The Missing Twin

by Alex Day

  TWENTY-ONE

  Fatima

  It was late by the time they got to the beach of the small town on Turkey’s Aegean coast. The lilos and deckchairs that colonised it during the day had been replaced by empty expanses of sand, darkly glowing in the moonlight. The sea lay flat and still, almost motionless. Black. Fatima gazed at it, longing to wade into it, to wash away the layers of dirt of the last week that had now been intensified by the scourge of the rape so that filth seemed to cover every inch of her. But she knew that even all the liquid in that great body of water before her could never make her clean. She was sullied forever. The shame, the embarrassment, the disgust, would live with her for all time.

  Even though the tourists had gone safely back to their hotels, B&Bs and apartments there were still plenty of people about. Migrants were gathered in groups all along the road that curved around the bay, shadowy figures lurking in the atramentous night, waiting for the smugglers. In just the same way, having reached the small resort town by local bus, Fatima and Ehsan had once again shelled out a large sum of their remaining money to a man called Khalid, a broker for the smugglers, in the hope that at some point in the night they would be afloat and on their way to Europe. The more you paid, in theory, the less overcrowded the boat and so, again in theory, the less likely it was to capsize. If it had been a choice they had to make it would have been a bleak one, but there was no choice. They could only afford the cheapest – $650 per person – option. Khalid told them there would be ‘just’ forty-five people on board. He also told them where the departure point would be; they were to hide in the dunes that backed the beach until the smuggler arrived with the boat. During the hours they waited, Fatima went over and over what Khalid had told them, in answer to her insistent questions, about the danger of the crossing.

  ‘God decides who survives and who does not,’ he had said to her with a complacent shrug and disinterested tone. ‘If you don’t make it – it’s not my fault. It’s fate.’

  There was no way to argue with such an opinion, nothing to say in response or retaliation. Fatima pulled the twins close to her and nuzzled their hair and necks and cheeks like a mother bear tending to her cubs. She could still turn back. She didn’t have to go through with this. Youssef and Ehsan could go on ahead and get established and then she and the girls could follow.

  Lying in the soft, yielding sand dune in the pale moonlight, a tiny, fractious breeze blowing the salt air towards her, Fatima angrily bit her lip so hard she drew blood. What ridiculous way of thinking was this? Of course she was not going to give up now and let him forge the way, the idea that she would be indebted to, that she would have to count on, the despicable Ehsan was intolerable. She was the one who had set in motion the idea that they should leave, it had been her who had done the bulk of the research into the most preferable route. Somehow, from a lifetime of relying on another to make plans and decisions – her father, her husband – she had somehow mined and drawn up reserves of strength deep within her and shown that she was stronger than Ehsan, even though he was the man.

  Now, after what he had done to her, without apology, explanation or any sign of remorse, there was no way she was going to slip back into the pattern of letting him think he was in control, of letting him think she owed him anything. The very thought repelled her. And besides all else, deep inside herself she knew she didn’t trust him enough to be sure that, if they did part ways, he wouldn’t just forget all about her and concentrate on feathering his own nest.

  Fatima shuddered, feeling cold despite the balmy Mediterranean night. She itched all over, and particularly the parts of her that Ehsan had touched, that had had flesh to flesh contact with him. She scratched and scratched but it brought no relief, just left her skin red and raw with ugly white weals where her stubby, ragged nails tore at herself. Just being close to him made her feel nauseous, the sickness rising up within her in bilious waves that made her gag.

  She wanted to be a million miles away from him, to never have to set eyes on him again. Instead, he lay only a metre away from her, just the three children and some stubby sea-grass between them. Fatima reached out and held Marwa’s tiny hand in hers, rubbing her thumb over her palm that was still silky-soft despite all the hardship they had endured. Everything she was doing now was for her girls, and her unborn child. They were the only thing that mattered, her only motivation to keep going. She must do what was best for them.

  Right now, and for the immediate future, the best for the children was that they all stayed together.

  Nobody slept, not even the twins, despite their obvious exhaustion. They were grumpy and grizzly but seemed to have lost the capacity to cry, their huge eyes staring out blankly from pale, drawn faces. Fatima couldn’t decide whether it was worse that they didn’t fully understand what was going on and what was in store for them than if they had. Is it better to know you might die in the next twenty-four hours or to be blissfully unaware until it happens?

  The night stretched onwards, seeming never-ending.

  By the time that dawn was breaking behind the high rise hotels and apartment blocks of the town, it was obvious that Khalid’s smuggler was not coming tonight. According to Khalid, he himself held on to the refugees’ money until they had boarded a boat. Only then did he hand it over to the smugglers, minus his cut of course. Apparently, by the way he explained the system, Fatima and Ehsan were supposed to take comfort from that and to be reassured that their money was in safe hands. There was not much comfort now as the small groups of people who had been lying in wait all night began to trickle out of their lairs and drift away, towards the pine woods or into the town. Some still had plentiful resources and they might find accommodation in a hotel or guesthouse. Fatima longed for a bed and a shower, clean clothes, a glass of fresh water with ice and lemon and hot coffee served in a proper set like the one she had had at home. And then hated herself for such trivial desires. Who was so superficial as to want to drink out of a china cup when they were about to stare death in the face, and when they wore clothes that still bore the stains and smells of the ultimate humiliation?

  Anyway, there was no chance of any of those things, now or any time soon. Just another day of interminable boredom underscored at all times by ceaseless, debilitating anxiety.

  Fatima picked up the life jackets they had bought earlier that day and gathered together the rest of their meagre possessions. Perhaps they would have more luck the next night.

  ***

  Sheltering from the midday sun in the pinewoods, Fatima got talking to a young man named Yasin who was also waiting, with three others, for a chance to get to one of the islands. He was not from her country and did not speak her language but they could communicate in English. Yasin and his mates’ first attempt had ended in disaster – their boat had hit rocks and been ripped to shreds, shipping water in seconds and sinking in less than five minutes. They had been fortunate not to be too far out and all fifty-odd passengers had made it back to the shore, including a woman who had held her newborn baby clasped to her chest throughout the ordeal. Yasin didn’t know where she was now.

  ‘We wait for the smuggler to bring a new boat,’ he explained, seemingly unperturbed by the experience. ‘We will keep trying until we get there.’

  He was the loquacious type and the conversation was one-sided. Fatima didn’t have the strength to join in, but Yasin seemed personable and she had nothing else to do but listen.

  ‘When we get there – to Europe, to the EU, to Germany or UK,’ he continued volubly, ‘We will pretend to be from the same country as you because that way, we will receive papers that allow us to stay.’

  Despite his preoccupation with himself, he seemed to notice Fatima’s expression of doubt tinged with disapproval because he stopped short. His hesitation didn’t last long though, as he clearly felt the need to defend himself against her accusatory glare.

  ‘Everyone’s doing it – all the peoples from all the countries. If we say we are the same nationality as
you but we have no papers, we can get in. Nobody can prove it’s not true. It’s our best chance.’

  Fatima couldn’t think of anything to say. It seemed unfair, exploitative even, to pretend to be from a country ravaged by war and destruction just to get a better chance for yourself – but on the other hand, who could blame Yasin, and all the others like him? The problem was that Fatima wasn’t sure there was room in the EU for everybody and if Yasin and his travelling companions got in when they didn’t really need to, they might take the space that Marwa and Maryam needed, and Youssef, not to mention her and Ehsan. Fatima had a vision of the European continent slowly sinking under the weight of the desperate, the dispossessed and the homeless, each one clinging on for dear life whilst the native populations tried to throw them out, one by one, to save themselves.

  Fatima’s thoughts drifted, as they did more and more frequently these days, towards Ali, the long-lost brother, the sibling who had fled from a different kind of conflict. He had left a war of words, of arguments and disagreements that became intolerable. He had been told that he should go and take the disgrace he was bringing on the family away with him. It must have been terrible. Not as bad as this, not as horrendous as what they were going through – but everything is relative, isn’t it? He had no doubt experienced despair, even if it had been whilst enjoying the comfort and safety of an aeroplane. So he would understand.

  Fatima reasoned and reasoned with herself but still could not make the decision about whether to try and find him. He might berate them for leaving when it was so dangerous, or for not leaving sooner, when it was easier. She wanted neither pity nor criticism; she just wanted help and couldn’t face not knowing whether she would get it or not.

  Ehsan returned from the town, from Khalid’s ‘office’, an untidy, broiling room in the underbelly of a concrete block where most of the doors had been shuttered and bolted when they had visited for the first time.

  ‘He says it’ll definitely be tonight,’ he blurted out, before noticing Yasin still standing by, uncharacte‌ristically quietly. He threw the young man a hostile glare and took Fatima by the arm, forcing her to follow him further into the trees.

  ‘Who’s that guy?’ His yellow, uneven teeth, bared in the dull light beneath the canopy, were like a wolf’s as it tears into its prey.

  ‘I don’t know,’ answered Fatima, honestly. ‘I mean, he told me his name – Yasin – and that he’s on the way to Europe too. But other than that,’ she faltered, suddenly afraid of the menace contained in Ehsan’s silent consideration of her. ‘Other than that – I don’t know.’

  Ehsan’s face came close to hers, and she could smell his breath, sour from lack of tooth-brushing.

  ‘Don’t you ever …’ Ehsan paused, pulling her further round towards him, forcing her to meet his gaze, his eyes, bloodshot from lack of sleep, heavy with hatred. ‘Don’t you ever make up to another man again. What kind of a woman are you?’ He thrust her violently away from him. ‘A shameless one.’

  He’d been drinking, Fatima realised, and found that the only reason she minded was because it meant that he’d spent money and they had so very, very little left. He wasn’t coping with the situation at all, with the frustration, despondency and continual disappointment that they were facing. Rationalising it, she knew that the rape was but one symptom of his internal rage. As long as he didn’t take it out on Youssef and force the boy away. The relationship between father and son had become increasingly distant and bitter since the night of their argument – the night Ehsan had attacked her – and Fatima was terrified that Youssef would just disappear one day, decide to make his own way into his future. There were many children, mainly boys, travelling alone and it was known on the migrant trail that they often fell victim to sexual predation and exploitation. She could not let that happen to Youssef.

  Khalid had given Ehsan instructions for how to find the bay they would leave from that night. Plans had been changed because of an increase in police patrols on the original beach. Once again, Fatima, Ehsan and the children picked up all their worldly goods and began to walk. Even if they had money, they would not be able to take a taxi or bus; all such modes of transport had been banned by the local government in a bid to stop the refugees. But it was clear, as they trudged along the ragged coastline, that the ban was having no effect. Groups of itinerants were everywhere; families of two, three or even four generations, more bands of young men like Yasin, women alone with small children, young men singly or in groups.

  All human life is here, thought Fatima as she forced herself to put one foot in front of the other. Not that there’s much life left in any of us.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Edie

  ‘Where have you been?’ Vlad’s voice was thin and accusatory and, when Edie turned to face him, his eyes were thunderous. ‘You’re supposed to be on shift.’

  ‘I had something I needed to do in town.’ Edie put her hands on her hips defiantly. ‘I’m only a few minutes late.’

  ‘Clear this.’ Vlad threw his arm towards a cluster of tables where plates and cups and cutlery lay heaped in untidy and unstable piles and bunched up napkins rustled in the breeze from the ceiling fans.

  ‘Yes, sir!’ Edie raised her arm in a mock salute but Vlad wasn’t looking, her sarcasm lost on him.

  ‘What’s going on with all these police here?’ she demanded. ‘Where’s Vuk?’

  ‘Vuk’s doing what you should be doing.’ Vlad’s voice was low and harsh, the words spitting furiously out of him. ‘Working.’

  Stefan was hovering, wanting to speak to Edie but not daring to whilst Vlad was still around.

  ‘And as for the police – it’s nothing to do with you.’ Vlad’s body was tense with controlled fury, his shoulders hunched, a muscle in his cheek twitching involuntarily. Vuk must have told him that Laura had come and gone again in a matter of hours and that Edie was worried about her.

  ‘And they’re not here because of anything to do with your sister, so you can get that thought out of your stupid head, too.’

  Edie opened her mouth to protest, realised it was futile and shut it again. She worked hard for the rest of the afternoon, conscious despite her posturing that pissing Vlad off too much ultimately put her job at risk. And the last thing she wanted right now was to have to leave.

  She had nowhere else to go.

  ***

  It was late afternoon before she went to her room. On approaching the row of staff cabins, at first she thought it was someone else’s door swinging open as she knew she had locked hers when she had gone out in the morning. But almost as soon as she had this thought, she had dismissed it and realised the truth. It was her room, and it had been ransacked. Edie felt in her pocket for her key and found it there. She was sure she remembered locking up but then the scooter had broken down – had she put the helmet back into the room and forgotten to close the door behind her?

  Everything was turned upside down, clothes strewn even more wildly around than she could manage on her own, her make-up bag emptied out onto the bed, her rucksack taken apart, every single compartment unzipped, not a single item left inside. It was clear there’d been a burglary; panic surged inside her as she thought about her passport, unprotected when she should have taken it to the office and put it in Ivana’s safe, together with her cash, the last of her savings which she had intended to use when the season here ended and the work dried up.

  What had she said, so mightily, to Laura? First rule of travelling – never keep all your money in one place. She had failed on that score.

  But on examination she found that both passport and money were exactly where she had left them, in an envelope under the crate that was her bedside table. She picked up knickers and bras, dresses and T-shirts and dropped them back down onto the floor. Nothing appeared to be missing. But whoever had been in here had come for something. She stood, leaning against the door lintel, thinking, racking her brain for what it was that was niggling at her.

  And then it
came to her. The scarf. Laura’s scarf. It was the one thing that wasn’t there anymore. Someone had got into her room and taken it.

  Slamming the door and locking it despite the fact that this action now seemed pointless, she set off in the direction of Vuk’s cabin. He was the only person who knew she’d found Laura’s scarf. Maybe he would know why it had attracted the attention of the police. Vlad had been so adamant that their visit was nothing to do with Laura. Really? Edie could hardly be expected to believe that in the light of this new discovery, could she? She called Vuk’s number as she ran, not at all sure of what she would say to him but almost as a reflex action because she always called Vuk when she needed help … But as usual there was no answer. He never answered his phone – at least, not to her.

  She was running so fast and so blindly that she almost cannoned straight into someone. She stopped short. Her breath was coming thick and fast and she was sweating, her armpits damp, her shirt clinging to her back.

  ‘Where are you going?’ The voice was low, controlled and calm. ‘Vlad?’ It came out as a question even though she knew it was him. Looking at him properly, she saw that the inscrutability he commonly displayed had replaced his obvious anger of earlier. The silence that followed her interrogatory saying of his name seemed to last for hours and Edie found herself filling it although she could not have explained why.

  ‘I’m going to see Vuk.’

  ‘I think I told you earlier that he is working.’

  Edie’s breathing had steadied now and she forced her voice to steadiness also. ‘My room’s been broken into. I don’t feel safe there anymore.’

  ‘The police went into your room, Edie. The dogs took them there.’

  Edie could feel that Vlad was furious, incandescent, despite the lack of expression on his face. The only hints at anger were his tightened lips and the even greater than normal intensity of this gaze.