The Invisible Crowd

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The Invisible Crowd Page 31

by Ellen Wiles


  There were barriers at Newcastle Station, but Yonas slipped easily through the luggage gate behind a quarrelling family. He had no idea where to go. But just down the main road he saw a sign saying the Literary and Philosophical Library, outside a grand-looking building. He couldn’t resist going up the steps, remembering that moment when he’d discovered the Canning Town public library. Again, it seemed to be free to enter.

  He walked through into a vast, gorgeous space with a high, curved ceiling and reams of books lining the walls on polished wooden shelves. Compared to the libraries he’d seen so far, it felt as if he’d been going to church in a basement and had just found himself in a cathedral. The UK really was an incredible country, he thought. But why did British people deserve places like this, when he and Gebre didn’t? He wished he could just sit in here and read for a while. But all he could think about was that Gebre should be here too, that if he’d only gone through with the escape they could have found a place to live up here and jobs in this city, and he could have started writing again, perhaps in this very library, and Gebre could have started drawing… If he only had a drawing of Gebre’s to keep, as a memento. His chest started to constrict, and he turned to walk out.

  But then he paused at the doorway. He still had no idea how to get to Tesfay’s place. Should he ask a librarian if he could use the internet? But he’d need a special card for that, surely, and they’d ask his address.

  ‘Can I help you?’ a man at the desk asked. Yonas stopped. The man did look friendly.

  ‘It is a beautiful library,’ he said cautiously. ‘I am actually trying to find a friend’s address, and I do not know this city. Is it possible that you have a map?’

  ‘Oh, sure,’ the man said. ‘Free Wi-Fi if you have a laptop?’

  ‘No…’

  ‘Not to worry. I can pull up a map for you here if you like, no worries. What’s the postcode?’

  He had a lilting accent, definitely different to London. Yonas stepped closer and told him the address, and the man typed it into his computer – and then, without even asking, printed out a map of the route, in colour, and got out a pencil, with which he carefully drew a snaky line from the library all the way to Tesfay’s place. Yonas felt like crying as he took it, and thanked him. Why couldn’t British people have been this kind to Gebre? Why didn’t Gebre get a free map and a route to walk away from that detention centre to be with a friend?

  It took him about half an hour to get to Tesfay’s block of flats. Yonas hovered his finger over the buzzer for number 9, then retracted it and walked around the block.

  What was he doing, coming here, with no money, giving no notice? It was a bit like that night he’d turned up at Molly’s. But this was different: Tesfay didn’t even like him. They’d parted on bad terms. It had got nasty. They fundamentally disagreed about politics. Tesfay would never want to see him again. But then, he had texted his address to Yonas’s phone, and said to drop by. Why else would he have done that? But on the other hand, even if Tesfay was friendly, Yonas didn’t know how he was going to manage to be friendly back, how he could act normally, hold a conversation, stop himself from crying, from raging. Since finding that newspaper, and reading the worst news imaginable, he hadn’t yet talked to a single person apart from the kind receptionist at the library. He took the article out yet again to check it was real. It was still real. So real. And where else would he go now, if he didn’t buzz Tesfay? He needed to see a friendly face, to eat, to sleep.

  He came back to Tesfay’s door and buzzed firmly.

  Bounding footsteps. Yonas stood straight, preparing. The door opened. Tesfay’s face transformed from confusion into a huge smile. ‘No way! Yonas! This is… totally unexpected! Selam! What are you doing up here, brother?! You should have told me you were coming – but it is no problem, come in! You okay?’

  Yonas tried to smile and make an affirmative sort of noise, and followed Tesfay. The flat was warm and he could smell cooking – a stew, the delicious sourness of injera, nourishment, love… ‘Thanks. I – I need a place to stay,’ he said, hearing his voice shake.

  ‘Oh, to stay – er, you were thinking here?’

  Yonas knew he should have waited until he’d at least had a cup of tea and made some small talk somehow before mentioning the idea. ‘Don’t worry,’ he blurted. ‘Please forget it – I expect you have no room. It is just that… my best friend from Eritrea, he was in a detention centre, and he got refused and he killed himself.’ Saying this out loud for the first time, in a rush, hearing how concise and final it could sound in words, was almost physically painful. Yonas’s head pulsed, his stomach burned acid.

  But Tesfay reached out his arms. ‘Hey, brother, I’m so sorry,’ he said softly. ‘Of course you can stay.’ The hug felt so unexpectedly good that Yonas’s eyes filled up again.

  Several hours later, after a nap and a bath, he walked into a warm living room. It opened into a kitchen where Tesfay’s wife Jamila was stirring a pot, reaching out for it beyond her swollen belly. ‘You know, our second is due in two weeks now,’ Tesfay said.

  ‘Thank you for having me to stay,’ Yonas said to Jamila, and she told him it was no problem, though didn’t actually look at him when she said it. He reckoned she must be cross with Tesfay for agreeing he could stay without asking her first. ‘I will not impose on you for long,’ he added. ‘I know that you are preparing for your new arrival.’

  She smiled at him then, a smile that was clearly code for: I’m glad that’s understood.

  ‘Mummy, can you read this story?’ Freweini said, coming into the living room.

  ‘I’m busy now, can’t you see I’m cooking? Go and play – I will read a story before you go to sleep.’

  ‘I could read it to you,’ Yonas suggested. The little girl gave him an appraising glance, then obviously figured this was the best offer she was going to get, so climbed next to him on the sofa with her book. ‘The Enormous Crocodile,’ Yonas read grandly. It had been oddly moving saying goodbye to Clara with his own story – he hadn’t realized how fond he’d become of the child until he was about to leave.

  ‘So,’ Tesfay interrupted, just as the crocodile seemed set to eat several small children. He was standing in the middle of the living room with a big smile on his face. ‘I have good news, Yonas! I have got you a part-time job washing up in a hotel where my friend’s brother works, and he says they are advertising some work in a nearby pub as well if you want. And you can stay here for another week, or even two, but then, like I said, Jamila is due, so hopefully you can find somewhere…’

  ‘Thank you, thank you so much,’ Yonas said.

  The job turned out to be the perfect thing for his tangled brain, and the frequent impulses he felt to collapse into tears or start shouting at the universe. Nobody talked to him, music was always on in the background, he was always busy. The act of washing plates was repetitive, meditative, almost, which helped him not to think about the past or future, it was inherently cleansing, and his tears, when they flowed, could wash unnoticed down the plughole. There was only one moment when he got such a surge of anger he almost threw a plate at the wall, but he managed to hold back. Fortunately Tesfay seemed to sense his need not to engage with anything stressful, and there was no political talk in the evenings, or even any personal talk about Gebre or what had brought Yonas up north. The family just got on with their routine and let Yonas exist peacefully in the background.

  The two weeks drifted past in a haze, until he sat up in bed one night with the realization that his time was up. In the morning, Jamila would give him the look that said: we had an understanding, did we not? But he had so successfully forced himself into this temporary retreat from reality that, again, he hadn’t made a single plan for what to do next. He had his job now, but nowhere to stay, and he didn’t have the energy to beg any more favours. But how would he say goodbye to Tesfay? He would be expected to say where was going. And if Tesfay found out he had no plan, he’d offer him to stay longer, when they
really wanted him to go. He would just write them a letter, instead, like he’d done for Emil, and for Nina, to make it easier for everyone. He got up, pulled out his notebook, ripped out a page and hovered a pen over it, then wrote:

  You have all been so kind to have me stay with you. Jamila, your cooking is spectacular, and good luck with the birth. Freweini, keep up the good work with your reading and you will inspire your baby brother or sister. Tesfay, you are a great friend, and I know that we have some differences, but for that reason your support has meant even more.

  He went back to bed, but not to sleep, then rose early, before the sky had lightened, stuck the note to the fridge with a yellow smiley-face magnet, and left.

  He walked down to the river path in the chill morning air. Tesfay had told him he should check out all the different bridges in Newcastle, and a building called the Sage, which he hadn’t got round to doing yet. But that must be the one he was talking about: a huge structure that looked like a fat, silver caterpillar. Yes, it was a pretty spectacular cityscape, actually, especially with the lights still twinkling in the slate sky. And it felt good to be by water again.

  He hung over the side of one of the bridges, looked down at the black shine of the river, broiling cold and mean beneath, and thought back to the day by the River Thames in London when he got his refusal letter. That feeling of being drawn towards losing himself in the current was even stronger now. He’d lost Gebre. He’d abandoned his appeal and his friends, and he would never get leave to remain, Lemlem could never come to join him and study here now… he had nothing left to offer the world.

  But he wasn’t ready to jump. Not yet. He had to walk, think clearly, face up to what had happened with Gebre, to his own actions – why he had ended up: here, in a cold, northern city in the UK, visa-less, bereaved, alone, on a road to… he had no idea where! When did he take the fatal path that got him to this bizarre place? And where would he rewind to, if he could do his life again differently? Could he ever get back on track from here? On track to where?

  He couldn’t think properly – he needed to walk. He set off on foot up the road that led north to the coast. There was nobody else around, and barely a car passed. The sky had lightened from slate to dove grey but the sun hadn’t yet peeked through. Yonas let himself imagine that he was walking along with Gebre beside him, that the two of them were setting out to make a fresh start up here, incognito, under cover. Would they give each other new names, for their new identities? What ideas would Gebre have? Would they be cracking jokes and debating like the old days? Would they be summoning up all the other times they’d journeyed out for new starts? There were just so many memories of Gebre he didn’t want to forget – now, he felt like sitting down at the side of the road to write them down. But who would ever read his scribbles? Who would care?

  Picking up his pace, he wished he’d handled things differently. Gebre was far too fragile for an escape like that. Yonas should have paid him another authorised visit, to raise the idea with him, not just left him that note, and then ambushed him. What was he thinking, landing that plan on Gebre in such rushed excitement in the toilets, producing a wig from his pants, like a rabbit out of a hat, like some sort of caper you’d see in a film?

  He shouldn’t have planned an escape at all. Gebre was right: they should both have just submitted to the system, submitted to the humiliation of their interviews, trusted in Veata and waited for the process to work itself through, even though the odds were stacked against them. Against Gebre, anyway. Yonas had an appeal hearing all lined up, and now he’d thrown away his chance! Perhaps his impetuous determination to free them both from that shitty system was ultimately what killed Gebre. Was he the one responsible, then? Had he killed his friend? But all he’d wanted was to save Gebre! And would he really do it differently, if he had his chance again? He wasn’t sure he would. He just couldn’t bear standing by, watching his best friend, locked up in that place, in such despair after he’d struggled so hard for so long, but life had just thrown one hand grenade at him after another, until he had no options left.

  Yonas turned off the main road, towards an empty-looking horizon to the east that must be the sea. Maybe it didn’t matter any more. It was over now. Done. Finished. All he wanted was the chance to say sorry, to tell Gebre how important he was. That he loved him. Was it too much to bring him back for a day, an hour, a minute, just for that?

  A little way down the minor road, he found himself in a village called Seahouses, tasted salt on the air, smelled frying food. He passed a fish and chip café, filled with feasters. When he first caught a glimpse of the sea, it had already darkened to asphalt, but the horizon was slashed with peach and bronze. And as he reached the harbour, and the wind hit his face, he was assaulted by the memory of that walk out of the factory, that first sight of the watery expanse, that sensation of space and freedom, that moment with Gebre at the top of the hill, the hilarity and delight, flopping down on the grass, Osman running off… He found his hands were clutching at his face.

  He let out a long groan and carried on down onto the beach, his sore feet sinking into the soft bumps of windblown sand, scattered with bits of seaweed, a can, a bottle top, a crisp packet. He headed past a cluster of teenagers and a middle-aged couple sitting on the sand, tucking into portions of fish and chips wrapped in newspaper, and walked away from the village. The beach was sandy, and seemed to stretch ahead for miles. When the sound of chatter grew distant, he stopped at the boundary where the texture of the sand changed into a smooth, wet slope, descending to the water’s edge. Boundary lines. His whole family might be alive now if it weren’t for imaginary boundary lines and the stupid wars that were fought over them. Gebre would be alive. Because of boundary lines they were all doomed from the start.

  He stood there and watched the sky intensify imperceptibly into its last embers. Gebre would have captured that nicely, if he’d been here with a canvas and some paints. But peaceful appreciation of this beauty was reserved for people lucky enough to have been born here, to live in comfortable houses, and to think nothing of pottering out together for a stroll and a takeaway meal at sunset, to have no reason to doubt that they could do so for every sunset if they felt like it, until they were old and passed away in their sleep. People like him, and Gebre, and Melat, they didn’t have the luxury of picnicking. They were just born into the wrong country at the wrong time. Tough luck. Gebre was right: what was the point of struggling against the tide? Maybe he was right to end it his own way, to take control over his life at the end, when all other choices had been taken away from him. And what business did Yonas have, dreaming he might end up living a free and happy life here, not just with papers, a manual job and a roof over his head, but maybe even writing again, going out to galleries, buying expensive cappuccinos? Somewhere inside, he’d genuinely believed he might have a chance at all that. How deluded! And what was freedom here anyway, without his oldest friend? Who wouldn’t even get a funeral, probably… Yonas seriously doubted they would have funerals for detainees who had nobody to pay funeral costs and no family to attend. That was possibly the worst part: not even having the chance to say a proper goodbye.

  But he could at least say something right now for Gebre, just in case these burnished sunset colours had a magical, conductive force that could carry a message. And he knew the right poem: his friend, Amanual, had written it during the border war, before he was imprisoned, and Yonas had made a point of learning it, in tribute. He cleared his throat, as if he were on a stage again, looked up, and recited.

  Something growled

  Something boomed

  Invading the calm

  It echoed.

  . . .

  Where two brothers pass each other by

  Where two brothers meet

  Where two brothers join

  In the piazza of life and death

  In the gulf between calamity and culture

  In the valley of anxiety and peace

  Something boomed.


  While the chia and seraw acacias spat at each other

  Sorghum and millet cut each other down

  With no one to collect them they feed on one another,

  Until a single seed remains…

  Brimming with tears

  Being chopped – hacked

  Sowed unto itself.

  . . .planted

  In earth yet to gush

  In that indiscernible thing,

  Stream of blood and water,

  The seed…

  Assailed by:

  The freezing sun

  Tempestuous nimbus cloud

  Greyish lightning

  Scalding rain…

  Slipping through littered iron

  Climbing onto the spirit of death

  Shouldering its sterile life

  Here, it has grasped at spring.

  The seed…

  He stopped. Silence. The clouds carried on drifting, expanding, blurring into each other, and slowly fading as the edge of the sun caramelized down and disappeared. Yonas sat on the pebbles, hugged his knees and scrunched his eyes.

  After some time, he found he was shivering. When he looked up, it was dark. A few stars peeked out, nothing compared to the desert, but brighter here than in the city. The moon hovered, a thin crescent, like a tiny hammock you could float up to and lie in. He looked left and right: he was the only person still on the beach. He got to his feet, but his legs felt like sodden cotton wool. There were dunes at the back of the beach, and he walked into them and felt the cold wind drop a little. He pulled out two bin bags from his rucksack, lay down on them, and closed his eyes.

  Chapter 29: Jude

  ‘LET’S CLEAR ASYLUM BACKLOG’:

  TOUGH NEW RULES TO DEPORT FOREIGN CROOKS FAST

  You are weeping uncontrollably as you attempt to walk in a straight line along Fleet Street. Ridiculous: it’s only a case. You’ve never even met the client! You should be getting the Tube home or you will miss Alec’s bedtime, yet again; but you have to calm down first.

 

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