by Jason Donald
Dalila nods, her tears flowing easily now.
So yous come here wi nothing and yous get a sofa and a nice wee bed. But me? Me and Ally have lived here wer whole lives and we get nothing. Fuck all. Now I’m asking you, Irene. Is that fair?
I don’t know about these things, she says very softly.
Aye, you do know. It’s an easy question. Is. That. Fair?
No.
No, he says, backing off. No, it’s fuckin not. You think about that, by the way.
Alison grabs his sleeve and pulls him towards the main exit.
See you later, Irene, calls Mick, as the two of them stumble out into the wind.
Dalila covers her mouth with both hands. She tries not to make a sound, tries to hold it in. She jabs the up button and waits for the lift to arrive. When it opens a family spills out towards her. She turns, pushes through the fire-escape doors and starts running up the stairs, she keeps going for seventeen floors, right to the top.
At her front door she fights with her keys, breathing hard, barely able to stand. She looks over her shoulder, feeling they are right there. That they might rush up behind her at any moment. The key fits, the door opens and she slams it shut behind her, bolts it, flicks the bolt on the Yale lock, clips on the chain and peers through the spy hole. The landing is empty. Her legs tremble with adrenalin till they can’t hold her, and she slumps to the floor.
A knock at the door startles her. Dalila holds her breath, certain the drunk man, Mick, is banging on her door. She hasn’t seen him since yesterday and never wants to see him again. Is he drunk, trying to get in? Another knock. It’s softer, almost hesitant. Maybe it’s Mrs Gilroy? Or Paul from the Housing Association, but Paul never knocks.
Dalila approaches, placing one bare foot carefully in front of the other. She listens. Someone is out there. She hears movement. A whispering.
The knock comes again, more deliberate this time. Dalila freezes in the hallway. She knows she should just go back to her room and ignore whoever is outside. If the knocking continues she’ll look for the number to call the police.
Dali, shouts Ma’aza, from the bathroom. Who is at the door? If Paul is there, say he must go away. He must fix the heater in here or leave us alone.
Dalila moves closer and peeps through the spy hole. Olcay’s face bulges in the lens.
Hello? calls Dalila.
Hello? comes Olcay’s voice. Hello . . . is . . . Olcay.
Dalila opens the door a few inches.
Hiya, says Parla, the oldest daughter. My mum wants to know if it’s alright if we stay with you for a bit ’cause she’s got to report and my dad is at computer class and hasn’t come back yet.
Dalila looks at the two girls and then at the mother.
My mum thinks it’s safer if we stay with you while she signs. We’ve got homework to do and stuff. We won’t bother you.
Little Rosa grins up at Dalila and says, I’ve got colouring to do. Two whole pages.
Dalila unclips the chain and opens the door. Come in, please, she says.
Olcay talks to Parla and Parla quickly translates for Dalila, saying, My mum says she’ll only be away for an hour. She’s gonna text my dad and tell him we’re here. He might be back before she is. She says thanks for looking after us.
Thank you. Thank you, says Olcay, taking Dalila’s hand.
It’s okay. It’s no problem, says Dalila, feeling quite enthusiastic about having the girls in the flat with her. Please, you are welcome.
The girls run into the flat as Olcay pushes the lift button. Dalila glances around the landing before closing and locking the door.
When Dalila comes into the kitchen she finds the girls standing side by side staring at the room.
Who is that? says Rosa, pointing at the photographs Ma’aza has taped to the wall by her bed.
Those are not mine, says Dalila. There is another lady who lives here too. Those pictures are her family, I think.
Where is the lady?
She is in the bathroom.
Oh.
What happened to your arm? asks Rosa.
Dalila glances at the bandage around her wrist. It’s nothing. It just got burned . . . an accident.
The girls stare at her.
Her mind rummages for a diversion. What would her mother do? Who wants to have snacks with homework? she asks.
Me, shouts the little one, hopping on one leg. Me, me, me.
Okay, if you start your homework, I’ll make us all snacks.
Rosa crumples to the floor, opens her schoolbag and spills pencils and crayons across the green carpet. She is soon kneeling and colouring with focused effort while her sister sits at the kitchen table and opens her books. Dalila looks through the cupboards while the girls work. There’s a couple of apples and a single Mars bar. She slices them up and arranges alternate slices of chocolate and apple around a plate.
Ma’aza enters wrapped in a towel with another around her head. Dalila and the two girls are sitting on the carpet in the middle of her room. Dalila is reading aloud from a story book while the girls squish chocolate slices between their fingers.
Ma’aza’s hands go to her hips. She dishes Dalila a flat, ice-cold stare.
They are the children from next door, says Dalila.
I know who they are.
Are you the lady what lives with Irene? asks Rosa.
Yes, I am. I am Ma’aza.
Irene is reading us a story.
I can see, Ma’aza replies.
I think Ma’aza is a bit tired, says Dalila to the girls. Who wants to finish the story in my room?
Me, me, says Rosa.
Dalila gets up and says, Before that, we must tidy up all these pencils and put them in your bag. Okay?
While the girls repack their school bags, Dalila drags Ma’aza into the hallway. I’m sorry, she whispers, but the mother just brought the girls. She said her reporting time was changed. What could I do?
Ma’aza sighs through her nose. How long will they stay?
Dalila glances back towards the kitchenette. I think one hour, maybe. The father might come for them. I’m sorry, Ma’aza, I didn’t mean . . .
Is okay, says Ma’aza, flicking away the apology with the back of her hand. They like you. I can see. Better for them to stay here and not be alone next door.
Dalila nods. Yes, I will keep them away from your room.
Is okay. Really, is okay, says Ma’aza. I am not angry, only tired. And the children are good for you. Is okay.
In her bedroom, Dalila sits on her bed with her back against the wall. The girls sit either side. As she is about to continue the story, Rosa asks, Why have you got no hair?
I have hair. But it is just very short.
Do you cut it all off?
Yes.
Can I touch it?
Okay.
Rosa climbs up onto Dalila’s lap and her fingers reach out and explore Dalila’s scalp.
I like it, she says. I want hair like yours.
Dalila laughs and says, And I wish to have hair like yours.
Maybe we can swap? says Rosa, grabbing handfuls of her own hair and leaning towards Dalila’s face.
I know, says Parla, you stand behind her and put your hair over her head.
At this, all three of them get giggly. Rosa jumps up and stands on the bed behind Dalila, placing her cheek on top of Dalila’s head, allowing her thick wild curls to flop down across Dalila’s face.
Parla lets out a snort of laughter and reaches for her phone.
Take a picture. Take a picture, squeals Rosa.
Dalila is almost limp with laughing as she arranges the hair down one side of her face, and for a moment she can feel the laughter’s pull threatening to tilt over into tears. But it doesn’t. The shutter sound clicks on Parla’s phone as she takes one photo after another, while Dalila’s emotions settle.
Let’s see. I wanna see. Show me, says Rosa, leaping off the bed and grabbing for the phone. She hoots and flops to the ground,
rolls onto her back in fits of laughter. Show Irene, she insists, show her.
Dalila takes the phone and looks at the screen. A smiley woman with black hair all across her face stares back. A thin, uncertain woman she hardly recognises.
When Olcay returns, her face is flushed. She rubs warmth back into her knuckles as her eyes dart around Dalila’s flat looking for her daughters.
I will make tea, says Dalila.
Rosa gets off the bed as soon as she sees her mother and hugs her thighs. But Parla waits in the doorway, studying her mother.
Dalila offers tea again, looking to Parla to translate.
After exchanging a few words with her mother, Parla turns to Dalila and says, We have to go. But my mum says you’re welcome to come and visit with us.
Yes, okay, says Dalila.
The four of them move next door as mother and daughters negotiate over something until it feels to Dalila like a plan for the evening has been formulated and each of them knows their tasks.
Dalila sits at their kitchen table as Olcay sets the kettle to boil. She watches Olcay move around her kitchen, placing chicken thighs to roast in the oven, chopping vegetables and rinsing utensils. She works with fervour, as if to distract herself, or perhaps to assert herself so solidly into this kitchen that everything outside becomes distant.
From the bathroom comes the sound of water running into the bath and the girls talking busily to each other. Soon, Parla comes through into the kitchen carrying an armful of dirty laundry. In English she says, Rosa is having her bath. Is there any juice left?
She shoves the laundry into the washing machine. Then she opens the fridge door, gazes at the shelves and closes the door again.
For the first time this evening Olcay slows down. She wipes her hands on a dishcloth and leans her hip against the counter. She chats with Parla, but soon her mood becomes more intent and her voice lowers so the little one in the bath can’t hear.
Dalila watches, wondering if she should even be here, but the feeling of being included in a circle of women who are discussing important things is a feeling she can’t walk away from.
Is everything okay? she finds herself asking Parla.
Parla twists her mouth in a manner which indicates things are difficult and there are problems with no easy answers.
We’ve been refused, she says.
Dalila looks from daughter to mother, not exactly sure what they mean.
Last week they refused our claim, says Parla. They said we have to go back to Turkey. Yesterday they changed the reporting times for my parents and they stopped giving us money. Everybody is upset because we cannot go back. My sister was even born here.
Olcay sits down at the table. It’s clear she understands more English than she speaks. She says something to her daughter in Turkish. Parla looks at Dalila and says in English, My mum wants to thank you for looking after us this afternoon.
It’s no problem, says Dalila. You have lovely children.
Olcay nods her thanks. She says something else to her daughter and Parla translates, My mum thinks that when they change reporting times, it’s a sign. It means they want to get us out of the country.
Parla listens to her mother again and then says, That’s what they do. It’s like a trap. They change the reporting times to after school hours, so the mums have to show up with their kids and then they take everyone together. They’ll put us in a van and take us to the detention centre. After that, it’s a plane to Turkey. It’s happened like this before to other families. My friend at school, Jamilah, they did this to her family and now they are back in Somalia.
The mother talks and the daughter listens and then says to Dalila, Mum wants us to stay with you when she signs, if that’s okay. It’s safer. They won’t deport the parents and leave their children behind.
Dalila nods. You are welcome any time. Please, any time.
For a moment the three of them sit and look at each other. All three smile as they listen to little Rosa talking to herself in the bath. It surprises Dalila that she has been trusted with so much so quickly. What will you do? she asks.
Olcay understands the question without it having to be translated. She explains through her daughter that, apparently, nothing can be done. Their solicitor has appealed but she holds little hope for a positive outcome. They refuse almost everyone and recently there are stories of dawn raids happening again.
What is this? says Dalila.
Here Parla answers directly without waiting for her mother to speak. It’s when the Immigration people come into your house, she says. They come early in the morning, and break the door and take everyone away. My other friend, they also took her. I phoned her in the detention centre and she told me everything. She said they came early, lots of them, and they all looked like police or the army. They woke everyone up and made them get dressed and put them in the van. They drove far, to England somewhere, and put her whole family in detention. She said they put handcuffs on her father and after a while his hands swelled up and he couldn’t move his fingers.
Olcay explains something to Parla and points for her daughter to translate. My mum says the Immigration always come in winter, says Parla. They come early, early in the morning because they know the whole family will be at home. Now some people are even sleeping on the stairs. You know the stairs next to the lift?
The fire escape? asks Dalila.
Yes. They stay there all night, listening for the footsteps. It’s very cold and sometimes we bring them tea.
What happens if they take you back? asks Dalila.
Parla shrugs and says, We can’t go back. Also, I have exams soon so I have to stay for that.
Olcay looks directly at Dalila and starts telling her story. Parla translates every word. My dad is a good man, she tells Dalila. Every day of his life he gets up early, washes and shaves, and gets dressed for work. Even in this country he gets up and puts on his suit and goes out. My mum says he is dignified. He gave a home to his wife and education to his daughters. He worked at the airport in Turkey, checking deliveries from all the different planes. He was a customs officer. One day some co-workers in the airport told him to sign for crates that were not on the list. They asked him because my family are Christians. These men said they knew his address and they knew he had a daughter, so it was best if he signed.
Parla tells the story with dispassion, suggesting she has told it many times before. My father refused, she goes on to say, because of his honour. He went to his manager and filed a complaint and he informed airport security about these bad people.
The next morning, Parla translates without glancing at her mother, when we woke up my father’s car was on fire. He called the police but they could do nothing. When he went to work they threatened him. His boss told him he should just sign the papers and don’t worry about nothing. But my father wouldn’t sign.
Olcay’s hands tremble as she speaks and Dalila feels the force of this woman’s story moving into her own heart.
Two days later, we found a cat and a kitten in front of our house, both females, their bellies split open.
Dalila glances at Parla as she translates these details. The girl shows no reaction, concentrating only on the sentences flowing through her.
My father took our money from the bank and bought a new car and my mum packed clothes and photographs into our suitcases. In the night, we drove away. We drove all across Europe, because it was not safe to fly from Turkey. My uncle lives here, in Glasgow, so we came to stay with him. When we arrived here there was not much room to stay in his flat. He said we must claim asylum, because they will help us. So now we are here.
Dalila nods, not sure what to say next. Where is your father now? she asks.
I think he is at computer class, says Parla. He always goes out, to English class, to the library to use the internet, or to sit with the other men at the cafe.
Olcay talks, as if to herself. Parla translates anyway. My dad is sad. He says it’s his fault that we are here, and b
ecause of him we all suffer. He wants to make everything okay. But he can’t do nothing because it’s not safe to go back and he can’t work. It is very bad for him here.
Rosa calls from the bathroom and her mother calls back. Giggling, Rosa comes running into the kitchen with a towel around her shoulders, her hair is wet and flat against the sides of her face. Olcay stands and starts complaining in Turkish and Rosa whines and darts out of the kitchen, leaving little wet footprints on the linoleum. As Olcay goes to check on the little one, Parla turns to Dalila.
We are worried for my father, she whispers. He is a good man . . . but he is so sad. Mama believes he might go back to Turkey alone, to make it safe for us. But if he goes . . .
Parla glances towards the noise in the bathroom and turns back to Dalila. I am scared for my father.
Dalila counts thirteen days of rain. Thirteen days without sunshine. Some days, spits of moisture hang stationary in the air. Other days, rain drenches the city.
Every day she walks. Hands stuffed deep into her pockets, hat pulled down to her eyebrows. She squints this way and that, watching out for Markus or a shape that might be him. But every day she walks.
She sometimes takes Ma’aza’s umbrella, sheltering under its hood, and there are days when, believing the pale sky holds no rain, she ventures out into the wind clad in her puffer coat and woollen cap, but returns damp nonetheless.
Nothing changes. Sameness is the way of things. One day resembles the next with yawning openness.
She walks to Festival Court twice a week and sits in the waiting room for hours with others of her kind before swiping her ARC card. She walks to the Post Office in the semi-deserted mall and collects her money.
For a while, Muthoni is her sunlight. Every morning there is a new Facebook message waiting for Dalila. They type furiously, telling all there is to tell until her time runs out and she has to leave the library. But after many afternoons of typing, Dalila finds that all the telling is told and the replies from Muthoni get shorter. Some days Dalila finds herself sitting alone at the computer flicking through Facebook photos. Each picture is a window to a life she used to love and wants to have again, but also a reminder of how removed she has become.