Dalila

by Jason Donald

  Yesterday, I—

  Is this your toaster, aye?

  Yes.

  So what’s it doing in ma flat?

  I thought . . . Mick said . . .

  You thought what?

  Dalila takes a breath. This one is a gift, for you and for Mick. We are neighbours. If we don’t have, we share.

  You’ve got some fucking cheek, hisses Alison. You think we want your toaster? You think you’re better than us? Is that it?

  No, I don’t think this way.

  Here, Alison shoves the toaster at Dalila, keep yer shite to yersel. I don’t need yer charity, ya fucking cheeky fuck.

  Alison marches across the landing to her front door, but then turns and marches back towards Dalila. And see here, she says, if I ever see you talking to ma man again, I swear to God, I’ll fuckin do you.

  Dalila shuffles from room to room, hoping for a distraction. The dishes are washed, her clothes are clean, floors vacuumed. A walk would help but she’s not going out, not today. Not after what’s been happening.

  Trying not to think about Alison, her mind jumps to an image of Ma’aza walking towards the front door. Then she’s wondering where Parla and little Rosa might be. How must they be feeling? Do they even know what’s happened? The sound of Mr Erdem falling comes to her exactly as it was yesterday. That moment of in-breath. His trouser legs flapping as he dropped through the air. She wraps both arms across her midriff as her stomach cramps. Bending over, breathing through it, she has to do something before these feelings overwhelm her again.

  In the bathroom, she turns on both taps and watches the water pour into the bath. Steam begins to fill the room. She checks her phone, again. She has sent nine messages to Ma’aza, all of them unanswered. She sends another one anyway.

  Thinking about U. Pls text me. Let me know U R safe. D. xx

  When the bath is full, she climbs in and sits down, fanning her fingers through the hot water, trying to be herself again. Her jaw aches from clenching down so tightly and she opens her mouth as wide as she can, easing her chin from side to side.

  Ma’aza will come back, Dalila says out loud, but she knows Ma’aza is gone. She will have slipped downwards like she said she would. Gone underground, where you don’t need papers. And the Erdems are gone. Those girls won’t be back.

  Cupping her hands together she lifts a little pool out of the bath. The water dribbles out between her knuckles. She tries again, squeezing her fingers, trying to create a watertight basin in her hands but still the water drains away.

  After her bath, she drags her duvet to the sofa in Ma’aza’s room and turns on the news. A protest is taking place about the treatment of refugees. Once again, the words MIGRANT CRISIS scroll across the bottom of the screen. Video footage shows people walking along a motorway. It cuts to images of men climbing into the back of a lorry. Currently, three thousand migrants are camped in Calais, says the news anchor’s voice, as they try to cross through the Channel Tunnel from France into England. Calais has increasingly become the focus of attention because the numbers of migrants has swelled quite considerably over the last few months. The report cuts to footage of men standing outside tents. The conditions are squalid. Rubbish on the ground. Mud splattered up the side of the tents.

  Dalila’s anger rises. Why are they showing this? It’s always about Calais or boats in the Mediterranean. Always Syrians, Syrians, Syrians. What about the rest of us? Why aren’t they talking about Mr Erdem? Is he not important enough?

  She switches to STV, where another protest is taking place. People are angry. They jeer and shout at the camera, some wave banners calling for justice. Dalila recognises her tower block in the background. There are very few clips of asylum seekers, some even hide their faces as the camera pans towards them. The segment cuts to a local man being interviewed while still behind the wheel of his van. Well, if you ask me, the man says, leaning out the driver’s-side window, this never would have happened if they hadn’t been allowed into Scotland in the first place, would it?

  The news item cuts to the studio, where two people speculate about Mr Erdem, claiming he had been on medication and suffering from depression.

  Ish! He was not crazy, Dalila shouts, flapping her arm at the TV.

  The news anchor interviews a different expert, asking, Was the UK Border Patrol consistent in their orchestration of this particular forced removal, compared to the similar operations that have taken place, uneventfully, across the city in recent weeks?

  Why are they asking this? she shouts, jumping to her feet, pacing the living room. They dragged those children from their beds. This is so . . .

  For five minutes these questions get pushed around the studio, and then pushed aside. The programme cuts to a reporter standing near the spot where Mr Erdem died. She is surrounded by locals who listen in on her report. I have with me Ms Carol Kerr, a spokeswoman for various asylum charities across the city, begins the reporter. She claims many asylum seekers are frightened of sharing their opinions or of demonstrating because they believe their actions may harm their case and lead to their being removed.

  Yes, that is why we’re protesting, replies the spokeswoman, looking directly at the reporter instead of the camera. We have to give a voice to the voiceless. To show our solidarity with those vulnerable people who are too scared to speak out for themselves. You’ve got to remember, these people are not statistics in faraway lands. Their children play with our children. They’re our neighbours and friends. They share our places of worship. Just like you and me, these people are the essential ingredient that makes a house into a home, that makes a street into a neighbourhood. And that’s why we will not stand by and watch these abuses take place. These dawn raids, carried out by the UK Border Agency, are an attack on our neighbourhoods and our communities. They’re an affront to the people of Glasgow. So we’re collecting signatures from right across the city and tomorrow we’d like to invite all citizens of Glasgow to march with us. There’ll be a gathering outside Iona Court at 10 a.m., after which we’ll be marching right to the City Chambers to deliver our concerns directly to the Lord Provost and other members of the City Council.

  *

  The next day, Dalila watches from her balcony. A crowd gathers in the mist below. Banners are unfurled and held up. More people arrive and the police stand by, observing. She had considered joining the protest, but the thought of the news cameras made her wonder about who could be watching. If her face was included in a shot that got broadcast across the UK, Markus or Mama Anne might recognise her. She won’t take that risk.

  A woman holds up a megaphone and gives a muffled, tinny speech. The crowd claps. Then a man takes the megaphone. He leads a call-and-repeat chant. It takes a few attempts to gain momentum but soon the crowd is chanting as one. There is cheering and clapping. A troop of drummers, it looks like women from up here, starts banging its drums. They’re pretty good, and the drumming draws more of a crowd. She estimates between about five and seven hundred people are now standing in the car park below. She spots several mothers with pushchairs and even a man in a wheelchair.

  Protests – same.

  Protestors not dancing – different.

  Protest marches led by the bagpipes – different.

  Length of protest speeches – different.

  Protestors drumming – same.

  After about forty-five minutes the woman with the megaphone stands in front of the largest banner and leads the march down the street. The crowd is escorted front and back by police on motorbikes. Yellow-coated officers walk alongside the crowd to keep it contained. They head off towards the river and the BBC offices.

  Dalila watches them disappear into the mist. The bright yellow police jackets hold out a little longer against the elements. Soon they are all gone. Only the drumming and the whine of bagpipes linger.

  It takes her most of the following day to build up the courage to walk out of the front door. She takes the fire escape to avoid the possibility of sharing the li
ft with Mick or Alison or policemen or reporters who may still be in the neighbourhood. Descending the stairs, she passes two separate groups of asylum seekers who are camping out on the landing in case another dawn raid happens. The people say hello but Dalila only nods and steps across their sleeping bags.

  At the footbridge over the motorway, she leans on the railing, looking out across the heavy traffic. A darkness is growing across the horizon. It is only 4:35 p.m., yet the day appears to be ending. Below her, cars rush by in something similar to silence. It’s better up here, peaceful. Hundreds of cars speeding along in six perfect lanes, following the gentle curve of the motorway, each car knowing exactly where it is going and precisely how it should behave. Their lights are pretty. One river of red brake lights and an oncoming stream of twinkling headlights. It reminds her of the rows of flowers where her mother used to work.

  These endless overcast days are gnawing at her, shaping her. A change has happened, is happening. And it’s not to do with her uncle . . . not only. On her strong days she can push those memories away and they don’t trouble her too much. It’s not him, it’s something else.

  From within is a deep and foreign urge to be quiet, to spend all day alone. This can’t be who she is. There has to be something more. She has to find something more. She has lost everyone and now, like water through her fingers, she is losing herself.

  Dalila – same.

  Dalila – different.

  She has not seen Daniel for almost a week. She texts him, suggesting they go for a short walk. After an hour, Daniel has still not replied. She sends him another text asking if he is okay. This time she gets a reply.

  Just tired.

  She decides to go for a walk anyway. Perhaps up through the park. Lacing up her boot she stops, takes out her phone and rereads Daniel’s reply.

  She phones him. No answer.

  Five minutes later she is knocking on Daniel’s door. She waits, knocks again. Could he be sleeping? Perhaps he isn’t feeling well and the best thing would be to just let him rest, alone. Yet she stands closer to his front door, listening. There is an unsettling sensation in her stomach. She phones him again and this time she can hear his phone ringing inside his flat. She knocks on the door again and calls out, Daniel? Baba Dan, it’s me, Dalila. Please come to the door.

  She lifts the guard on the letterbox and peers into the darkened flat. Something stirs inside.

  I know you are there, Daniel. Please come to me.

  She dials his number again and this time the ringing inside the flat grows louder. She bends forward and looks through the letterbox to see Daniel approaching.

  He opens the door and steps back. He is unshaven and is not wearing his glasses. In his hand, his mobile phone is still ringing.

  Are you sick, Daniel? I was worried.

  He looks past her and glances back into his flat.

  Dalila lifts her own phone and ends the call. In the sudden silence, Daniel sighs and says, I am just too tired.

  His eyes still refuse to meet hers.

  Can I come in?

  Daniel steps back from the door.

  Dalila enters and unties her laces, as Daniel disappears down the hall. The flat is dark and musty with that particular smell of old people. It is a smaller flat than the one she shares with Ma’aza. The bathroom is off the main hallway, and beyond that, an L-shaped room with a kitchenette. That’s the whole flat. Old fish-and-chip wrappers litter the floor. Socks and underwear are thrown in the corner, trousers are draped over the arm of a sofa. The kitchen sink is full of dirty dishes. The fridge door stands slightly open, dripping water onto the dirty linoleum.

  She finds Daniel sitting on his bed. A weak afternoon light pushes through the brown curtains.

  Are you sick, Daniel? You don’t look well.

  I’m okay. He lifts his head but his eyes struggle to rest on any specific thing. I’m just . . . tired. I’m sorry you have seen me like this.

  Dalila squats down in front of him. I also get tired, she says. Why don’t you rest some more? When you are ready I will make tea for us.

  She helps Daniel to lie back on his bed.

  She takes off her coat and hangs it up on the hook by the front door. The bathroom is filthy. Dried urine stains on the toilet bowl and floor. Hair gathering in the corner behind the door. A rim of brown scum in the bath. Mould on the tiles. An empty toothpaste tube on the sink next to a thin sliver of soap. Tucked behind the toilet are some cleaning products.

  She starts scrubbing. First the bath and tile surrounds before moving on to the sink and then the toilet. Using a little scouring brush, she kneels down and scrubs the floor.

  When all is clean, Dalila runs a bath and goes through to check on Daniel. She finds him sitting on his bed. He reaches for his glasses as soon as she enters.

  You are still here? he says.

  Yes. Is that okay with you?

  Daniel puts on his glasses and places his hands on his knees. I don’t mind, he says.

  I am running a bath for you. It helps me when I am . . . tired. Maybe you would like to try it?

  I don’t know.

  Try.

  Okay.

  Maybe later, when you have finished washing, we can have some tea together. I will make it Kenyan style, says Dalila, smiling.

  Yes, says Daniel, gently rubbing his knees, this is the best way for tea.

  Come. The bath is almost ready. Do you have a clean towel?

  Without looking up, Daniel points. In the cupboard, he says.

  She takes a towel to the bathroom, turns off the taps, hangs up the towel and switches on the extractor fan. She pauses and looks at the hot tap. When she touches the metal, it’s still quite hot. She runs the cold tap and splashes handfuls of cold water across the hot tap to cool it.

  As Daniel comes in she exits, closing the door behind her.

  She throws open the curtains and the window in his room. In the new light, she notices he has the same green carpet as she has in her flat, it’s the same carpet as in the Erdems’ flat too. But Daniel’s is covered in bits of rubbish and crumbs and grey fluff. A little path amidst the dirt has formed where he walks from his bed to the kitchenette.

  She strips the bed, gathers the dirty clothes off the floor and pushes the whole bundle into the washing machine. In the cupboard under the sink, she finds detergent.

  She opens the kitchen window and allows the brisk air to gust through the flat. She scrunches up the fish-and-chip wrappers into tight bundles and drops them in the bin. She folds two pizza boxes in half and shoves them in the bin too. Nachos packets, biscuit boxes, three beer cans and a pile of old newspapers all go in. In the fridge, the milk has curdled. Two old tomatoes and half a packet of greying sliced ham, all gets thrown out. She wipes away the stagnant orange water in the bottom of the fridge and cleans the shelves, then gathers up the cups, plates and cutlery lying around the room and washes the dishes, leaving them to drain on the plastic rack.

  The only food in the kitchen cabinets is four tins of oxtail soup and half a packet of sliced white bread that is speckled with mould.

  Dalila throws out the bread and looks around for something else to do. She hears his weight shift in the bath. On top of the fridge are Daniel’s keys. She grabs them and leaves.

  Back in her own flat, Dalila fills her left coat pocket with tea bags and the right with a quarter bag of sugar and a stem of ginger. She takes the vacuum cleaner from the cupboard and wrestles it into the lift.

  The vacuum cleaner rattles along the pavement as she drags it towards the corner shop. There is enough money in her purse for a pint of milk and a loaf of sliced white bread but there isn’t enough for a packet of biscuits. As she pays, the Polish woman behind the counter doesn’t even glance at the vacuum cleaner.

  When she gets back to Daniel’s flat she finds him clean-shaven, wearing a blue-and-white checked shirt tucked into his green corduroy trousers. He is barefoot and fiddling with the kettle.

  You look better,
she says.

  He sits down on a stool as soon as he sees her and says, I feel a bit better.

  I bought milk and bread.

  Good. Yes. Daniel stands up and scratches his scalp. I think I have . . . He goes to the cupboard and opens it, but it is empty. He opens the next one. You know, I’m sure I have some . . . Yes, here it is, some oxtail soup. I find this is the best thing to revive the senses whenever I get really tired. Would you like to stay for dinner, Dali?

  I would be honoured to join you, says Dalila. We can warm it in the pan while I quickly clean the floors.

  No, no. You’ve done enough. Besides, this old man is better with machines than he ever was in the kitchen. Daniel takes the vacuum cleaner, plugs it in and begins running the head across the carpet. He cleans the sofa arms and vacuums down the hallway while Dalila stirs the warming soup. She sets two bowls on the table and arranges the sliced bread on a plate.

  They eat together in silence. Dalila watches his mannerisms for signs of sickness and wonders what he’s going through.

  Daniel focuses on his food.

  They finish and she takes their empty bowls and places them in the sink. She warms milk and ginger for tea and when it is ready she brings a mug to Daniel.

  Thank you, he says.

  You’re welcome, Baba.

  For the first time that day Daniel looks directly at her. Thank you, my sister, he repeats and his eyes suddenly fill with tears.

  It’s okay.

  I am an old fool, he says. I’m fine . . . and then sometimes, I can’t . . .

  I understand.

  . . . sometimes, I can’t make it past the front door.

  Dalila puts her mug down. If it happens again, where you feel . . . where you can’t get past the door. Just call me.

  I don’t know how it happens, says Daniel, peering down into his mug. I just get . . .

  Dalila reaches out and takes his hand. Remember when you bought me the bacon roll and you told me about Ubuntu. You said, I can only be okay if you’re okay.