Dalila

by Jason Donald

  In the park, she tramples on rusted autumn leaves sprinkled across the tarmac pathways and she moves across the green grass between old trees, running her gloved finger across their bark, and on good days she senses their ancient calm wash down on her.

  The overpass above the motorway is her favourite place to stop. Leaning on the handrail she stares down at the cars. Three lanes of white headlights coming towards her, while across the central reservation red brake lights glide off in the opposite direction. All in perfect rows. All neat and obedient and so unlike the chaos of Nairobi city driving.

  In the supermarket, she touches the unusually small fruits and vegetables, trying to decipher their readiness. She buys milk and tea and bread and crisps and apples. Apples were a rare treat back home but here there are boxloads of many varieties, and they are always good. On her way home she passes the crumbling tower block with its internal wallpapers exposed to the elements. The crane scrapes and nibbles at the masonry and she marks its daily disassembling.

  She walks to the city, where the friendliness of the people is apparent. They smoke and talk outside the pub entrances. They call to each other across the street. Friends sit side by side in coffee-shop windows and show each other things on their phones.

  In the city square, she sits on a bench like a tourist, or an elderly person, watching the people with purpose move from one necessity to the next. The square is paved with red tarmac. Statues and ornate buildings stand in silent decoration. Not a single tree or bush or flower bed is to be seen. Only the pigeons, pecking at the concrete, remind her of the natural world.

  In the noise of it all, she is silent.

  The people are foreign to her and their histories and struggles are hidden. What she knows of them may be different from what is there. Sitting in this square, her home feels remote and dreamlike and among these pale faces she struggles to recall the face of her own mother, her father.

  She doesn’t sit for too long, always feeling the need to keep walking.

  From the city centre, she takes the path along the river named Clyde. The water never noticeably flows in any direction, boats rarely cut across its wind-chopped surface, but the river has presence, a brown-grey stillness built on curling currents of profound power. The proximity of water changes people. Cyclists give a quick nod as they pedal on against the wind, and some pedestrians, the older ones, even say a brief hello. The air carries a mulchy scent of seaweed and engine oil and rainwater rests in the straight furrows between the paving slabs.

  She walks on and on till she loses herself or feels she has got to know herself, and on longer walks she wonders if losing and finding might be the same thing.

  Dalila opens her eyes, fully aware of herself, her senses poised. The dark blue predawn enters between the curtains. The threads of a dream linger, waiting just behind the door of her thoughts. She tongues her lips and turns onto her side, wrapping the blankets tighter across her shoulders, rearranging the pillow under the curve of her neck.

  Outside, in the hallway, the lift door opens with a ping. The fire-escape door on the landing also creaks open. Footsteps climb the stairs, but the placement of each foot is too deliberate, too careful.

  Dalila raises her head.

  Shuffling, perhaps whispering, comes from outside the front door.

  She holds her breath to sharpen her hearing.

  An open hand slaps the door three times.

  Immigration! shouts a male voice. Open the door. Open the door!

  In a burst of panic, she scrambles, wrestling with the bedcovers, knocking her glass of water on the floor. She trips, her chest slamming to the ground. Winded, she rolls backwards under the bed till she’s pinned against the wall. She tucks her knees up to her chest, the muscles in her neck pull rigid. The bed springs suspended just above her face.

  Immigration! We know you’re in there, right, so open up. Open the door!

  A scream comes through the wall, the sudden noise having frightened little Rosa. The officers hear this too and the door-slapping becomes prolonged and vigorous.

  You have to open the door. This is Her Majesty’s Office of Home Affairs. We need to talk to you. Open the door.

  Dalila’s heart hammers against her chest, blood pumps up her neck, through her ears, dampening the sound of the door being bashed. She twists the blankets around her fists, clenches her teeth.

  We are not going to hurt you. But if you don’t open the door we have the authority to force our way in. Open the door. Now!

  She doesn’t answer, she can’t. The water glass lies broken on its side, the carpet around it dark and wet. Maybe, if she keeps silent, they will give up and go away. Will they believe she isn’t home? If she stays silent, they might move on to the next case, and perhaps, in time, forget about her altogether.

  She shakes her head, angry at herself for daydreaming. They are coming, Dali, she says to herself. What will you do?

  The urge to run is powerful, to move quickly, with purpose, fully in charge of her own body, her own direction. But the front door is blocked and the back door leads to a small balcony seventeen floors up. Perhaps she could climb, or jump, across to a neighbour’s balcony? She imagines the freezing morning air rushing through her nightdress as her bare feet balance on the railings. If she could make it down the stairs and out, her feet carrying her across early-morning streets and football fields and through the woods, she would just keep going, settling into long strides. She would run for miles.

  A fist pounds the door. Then the voice, Open this door!

  She wants to try the balcony. Her breath comes in short gasps, her arms won’t stop quivering.

  The door to her bedroom opens. Dalila squeals, kicks, pushing herself deeper into the corner under her bed.

  Dalila, my sister, don’t be afraid. It’s me, Ma’aza, she whispers.

  The bare feet approach her bed.

  Dalila? Where are you?

  Ma’aza touches the mattress. She kneels down and looks under the bed.

  It’s okay. Don’t be afraid.

  Dalila exhales, short and sharp. What’s happening? she asks. Will they take us? As she speaks the tears rise in her throat.

  Ma’aza places her finger to her lips. Shh. They only take one family at a time. Today, we are safe. We are safe.

  Dalila looks at her, but doesn’t move.

  Ma’aza points to her ear, then to the wall. Together they listen. They hear crying, children wailing, words called in Turkish.

  They come to take the Erdem family, says Ma’aza.

  The officers bang the door three more times and stop. This time the sound is easier for Dalila to discern, it’s not her front door being hammered, but the one right next door. The Erdems’ front door. Screaming, pitched with fear, comes through the walls. A child’s screaming. To Dalila’s ears it sounds like little Rosa. There is more banging on the door. Then a voice from inside the neighbours’ flat calls out.

  Okay. I . . . open . . . door. Just wait.

  It’s Olcay’s voice. Hoping to hear more clearly, Dalila turns onto her back, staring straight up through the darkness at the faint criss-cross of bed springs.

  We . . . get . . . dress, she hears Olcay say.

  No. You open the door right now! We aren’t going to harm you or your family but it’s important that you open the door immediately.

  Shuffling and movement come from inside their flat. A frantic, hushed energy seeps through the walls as Dalila’s mind races to make sense of the sounds. Is that bare feet running down the corridor? A cupboard door being slammed? Whispering? Something heavy being moved? Sobbing? She thinks she can hear Rosa crying.

  This is your last warning. If you don’t open right now we are—

  Okay. Okay, says Olcay. We . . . no . . . make trouble.

  For a second, a breathless silence exists, everyone is listening. The sound of the Yale lock and then the chain being taken off the latch.

  A stampede of boots rushes into the small flat, forcing their
way down the corridor from the front door. Many voices are talking at once. Shouting. Barking orders at the family. The voices of male and female officers carry over the sobs and cries from Rosa and her mother. It’s impossible for Dalila to work out how many people are moving around in that cramped living space. She imagines the officers stepping on toys, opening cupboards, looking through the bathroom cabinets, checking the contents of the fridge, opening curtains.

  Ma’aza reaches under the bed and touches her on the shoulder. It is okay, she whispers. It is safe. Come out. She motions for Dalila to crawl to her, out from under the bed. Come, she says.

  Slowly, Dalila drags herself free from the tangle of bedding and pulls herself out from under her bed. As soon as she is out, Ma’aza embraces her. They stand together in the darkness. Dalila’s toes grip the thin, coarse carpet. She allows her arms to ease themselves straight. She spreads her fingers, sensing the room, feeling her way to the next move.

  We are safe today, Ma’aza says. You understand? They only take one family at a time. We are safe. So be strong, my sister.

  Dalila tries to control her trembling and nods. Maybe we should leave?

  No, says Ma’aza, we stay. We don’t go out. We can hear everything better from this room.

  They sit down on the bed with their heads near the wall. Through the chaos of sounds and movement, certain phrases punch out with clarity.

  . . . We are representatives of Her Majesty’s Office of Home Affairs and we have orders for your immediate removal . . .

  . . . Get dressed . . .

  . . . note, there are children on the premises . . .

  . . . Where’s your father? . . .

  . . . I’ve got a minor through here . . .

  . . . Calm down! . . .

  . . . No! No phone calls . . .

  I want . . . phone . . . my solicitor, Dalila hears Olcay demand.

  We are holding your mobile phones for the meantime but they will be returned to you. Besides, it’s Sunday. You understand Sunday? Yes? Your solicitor won’t be at work today. Now come, put some clothes on.

  . . . Where’s your father? Where’s Mr Erdem? . . .

  . . . No, don’t pack anything. You can’t take your bags, just get dressed and come . . .

  There is more banging, scuffling, closer this time.

  Parla, the oldest daughter, suddenly shrieks, Get away from me! Don’t touch me!

  Her voice is clear, close, inches away. Only cream-coloured paint, stippled wallpaper and cold concrete separate them. Parla’s voice is angrier, more assertive than her mother’s.

  Leave me alone! she screams. We didn’t do anything. Why are you doing this to us? We didn’t do anything. You can’t do this to us.

  A Scottish woman’s voice shouts back, Miss, if you keep kicking we’ll be forced to restrain you. Now, stop crying and try to calm down. You’re going to be fine. We’re taking you back to your real home.

  I can’t leave now. I have exams at school and everything.

  Just get dressed and come quietly.

  Take your hands off me! screams Parla. I want to go to my mother.

  No, first get dressed. It’s cold outside.

  I want my mother. Mama! Mama!

  Be quiet, shouts the Scottish woman officer. If you don’t calm down you’ll be the first one out the door, right? And you’ll sit in the van by yourself till your family’s ready. Do you understand?

  Silence.

  I said, do you understand? The voice is angrier now.

  Yes.

  Right, well, take off those pyjamas and put on some proper clothes.

  Okay, close the door, says Parla.

  No. The door stays open. Officer Mackenzie and I have to stay with you while you put your clothes on. Quickly now!

  I hate you! shrieks Parla. You are all dogs. Less than dogs!

  This is your last warning, miss. Keep your voice down. Here, put these on. And you better wear this too, it’s bitter out there and you’ve a long journey ahead of you.

  Other voices start shouting now, with renewed intensity from deeper in the house.

  Ma’aza grabs Dalila by the hand and leads her to the front door. The voices are louder here. Ma’aza places her splayed fingers against the wall by the door. She rises onto her tiptoes, arching the pale undersides of her feet, and moves her eye very close to the spy hole. No part of her touches the door. She balances and watches.

  The sound of officers’ voices and boots squeaking on the tiles come through the door. Then Dalila hears Olcay’s voice on the outside landing. She hears the lift ping open.

  Ma’aza turns around and says, They take the mother and the little one. Look.

  Dalila edges towards the front door. She places a hand on the wall and peeks through the spy hole. For a moment the fish-eye lens distorts the landing and the people right outside her door but her vision quickly adjusts. Olcay and Rosa aren’t there. Five male and two female immigration officers are discussing something. They look like police, with their black uniforms, bulletproof vests and handcuffs glinting on their belts. One woman is holding a clipboard. Their body language is nervous. A plump officer is pointing at the clipboard and telling the others what to do.

  The door across the landing opens and Mrs Gilroy steps out, dressed in a pale blue dressing gown and slippers, her white hair wild and uncombed. She has Toby in one arm, who starts barking incessantly.

  Yous should be ashamed o yersells! she says, pointing her finger at the group of officers. The lot o you! It’s a disgrace what you’re doing to that family. An absolute bloody disgrace! These are decent folk you’re messing with. It’s no right what yous are doing.

  A female officer turns to her and says, Ma’am, we understand you might be upset, but this doesn’t concern you. Please return to your home.

  Toby barks and barks.

  It bloody well does concern me! These are my neighbours. They’re good people. You cannae just burst in here and do this to them.

  Calm down, ma’am, says the female officer, raising both hands as if to push Mrs Gilroy back into her flat. If you wish to lodge a complaint you are free to send a letter to our Brand Street offices. But you need to lodge your protest peacefully. You will be charged if you interfere with our operation. The officer keeps moving closer and closer to Mrs Gilroy as she speaks, forcing the old woman back into her flat.

  Oh, you’ll be hearing my protest right enough, shouts Mrs Gilroy, as she backs into her flat. It’s no right what’s going on here. This is a free country!

  Two officers exit the flat, trying to manoeuvre Parla into the lift. She lurches towards her flat, clawing at the door frame, screaming, Baba! No, Baba! Baba, please!

  The officers prise her fingers loose and hoist her up by the armpits, dragging her out. Kicking and thrashing, she breaks free and scrambles back into the flat, howling, Baba, Baba, no!

  What is happening? asks Ma’aza.

  Dalila moves away from the spy hole. I don’t know. They are trying to take Parla, she says.

  Let me see, Ma’aza demands. She places her face against the spy hole, not afraid this time to touch the door. She watches for a few seconds.

  Sounds of shouting and crying and shuffling push through the wooden door. Dalila places her hands on her face and listens. She picks out Parla’s voice but loses it among the other deeper voices.

  The shouting escalates and then, oddly, there is a change of tone. The barked orders become a heated discussion. It is difficult to pick out phrases but Dalila senses something isn’t right. Their energy has shifted from aggressive to anxious.

  Ma’aza quickly turns to her and says, Come.

  They run through their dark flat to Ma’aza’s room. Mr Erdem is shouting, his voice getting clearer as they approach the kitchenette, and then the balcony. Dalila can make out the threat in his voice. Ma’aza peels back the curtain on the balcony door and tries to see what is going on. The officers’ voices are more distinct.

  . . . come with us, sir . . .r />
  . . . Mr Erdem, there’s no need to get upset . . .

  . . . quick, somebody grab him, for God’s sake . . .

  Ma’aza opens the door and frosty air rushes into their flat.

  What are you doing? whispers Dalila, grabbing Ma’aza’s arm. Don’t go out there!

  Ma’aza looks at her and calmly says, Is okay. She steps out onto the balcony, her flannel pyjamas rippling in the wind.

  The voices from next door are very clear now.

  . . . you better get the bloody fire service on the phone. Call an ambulance too, just in case . . .

  . . . he’s taken a freaky . . .

  . . . Mr Erdem, we need you to calm down. No one is going to hurt you or your family. . . .

  Ma’aza places both hands on the railing and leans over slightly, trying to see what is happening next door. The sky is lighter now but the sun has yet to rise. The tower block across the street is a violet silhouette. Black birds move across the navy sky.

  . . . Sir, I am asking you to please step inside . . .

  Mr Erdem is talking wildly in Turkish, switching now and again to English. Stay away! I do nothing wrong.

  Ma’aza is peering more intently over to their neighbours’ flat and Dalila finds herself stepping out onto the cold concrete balcony floor. She places her hand on the railing and sees the ground swim seventeen floors below. Leaning out, she peeks around the panel dividing the balconies. Mr Erdem is straddling the railing, his bare left foot planted firmly on the balcony, his right dangling free. Many of the people in their tower block have woken up. Heads appear from the windows and balconies above and below.

  More shouting comes from inside the neighbours’ flat. Parla is sobbing and crying for her father. Baba! Baba, please!

  Somebody get her out of here! shouts an officer.

  Leave my child! shouts Mr Erdem. He moves to go to his daughter and at the same time the arms of officers reach out to grab him and pull him in. Everyone is shouting. Mr Erdem fights the officers off and struggles free. He swings his other leg over the rail and everyone backs off.