This Broken Land

by H M Sealey

  “Elsie?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Good coffee?” My unfinished drink is on the floor beside my seat.

  “Not really.”

  “I know, horrible isn’t it?”

  Kit lowers himself into the seat beside me.

  “When can I go?” I ask. I intend to run straight home and beg Gran to stop being any part of Family Matters.

  “Soon. Elsie, do you know a man called Howard Steele?”

  I keep my face hidden. I can’t lie, he only lives across the street. Kingsheath is a small village, I couldn’t really not know him.

  “Yes.”

  “Can you tell me what connection he has to Misaki Hisakawa?”

  I raise my head a little, disturbed by the question. “They’re engaged.” I say.

  “Are you aware he has a charge of Hate Speech against him?”

  “He was...emotional. Angry. Frightened.”

  “And your friend Misaki, Daichi’s sister, does she share his contempt for the BSI?”

  “No.” I say at once. “Missy’s just the loveliest girl ever.”

  “But you agree Howard Steele has contempt for the BSI?”

  “Not really. He was just upset.”

  Kit gives a long, deep sigh. “People don’t tend to be so careful with their words when they’re upset.” He stands up, approaches the coffee machine, and chooses tea, shooting me a quick grin.

  “Too much caffeine in Coffee.” He tells me, before bringing his drink and sitting down. Officer Tom opens one eye and watches him.

  “Howard Steele was arrested yesterday. He was drunk. It’s hard to get drunk these days. Unless you’re very rich.”

  Howie was drunk? I can’t imagine that.

  “I expect he was still upset about Missy.”

  “Yes.” Kit sounds thoughtful and sips his tea. “He was very vocal when we picked him up.”

  Very vocal? How much did he say? Did he mention Gran? Sickness rises up in my stomach and I push it down along with a moan that’s been building up for a while. I don’t want this! I want Gran and Missy and Dai. I don’t want to lose everyone I love. What if there really is a God and this is His punishment for ignoring Him my whole life? That’s a scary thought and I try not to focus on scary thoughts.

  “Oh.” I make myself sound nonchalant, as if I don’t really care.

  “He was positively identified with Noor Blackwood at the station. Unfortunately the police were so distracted by his drunken ranting that they lost sight of the girl. Idiots. But I’m sure he can be persuaded to help us.”

  Now I really feel sick. Kit’s eyes pass over my face and he smiles. “You needn’t look so worried Elsie, you’re not in trouble. I’m just trying to speak to all of Howard Steele’s associates. Find out who he knows.”

  “Are you going to do something about Missy?”

  “That’s not my job Elsie.”

  “Is somebody going to do something?”

  “I should expect so, yes.”

  Beside me, Officer Tom lifts his head and yawns, showing off a mouthful of pointy teeth that could tear apart a smaller animal. I’m glad I’m not a mouse.

  “Who? My friend is just as important as Noor is.”

  Kit, to my surprise, doesn’t respond to that with any sort of agreement. He gazes at me with an odd, almost suspicious look on his face. “It’s not quite as simple as that Elsie. I wish it were.”

  “Pardon?” Is he suggesting that some people are worth more than others? The absolute equality of Old Britain is the foundation stone of this society. That’s why they work so hard to give privilege to those who don’t have it.

  “Please Elsie, don’t be naive. You must realise that a missing girl of Muslim origin can provoke a great deal of trouble from the BSI. Your friend only provokes you and you’re unlikely to blow anything up in retribution.”

  I’ve never heard anyone quite so blatantly admit that the BSI uses violence. Nor have I ever heard someone admit that some people matter more than others. I’m probably chalk white beneath my freckles and I’m trembling.

  “I – I don’t know what you mean.” I think pleading ignorance is my best defence.

  “Don’t be stupid, of course you do.” His voice becomes far harder. “I’m sure someone will look for your friend eventually, but she’s hardly priority.”

  “She should be priority. Noor was deliberately running away, Missy was abducted.” I’m crying now at the sheer unfairness of his words. Kit regards me with impatience.

  “Oh for goodness sake, crying’s hardly going to change anything.”

  “Are you upsetting young girls again Summerday? Shame on you.”

  I spin around at the sound of a kinder voice to find myself facing Sylvester Jourdete. His twinkly smile meets my bemused gaze, he looks so different in a suit, he looks younger, stronger.

  “I was just asking Ms. Kessler a few questions sir.” Sir? My elderly next-door-neighbour outranks Kit Summerday? But Mr. Jourdete is a Christian. Christians don’t get good jobs in case they bring their ideas into the workplace. They aren’t allowed positions of authority.

  “I see, and has she answered?”

  Kit nods.

  “Good. Then she can go home.”

  Mr. Jourdete steps forwards and strokes Officer Tom, much to the cat’s obvious pleasure.

  “Hello there old chap.” He murmurs. “Hope you’re behaving yourself.” Then Mr. Jourdete straightens up and looks at me. “I’ll run you home Ms. Kessler. I’m going in your direction.”

  I think about this. “You mean…..a car?” Some high-up members of the police and the military still have cars. I don’t think I’ve ever been driven in a car before. There are buses and trains and trucks, but very few private vehicles.

  Mr. Jourdete grins a warm, friendly grin. “I still like to show off sometimes. I won’t have a car when I retire, I like to use it while I can.”

  Officer Tom slides off the chair and rubs his head around Mr. Jourdete’s feet; the old man bobs down and scratches him behind his ear.

  “That cat’s just an annoyance.” Kit snaps.

  “I’m sure he thinks exactly the same about you Christopher.” Mr. Jourdete tells him with a cheerful laugh. “But he’s a good judge of character is Officer Tom.”

  “It follows me around like a shadow. It’s disconcerting.”

  “See, he knows to keep an eye on you.”

  Mr. Jourdete takes my arm in a way that seems very odd. It reminds me of old photos of men escorting women, back before a casual touch on the arm could lead to a lawsuit. I don’t object. My whole body fees strangely unreal, like I’m floating two feet above the floor. If Mr. Jourdete can take me home to Gran I’ll be massively grateful. If it’s a choice between a peculiar Christian or another hour beneath Kit Summerday’s intense gaze, I’ll take the peculiar Christian any day.

  Kit Summerday chills me. I don’t know why, he’s a perfectly pleasant man doing his job. But he still chills me right through to the bone.

  “I might need to speak to you again Elsie. Soon.” Kit tells me as I escape his frightening presence, and to my ears, that sounds more like a threat than a request.

  ~

  ~ Eight ~

  Asim

  “They’re looking for someone who got past the border a few days ago.” Asim’s tall, slightly stooped uncle Baraq informed them when he arrived a little later. “Idiot used British money.”

  Alaia, tall for her seventeen years and outspoken only in the home, served him tea in the old, china cups that had once belonged to her grandmother.

  “We all use British money. And American dollars. Most shops accept anything they can get their hands on.”

  “True,” The tall man nodded from the comfort of the armchair closest to the largely un-used fireplace and accepted his tea with a smile. “Unfortunately, he didn’t try to use it in a shop.”

  Asim knew what that meant. The BSI had it’s own currency, the British Riyal. Asim liked the pinkish note
s with the image on London on the back.

  Eshan groaned. “Who did he try to bribe Baraq?” He asked, shaking his head at the foolishness of a young man he did not even know.

  “A Border Guard. He wasn’t to realise. When they arrested him he ran, took a bullet in the top of the thigh. I’m amazed he got past the Border at all.”

  “But he got away?”

  “He got away because I bundled him onto a bus in the chaos, and you know how crowded those things are.”

  Eshan leaned back in his own chair and surveyed his brother carefully. Eshan Saidah was younger by three years but life had taken it’s toll on Baraq and he now looked far older than his fifty-two years. He was still strong, still full of the fire and the determination to set the world to rights Eshan remembered admiring in boyhood, but he was tired too, and his once black hair was as grey as the skies used to be over London.

  “How long are we going to do this?” He asked softly, his words meaning far more than anyone other than Baraq and Fadia would recognise. Baraq let his thin body deflate beneath his thawb, a compulsory garment he still resented, and placed his tea on the small table beside him so he could rest his head in his hands.

  “Until they kill me.” He said, his voice flat.

  Eshan accepted this; he felt Fadia slip her fingers into his and squeezed them.

  “They’ve raided us three times this month Baraq.” Fadia reminded him in a small, sad voice.

  Baraq transferred his gaze to his sister-in-law, she was looking older too, more careworn, living under surveillance was exhausting for them all. He regretted that she and her children were involved. “I’m sorry.”

  Fadia lifted her chin in defiance. “Don’t be. Allah is most merciful. The men you bring us need mercy more than anyone.”

  “They do. Unfortunately, there are few who believe that.”

  Asim watched his uncle and his family with his usual interest for a while; when the adults talked they had little time for him although Uncle Baraq had taken to involving Alaia more recently, which Asim thought most unfair. Alaia wasn’t even allowed out of the house alone; what use would she be to anyone? He wondered for a moment why women weren’t allowed to walk anywhere on their own, nobody ever really explained it to him, it was just, not done. Just like it wasn’t done to keep outdoor footwear on inside.

  His mother said she used to play on the streets when she was a girl and there was no Mutaween to scold her and return her to her father in disgrace. His mother went to school too in the old days, just like a boy. The old days, Asim thought, must have been quite different.

  The conversation turned to more mundane subjects and Asim slipped away. Stealing carefully up the wooden staircase to catch a glimpse of their new visitor.

  He was asleep on the mattress in the attic by the water tank; Asim could hear his snores even before he pulled himself up the ladder and poked his head into the musty room lit only by an old-fashioned lamp. There was no electricity in the attic, there had to be no sign anyone ever lived there.

  “Hey.”

  Asim jumped; he thought the man was asleep, his eyes looked closed in the half-light.

  “Um, hi.”

  “You speak English?”

  Asim nodded. “Everyone speaks English.” He considered this for a moment. “We’re meant to speak Arabic in the Madrasah and in public though. My friend Mafuz got lashed for talking in English once.”

  “Right.”

  Asim pulled himself up into the attic and perched on the bare floorboards, squinting at the strange man.

  “Does your leg hurt?”

  “Yes.”

  “You were shot.”

  “I know.”

  “Uncle Baraq says it’s healing.”

  “I have a lot to thank your uncle Baraq for.”

  “He’s downstairs with mama and baba.”

  “Do your parents know about me?”

  Asim nodded. “Yes. They always try to help people who come over the border.”

  The man winced and pulled himself up on the pillows. He was very odd to look at, his hair was as Dark as Asim’s own, dark like coal, but his skin was almost golden.

  “Do others come here?”

  “You’d be surprised how many people from England try to come here.”

  Asim jumped at the sound of his uncle’s voice and turned to see his tall frame haul himself up through the narrow trapdoor.

  The man in the bed squinted. “England doesn’t exist any more.”

  “That’s why they come, some of them.”

  “Why would anyone want to come here?”

  “Why did you?” Baraq had a kind, easy manner. Once, before the world broke in two, he had been a schoolteacher and a father, now he was neither.

  “We already went through why I came.” He shifted beneath the colourful blankets and Asim caught a glimpse of a bandaged leg. “And why I won’t go back.”

  Baraq emerged fully into the cluttered attic, patted Asim on the shoulder and squatted beside the makeshift bed.

  “Are you absolutely sure you don’t want me to help you get back over the border?”

  The man shook his head. “You have no idea what it’s like over there. They’ll send me to a Rainbow Centre.”

  “And here they’ll shoot you.” Baraq mimed a gun with two fingers. “Bang.”

  “Do you know, I’d rather that than a life being forced to change everything about how I think. The gun is more merciful, more real.”

  “Real?”

  “Real.” The man repeated. “Over there, everyone pretends everything is perfect. They pretend we’re all happy and that everyone is free. Here? Here they don’t pretend to be free. They don’t pretend to be tolerant. It’s more honest.”

  Baraq chuckled. “I see your point.” He rubbed his beard thoughtfully. “What you’re asking is tricky my friend.”

  “My Fiancée was abducted. She’s here somewhere. I want her back.”

  Baraq nodded. “The auctions you’re talking about, they’re not legal.”

  “What? I thought it was part of your religion or what have you? I mean, we all saw the slavery as the Islamic State took over Europe.”

  “The Shariah Council outlawed slavery a decade ago. It was a cynical move to legitimize them in the eyes of America. Once the territory was conquered the European State of Islam wanted to distance themselves from terrorism. They aren’t stupid, the people didn’t want slavery and the ESI needs the people on side. There’s probably more human trafficking going on your side of the border than this.”

  “But the Wolves? They raid the border towns all the time. They take people.”

  Baraq frowned in thought. “If you move too much you’ll tear the stitches in your leg. Calm down. I’m aware the Wolves take people, but the Wolves are not part of the BSI.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  Baraq shook his head. “There’s a great deal you don’t understand about the BSI.”

  The man in bed sat up suddenly. “I don’t want to understand! I want my fiancée back! That’s all!”

  “I understand, and I’ll help you, but walking up to the Border guards, slamming two thousand pounds on the desk and demanding – In English for God’s sake – to be taken to the nearest slave-auction is inviting trouble.”

  The man stared into Baraq’s lean face. “For God’s sake? Isn’t that blasphemy or something?”

  “A slip of the tongue.”

  The man flopped back in bed, tears in his eyes. “How do I find her?” He whispered, his earlier anger draining away. “How do I find Missy?” Baraq reached out and placed his hand on the man’s shoulder.

  “Daichi, we will do our best. I promise.”

  The man called Daichi continued to sob into his pillow.

  “Tears won’t help your fiancée.”

  “I – I know.”

  Daichi cried for a little longer before he composed himself and once again sat up in bed. Asim remained by the trapdoor, observing everything that hap
pened. His Uncle Baraq had brought men here before to hide from the Muttaween, Asim was used to keeping his mouth shut.

  “Now, are you quite unable to grow a beard?”

  Daichi raised his own hand to his still smooth face.

  “Genetics I think.” He muttered apologetically, “I tried to grow a goatee at university, took me months.”

  “Hmm. Well, you don’t have months, and beards are a legal requirement for a man here. Which means we can’t dress you as a man.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously. Fortunately you’re slim. I can borrow my sister-in-law’s clothing.”

  “I’m not dressing up as a woman.” Daichi looked appalled. “Suppose someone looks at me closely?”

  “That’s the beauty of the niqab. It only reveals your eyes. You’ll be quite safe as long as I arrange for you to be accompanied. Don’t be stupid and go off on your own. A lone woman will attract just as much attention as an idiot Englishman waving his money around.”

  Daichi nodded. “I’m not really an Englishman, I mean, my father still considered us Japanese.”

  “And what do you consider yourself?”

  Daichi gave an audible swallow. “Lost.” He whispered. “I consider myself lost.

  ~

  Elsie

  “You’ll have to excuse the bumpy journey I’m afraid. The state of these smaller roads is terrible. I suppose there’s not a lot of point in making them a priority.”

  The car is an old one, but beautifully well cared for and I enjoy the sensation of the open window and the fresh air on my skin as we move. It’s a relief to escape Mr. Summerday’s gaze.

  We reach the main road that leads north-west, towards the more dense population areas. Liverpool, Manchester and beyond them, the safety and luxury of Wales. I frown and push some of my hair from my eyes.

  “Is this the right way?” I ask. I use the paths, not the roads, but we seem to be going a very long way around.

  Mr. Jourdete gives a short sigh.

  “I’m afraid I’m not taking you back to your Grandmother’s house Elsie dear.”