by Jason Donald
. . . whoa, calm down. Just relax, sir . . .
Only his bare toes balance on the balcony, his fingers clutch the railing.
Go away! Go away! Leave my family! he shouts.
. . . Okay, Okay. Sir, just calm down . . .
A siren sounds in the distance.
. . . That’s the Emergency Services on the scene . . .
. . . Thank Christ. Right, everybody just back off . . .
The blue lights of a fire engine flicker in the distance as it races along the road. When Dalila turns back to look at Mr Erdem he has moved. He is facing out, balancing on his heels, his arms stretched out behind him holding the railing.
. . . Mr Erdem, just remain calm. This will all be over in a minute . . .
I don’t go back to Turkey! shouts Mr Erdem. They will hurt my family, my girls. We do nothing bad.
On the ground below sit the two white vans waiting to take away the family. Officers on the ground stare up. A few residents in their dressing gowns stand on the lawn, looking and pointing up. The officers move them back and start creating a perimeter. The wail of the fire engine siren calls across the morning. Mr Erdem looks out at the horizon towards the place where the sun will soon rise.
Ma’aza turns to Dalila. This is bad, she whispers. Very bad.
The fire engine approaches their tower block, another one is coming along the road followed by two police cars.
Mr Erdem doesn’t look down. He lets go with his right hand. He touches his mouth, his forehead, and lets his hand drift up to the fading stars. Then his left hand lets go.
He falls.
He makes no sound.
The wind rushes through his clothes.
No one, not a single person, can breathe.
Wind.
A hard wind.
The squawk of seagulls.
Sirens and screaming.
Hysterical screaming.
And the squawk of seagulls on the wind.
Each sound distinct. Each with its own weight, drawing closer. The wind, the screaming, the sirens, the squawks, converging and growing louder and higher, into horrific harmonies rattling in Dalila’s skull. She feels dizzy from the screaming, the awful, hysterical screaming. The world blurs.
You okay? says Ma’aza. Hey. Sister. You okay?
Dalila throws herself towards the kitchen counter and vomits in the sink.
Ish! Ma’aza jumps back, checking to see if any got splashed on her pyjamas.
Dalila heaves again, but nothing comes and she slumps to the floor. When the room returns to focus, she finds herself on a chair. Ma’aza turns on the tap and rinses the sink and then offers Dalila a glass of water.
Drink, says Ma’aza. Breathe and drink.
Ma’aza returns to the balcony and leans over the railing. She glances left and then right, looking far off towards the horizon. She twists, leaning over backwards, peering up at their own building.
Dalila has to look. She rinses her mouth, spits in the sink and then rinses again. Still holding the glass of water, she steps back out onto the balcony. An icy wind gusts up against the side of the building and her toes splay and rise off the freezing-cold concrete. She reaches for the railing and looks down.
The body lies face down on the lawn near the car park.
Like a sleeping man.
No blood.
No mangled limbs.
People in uniform edge towards the body, taking little steps, as if not to disturb him. Finally, a man kneels down close to Mr Erdem’s face and places two fingers against his jugular.
Residents, out in their dressing gowns and slippers, gather closer. Everyone looks. People in the crowd cover their mouths, some put their hands on their heads. In turn, each face gazes up, open-mouthed, at where this body came from.
The body just lies there.
Dalila waits for him to twitch, half expecting Mr Erdem to get up, dust off his clothes and apologise to the police. But he continues to lie there, face down.
This is bad, says Ma’aza. Believe me, is bad.
But Dalila can’t believe. She can’t believe he is gone. That is Mr Erdem lying on the grass. It is his body, not a dead body. That is still him. He is right there.
Ma’aza sucks air through her teeth. Bad, bad, bad, she says. We must move. Now.
She grips Dalila’s arm and pulls her back into the kitchenette. Come. Get dressed, she says. We have to get . . . Hey, Dalila. Look at me. We have to get ready.
For what?
I don’t know. Anything. The police, maybe they come here to ask their questions. Maybe they can evacuate this floor, say we must all leave. We must get ready now.
Running to her bed, Ma’aza scoops a pair of jeans off the floor. She steps out of her pyjamas and, hopping for balance, steps into the jeans.
Go, she shouts at Dalila. Get dress. Now.
Dalila rushes to her bedroom and throws on her warmest clothes. She takes two ten-pound notes from her purse and slips one into her bra and the other into her sock. The rest of the change she leaves in her purse. Her family photos, Home Office papers and extra underwear all get stuffed into her handbag. She runs into the bathroom and grabs her toothbrush, a bar of soap, moisturiser. Ma’aza moves along the hall and the front door opens and closes.
Dalila steps into the hallway. Ma’aza? she calls.
Nothing.
Ma’aza, are you here?
She goes to the front door and peeks through the spy hole. Officers. Police.
She checks Ma’aza’s room. Nothing.
She steps out onto the balcony and sees that someone has pulled a sheet over Mr Erdem. The fire engine’s red light sweeps across the shocked faces of the onlookers. Police are sectioning off a large perimeter with tape and there are more white vans now, and police vans with wire mesh across the windscreens. Over to the side, she spots Ma’aza walking towards the scene with her long, determined strides. Ma’aza pushes her way to the front, right up to the tape. She looks at the body for a moment and then lifts her face up. Dalila can feel Ma’aza looking at her. Knowing Ma’aza would have picked her out among all the other residents huddled and watching from their balconies.
She waits for a wave but Ma’aza lowers her head, shoulders her way through the crowd and marches off towards the city centre. Dalila runs to her room, slings her bag over her shoulder, snatches her keys and runs back to the balcony to get one last look at the direction Ma’aza is heading. But she can’t see her. She traces the empty streets but Ma’aza has disappeared.
Where will she go? Dalila thinks. Who would she go to? She thinks hard about all the people Ma’aza knows. Tries to predict the most likely places Ma’aza would visit, but she has no idea. And in failing to come up with answers a deeper answer gradually opens inside her. She has no idea where Ma’aza goes or who she knows or what she does while she’s away. She doesn’t know Ma’aza at all. There has only ever been the sense, the assumption, that Ma’aza is busy doing something.
From somewhere comes a muffled ringing. She checks her phone but it’s not that. The ringing continues, coming from elsewhere. She checks Ma’aza’s bed, lifts the duvet, the pillow, looking for a phone, but finds none. She checks the coats hanging by the front door, the pockets. It sounds like it’s coming from her bedroom. A long urgent trill, then a pause, before another a long, questioning trill. The sound comes from near her bed. Dalila stares at her bedroom wall. The ringing is coming from there. It’s the Erdems’ phone from next door, ringing and ringing, refusing to go unanswered. The officers talk in lowered voices and still the phone calls out.
She stands in her bedroom staring at the wall, wondering what to do next. The ringing stops and, for a moment, the only sound is her own blood pulsing and pulsing.
The phone starts up again, shrill and insistent.
Dalila splashes water on her face and rinses her mouth. The bitter taste of vomit still lingers. She brushes her teeth with shaking hands, working the bristles hard against her gums and never daring to
look at herself in the mirror. She spits, rinses. Her stomach turns and she quickly sits on the toilet as her bowels void themselves.
What should I do? What must I do? She takes out her mobile phone and calls Ma’aza. No answer. Daniel. Will he be up yet? Will he even have heard what’s happened?
Someone raps the letterbox on her front door. There is more knocking. Dalila approaches, her hand covering her mouth. Through the spy hole she recognises the face of Mrs Gilroy. The knocking comes again and she opens.
Oh, will you look at yourself, says Mrs Gilroy. Poor thing. You’ve the fear of God on your face. C’mon, let me in.
Dalila glances at the policemen crammed onto the landing. She unclips the chain and opens the door. Mrs Gilroy, still in her slippers and holding her dog to her chest, enters and Dalila locks the door again. They stand facing each other, waiting for the other to speak. Dalila opens her mouth, her throat braces up and the tears trickle down her face.
Och, love, you’ve had an awful fright, haven’t you? Mrs Gilroy reaches out and gives Dalila’s hand a little squeeze. There now. It’s alright. You’re alright, love. Why don’t we make some tea, heh? Have you got tea?
Dalila nods. She sniffs.
Right then. Old women like me need wer tea first thing in the morning.
They move to the kitchenette, where Dalila sets a pan of milk to heat on the stove.
Mrs Gilroy puts Toby down and he starts exploring the floor, nose down, tail wagging. Dalila edges away from the dog.
Mrs Gilroy opens the back door and steps out onto the balcony. She places both hands on the railing and looks down. Jesus, God Almighty. That’s him, isn’t it? She shakes her head and pulls her dressing gown around herself. I cannae believe it. It’s a sin what happened here.
A noise distracts her, and Mrs Gilroy looks across at the neighbouring balcony where the immigration and police officers are standing.
It’s a sin what yous have done here, she hisses at them. A sin, you hear me? Yous should be ashamed. Think what you’ve done to this family, to they kids! Ashamed!
Ma’am, please step inside, responds a policeman, and allow the officers to conduct their investigation.
I will not. For shame! The lot o yous.
Toby starts barking.
Dalila steps out as the officer says, Ma’am, if you don’t step inside—
You’ve no right to come here and tell me what’s what. You’re a bunch o arrogant . . . no-good—
Dalila places her hand on the old woman’s shoulder.
Oh, yous make me so angry. Acting like the bloody Gestapo. I’ll be writing a letter to your superintendent, to the council, to the First Minister, the lot o them. Then you’ll see. You cannae just do this to folk.
Ma’am, you’re welcome to write down your grievances, but for now I’d ask you to please step inside.
The tea is ready, Dalila whispers to Mrs Gilroy. Come. Come inside.
Come here, Toby, says Mrs Gilroy, lifting up her little dog. Let’s get away from these . . . these good-for-nothings.
They re-enter the kitchenette and Dalila pulls the door against the wind and locks it.
Oh, it makes me so angry. All these bloody thugs coming in here and scaring folk. Mrs Gilroy pauses, her lips flatten out to a hard line. Just think of those poor lassies, she says. Oh God. She puts her hand to her face. I hope they didn’t see him fall. Were they in the flat, when he . . . you know?
I don’t think so.
Oh, it doesnae bear thinking about.
Dalila removes the tea bags from the pan and fills two mugs. She places the mugs on the table. Mrs Gilroy puts Toby down. She cups the mug with both hands and drinks.
This is good, she says, taking another sip. D’you put ginger in this, aye?
Yes, for my cold, says Dalila, and cinnamon also.
They both sip. Mrs Gilroy looks into her mug. I used to like living here, she says. When Sam and I first moved in, this block was very smart. Posh, even. You felt safe living so high up. My Sam would say he felt modern, part of the modern world. We all knew each other and summers we’d all sit doon there on the grass, whole families thegether. But no the now, she says. No the now.
Mrs Gilroy stares deeply into her tea.
Used to be the drugs. The families moved out and this block was full o junkies. One day they took a laddie up the top. Those days the top was open and anyone could just go up there and look out. I’d even dry my washing up there, if the wind was fair. Well, some poor laddie owed money, so they took him up there, knifed him, threw him aff. The scream he gave out, God, I’ll never forget. It chilled me, so it did. I’d hear that scream for days after. After that, the council started moving the junkies and troublemakers out and filling the empties with asylum seekers. Only took fourteen months afore the first one jumped. He was a sad boy. They said he wasnae right in the head. One night he just stepped aff. A month later another one fell from the flats just across the way. Some say he was in a fight, others say he fell of his own will. Hard to know. But here’s the thing, when asylum seekers fall, there’s no scream. They just drop through the air without a sound. It’s enough to give you the shivers.
The image of Mr Erdem comes to Dalila. The hairs on the back of his hand, his fingers opening, letting go of the railing.
They did this before? The Home Office? asks Dalila.
Oh aye, plenty o times. All over the place. Cardonald. Easterhouse. Sighthill. Castlemilk. They come in like bloody gangbusters, shouting and the like, all dressed in black. And always early in the morning, mind, when they know the families will be in their beds. Folk would run out to block and slap the sides of the immigration vans, trying to get them to stop. Caused a right upset. Made the news. And there was plenty o hot air from they gasbags in Holyrood. For a while the families felt safe, but soon the raids started again, quiet and sneaky-like. They’d pull folk from their homes and hide them away in detention centres, somewheres out in the country. Or they’d shove them straight on a plane and send them away. Some folk you’d never hear of again. No one knew what happened to them, they’d just be gone. I mean, God sake! What’s happening to us? My Sam fought the fascists in the war. He was a trade unionist his whole life. He’d be horrified to see what’s going on, to see what’s happening on his own street!
The telephone next door starts ringing again. Calling and calling, hoping for an answer.
Mind if we turn on the telly, love? asks Mrs Gilroy. There’ll probably be stuff on the news about what’s happened.
They sit side by side on the sofa, Toby on Mrs Gilroy’s lap. The first station has a breaking news item involving a man falling from a multistorey building in the Ibrox area. Dalila flicks to another channel which seems to be a cooking show. A guest has splashed flour on themselves and the host is slapping his thighs and laughing into the camera.
On a different channel, a reporter in a neat charcoal overcoat and blue scarf announces that he has just arrived at the scene. He stands in front of the police cordon and in the background Dalila recognises her building. Behind him is a tent covering the spot where Mr Erdem landed. A forensics team in white overalls and white gloves enters the tent as the reporter delivers his story. His relaxed and professional style doesn’t escape Dalila. He stares straight at the camera, never once glancing at the locals gathered around him. He talks of a tragedy involving a man whose name and country of origin cannot be confirmed at this moment. But what we do know is that he recently had his claim for asylum in the UK rejected and there appear to be details coming in suggesting that he was on medication for a mental health condition but as yet that has not been confirmed. Then it cuts to the studio.
Christ, I cannae watch this any more, says Mrs Gilroy. Time to take Toby out anyway.
The old lady gets to her feet. Thank you for the lovely tea, Irene. You be sure and pop by if you need anything. I’m just across the hall.
Thank you for coming, says Dalila, as she follows Mrs Gilroy down the hall.
She opens the
door and the landing is full of police and forensics people and UK border agents. Toby starts barking and a policeman turns to Mrs Gilroy and says, Ma’am, we’d ask you to stay in your home for the time being.
Och, shoosh! That’s my flat there, she snaps, pointing across the landing. She pushes through the crowd, Toby barking all the while.
Dalila shuts and locks the door. She gathers the mugs and washes the dishes, dries them and puts them in the cupboard. She wipes the counters, the table, the top of the fridge. Squatting down, she sweeps the linoleum floor with a dustpan and brush.
When the kitchen is completely clean she stands looking at it. Her mind replays the moment Mr Erdem let go. The hairs on his hands. His fingers splaying to release. She hears the girls crying. Little Rosa crying. The boots. The shouting. Ma’aza pulling her arm and Mr Erdem’s fingers letting go, and letting go, and letting go.
She inhales and finds herself standing in the kitchen, her kneecaps quivering.
She calls Ma’aza again. No answer. She texts,
Where RU? Did I make U angry? I’m sorry.
There’s the sound of a door slamming in the hallway. Even standing in the kitchen, she can hear the voices of the police right outside her door. She can’t leave, so she runs the vacuum cleaner over the green carpets and then gathers all the clothes from her room and Ma’aza’s room and puts them in the washing machine and turns it on. She scrubs the toilet and sink and loose tiles around the bath. She makes her bed and tidies her room and after a while finds herself standing in the kitchen, picturing Mr Erdem’s fingers uncurling from the railing, his thumb straightening, his hand letting go.
By the evening, only one police van and one TV crew remain. The tent and body have been removed and the police tape taken down.
The residents of Iona Court Towers keep nervously distant from the area where the body lay only a few hours ago. Huddled in coats and hats, hoods up, they shuffle their feet to keep warm. The forensics team have removed some turf as evidence where the head and hands had been, leaving a misshapen depression on the lawn. Dalila tries not to look at this patch of grass, but her eyes betray her. Every time she glances that way, her mind invents horrific malformations of Mr Erdem’s limbs.