. ‘Um . . . She is dirty bitch thief. He says: “You steal from your master? You are lucky he does not kill you.” ’

‘Oh my God!’

Mo has struck her on the face, she reels and clutches for her bundle.

‘Oh God, stop him, Huq,’ cries Inge.

‘Ssh. Now he says: “You take your . . . um crap, effluent? . . . you get out now. You get out, whore, and you never come back.” ’

The woman falls down, sobbing and clutching at Mo’s legs. He kicks out, but doesn’t make contact. I’m sure he didn’t make contact. For an instant, his stare wavers, like he is searching, then the yellow gate slams. Mo stops kicking. Moves back to his dirty jeep. The cowering woman lies in the dust. A man walks over to help her. Spits on her face, then walks away.

‘
Herre Gud
.’ Inge is unlocking the passenger door. ‘We have to help her.’

‘No!’ shouts Huq. ‘You go now, that police gets killed. The man inside is nasty, nasty bastard.’

Mo screeches at her one last time, his sturdy finger poking at the air. Then he hauls himself into his jeep. Is gone. I’ve still not seen her face. Remain dispassionate, this scene is sterilised by the frame of open window, the metal casing of the jeep. I am observing a distant far place, these are actors and puppets and the puppet pulls herself up, walks in imprecise steps, her strings newly cut. Arms behind to heft the load of her burden. She shakes her head and her headscarf shifts.

And I can see that it’s Azira.

I get out, quietly. Mouth ‘no’ at Huq who wants to follow. We are less than a hundred yards from where she teeters. A length of plastic sheeting hangs from the wall of the depot. Inert in the still, searing heat, it offers me a little cover as I move from the side of the wall to the depot entrance. I can see better from here.
Come this way.
I’m willing her, I’m saying the word
Rebecca
in every ripple of my brain. Spine long and high, Azira examines her surroundings. Growing confidence in her steps, in her ability to bear her body. The churning mass of people had never really stopped; it meanders on without her and she turns, is turning away from me. An older woman shouts something, Azira flinches. Turns back.
This way
.

This way. Please. And she does; I watch her come towards me. Taller than I imagined, thinner than she should be. Skull and cheekbones and broken teeth. Rebecca’s mummy. Abdi’s wife.

There she is.

Sunlight invading me, it churns behind my eyes in needle-fine whorls, obscuring then revealing a flash of face, her hair, her wrist. The flicker of her moving. Closer, closer: I could touch her. I do, and as I do, I say her name. Say it soft as you would coax a child. She shrinks, the distance of her all held in. Glances, then stares ahead. Waiting.

‘Azira. You are Azira?’

Unblinking. Hands manacled to her bundle of rags.

‘Mother of Rebecca? Ree-be-ca?
Hooyo?
’

Full gaze on me. She begins to scream. A torrent of urgent words which I can’t understand.

‘Ssh! For Christ’s sake! Huq!’ I shout. ‘Huq!’ as Azira is grabbing me, the rags of her nails tearing flesh. ‘What’s she saying?’ Huq and Inge are running over. I’m wrestling with Azira. ‘Stay quiet! Stay quiet!’ Huq reaches us first. He seizes her by the shoulders and is pulling, dragging her in the direction of our vehicle. As he tugs, he’s talking, gesticulating, pleading. Immediately, Azira stops. Folds her hands beneath her chin and drops towards the earth. Inge takes her by the wrists. ‘No.
Maya. Maya
.’ Between them, she and Huq pull Azira upright.

‘She says: “You have my baby?” ’

‘Yes!’ I nod. ‘Yes. She is safe. Tell her safe. Tell her her husband’s safe.
Abdi
.’

‘Abdi?’ Azira repeats.

‘Yes! Tell her we’ve come to take her to them. Tell her she’s coming to Yookie!’

Huq translates this. Oh, the thrills coursing through me, I could almost burst in flames. I’m anticipating the same delirium that’s overwhelming me, grinning like a heidcase to receive her delight. Azira looks plainly out at me, then bends her knees so we are equal height. The bundle on her back is distorting. Liquid. The rags part, the bundle shifts and yawns.

‘She says: “What about my son?” ’

24.

Today is a good day. Rebecca is making paper chains in the living room; I am round and full from the ham Mrs Coutts delivered. Ham is pork, of course, but I am no longer a Muslim. My Christmas tree is testament to that. Even so, I hesitated. It was the salt smell of it, the ragged pinkness and the blackened edge.

‘That’s marmalade, so it is,’ Mrs Coutts told me, poking the sticky rind. ‘The Scots invented marmalade, you know.’

Yes, but only the Scots would eat it, Mrs Coutts. Marmalade is not a subtle confection: it is loud and orange, laced with bitter lumps, yet the resonance is robust and sweet. Surprisingly delicious turned to caramel on ham. Two slices were not enough. So I had four. Yes, I still feel guilt when my belly is full; but I feel hunger in greater measure.

Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. On Christmas Day, Mrs Coutts is coming to dinner with us, and the day after, Rebecca and I have been asked to Sandrine’s home. There we will have fish, Sandrine says: Scottish salmon and dill. I didn’t mention it, but we are also having salmon for our starter here (smoked offcuts which Dexy has acquired). For the main course, Mrs Coutts has told me how to stuff a turkey, but there is no need. My minister has gifted us a turkey crown, and a cake with nuts and currants. He said he won them in a raffle, but I think it is charity. No. It is kindness. Our Christmas tree is courtesy – again – of Dexy. Small, but perfectly formed (this is true of both Dexy and the tree), it sits in a pot under our window. My only concern is the chewed nature of its base – it appears to have been snapped rather than sawed.

‘You are very kind, Dexy,’ I said. ‘But did this belong to someone else before it came to us?’

‘No
exactly
. Well, put it this way: no a person, any road.’

I thought it best to smile and thank him again. Then he gave me a present for Rebecca.

‘I know the wean’s into reading an that, so I brung her a book. It’s fae a wee second-hand place – disny mean it’s shite by the way.’ He thrust a tattered hardback at me. ‘Oh, and I huvny wrapped it. Mostly because I huvny any paper.’

The book is a compendium of sorts. It’s called
The Girls’ Book of Heroines
and shows a young girl with dreamy eyes staring at a vision of a maiden in a chariot. The colours are bright and delicate, blurred at the edges as if painted by hand.

‘Dexy. I know she will love it. Thank you. I am very touched.’

‘Fucksake, we know, pal.
Leverndale?
You don’t need to boast about it.’

I invited Dexy for Christmas too, but his response was apologetic.

‘Nae offence, but you’re no the best of cooks. Apart fae they wee cake hings. And they do a cracking Christmas dinner down the Lodging Hoose Mission. So, if it’s a the same to you . . .’

In a way, this is good because if he came, I don’t think Debs would. She is arriving shortly to drop off gifts for Rebecca, and I plan to ask her then. Doubtless she’ll be spending time at her sister’s, but I know Rebecca would be so happy to see her, even for a little while. Deep, hidden down, I had wondered if we might be invited to hers, but Debs has grown distant. Today will be the first time we’ve seen her since the cathedral and her mysterious dash abroad. It can’t be work, it must be love that drives her to long quietnesses and sudden absence. I have to think this, for I cannot bear to believe she’s growing tired of us; am extremely aware that the mentoring period is done. My pleasant fullness abates. ‘Dropping off gifts,’ she said. Does that denote a duty discharged? Anyway, I will give her the antique vase and it can be a parting gift or a seal of friendship, or simply a place for flowers.

I am in my bedroom, sorting through my rucksack. I feel a little foolish. Carrying it everywhere has not protected my papers, it has endangered them. My Christmas gift to myself is a grey box with a key. The box has a handle, it is almost a suitcase, but metal, with folding files inside. I can keep my papers in this, then I need only carry the key. I survey my bedroom. They should be safe enough here. If I place the box in the wardrobe, behind my extra blanket.

‘Debba!’

My mucky pup is thumping down the hall, streaking loops of coloured paper from her arms. ‘Aabo! It’s Debba!’

Ach, I’d meant to tidy away the plates, the glistening pork-meat. Can you have ham with a cup of tea? I think Debs would like it, but it’s the middle of the afternoon and I have no clue about pork-eating etiquette at Christmas. It seems, though, that you can gorge all day without delineation; for a two-week splurge you may drink alcohol with fruit juice at breakfast time, then eat chocolate for lunch. All this plenty.

All this plenty. Does it not make people sick?

‘Come in, come in.’ I am bright and cheerful, then stutter when I go to shut the door. There is more to come. Debs has company, a lady of a similar age oh oh it is Social Work. They have found out I hit my neighbour, Rebecca will be seized –

‘Becky-boo! Oh, I missed you!’

Debs bundles Rebecca up, they are two clutching monkeys who jig and pet.

‘Abdi!’ Still holding Rebecca, Debs reaches to cup my face, draws me in for a kiss. ‘Oh, it’s so good to see you.’

The other woman leans between us. ‘Hi. I’m –’

‘Sorry, sorry. Abdi, this is my sister Gill. My
wee
sister.’

I shake Gill’s red-gloved hand. ‘I am so pleased to meet you. Please tell your husband I say hello. You are the lady who is helping us with school?’

‘Absolutely. You looking forward to school, Rebecca?’

‘Yes,’ she lisps, feigning coyness.

‘Don’t go all shy and silly, you.’ Debs tickles her. ‘You
know
Gill already. Remember when we saw Lara, then we went for lunch?’

‘Remember chocolate ice cream?’ says Gill.

‘Yes!’

‘Well, I know a really good ice-cream shop not far from here. Abdi, I wondered if Rebecca would like to go and get ooh . . . I dunno. A ninety-nine? A double nougat?’

‘Nougat! Nougat!’ my greedy daughter shouts. So much love and fun in my hallway; it is confusing.