Dalila

by Jason Donald

  I will never go with you, spits Dalila, pouncing to her feet, ready to fight. Me, I did nothing to you. Nothing! What do you want from me?

  Mr Kennedy wants you back, says Markus.

  My uncle can go to hell! And you, screams Dalila, pointing a bony finger at Markus, if you ever touch me again, I will have your eyes! Do you hear me?

  Phil puts his arm out to keep Dalila back. You better go, he tells Markus.

  In the distance come the first howling echoes of a police siren.

  Markus takes a backwards step, and then another. He glares over his shoulder as he makes his way to the car, with two revs of the engine, he speeds off. Abbi skips after the car, jeering. He scoops up a bottle and hurls it. Surprisingly, it doesn’t shatter on impact but careens, rattling and clattering across the potholed tarmac.

  The group look at each other in silence. Phil and Abbi and Dalila in the street, the shocked faces of the two women standing in the centre’s doorway.

  Phil calls out, You better get going, too, Abbi.

  Why? I’m not afraid of police.

  I know, mate, but I think it’s best you go. Your blood’s up, says Phil. You did well, but there’s no need for you to get sucked deeper into this. Honestly, mate, you shouldn’t be here when the police arrive.

  Abbi’s shoulders droop. He jogs over to Dalila. You are okay, my sister? he asks, looking at the scratches on her neck.

  I . . . I am fine. I’m okay, says Dalila, feeling shaken, furious, but stable.

  The police sirens wail closer now and Abbi looks at Dalila and then at Phil. Okay, I go now, he says. Without another word, he gives Dalila a wide grin before jogging off towards the library. The two women in the centre, wanting no interaction with any police, quickly say goodbye and hurry off into the darkening evening.

  Dalila rubs her neck, peering down at the bits of circuit board that once were Markus’s phone. She squats down to examine a piece and from it she slides out the perfectly intact SIM card. She clasps it in her fist. All those photos, those moments taken from her, are now back in her possession.

  When the police arrive, she and Phil sit on the sofa in the centre and give their statements. Her hands are shaking but Dalila manages to detail the incident clearly and tell all she knows about Markus. You must take this also, she tells the police officer, handing him Markus’s SIM card. Me, I took it from his phone, after it was . . . when he dropped it. It fell to the ground when he grabbed me. I think there is information in there. It will help you to find him.

  The police officer holds up the SIM card, examining it. Yes, he says, we’ll take a look at this.

  An hour later, Phil drives her home in the van, but instead of going into her building Dalila stops by Daniel’s flat. He answers the door holding up his filthy hands. Welcome, Dali. Please come in. I’ve been changing brake pads all afternoon, so you must excuse me while I wash my hands.

  His flat is quite messy and Dalila distracts herself by gathering up mugs and dishes and placing them in the sink while Daniel scrubs his hands in the bathroom. Before he comes out, she sneaks through his bedsit gathering up dirty clothes and puts them into the washing machine. She sets a pan of milk to warm on the stove and quickly sweeps the linoleum floor with a dustpan and brush.

  When Daniel comes in he sees his clothes turning in the washing machine and the dishes in the sink. Oh, I was just about to do that. You don’t need to trouble yourself.

  I don’t mind, she says.

  I can take care of myself, you know.

  I know, she says, scrunching up fish-and-chip wrappers and placing them in the bin. She gathers up stray bits of cutlery and places them in the sink and begins to wash the dishes.

  Why don’t you come and sit down?

  Let me just finish these, she replies. And I’m making tea. Would you like some?

  Dalila puts the final dish on the drying rack, wipes her hands and goes to the pan of milk. She adds tea bags and sugar.

  Daniel places his hand on her shoulder. Come, child, sit.

  She pours out two mugs of tea and sits.

  Daniel takes a small green banana from the shelf and sits down opposite her. He pushes the banana towards her.

  I’m not hungry.

  Eat.

  Yes, she replies.

  The banana peels easily. The taste is sweet at first and then absolutely radiant. It fills her with homesickness, and yet calms her.

  How do you like it?

  Dalila nods, her cheeks full.

  I bought those ones at the Afro-Caribbean shop. They are so much better than the bananas they have in this country. Those long yellow things? I don’t know, they have a powdery texture on my tongue that I don’t like.

  Banana colours – different.

  Banana tastes – different.

  I have another if you want? says Daniel.

  No, that one was good. She lowers her eyes, trying to steady her emotions, and says, Thank you, Baba.

  Daniel smiles and says, Drink your tea, Dali, and tell me what you did today.

  She sips her tea, relieved to be in this cramped flat with Daniel. She sips again, hoping for the right words to come.

  Today was . . . difficult, she begins. I saw Markus again.

  On Friday morning it’s raining hard. Daniel drives Dalila to the Solidarity Centre. Before she gets out Dalila takes a deep breath to compose herself. She wants to be here, she reminds herself. She is needed and she’ll be safe here.

  You will be okay today, says Daniel.

  I know, says Dalila. Thank you, Baba. Will I see you this evening?

  Of course, I’ll be here at five to collect you.

  The centre is packed. Only two other volunteers are in. Abbi is helping Phil refill the gas canister on the heater, while people stand in their coats gripping mugs of tea. Tracey puts Dalila straight to work. Dalila, this is Divine, she’s from Congo and she’d like to join the centre, explains Tracey. Would you mind seeing that she fills out the registration correctly?

  Of course, says Dalila, giving Divine a welcoming smile.

  The two of them stand to one side and look at the form together.

  Maybe you speak French? asks Divine.

  No. Me, I only speak English and Kiswahili.

  No one in these parts speak French, says Divine. French is very easy, but nobody speaks. Yesterday, I take my lawyer to visit my Scottish MP, even this one he doesn’t speak French.

  I’m sorry, says Dalila.

  Unsure what to say next, Dalila asks, Do you want to join our centre?

  Yes, I want. I join everything. Scottish Refugee Council, Positive Action in Housing, Glasgow Asylum Network, Royston Road Project, everybody. Everybody must help because the Home Office refuse me. They say I must take my children and go back.

  Dalila shoots a glance over at the desk to see if Tracey is free to talk to this woman, but she appears to be arguing on the phone. Dalila scans her notes and asks, So you already have a lawyer?

  Yes, yes. My lawyer we meet with the Scottish MP and explain everything. He shows all the papers from the Home Office. I tell him everything about Congo, about prison and the beatings I suffer, about many, many terrible things. But you know what that MP say to me? He say, You must get used to the idea to go back. That’s what he . . .

  Divine coughs a few times and then she unzips her coat.

  . . . that’s what he say. He just look at the papers and say, The war is finish now. You have to go back. Divine takes off her coat and dumps it on a pile of plastic bags in the corner.

  You are writing this? she asks Dalila.

  Yes, it is here. Look.

  Good, says Divine, so I say to him, to this man I say, I will never go back. In Congo, what they can do to me, to my children, is worse than death. No, I cannot go. I love my children, believe me, I love them too much. But if you force me to go back, I will take a knife and cut the throats of each child before I put the knife in my own heart. Before God, I will do this.

  Dalila st
ares at Divine. The woman is wide-eyed and already talking faster and faster about her lawyer. She’s scared and it’s a fear Dalila recognises in her own heart. If this woman wasn’t talking so much, Dalila knows she would reach out and hug her.

  I went outside and my lawyer she will drive me home, continues Divine, but the MP, he runs outside and comes to the car. He says he was sorry. He says he promises to help me and he give to me his card. So now I come here. I am fighting for my children. I want anyone to help. That’s why I come to this place.

  Okay, says Dalila, touching Divine on the arm. We can try to help. We will fight for you.

  That afternoon, Dalila goes to Festival Court to report. She leaves her coat and shoes at reception and goes through security. When her number is called, she sits at the allotted booth and slips her ARC card under the glass to the officer on the other side. It is an officer she has never seen before. He is young, plump, with sloping shoulders, as if he has spent his entire life at a desk. Reading the computer screen, he fiddles with a pencil with a Santa Claus rubber propped on the end of it. Place your thumb on the scanner, he says.

  She does.

  He studies the screen for a few moments and then re-examines her ARC card. An officer appears at the booth behind her.

  Irene Delilah Mathy?

  She turns in her seat. Yes?

  Please, he says. Come with me.

  She stares at the young officer on the other side of the glass. He lifts the pencil and taps Santa’s head against his lips, but his eyes never rise to meet hers. She looks back towards the waiting room, beyond the body scanner and towards the afternoon light coming through the glass front doors. A hand rests on her shoulder, it slides down her arm and pulls at her elbow till she stands up. She is taken to a room and told to sit.

  There is a problem? she says.

  Just wait here, please.

  The muscles in her jaw want to bite down hard. She inhales, expanding her lungs, and, with control, lets the air release through her mouth.

  There have been no letters from the Home Office. Maybe there is a problem with my ARC card? she wonders. Or Ma’aza? Maybe they want to ask about her? Her mind drifts to the centre. She has work to do this afternoon. She promised Divine she would help her make phone calls.

  After twenty minutes, an officer arrives and asks Dalila to follow her. The officer is a woman, older, skinny, with red-tinted hair going grey at the roots. They enter a room that looks like the Post Office, with a chest-high counter and bulletproof glass. Behind the glass is a male officer and Dalila’s case owner, Ms Colgan. She comes out from behind the glass carrying papers and Dalila’s ARC card.

  Irene, it is my duty to inform you that your application for asylum in the United Kingdom has been denied, says Ms Colgan.

  What? says Dalila. But I didn’t . . . Why? I didn’t get any letter.

  I’ve just issued your letter of refusal. There is a matter of negative credibility regarding your claims, but all the reasons are stated here quite clearly. She hands Dalila the letter as she says, I need you to be calm and to listen to me very carefully.

  Dalila stares at the Home Office insignia at the top of the letter. The words are there in front of her but it’s as if she has just woken up and can’t quite make sense of where she is, who these people are.

  Irene, could you look at me when I’m talking to you? Irene?

  Dalila looks at her, this strange, rigid woman with a prim expression on her face. It’s an expression full of accusation.

  Ms Colgan raises her thumb. Your case has been refused, she repeats, that’s the first thing. Secondly, she says, holding up thumb and forefinger, we have removal directions to put you on a flight to Kenya in five days’ time, leaving from Heathrow airport. And thirdly—

  Me, I cannot go to Kenya, Dalila says, searching the face of her case owner and then the red-headed officer.

  And thirdly, repeats Ms Colgan, raising her thumb, fore- and middle fingers, we are required to detain you until you are placed on the flight.

  But . . . I told you, whispers Dalila, I cannot go back. Please.

  Well, it’s out of my hands now. Officer Mitchell here will see to you now.

  Could you please empty your pockets? says Officer Mitchell.

  Ms Colgan turns and walks towards the door.

  Please, Dalila calls out. If I go back, he will find me. Please.

  The skinny Officer Mitchell steps between Dalila and Ms Colgan. Miss Mathy, if you don’t cooperate, I’ll be forced to restrain you. Do you understand? Officer Mitchell unclips the handcuffs from her belt. There is a hard edge to this woman that Dalila doesn’t want to provoke.

  Ms Colgan swipes her pass across the door lock and leaves.

  Please don’t send me back, Dalila whispers to the red-headed officer.

  Do not touch me, barks the officer. That’s your final warning. You understand?

  Okay, says Dalila, backing off. Okay, but please listen. You cannot send me back.

  That’s not for me to decide. Now, I need you to empty your pockets, please. Just place everything here on the counter.

  Dalila places some cash, her library card, lip balm and her favourite photograph of her father and brother on the counter.

  The officer fingers through the items and without looking up she says, Could you please remove your clothes.

  My clothes?

  It’s procedure. We need to check for items that may pose a threat to yourself or others. You can keep your underwear on.

  Dalila glances up at the male guard behind the glass. He is yawning as he stares at his phone. She steps out of her jeans and places them on the counter. She pulls her T-shirt over her head and crosses her shaking arms over her chest. Officer Mitchell dips her hand into each pocket, she feels along the seams of the clothing.

  Can I phone, please? Dalila asks. I want to phone someone to tell them what is happening.

  Do you have a phone?

  It is with my bag at reception.

  Does it have a camera?

  A camera? No.

  Then it’ll be returned to you once you arrive at the detention centre. You can call from there.

  But I need to phone now. Don’t I have the chance to make one call?

  You’re being detained under the Immigration Act, Miss Mathy. You’re not being arrested and you’re not being taken to jail, so you don’t get a phone call. Now, if you’ll get dressed and follow me, please.

  Dalila is escorted, by the elbow, down the corridor. Her feet, in socks, make no sound as she moves. She can’t really feel her feet. Only a weightless feeling. She blinks hard with both eyes and deliberately looks down at her arm in an effort to keep her mind in her body, to keep herself here, with what is happening now.

  A door opens to the outside. A blue van, the size of a regular matatu, has been backed right up against the doorway. In the back is a cage containing six chairs. She is put in the cage and told to sit. Between the cage and the driver’s cabin is an uncaged section where an immigration officer sits, facing her.

  Another woman is brought to the van. Her hands are cuffed behind her back and she is sobbing. The officer escorting this woman dumps her on a seat beside Dalila. The cage is shut, locked. The officer flops down into the seat next to his colleague and slides his door closed. The van moves forward, passing through the gates, along the road and past the library and then out towards the motorway.

  A light rain starts. Droplets trickle sideways across the tinted windows.

  Why? sobs the woman next to her. Why? The woman cries and cries, with her head resting on the seat in front.

  The van picks up speed as they leave the city. Rows of pine trees and fields of mud move past the window. The heads of the officers sway in unison with the van’s movement.

  Dalila keeps looking out of the window to avoid making eye contact with the male officers. She tries to think about Phil. If she can call Phil, he will know what to do. He can get her out.

  The crying woman sits u
pright and groans, Why? I do nothing. Why? I’m pregnant. Her sobbing grows louder, more intense.

  Hey, calm down, says one of the officers.

  Stop, please, says the crying woman. Stop. I’m pregnant, she moans, crying with renewed strength. I am sick. Stop.

  The officers look at each other. You think she could be pregnant? says one.

  God knows, says the other. They’ll say anything.

  Aye, well, perhaps we should take the cuffs off, all the same.

  If you want to take the cuffs off, says his colleague, on you go. But, I’m telling you, half an hour ago she was hysterical. Scratching and throwing things. She’s fine now. She’s just screamed herself out, she’ll be alright. He leans forward and taps the cage. We’ll be there soon enough, he says to the crying woman. Just calm down.

  The crying goes on and on. Suddenly the woman sits up and says, Stop. I am sick.

  We’re almost there, says the officer. Just try to relax, you’re making things harder for yourself.

  The crying woman leans to the side and vomits all over the floor of the van.

  Oh, for the love of Christ, yells the officer. He opens the latch and tells the driver, You better pull over. We’ve got a puker.

  There in ten minutes, says the driver.

  The crying woman retches and vomits again.

  Just pull over, shouts the other officer. It fucking reeks in here.

  Dalila tucks the neckline of her T-shirt up over her nose, but it hardly helps, she gags and almost throws up herself.

  Smell of vomit – same.

  The crying woman slumps towards Dalila, moaning and talking in a language Dalila does not understand. Keeping one hand over her nose and mouth, Dalila reaches over and brushes the damp hair away from the woman’s face. She gently runs her palm across the woman’s forehead, trying to soothe her.

  The van pulls over and stops. The first officer slides open the side door and steps away from the smell. Godsakes, that’s rank.

  The driver steps out. Where is it?

  It’s all over the fucking floor. Have you got anything to wipe it up?

  Dunno. Think I’ve got a wee towel in the glove box, says the driver.

  Well, you better get it.

  The van is stopped near a pine forest. It’s quiet. Steam rises off the wet tarmac. Through the tinted glass Dalila sees a wind farm on the nearby horizon. The white blades slowly rotate. She had assumed they would be synchronised and finds herself hoping that they might align and turn together, even just for a second, but each mill silently spins to an individual rhythm. One of the officers catches Dalila looking out and, curiously, she finds herself saying, I think you must take off the handcuffs. She is not well.