This Is Where I Am (9 page)

‘Where are they taking them?’ I asked another man. Wherever it was, I wanted to go there.

‘Being resettled, probably. You pay good dollars, you get out. Cut your hands off and you can even get to America.’

‘Cut your hands off?’ His glibness made me sick. To even make fun of that, when so many of the rebels and militia used it as a brand.

‘Yeah. Disabled. Be deaf or blind or lame and you get to the promised land.’

As the truck lurched by, I saw a little boy, staring from his mother’s lap. Or possibly his aunt or elder sister. Or perhaps a kind deep heart had plucked him from the side of a corpse. On his own lap he clutched a red backpack. New and impossibly big; he had to pitch his head to the side like a little bird in order to see past it. It was his eyes that hurt me. Unbearable. Huge in his sunken face. Then the truck made a sore, grinding noise, came crashing into a pothole, and immediately, people started to move closer in. Like ants teeming on a hill of dung. Men jostling, girls running. I saw a woman offer up her child, her cries for mercy beaten off by another soldier on the back. He pointed his gun at the growing crowd, shouted angry words to his colleague, who revved and revved the engine until the truck groaned and shot forward. From the basket of his arms, the little boy’s backpack was thrown. It soared into the air, a red square in a blue sky, and I could hear his screech of desperation. I don’t think anyone else noticed. Most people were still trying to waylay the truck. I ran to where the bag had landed, snatched it up. The truck was picking up speed now, but I ran after it. The boy could see me, he was leaning out, his mother yelling at him to sit down, wrestling with him as he struggled forward. Faster and faster, the truck rattling further from me, but I could reach it still, I thought I could, even with my heavy sack and the clattering of it on my legs.

And then I saw the soldier again. Levelling his gun.

I stopped running, and the truck sped away. In one hand, I held the child’s backpack. In the other, my sack of food. The crowd had deflated, crept back to their shiftless shambling. But I noticed the man I’d been talking to, edging nearer and nearer to the backpack.

‘Give that to me,’ he menaced. Fist gripping a large, flat stone.

I jerked my chin above his pitiful head. Taller, broader than he was, and not yet desperate enough to lose everything I had.

‘You touch me, I will rip off your fucking stinking skull.’

He paused, still holding the stone.

‘That bag is not yours.’

‘Says who?’

‘You stole it. I saw you.’

‘You calling me a thief? Fine. Let us call the soldiers over. Will we?’ I raised my voice. ‘Is there police here? I have plenty dollars.’

‘Fuck you.’ He threw his stone in the gutter.

‘No. Fuck you.’ I bowed politely.

‘I will find you,’ he said through uneven teeth.

‘Good luck with that, my friend.’ As I spoke, I pressed my body forward, entering the flow of human sea. This time, I was glad of the limbs and trunks that propelled me, because my legs were crying with fear. But I held on to the red backpack, much tighter than the little boy had.

It was mine now.

5. March

Loch Lomond

Scotland is rich with beautiful scenery. Only fourteen miles north of Glasgow, the ‘Bonnie Banks’ of Loch Lomond are known the world over, thanks to the popular melody. Interestingly, the ‘low road’ referred to in the song actually comes from Celtic mythology. When someone died far from home, the ancients believed fairies would provide a ‘Low Road’ so his soul could return to his kin. Majestic and mysterious, it does seem possible this place could be the gateway to another world!

Twenty-four miles long and six hundred feet deep, the loch – nestling in the shadow of Ben Lomond – is the largest expanse of freshwater in the UK. Flanked by several Munros and the West Highland Way, Loch Lomond is also open to every kind of watercraft including canoes, jetskis and speedboats.

The National Park Authority seeks to accommodate both land-based tourists and loch users, with environmentally sensitive areas subject to strict speed limits. The rest of the loch, however, is open to speeds of up to 90 km per hour. Whilst entry to Loch Lomond, along with walking and climbing, is free, there are charges for some activities. Of course, you can always bring your own boat.

*

A stone scattering sparks. As it lands fully and punches through the water’s face, it will blast circles up and out. The process has begun already, but they are caught, these circles. Framed, they have become suspended hoops, suggestions of themselves made flat. Tones of brown and green, of creamy-gold and purple-blue rustle and call you in. Yes, I think. That’s it. We’ll go somewhere that’s alive. In the foreground, a heron preens its plumage and the mountain preens itself in the water.

The computer screen glows green with the shimmer of the loch. Slowly, pointlessly, I spell out my name. You rarely get the same person twice when you phone here, but I’m finding people like the security of it. If you give your name to them, it’s an anchor they can hold.

‘That’s right. Delta, Echo, Bravo. Debs.’

‘Thank you, Debs,’ says the thin, tired voice. ‘I will remember you.’

‘Good luck,’ I reply. I sound as exhausted as she did. A minute to calm down. I’m fine while I’m talking, or doing. It’s afterwards . . . My nails gleam in the artificial light. My sister Gill persuaded me to get a French manicure.
Resistance is futile
, she beamed.
You want to look all smart!
The girl did a lovely job on me, but no one really dresses up in here. Including me. I just bought my first pair of leggings. Worn with a baggy top, mind, to offset their clinginess. Beneath the desk, I circle my ankles. They
are
very comfy. But my new bra is chafing. Absently, I rub the side of my breast.

A large brunette leans over my workstation. On my side – so she must be someone that works here. Either that or a revolt is underway and we’re being raided by our clients.

‘Ooh. Did I hear you using the phonetic alphabet?’ Her breath is nicotine and coffee, her scent is crisp and old.
Charlie?
Do they still make that?

‘I always find it’s better to use words like “Dog” or “Egg”.’ She’s got a little dab of lipstick on her teeth.

‘Really? I find it better not to patronise folk.’

Gamu, the volunteer next to me, snorts a little, then dips her face in her coffee mug. The brunette lady hoists the rim of her spangly jumper down over her tummy.

‘You’re new, aren’t you?’ Her question is rhetorical; she extends a hand in welcome. ‘I’m Mrs Winters. Senior Project Officer and Campaigns Manager? I’m just back from my holidays.’

‘I’m Deborah.’

‘So I gathered. Hello, Deborah. You can call me Caro – we’re all very informal here. Well, didn’t mean to interrupt. I’ll no doubt see you later.’

A nasty flush burns up my neck and face. I want to go after her, say
I’m sorry. I don’t get out much!
But the damage is done. She looked about ages with me, too. We might have gone for lunch together. Gloomily, I inspect my keyboard, small puffs of fluff flying up as I breathe over its smooth black lines.

I have a keyboard!

I’ve started volunteering at the Refugee Council. Just the odd day here and there, when they’re really busy. No, make that ‘short staffed’. They’re always busy. It was Simon’s idea. We’d had our second meeting, the one where the mentor is brought in and asked:
So. How d’you think things are going?
And you either say:
Fine
or
Well
. . . and then launch into a big long guddle of reasons why it’s not really working.

‘Fine,’ I said. It felt odd to be speaking about Abdi, actually, as if it were private, or I was talking about him behind his back.

‘Good, good,’ said Simon. ‘And you’re enjoying the whole process, then? Any problems?’

I searched my mind for problems. Me, who is nothing but a little ray of sunshine.

‘Nope.’

And it’s true. Practically. Abdi is my friend-stroke-project-stroke-good-deed right now. We’re learning, slowly, about what we want from each other, what we share and what we can share. No different from any other relationship.

‘No. I think we’re getting on fine. I’m hoping to meet his daughter soon –’

I stopped. So keen to get Brownie points for how well we’re bonding that I didn’t think. Did they know about Rebecca’s not-speaking? Did I just break a confidence? Was I even allowed to meet his family, because, to be honest, I hadn’t read all the bumph they’d given me from cover to cover. It was all a bit earnest, with lots of SHOUTY TEXT!!

‘Yeah, well,’ I backtrack. ‘At some point it would be nice to meet her. Rebecca, she’s called.’

Of course, Simon had the file in front of him, but it was important to me that he knew that I knew. ‘I used to be a teacher you see . . .’ It was a lame tailing-off, made worse by the slightly creepy: ‘I like kids.’

‘That’s why we thought you’d make a good pairing,’ he said.

‘Because Abdi used to be a teacher too?’

Simon smiled. ‘Did he tell you that? That’s great.’ Then he smiled a bit more. ‘And are you enjoying the whole “interaction” thing, Deborah?’

Yup, he did make wee air quotes as he said it. Nice chap, Simon. Late twenties, beginning to bald – and I suspect his mum picks up his jumpers in Asda when she’s getting the messages. But you can tell his heart’s in the right place. Tucked right behind the three neat biros he keeps clipped in the dip of his V-neck. Bless.

‘You mean “talking”?’ I did the air quotes back at him. ‘Yes, I do. Abdi’s a fascinating person.’

Fascinating? A puzzle to be solved? A sop to my need to ‘help someone’ and fill my day? I bet Abdi’s had the same interview. We’re not allowed to ask what our mentee said about us. I wish I could. I’m not sure if we are ‘getting on fine’. We’ve only texted twice since Kelvingrove, once to confirm our next meeting, and the second time for me to check what dates suited for the psychologist. His answer had been instant – and very vague:

R school sorted. No need. Do not wory. A

Was I no longer to contact Education, then? Had Rebecca started talking of her own volition? We were way into March, the deadline for her school enrolment was past, and I’d had no more word on what Abdi wanted me to do, despite me texting ‘Why?’. But I must ‘respect our distances as well as our differences’, it says in my mentors’ handbook. Also helpfully vague. Me being me, I keep thinking:
maybe he doesn’t like me
. Was he more upset by the curator shouting at him than he’d let on? Did I not defend him well enough? But then, he’d told me about Rebecca afterwards . . . or was that the shock? I’d thought we’d bonded over it, och, not bonded, but I thought . . . I thought I was thinking too much. This monthly-meeting framework is too impersonal. More rigid lines to trip over. Texts are impersonal too. But a trip to the Bonnie Banks would give us plenty of time to talk. Although, if I didn’t get my backside into gear and hire a car, we’d have to hike it there and back. Loch Lomond in March? Och, it would be a breeze. (Considerable pun intended.)

‘Now, you’re not actually working at all at the moment, are you?’ Simon continued.

‘No. Like I said before, when my husband took ill –’

He’d held up a hand. ‘Oh, no, no, I’m not . . . what I’m thinking is, well, you’re clearly a “people person”.’

‘Am I?’

‘Oh God yes. Abdi . . . if he’s talking about his daughter and his teaching in the space of two brief meetings . . . well, you’re obviously the type of person who . . . you seem like a good listener, Deborah.’

I knew he was buttering me up for something, drizzling me with oily sentiment before he popped me in a hot oven, but, regardless, I allowed myself a bask. Because I
was
a people person, once. Before Callum’s illness took hold . . . ach, before lots of stuff, when I still believed in happy endings, in positive thinking and all that guff, I was quite good fun. But bitter bindweed has taken hold. It’s where they get widow’s weeds from. Doesn’t refer to garments at all. No. These weeds are constant green tendrils of restless despair, trussing you. Always.

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘And you’re telling me this because. . . ?’

‘I was hoping you might get a bit more involved.’ Simon folded his hands neatly beneath his chin. ‘Here at the Council, I mean. We’re always looking for volunteers – even if you could only do one day a month. The Helpdesk in particular, it can be pretty . . . well, you saw for yourself how busy the waiting room was when you came in today.’

It was manic. Babies in pushchairs, old men in tattered coats, dark-eyed women flapping hands, shrilling tongues, and a bank of phones that rang and were answered, rang and were answered, rang and rang and abruptly gave up. Those were the ones I worried about most. Did they ever ring back? Was that their one and only cry for help, lost in a vacuum of nobody there?

‘Oh . . . I don’t know,’ I said. But I did. ‘OK then. Just the odd day.’

Simon undid his fingers, shook my hand. The false neat smile slipped away and a person grinned at me. And I wondered if he found it as hard to ask for help as I found it to offer.