Close to the Wind

by Jon Walter

  Malik put the torch on the floor and picked at a loose end of cotton ticking while Papa retrieved the rucksack from beside the wardrobe and put it down in the beam of light that spread out across the floorboards.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ he asked Malik.

  ‘Nothing.’

  Papa removed a pair of blue denim trousers and a white shirt from the sack and laid them on the floor. He brought out a pair of socks, some shorts and a warm brown jumper. ‘Do you want this on?’

  Malik shook his head and Papa placed the jumper on the pile of clothes.

  Papa then found a box of six wax candles with one already used. ‘Here we are,’ he said. He slid one of the white candles from the box, opened the lid of the brass zippo that he took from his trouser pocket and lit the wick. He turned the candle upside down so that the wax dripped onto the floorboard before he stood the candle upright. ‘Better turn the torch off,’ he told Malik. ‘It will save the battery.’

  Malik left the torch alone. He twisted the loose piece of material round his finger instead, let it go, then twisted again.

  Papa reached across and switched the torch off himself. The light in the room became faint and yellow and it flickered. ‘Why don’t you tell me what the matter is?’

  Malik wouldn’t answer him.

  It had been two days since the soldiers had come to the house and his mother had hidden him in the wardrobe. She had told him not to move, told him not to make a sound, and Malik had waited and waited. He hadn’t said a word. Even when he’d thought he’d heard Papa’s voice, he hadn’t called out.

  ‘Do you want to see my magic trick?’

  Malik shook his head.

  Papa put the clothes back into the main body of the sack, then he opened one of the large side pockets. He brought out a ball of thick yellow twine, a hammer, a screwdriver and a pair of pliers, which he lined up along the floorboard behind the candle. He looked over at Malik. ‘Well, there must be something I can do to cheer you up.’

  Malik showed a flicker of interest as his eyes glanced up to Papa’s face. ‘Can I have a knife?’

  ‘You don’t need to think about knives.’

  ‘You’ve got one. I’ve seen it. You keep it in your jacket pocket.’

  ‘Yes I do.’

  ‘I saw you holding it last night when we went to sleep in the cellar. Was that because of the dog?’

  ‘No. Of course it wasn’t because of the dog. The dog was half dead, he wasn’t going to hurt us.’

  ‘I know.’

  Papa held up his hands in a gesture of defeat. ‘Oh, good grief.’ He stood up and fetched the key ring from his jacket pocket, unfastened a penknife that was the length of his smallest finger and handed it to Malik. ‘Be careful of the blade. It might be small but it’s very sharp. And I don’t want you to lose it. I had that knife for my tenth birthday. It was the only thing I asked for and my father bought it for me.’

  Malik put his fingernail to the main blade and pulled it out from the handle.

  Papa watched him. ‘Perhaps I’ll give one to you as a present when you’re ten.’

  ‘I’m already ten.’

  ‘Never. Are you sure?’

  Malik looked at him with disgust. ‘Of course I’m sure. It was my last birthday.’

  ‘Was it? And I didn’t give you a knife?’

  ‘No. You gave me a geometry set.’

  ‘With a wooden and brass compass?’

  The boy nodded and Papa thought about it. ‘Well, I’ve got them the wrong way round. Why would I do that? You should have a Swiss army knife when you are ten and a geometry set when you are eleven. That’s what I was given as a boy. I wonder what I was thinking?’ The old man looked confused. ‘What did I get for your ninth birthday?’

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘No. Nor can I. It’s all too long ago.’

  They paused.

  ‘Mama would know. She can tell us tomorrow.’

  Papa pressed his forehead with the tips of his fingers but he nodded. ‘Yes, yes. I expect she will.’ He began to search through the rucksack again. He took out a toothbrush and toothpaste and waved them in Malik’s face. ‘You should do your teeth.’ He found the red steel water bottle from the rucksack. ‘Come on, come to the bathroom.’ He got to his feet slowly, his hand on the small of his back. ‘And bring the torch with you.’

  Malik shone the beam down the broken end of the pipe where the toilet had been but could see no water. Papa got on his hands and knees to inspect it further. ‘It will be OK. It doesn’t smell and it must still lead into the sewers. We can use that.’ He got to his feet so slowly that Malik expected his knees to creak. Papa straightened up, nodded at Malik and then at the pipe. ‘You will need to pee.’

  Malik looked into the deep black hole. ‘I’m not using that. I don’t like it.’

  ‘I’m sure you don’t but we don’t have a choice. You can pee standing up if your aim is good – and you don’t have to flush. That’s one less thing to think about.’

  Papa went back into the bedroom and Malik pushed the door till it was almost closed. He leaned the torch against the wall to give him light and then he sluiced his mouth with water from the bottle and swallowed it. He scrubbed his teeth and spat the white foam down the hole.

  Papa had brought the toothpaste that Malik liked. It wasn’t the one Mama used – that tasted of aniseed. Papa had brought the minty one that was Malik’s. He had remembered his toothbrush too. So this must have been planned, just like Papa said it was. And that meant Mama would be at the dock tomorrow.

  The thought cheered Malik up, though not enough that he was going to have a pee. He looked at the pipe sticking up from the floor. If he waited till the morning he would find somewhere better.

  Papa was packing the tools back into the rucksack when Malik jumped onto the mattress.

  ‘Hey. None of that.’ Papa waved a hand in his direction. ‘Come on. It’s time for sleep. You must be shattered.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘You must be tired. You walked twice as far as I did.’

  ‘I walked the same as you.’

  ‘The same distance, yes, I’ll grant you. But your legs are only half the length, so you had to make twice as many strides as me.’ Papa felt the back of his thighs. ‘If I’m tired, you must be too.’

  Malik jumped again. ‘Well, I’m not tired. My legs are fine.’

  Papa frowned. ‘In that case you better let me have the bed. Anyway, it should be mine by rights, since I’m the one who aches. I probably have brittle bones.’

  Malik stopped jumping and stepped quickly off the mattress. ‘You can have the bed, Papa. I don’t mind.’

  Papa stood up from his chair. He sucked at his teeth, put his hands on his hips, thought about it, then sat back down. ‘No. You better have it. It wouldn’t be right. I was simply saying you should appreciate it. That’s all. You shouldn’t take it for granted. Now, be a good boy and take off your boots.’

  Malik slipped off the green Wellington boots, picked them up and stood them against the skirting board by the door.

  ‘Are you too hot to sleep in your clothes?’

  Malik shook his head.

  ‘Then you must lie down and go to sleep.’

  ‘You said you would show me your trick again.’

  ‘So you want to see it now?’ The old man heaved himself up again with a sigh. ‘OK. I will do it for you, but only the once.’ Papa took a coin from his pocket. He held it on the open palm of his hand, right in front of Malik’s eyes. ‘What do we call this trick?’

  ‘The French Drop,’ said Malik.

  ‘Exactly. The French Drop. Good. You take an everyday coin and …’ Papa yawned and stretched out the sentence. He closed one hand with the fingers of his other and put the hand holding the coin to his mouth. When he opened it the coin was gone.

  Papa let his jaw drop wide so Malik could see his big pink tongue. ‘It’s not in my mouth.’ He leaned towards Malik, took th
e coin from behind Malik’s ear and held it up in front of his face. He grinned. ‘Did you see that? Do you remember how it’s done? You can’t have forgotten already?’

  Malik stood up and held his hand out for the coin. Papa gave it to him and sat back down in the chair, waiting to be entertained. ‘Remember, sleight of hand. A larger action covers a smaller action. That’s why I did the big yawn.’

  Malik had tried the trick before and he always dropped the coin. He couldn’t hide it in the palm of his hand like Papa did – he didn’t think his thumb was the right size. He held the coin up to show it to Papa, then closed his fingers across the top with his other hand. He coughed, putting one hand to his mouth while the hand with the coin darted down the front of his trousers.

  Papa scoffed and slapped his thighs. ‘What are you doing?’

  Malik showed him an empty palm as though he had got away with it.

  Papa shook his head and smiled. ‘How will you make it reappear if it’s down your pants?’

  ‘I’m concentrating on the disappearance.’

  ‘I can see that. But I’m not going to be happy if I don’t get my coin back. Mind you, I’m not sure I want it back now I know where it’s been. Why not practise hiding it like I do? It’s easier to hide it in your palm. See?’ Papa took another coin from his pocket and held it in his palm using only his thumb, to show him how it was done.

  Malik shook his head. ‘It’s too difficult. I can’t do it. It’s easier in my pants.’

  ‘But I saw where you put it. Trust me, it’s easier in your hand. It just takes practice, lots of practice, until you get it perfect.’

  Malik put his hand into his underpants, retrieved the coin and gave it back to Papa, who turned the coin once in his fingers before putting them both back in his pocket.

  ‘That’s enough for now. It’s time for sleep.’ Papa sat back in the chair and flicked a finger at Malik, indicating that he should lie down on the mattress. ‘I hope you’re not hungry. We only have a little food and we should save it.’

  Malik put his head on the mattress. ‘I’m not hungry.’

  He would have liked to eat. If he were at home he would have had a good supper, perhaps dumplings with fried potatoes. Mama would have made him hot chocolate when he went to bed. She might have given him his favourite biscuits, the ones that had jam in the middle.

  The thought left Malik sad and hungrier than he really was. He tried to think of something else, remembering his bedroom at home. He had a shelf full of books and posters of his favourite films on his wall. He also had model aeroplanes, which hung by strings from the ceiling – they were perfect replicas of planes from the last war and he had painted them himself and slid the transfers from the sheet when they were still wet.

  Malik closed his eyes.

  The mattress smelled damp and the room was dusty.

  At home his bed had clean sheets. But he was lucky to have a mattress at all. His eyes flicked open. Papa was in the chair over by the window.

  Malik used his mouth to breathe. He couldn’t smell the damp if he didn’t use his nose …

  Papa sat very still in the chair and watched the boy till he fell asleep.

  He was tired himself. He had forgotten the effort it took to look after a child. He hadn’t had to do it since Maria was a girl and even then, if he was honest, it was his wife who had brought their daughter up.

  He stretched and stifled a yawn. He needed some sleep – he couldn’t take another night keeping watch while Malik slept and, anyway, they were almost safe. They hadn’t seen a soldier since they left the cellar that morning and it made sense that the warlords and gangsters were moving east, up into the back of the town and away from the coast.

  Perhaps now that the ship was at the dock, the peacekeepers would arrive and secure the port. They might already be here. Papa thought they should be safe here in this house, but he still ought to be careful; there were no guarantees. It only took one rogue jeep, one rebel on the make, sniffing round to see what he might find. They would shoot you as soon as look at you. It didn’t matter that you had a child, not if they didn’t like the look of you.

  He watched the sleeping boy. Malik’s arms and legs were relaxed, spread out across the mattress like a spider. There was a corner that was free, down by his feet. He might be able to lay his own head there. He thought about it and dismissed the idea. He should try to stay awake, and if he slept at all then he should sleep across the door. Yes, that might do. He could use the rucksack as a pillow. If he emptied the pockets it would be soft enough for his head. He stood up and stretched out his arms. He was so tired he could sleep anywhere. It wouldn’t make a difference.

  He stepped softly round the mattress, holding the rucksack in one hand, taking care not to wake Malik. Then he sat down on the floor with his back to the door and took a coin from his pocket. He walked it over the back of his fingers, from one side of his hand to the other and back again. He had learned his tricks as a child, in a summer out of school when there was nothing to do but idle away the days, and once your fingers had the knack they never lost it.

  But he should go easy on the boy. It was difficult to learn new tricks – it took practice. He should be pleased that Malik even wanted to try. Papa smiled at the thought of his grandson with his hand in his underpants, but then he just as quickly became sad because the truth of it was that he hardly knew the boy. These last few days had taught him that. So many of the things Malik said or did came as a complete surprise.

  Papa knew he hadn’t given Maria the support she might have expected, bringing her son up on her own like that. He regretted it now that he was afraid for her. And if he had spent more time with Malik when he was growing up, then he might have known what to do when he had pulled the child from the wardrobe, the boy’s eyes wide with fear and the first question on his lips, ‘Where’s Mama?’

  Papa pulled at his beard. So many questions and not enough answers. He had tried to keep the boy calm. He had given him answers when he could think of them and some of them were true.

  Mama had to leave with the soldiers because they had urgent business that only she could attend to.

  Mama had asked Papa to come and collect Malik from the house.

  She had hidden him in the wardrobe to keep him safe till Papa got there and she would meet them at the docks in time to board the ship.

  Papa had made a game of packing. That had been a good idea. He had got Malik to go around the house and find things for him. The string. The tools. The gaffer tape. They might all come in useful and it helped to keep his mind busy – Malik was calmer when he had something to do.

  Papa had shown him the coin trick to pass the time. It didn’t do any harm to make him believe something can disappear and reappear, as though by magic. And the boy certainly had a good imagination; Papa had noticed that. If he was given the space and time to think, who knows what questions he might ask?

  Malik was determined too. Like the way he hadn’t wanted to give up on the dying dog. That dog had really got to him. And that was strange. Of all the things.

  Papa put the coin back in his pocket. He moved the rucksack closer to his side so he could lean against it and go to sleep. Then he remembered that the back door was still unlocked and he sighed quietly, left the bag where it was, took hold of the torch and started down the stairs.

  He ran the tap in the kitchen and scooped the running water up to his lips with the palm of his hand. The droplets fell onto the empty cans below and they sounded like rain on a tin roof. Papa turned off the tap, picked up the yellow bucket, emptied the cans into the corner of the kitchen and replaced the bucket under the tap. He caught a glimpse of the stars from the window and he turned off the torch and stood at the glass to admire them. There was the North Star, Polaris. Papa looked for the Plough.

  When the gate to the yard opened, Papa quickly stepped back from the window.

  He saw the figure of a man enter and then a second, the outline of their felt hats sharpened b
y the moonlight that cast their shadows on the pale brickwork of the back wall.

  Papa hurried back into the hall, felt for the bannister, climbed two stairs at a stride, and when he reached the top remembered the kitchen door to the garden was still unlocked. He hesitated in the darkness, one hand on the railing, as he heard the door creak open.

  He woke Malik by holding a finger to his lips so he would know not to speak. He could see the fear in Malik’s eyes as he picked him up from the mattress, but the boy didn’t make a sound and Papa carried him over to the wardrobe, put him down in the corner and closed the door tight.

  Malik drew his knees up under his chin. He hadn’t had time to think, didn’t know what was happening and he could see nothing in the pitch-dark of the wardrobe.

  He listened for any sound that might give him a clue. His head became one giant ear that was primed for the faintest noise. He leaned close to the wardrobe door but heard nothing except his own heartbeat, so heavy in his chest that it felt like a hammer on an anvil. He waited, closed his eyes and concentrated.

  What had happened? What could be so dangerous that Papa had hidden him in a wardrobe? Someone must have come to the house. Perhaps it was soldiers, like the last time. Malik concentrated but still heard nothing. It might not be soldiers. Soldiers would make more noise, wouldn’t they?

  He put a hand on the edge of the wardrobe door and pushed it open so that a crack appeared in the dark. He put his eye up close. The candlelight flickered across the floorboards and he saw Papa standing behind the open bedroom door, his knife held up close to his face in trembling fingers.

  Papa was waiting to surprise them, to pounce out and attack whoever came into the bedroom. Papa would protect him.