The Boy with Two Hearts

by Hamed Amiri

  ‘Can I have a black horse one day?’ I whispered to Mum, who was cradling a sleeping Hessam in her lap. I cuddled up next to her and she started stroking my hair. I could imagine myself riding that black horse, feeling tough and strong and in charge of everything. I’d like a white one too though, for the times when I want to be peaceful. Today I want to be peaceful, I thought, as I drifted off to sleep.

  The next morning we woke to the sound of animal noises. Hessam was still asleep so we chatted to Dad about where we were. He said that the other group told him they’d only been there for a day, which he thought was a good sign. Hopefully we’d soon be out of here.

  Next, we needed some breakfast. Dad banged loudly on the bolted wooden door several times until the woman who shut us in the day before opened it.

  ‘Do you have anything to eat for the kids?’ said Dad in Russian, but the lady who now looked stone-faced just stared at him. Then she said ‘Dollars.’

  Dad reached into his secret pocket and pulled out a few dollars, but before he could even hand them over the woman snatched them out of this hand and slammed the door. Hessam, who had been woken by the banging, looked like he was trying not to cry.

  We rushed away from the door and I took up my position at the rotten hole again, hoping I’d be able to see the woman returning with some food. We were starving, and pushed and jostled each other to see out of the hole. After what seemed like ages the grumpy lady finally came out holding something. We ran to the barn door and she opened it and half threw in some stale bread and what seemed like homemade cheese, which was squishy and had a rotten taste. It was probably the worst breakfast we’d ever had, but we were so hungry we didn’t care.

  CHAPTER 7

  James and John

  We spent a few days in the barn, having only stale bread and the soft cheese to eat, until we were told it was once again time to move on. We were strangely excited, but I could tell Mum was getting fed up with the constant moving and not being able to give us enough food. Hussein was starting to show signs of getting worse after all the travelling and the poor diet, and I could tell she was worried about him.

  The morning we were due to leave, Hessam started to complain that his back hurt. I found this hilarious, and teased him terribly, poking him and running away. The more Hessam whinged and scratched the harder I laughed, until Dad came to take a look. As soon as he got close he flinched and called Mum over. ‘That’s more than just an itch,’ he said.

  Mum, looking horrified, distracted Hessam while Dad tried to look more closely. Suddenly Hessam screamed out in pain, and I stopped laughing. Dad held up what he’d found under Hessam’s skin. ‘What is that?’ we all cried. ‘Larvae,’ replied Dad. ‘They’re underneath the skin.’

  I certainly wasn’t laughing now, wondering if anything like that was lurking under the skin on my backside.

  Once we had all calmed down, the ‘Poop Lady’, as Hussein had christened her due to the smell of our surroundings, came to the barn to tell us our transport had arrived.

  The transport was a car, which slowed down as it entered the farmyard. Inside was an elderly couple, waving frantically at us. ‘Do we know them?’ Hussein asked, confused.

  ‘Not that I know of,’ said Dad. ‘Perhaps they just like giving value for money.’

  Again, the lady told Dad to sit in the front, while the rest of us had to get into another secret compartment in the back seat. As Hessam and I fought for the best space, Hussein seemed quiet. When Mum asked, he said that he was tired, but I knew from the look on his face that his heart was having a funny turn. I didn’t say anything to Mum, as there was nothing we could do anyway, and it would only have worried her.

  ‘I just need Hamed to move his fat ass,’ he said, putting on a brave face, and I immediately came back with an insult. There was no point making the situation even more complicated.

  We drove for hours through the night, with toilet stops few and far between. The elderly couple took turns driving and buildings turned to fields as the countryside got more and more remote.

  We were sick of car rides by the time the car came to a stop. We were once again by what looked like a block of apartments, but this time it didn’t look as scary as Moscow.

  ‘Where are we, Dad?’ said Hussein, his face hopeful.

  Dad asked the couple in broken Russian where we were and, after a slight pause, they mumbled a city name which we didn’t recognise. Dad obviously didn’t either, and just said ‘We’ll be there soon, son, I promise.’

  My parents always knew that any sudden rush of emotions could trigger Hussein’s heart palpitations, so everything had to be carefully messaged. Whether it was good news or bad, they would always quietly reassure him. But Hussein knew they had no idea where we were or where we were going. We all knew that. What Mum and Dad didn’t realise was that Hussein had the ability to be hopeful in any situation. He always found the positive and focused his energy on that.

  We all got out of the car and headed to our new home. At least it was a building with a roof. And at least it wasn’t as cold as Moscow.

  While Dad was talking to the couple to try to find out what our next move would be, we made our way towards the apartment. I wondered if there was a TV. And if there were rats. But in truth I didn’t really care. I just wanted somewhere to lie down and go to sleep.

  As the couple let us into the apartment the first thing we noticed was that it was all green. Green carpet, green curtains, green walls … but apart from that it seemed okay. It wouldn’t be that bad if we had to stay here for a while.

  That night we managed a small meal round the little table in the kitchen. While we had no idea where we were or where we’d be heading from here, at that moment, it didn’t seem to matter. As we ate, Hussein put one hand on my shoulder and one on Hessam’s and whispered, ‘Brothers forever.’ We nodded. I loved that smile.

  We slept okay in the little apartment, and in the morning we sat round the little table again. Before we knew it, we got a call to say we would be moving on. Dad put the phone down to tell us that we had to be ready in just a few hours. Our mystery stay in this mystery country was over.

  Of course, there wasn’t anything to get ready. We had no clothes, no suitcases to pack, so we just passed the hours watching foreign-language TV in the apartment. All we had could be put into a small bag which one of us wore on our back in case there was trouble and we needed to run, but we had learnt to prepare ourselves mentally for what was ahead. We had learnt to think like adults and act as a unit, not as individuals.

  After a few hours the doorbell rang and Mum jumped. Dad opened the door and greeted the handler, who seemed to be more important than others we’d met. He wore a leather jacket and jeans, and in the back pocket was a handgun he called his ‘baby’. I’d seen guns before, but never a little handgun like this. This was like in a movie.

  Mum tried to pull me away, but I was fascinated. As the handler talked to Dad about the plans for getting away, I kept staring at the gun.

  ‘Want to see it?’ asked the handler finally. ‘C’mon, have a look. It’s even got my name on it,’ he said as he called me over.

  Mum tried to hold on to me, but I was mesmerised and went over. I stuck my hand out and the handler put the gun in my palm.

  ‘Don’t worry, the safety is on,’ he said to Mum.

  So I got to hold the gun for a few minutes while Dad talked to the handler about our future plans. Eventually he beckoned me over with a smile, and I walked gingerly towards him, still holding the gun. He took it off me and Mum looked relieved.

  ‘Spasibo, John,’ he said as he took the gun away. John? That wasn’t my name. Why was he calling me John? Mum and Dad looked confused too, and he smiled.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, then pointing at Hessam, ‘and that one’s James. These are your new names.’

  He laughed, putting the gun back in his back pocket. Then he reached inside the pocket of his leather jacket and brought out some shiny passports, handing them to
Dad. As Dad opened one of them the penny dropped.

  ‘Fake passports?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said the handler. ‘If the country where you are going to knows where you have come from, they will deport you straight back there. These are just to get you through security this side and help you get to the UK.’

  My ears pricked up. The UK? Was that where we were heading?

  ‘But how are we supposed to pretend to be British?’ said Dad. ‘We can’t speak English.’

  The handler didn’t seem to think this was a problem and proceeded to teach us some words in his own broken English. He made us repeat after him: ‘hello’, ‘bye’, ‘thank you’.

  We were excited at our new knowledge, and ran round the apartment calling each other John and saying ‘Bye! Thank you!’ on a loop. The handler went on discussing plans with Dad for a few moments, then he left, telling us he would come back to collect us in a few hours.

  ‘Goodbye and thank you,’ Mum whispered towards the door as Dad shut up the apartment and we went down the stairs. We knew there were some families that weren’t as fortunate as us, whose journey had been more dangerous, so we were always thankful for a safe place to stay.

  We stepped out into the street and saw the handler waiting by his car. Dad ushered us towards it and we went to the boot. But this time the back door was opened for us. We were allowed to sit in the back! Dad nodded to us, and we realised that this was part of the plan. People with passports don’t hide in secret compartments in the boot.

  We fastened our seatbelts and the car started up. We drove through the unknown city until the streets became a dual carriageway with many different lanes. After we had been driving for just a few minutes we suddenly came to a police checkpoint. My heart was racing, but the policeman just gave the handler a nod and waved us through.

  ‘Is he mafia?’ whispered Hussein to Mum through a fake smile. Mum just looked ahead.

  My imagination was running wild in the back seat. Who was this man? Was he mafia, or maybe a corrupt police officer? Whoever he was, no one seemed to stand in his way.

  Eventually the car slowed down as we approached what looked like an airport. ‘Are we going to fly?’ we all whispered to Mum at once. I’d never been on a plane.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said, and shushed us. Hussein was quiet and pale, and I could see she was worried about him, but there was no time to make a fuss.

  We stopped and were told to get out of the car. Mum held on to Hussein as we stepped onto the tarmac and Dad and the handler called him over.

  After speaking with them briefly Hussein came back to us with a grin on his face. What was funny? To our surprise he opened the top of his trousers and revealed Mum and Dad’s real Afghan passports – the Tazkira – shoved down his pants. We burst out laughing and looked over at Dad in disbelief. Dad shrugged. ‘What?’ he grinned. ‘We need somewhere safe to keep them until we get to the safe haven!’

  With a few final instructions from the handler, we made our way into the airport. We were to use the fake passports to get through security and on to the plane and keep the Tazkira hidden. Then, once we were safely through, we would dispose of the fake passports and keep the Tazkira to prove who we really were and be able to seek asylum. If anything went wrong we would be caught and deported, or maybe even imprisoned. There would be no escape.

  Hessam and I fidgeted terribly as we made our way through the airport, Mum holding on to our hands while Dad held Hussein. The first stop was the passport check. There were no hiccups, except I was so nervous I kept saying ‘hello, hello’ to everyone I saw. It was the only word I could remember.

  Next was the security check. Hussein looked a bit clammy as we approached, but Dad nodded at us to say that everything would be okay. Would it? How did he know? What if they found the passports down Hussein’s trousers?

  The security guards started patting Hussein down, and I worried that his heart wouldn’t cope with all the stress. That would certainly draw attention to us. I could see him trying to breathe regularly, while at the same time smiling and saying ‘hello’.

  Then suddenly there was a beeping sound. That was it. We were caught. We’d be back in Afghanistan and Mum would be killed. I couldn’t control my panic as the security guards started scanning for metal round Hussein’s body.

  BEEP, BEEP BEEEEEP the scanner went, and the security guard pointed to Hussein’s trousers. There was no point creating a distraction now, we were done for.

  ‘It’s okay, you can go,’ the security guard said suddenly.

  Hussein looked confused. Dad looked at him as if to say ‘Just go!’ and Hussein moved out of the security area.

  ‘It must have been your belt,’ Dad said when we were out of ear shot. ‘As soon as the guard saw it he seemed happy enough to let you go. An inch lower and he would have come across the passports!’

  Mum looked exhausted. The close call had made us all jumpy, and I realised what a strain all of this was putting on her. Not to mention her worries about Hussein.

  Suddenly we were heading towards the gate and about to fly in a real-life aeroplane for the first time. I couldn’t believe it. We looked out of the huge windows and wondered which of the enormous planes would be ours. Dad shook his head and pointed to a smaller aircraft that looked like a private plane. ‘That’s ours.’

  ‘That one?’ said Hussein. ‘How’s Hamed’s fat ass going to fit on that?’ We all laughed.

  As we got on the plane there were no hidden compartments this time. There were huge leather seats – plenty of room for all of us to stretch out. As we started to lift into the sky my stomach felt strange – it was a sensation I had never experienced before and it made me nervous. But once we’d taken off, one by one we fell asleep next to Mum. Even though we had no idea where we were going, and we were up among the clouds in such a small plane, we felt safer than we had in days.

  After what felt like only a few minutes I could feel Mum shaking me awake. ‘Wake up, sleepy head,’ she said, as the plane started to dip down to land. We could see green fields below, and wherever it was looked pretty safe to me. I wondered if it was England. I hoped so. Then Hussein could get better.

  Dad called me over. ‘I’ve got a job for you when we land,’ he said. I suddenly felt important.

  ‘What?’

  The plane rumbled and tumbled towards the runway as Dad explained that when we landed we would need to get rid of the fake passports. And I was in charge.

  As we took our things and stepped down from the plane, I was already formulating a plan. We walked out onto the tarmac from the luxury plane. It was hard to imagine that just a few hours earlier we’d been sleeping in a barn.

  ‘Okay, stick together, boys,’ instructed Dad, handing me the passports.

  ‘Why are you giving them to Hamed?’ asked Hussein. ‘He’ll only lose them.’ Hessam also looked puzzled.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘Dad just wants me to do something.’ This was my moment. There was no way anyone was going to take this job from me.

  ‘Let’s just wait here,’ said Dad, and I took this as my cue. I wandered off, the passports tucked safely into my jumper.

  I walked through the airport terminal. There were people everywhere: families, luggage, businessmen. There were also airport staff. All I had to do was get rid of the passports so they couldn’t be traced back to us. I just had to find the toilets.

  Eventually I saw a gentlemen sign on one of the back walls. I sauntered towards it. My plan was simple: I’d lock myself in, rip each page into shreds and flush them away.

  I went into the toilets and found an empty cubicle. My palms sweating, I locked the door behind me and started to rip the pages one by one. I knew that Mum and Dad would be waiting nervously outside and Hussein and Hessam would be asking where I was. But I had to make sure everything to do with John and James disappeared down the toilet.

  I was flushing pages away a few at a time. Everything was going okay – until I got to the co
vers. They were tougher than the inside pages and I couldn’t rip them. They weren’t made of paper, but a sort of thick leather. Impatiently, I chucked them into the toilet and flushed. The water cleared. They were still there. So I flushed again, waiting impatiently for the cistern to fill up. Still they wouldn’t go down the toilet.

  Anyone inside the toilets at that point would be wondering why I was flushing so many times. But the passport covers just wouldn’t go down. What was I going to do? If I didn’t destroy the passports someone might find them and trace them back to us. More importantly, I would have failed at the one job Dad had asked me to do.

  I decided that drastic times called for drastic measures, so I looked around the cubicle for something that might help me work out what to do. I glanced down at my worn brown boots. Got it.

  I lifted my leg and stuck my boot down the toilet as far as it would go, pushing the passport covers down into the water. Still they didn’t go. The tip of my boot was too big for the u-bend in the toilet and all I succeeded in doing was getting a wet foot.

  Mum and Dad would be worrying by now. The only thing to do was to leave the cubicle and go back to them to see what they wanted me to do.

  My right boot was stained dark with water as I walked back through the terminal to where the others were waiting. Would what I’d done be good enough?

  Hussein and Hessam stared at my wet boot as I whispered the problem in Dad’s ear. He shook his head. It was no good. I had to get rid of the passports without a trace, otherwise the guards could find out who we were and how we’d got here. I had to go back and try again.