Dalila

by Jason Donald

  To her surprise, one of the guards unlocks the gate, climbs in and takes off the handcuffs. The woman doesn’t move. She just lies across the seat groaning.

  The driver comes back with the hand towel and gives it over.

  Me? says the officer. Why me?

  She’s your catch, so she’s your responsibility, says the driver.

  He’s right, says the other officer, grinning.

  Holding his nose, the officer kneels down on the floor of the cage. With the bunched-up towel, he pushes the soupy puddle towards the back doors and flicks it out onto the sodden brown pine needles by the roadside.

  Honestly, man, fuck this job, says the officer, as he flicks more vomit out the back door. I’m serious. I’ve already done fifty hours this week and I’m on right across the weekend. And for what?

  Dalila raises her feet onto her seat as the officer cleans the floor in front of her.

  Fifty hours, the officer repeats. I may as well be working in Tesco. The money’d be about the same but you only have to put up with half the shite you do in this job.

  Here, give it a skoosh with this, says the driver, holding up a bottle of Evian.

  The officer sloshes water along the floor and wipes it towards the back, gagging and dry-heaving as he works.

  Feeling a bit bokey there, are you? sniggers the other officer. The driver starts chuckling too.

  Fuck off. I don’t see you doing any work.

  The driver and officer burst out laughing. Careful not to get any on your boots, laughs the driver.

  Honestly, fuck the both of yous. Why don’t you come back here and do this? He climbs out and tosses the towel into the bushes. He wipes his hand on his trousers, while the other two giggle.

  Right, let’s go.

  After a few miles the van turns off the main road past a sign announcing,

  Dungavel Detention Centre.

  The building they approach is one of the most beautiful Dalila has ever seen. She isn’t sure what she was expecting, but not this. It’s a white castle on a mound, as if from a children’s story book. On the right is a turret four storeys high, capped with a cone-shaped roof and an ornate weathervane. To the left, a tall square keep and a parapet with long stately windows. Twin stone staircases lead down from the front entrance onto the neatly mowed lawn. In the centre of the grounds is a flagpole flying a soaked Union Jack. Surrounding this castle are ten-foot-high fences capped with coiled razor wire. Spotlights shine onto the grounds. CCTV cameras stare down from their perches, patient as marabous.

  The van passes through one checkpoint, and then a second. It stops in a small courtyard behind the building. The crying woman is helped out and assisted by both officers into the building. A guard, dressed in a different uniform to the border control officers, comes out of the building to escort Dalila. As she steps onto the coarse, wet tarmac her socks soak up the bitterly cold water. Inside, the crying woman collapses to the floor, wailing and howling. Two more guards jog up the corridor to assist the officers. Dalila is led away, down a long corridor with beige walls and blue flooring, clean except for her wet footprints. She is taken into a holding room and left on her own.

  Two female guards enter.

  Welcome to Dungavel Detention Centre, says the older guard. Her hair is very short and dyed copper. The other guard has a softer face with brown hair twisted into a bun on the back of her head. Both are wearing stab-proof vests and heavy boots. Handcuffs and mace are clipped to their belts.

  You’re going to be here for a while, says the older one. We’ll need to quickly process your details and then take you to your room. Is that okay with you?

  Dalila bunches her toes, shivering with the cold.

  It’s getting on a bit. Have you had anything to eat? asks the other guard. We’ve got sandwiches. Or perhaps a Coke? Would you like a drink?

  There are no windows. Instead of a door, there is a locked metal gate. She is locked in here with these guards.

  It’ll be easier for everyone if you answer us, says the copper one.

  No.

  No, what?

  No. Thank you. No Coke.

  Good, then we can get straight to business. You’ll need to remove your clothes.

  Again? says Dalila, checking both guards’ faces to see if they both agree. The impression she gets from the older guard is one of stone, something closed off. Whereas the younger woman is nervous but trying to act distant, almost bored.

  It’s only procedure, says the older one. We are required to search your clothes.

  Dalila peels off her wet socks. She almost stumbles over as she steps out of her jeans and then she removes her top and places everything on the table. It’s impossible to control her shivering.

  Her clothes are searched and returned to her and when she is dressed they take her to a different room. They take a photograph of her face, scan her fingerprints, type her details into the computer. She is allocated the number DG3331. Her outgoing flight number is logged along with the departure time. Destination Nairobi. She is also given a bail application form as the younger guard quickly explains how and under what conditions she is allowed to seek bail but most of the information swims right by Dalila. Echoes creep along the corridor. Her mind skips to little Rosa. To Ma’aza. She wants to phone Phil. Daniel. What will Daniel do if she can’t get out?

  A male guard appears on the other side of the gate. Yous almost done here, aye? he asks.

  Just a couple of minutes.

  The male guard moves on.

  Dalila’s phone and handbag are returned to her.

  Do you have my shoes, also my coat? asks Dalila.

  The older guard says, No. That’s everything we got. Must have left your shoes in Brand Street. Not to worry, we’ll look into it.

  A different male guard enters, a short fat man. He collects papers from the desk and reads them. So you’re Irene Delilah Mwatty DG3331?

  Dalila steps back towards the wall.

  Come on, follow me.

  Clutching her wet socks in one fist, her arm wrapped around her bag, she follows. The male guard wheezes as he moves. He walks with a toe-splayed waddle, his boots squeaking on the rubber floor. Dalila moves barefoot and silent beside him.

  He leads her to a wing named Loudoun House. They enter a room with several bunk beds. All talking in the room stops and the faces of four different women turn towards them.

  Evening, ladies, says the guard. You’ve got a new roommate tonight. I expect you all to get along nicely.

  A small boy in his school uniform moves out from behind one of the bunks and stands by the side of a woman, presumably his mother. He gazes up at Dalila, blinking. Dalila looks at the guard and back at the little boy. She can’t believe a child is in here, in this prison, before realising that she must be scowling at him because the child ducks behind his mother.

  You can take any bunk you like, says the guard. Now, there’s no lock on the door but you’ve been assigned this locker where you can keep any valuables. You’ll need to sign here for the key.

  The guard hands Dalila his clipboard and as she signs he says, Through there is the laundry room should you need to wash your clothes. There’s showers along that way. Tomorrow you’ll get to meet the nurse and someone will talk you through the procedures and all that.

  Dalila hands back the clipboard and the guard gives her a locker key.

  Right then, says the guard, just relax and get comfortable. The night staff will be coming round shortly to check on you.

  The guard leaves. All the women in the dormitory remain silent, listening to his footsteps squeak down the corridor. The women quietly resume their conversations. None of them makes any effort to acknowledge Dalila.

  The mother sits her son down on the bottom bunk and removes his shoes, getting him ready for bed.

  Dalila checks her phone. It’s half charged and low on credit. She is about to dial Phil’s number but remembers that the centre will be shut by now. She tries to clear her head, to th
ink. Her hands are shaking so violently, it takes her three attempts to dial Daniel’s number.

  Yes? His deep voice comes to her ear.

  Baba. It is me.

  Dali?

  She hurries to the corner of the dormitory for privacy. They took me, she says in Kiswahili. You have to help. They have taken me. They have a flight ready to take me to Kenya, but I can’t go back and I’m trapped here. It’s like a prison.

  Dali? Dalila. You are talking too fast. I don’t understand.

  They took me.

  Where are you?

  I went to report but they put me in a van and brought me here. You need to tell Phil.

  Dali, be calm, my sister. Phil has already contacted me. You didn’t sign out of the logbook this afternoon, so he has already started looking for you. Tell me where you are.

  I’m in detention. In Dungavel Detention Centre.

  Okay, okay. I will call Phil. He is the one to help you.

  I’m scared, Baba. They said my case was refused. There is a plane waiting for me in five days to take me directly to Nairobi. I’m so scared, Baba, what can I do?

  Dali, listen to me. Are you listening?

  Yes, I can hear you.

  You need to be calm. Try to calm yourself. You are a smart woman. If you are calm, you can think better. Okay?

  Okay.

  Breathe slow, says Daniel. Always good to breathe slow.

  Okay. Okay, says Dalila. She inhales and exhales.

  I will phone Phil immediately, tonight, says Daniel. Maybe we will get a solicitor. Phil will know what to do. Maybe appeal the decision. But we will help you, I promise.

  Yes. Yes, do this.

  But now be strong and calm. Many people, they are taken but then they are released. We know this. You have spoken to people like this at the Solidarity Centre, haven’t you?

  Yes.

  And we know they try to scare you to go back. So don’t sign anything, don’t agree to anything until you speak to the solicitor, okay?

  Okay . . . yes.

  There is still hope, Dali.

  Is there?

  Of course. Phil can find a lawyer who will argue your case. They will get you out of there. In time, you will be granted status and then you will be safe and live in the UK. Things will be okay. You will find friends and work and happiness. That is how it can be. Trust in how it can be. Focus on that.

  I will try, Baba.

  Good. Good. Now, do you need anything?

  She tries to think. Uh, I don’t know. Phone credit, I need this. And a charger. A Nokia charger.

  I can bring this.

  And shoes, she says. They took me without my shoes.

  Her phone goes dead. Out of credit. She taps the screen, hoping to somehow thump money into the SIM card. Her whole body is trembling. She wants to scream, to throw herself against the wall and shriek till her throat burns. She shoves the phone in her pocket and lies on one of the bunks and stares at the corner of the ceiling, breathing in and letting it out. Daniel will come. She breathes again. He will come. He knows how to get help. She rubs her eyes and presses hard against the sides of her head.

  The mother crosses the dorm, puts some clothes in her locker and turns off the lights. She gets into bed next to her son and holds him, whispering to him as he falls asleep. Another woman lies down and pulls the blanket over her head. While the other two sit on the floor in the light of the bathroom doorway and talk quietly.

  Dalila listens to the whining extractor fan in the bathroom and the rattle of the guard’s keys as he patrols the corridor. The dorm is stuffy, airless. The skylight is a square of purple against the dark ceiling. She exhales slowly, deliberately. She splays her fingers as wide as she can to try to stop them quivering.

  Daniel will come. He will come.

  For hours she lies in the darkness feeling her heart hammer against her ribcage.

  Darkness – same.

  It was the same in her home, in college, in her uncle’s home. The same in her flat and the same here. Thick, frightening darkness. Empty, uncertain darkness. Familiar, deep darkness.

  In the quiet, she pictures her mother. The face doesn’t come easily but her hands do, she can feel her mother’s dry, nimble fingers. She goes back to a time in history when she knew those hands. From there she reimagines what happened. The riots came, and she imagines it was her uncle who was killed. And now, instead, she lives in Nairobi and graduation is just around the corner. Her mother and father have inherited her uncle’s large home and they visit her regularly. Her mother has picked out a dress for her graduation but it’s too long and she is adjusting the hem herself. Her brother wants his own car but her father thinks he should concentrate on his studies. On Sundays they meet for a big lunch of ugali and stewed goat and she brings her friend Muthoni because she fancies her brother.

  The woman in the next bed starts to murmur in her sleep and Dalila is newly aware of the room and how dark it is.

  The skylight above her gradually turns from purple to blue to grey. She hasn’t slept at all.

  One of the women takes a shower while the others use the bathroom and make their beds. The little boy, wearing only his underpants, runs by Dalila’s bed and opens his locker with the key. His mother follows him. She helps him get dressed and kneels down to tie his shoelaces. He is perhaps eight years old and he’s wearing his school uniform. Dalila wonders who is going to take him to school. The guards? Will they really take him all the way back to Glasgow?

  The boy waits for his mother as she ties her long black hair into a bun and then wraps a hijab around her head and tucks it under her chin. As she watches, Dalila suddenly understands. This boy isn’t going to school. Like herself, he is wearing all he owns. He was taken in his school uniform and he will wear it until he is released.

  As Dalila makes her own bed, the mother comes up to her and asks, Do you speak English?

  Dalila stands upright. Yes, I do.

  It is time to eat, says the mother. Come, I will show you.

  They leave their dormitory and they are joined in the hallway by other women from the room opposite. The mess hall is a clatter of cutlery, crockery, languages and chair legs being scraped across the floor. Each noise bounces off the walls and ceiling, making all sounds come from everywhere. A milky smell mixes with a steamed pulpy scent of scrambled eggs. Sharper still are the conjoined odours of plastic and instant coffee. The mother and son join the back of the long food queue, and Dalila stands beside her, conforming to the order of the room. Beside the vending machines is a stack of wet trays. One guard watches the food line and another watches detainees having their food dished up. At every exit is another guard, watching.

  Men and women mingle freely in the hall. There are a lot more men than women. Strong, wiry-looking men. Asian men. Agitated men. Bearded Muslim men and frightened, swaggering men.

  Dalila looks back down the corridor she just came from and is relieved to see a sign declaring Loudoun House as a women and family wing only. She quickly works out that the women and children must be kept separate from the men.

  With no intention of eating, Dalila slips out of the queue and sits at a table being used by other women. Among the faces, she spots another child. A girl of about fourteen with her head lowered, eating eggs. Two large women sit either side of her, as if to hide her.

  When breakfast is over, people move out of the hall. Unsure where to go or what to do, Dalila finds the mother and follows her again. The corridors are full of people leaning against the wall, chatting, walking one way or the other. Most of the languages brush by her but it is the eyes that are the most difficult to ignore. Confused eyes, pleading eyes. Every pair seems to reach out and grasp her. Angry, pain-filled eyes.

  She comes to a small library. One guard sits at a desk next to a white woman, possibly a UK border official. Another guard stands near the window. A queue is already forming to use one of the six computers and people are also lining up to speak to the white woman at the desk. />
  Her thoughts return to Daniel. She takes out her phone to double-check her credit. There is none. She could use a computer but the queue is already long. What is she supposed to do all day? And why are people waiting to talk to this white woman? She lifts a National Geographic off the shelf and sits down, hoping to camouflage herself as she flips the pages.

  In here most people talk in lowered voices. Some sigh in front of the computer screens, tapping away at the keys. She overhears bits of conversations in English, people trading phone credit, toiletries, cash. There are lots of discussions about shoes and she notices many people walking around in socks and flip-flops. Two women gossip about a third woman who was recently taken to the medical wing.

  The boy in school uniform enters the library with his mother. They sit at the table opposite Dalila. The mother opens a book and encourages her son to read to her in whispers. Dalila keeps her eyes down, flicking through pages of camera advertisements.

  By midday Dalila’s feet are cold. Her socks are still a bit damp from the night before. She goes back to her room and lies on her bed, keeping her feet warm under the blanket. She wonders what Daniel is doing. Her mind moves to Ma’aza. What would Ma’aza do in this place? She always said moving is living and Dalila pictures her walking with those fast, determined strides. I should have gone with Ma’aza, she thinks. Just taken what I had and left. Kept moving. Instead, I froze like a scared little girl. I should face it, I’m a coward full of stupid little dreams. They were never going to let me stay in the UK. Ma’aza told me, she told me. She said they were coming to take us.

  In the canteen at dinner time, her mood is low. Dalila sits with a bowl of soup in front of her. She tries a mouthful. Nausea churns and tugs at the back of her throat. She pushes the bowl away. Across the hall, the boy in school uniform is also not eating. He sits on his hands, head down. His mother nudges the tray of food towards him, but the boy simply turns his head.