Far From My Father's House

by Jill McGivering

  The narrow beam swung round the room. She was in the back of the building, in the vast open area now being used as stores. Broad stacks of boxes reached as high as twenty feet, towering all around her. She moved further inside. The stacks were packed tightly together with thin alleys running between them, barely wide enough to squeeze through. She ran the torchlight back and forth across the boxes, picking out the labels. Buckets. Blankets. Bedrolls.

  She pushed sideways into one of the cardboard aisles. At the end, boxes of blankets gave way to cooking hardware; pots and metal cups and ladles. She ran the torch upwards. The walls of cardboard seemed to tip towards her, making her reel. She leant back against the boxes and closed her eyes. She thought of the cell and the way the high walls there had narrowed and tapered, threatening to crush her. It’s an illusion, she thought, the boxes are perfectly stable. She took a few deep breaths, opened her eyes and walked on, pressing further into the heart of the stores.

  The medical supplies were grouped along the far side in a section close to the wall. She walked back and forth between the stacks, tilting the torch and trying to work out how they were organized. The non-medical supplies were clearly grouped in kind: several stacks of boxes of bedrolls, followed by stacks of cooking pots, then plastic sheeting and so on.

  The arrangement of the medical stock seemed different. She walked back and forth, reading the labels and trying to make sense of it. Boxes of each item seemed to be separated, stored in various places along several aisles. Here was a whole stack of aspirin, alongside boxes of bandages and dressings. She walked on. But here, further down, there was another consignment of aspirin, quite separate from the first one and some distance from it.

  She turned into the next aisle. Antiseptic cream. She’d seen boxes of that earlier as well. More bandages and dressings. Then yet more boxes of aspirin. She went back down the aisles, checking the labels, puzzled. There was a pattern, there must be. She just hadn’t fathomed it yet.

  She found a stack of boxes of antibiotics and tore away part of a cardboard flap. The packets, with their familiar Chinese logos, were packed tightly inside. She balanced the torch on the next box and used both hands to prise them out. The holograms were dull in the torchlight. Fakes, she was sure of it. She looked at the packaging. Due to expire next February. A different batch from the packet they’d used for Layla. Expiry dates. She stopped, heart thumping, staring at the packets in her hand.

  She ran the torch across the labels in the next stack. Antiseptic cream, expiring next February. The next stack was bandages, expiring next March. That was it. They were arranged in batches, by end date. She leant back against a cardboard tower and calculated how many stacks there were.

  The job was going to be more laborious than she’d thought. She’d hoped all the antibiotics would simply be stored together so she could quickly take a range of samples. In fact, she needed a packet or two from each batch, all the way along two solid aisles of medical supplies. The walls of boxes stretched out in front of her, endless.

  She was just starting when she heard a noise. She snapped off the torch. Her eyes swam with spots of light. She felt suddenly sick with tension. The noise was close. It came from the front of the building.

  Metal was scraping slowly across metal. Someone was drawing the heavy chain through the lock on the main entrance. The movements were slow and stealthy. The knock of metal, as the links banged against the door, carried through the building. She strained to hear. Silence pulsed in her ears. Her hands were clamped, sweating, round the torch.

  After a few moments, a scrape of wood. The main door was being opened. Feet scuffed against the cement floor. She felt for the boxes behind her, trying to remember how far into the stores she’d come. She’d heard the chain being lifted away but nothing before that to warn her. The removal of the padlock had been soundless. This was someone who, like her, had a key. The door creaked as it closed.

  She inched her way along, trying to retrace her steps to the side door. If she used her torch, she could get there in seconds, but she was afraid to switch it on. The darkness curved round her, pressing into her eyes, her mouth and disorientating her.

  A voice. A Pakistani man, speaking English. ‘Open it.’

  ‘I’m trying to. Just let me—’

  Frank. It was Frank’s voice. He sounded exhausted. A heavy smack. His sentence was cut short. She leant back against the cardboard wall. He’s still alive. She was shuddering. Why have they brought him here? She remembered what Frank told her after the attack on the administration building during the riots, about rumours in the camp that he kept something precious locked up here, gold or guns. She shook her head, frantic. An image came to her of Doc’s body, his throat slit, dumped with the girl at the edge of the camp.

  She turned quickly, expecting to find the end of the row and instead hit cardboard. Her boots struck the bottom box with a loud thud. She froze. The silence seemed to stretch forever. Finally, low murmurs next door. Footsteps. The flimsy door which separated the office from the stores was pulled open. Weak light hit the roof and walls and revealed the hard outlines of the stacks around her.

  Ellen crouched low, her torch in one hand, packets of antibiotics in the other. Slow footsteps made their way into the storeroom. A light creak of boots. Low breathing. She tried to squeeze herself into nothing. If she shifted position, he’d hear. Silence. He must have stopped. A halo of light fringed the top of the next tower. He was an aisle or two away from her. Like her, he was listening.

  The torchlight swung as he moved on. He was between her and the side door. She looked round, trying to think what to do. There was nowhere to hide. He was too close. Any movement and he’d hear. The footsteps were at the back of the storeroom now, moving towards her along one of the cross aisles. If he appears, she thought, I’ll run. She braced herself. Her legs juddered under her.

  Light hit her eyes. Sudden and blinding. She narrowed her eyes and twisted her face from it, shielding it with her hand. The glare caught her full in the face. It was funnelled straight down the narrow aisle. She tried to look through her fingers into the glare but made out nothing but white. She raised her palms.

  ‘Journalist.’ Her whisper ran through the silence. ‘British.’

  The torch was abruptly lowered. It put a sudden spotlight on worn boots, padded with newspaper, sticking out below loose cotton trousers. The face was in shadow. She stood up and took a step forwards, trying to see who it was, blinking away the coloured sparks and swirls in her vision. Saeed.

  He looked startled. They stood in silence for a moment, staring at each other. Noises burst behind them from Frank’s office. He lifted his eyes. A crash as something solid fell, then the bang of smaller objects hitting the ground. An angry voice in Pashto.

  Saeed took a few steps closer. He seemed angry but also nervous. He whispered, ‘Why you are here?’

  ‘Frank is innocent, Saeed. You mustn’t kill him.’

  He frowned, shook his head. Behind them, another thwack as something was overturned.

  She said, ‘You know why people have died? It’s not Frank. It’s the medicines.’

  His expression was alert. He understands me, she thought, but he doesn’t believe me. She shifted her weight, trying to stop the tremor in her legs.

  ‘The man who bought them is corrupt. He’s cheating us all. Khan Saab, the rich Pakistani from England.’ She spoke slowly and clearly, keeping her eyes on his. ‘He gave all this.’ She drew her hand through the air, taking in the supplies of medicine. ‘It’s all bad.’

  Saeed’s eyes ran along the boxes. His face was sullen but his eyes were thoughtful. He looked her full in the face.

  ‘You see this?’ She lifted the packets of antibiotics in her hand and angled them in the half-light, pointing to the top hologram. ‘It’s dull. It’s wrong. That means they’re bad.’

  He didn’t attempt to look more closely. She could feel his scepticism.

  ‘I came tonight to get more. To prove it.’
She put her hand on her heart. ‘It’s true, Saeed. You can’t kill Frank. It was Khan, all the time, making money out of your people. Killing them for money.’

  He hesitated, watching her. She thought of his gentleness as he crouched beside Layla in the corner of the cell and the respect he showed by keeping his distance from the girl.

  She whispered: ‘We have a friend, you and I. Layla. She is a good girl.’

  He didn’t reply.

  ‘Did you hear what happened? What her family did?’

  He looked uncertain.

  ‘They beat her.’ She mimed a cane whipping through the air. ‘Because she was away from the camp. With you.’

  ‘Layla?’ He looked confused. ‘Who did that?’

  ‘Her relative. She’s very hurt.’

  He narrowed his eyes. ‘Why you are telling this?’

  ‘I’m trying to help her.’ She took a step towards him. ‘I know what you did, Saeed. You gave your own money to save us, didn’t you?’

  He flushed and his eyes flicked away from hers for a second, embarrassed, then came back.

  ‘You begged him to set her free. And me too. You saved our lives. God will bless you.’ She paused. ‘Don’t let them kill Frank, Saeed. He’s a good man. He’s innocent.’

  From the office doorway far behind her, a man called out. Saeed looked afraid.

  ‘Go,’ he whispered. ‘Now.’

  He pushed past her and ran back towards the office. The light bounced along the walls of cardboard, then disappeared, plunging her into darkness. She closed her eyes. A murmur of low voices. She leant against the boxes and breathed deeply. He could have killed her. He hadn’t. She was alive. She pushed the packets of antibiotics into her pockets. She had no idea if he’d believed anything she’d said.

  She put her scarf over her torch and switched it on. It gave her enough light to read the names on the labels. She found a new stash of antibiotics and started to tug at a cardboard seam, pulling out several packets and stuffing them into her pockets with the rest. She moved on, found a third box and started to tear into it.

  Behind her, the door to the office was knocked open and light flew in. She clicked off her torch and crouched. Something heavy was being dragged along the floor. She heard panting. She peered around the corner of the aisle. A thick-set man, the tail of a black turban flapping at his neck, was bent over, struggling slowly backwards into the stores. He grasped a limp body by the armpits, heaving it.

  He turned his head to judge the space behind him. A broad face with a black bushy beard. He was one of Mohammed Bul Gourn’s men. Her eyes slid over him to Frank, hanging from his hands. His face was battered and bruised, his chin bumping on his chest. The man twisted and dumped Frank on his side beside the boxes, then stood still for a moment, breathing hard and recovering, before going back to the office.

  A minute later, he returned. He moved quickly along the edge of the stores, his boots slapping on the cement floor, sloshing a trail of liquid from a canister. The smell of petrol hit her in a rush. Fumes stung her eyes and burnt the soft flesh at the back of her throat. She swallowed and lifted her scarf to shield her nose and mouth.

  He shook out the last drops. A match scraped and flared, lighting his raised fingers for a second, then flying forwards in a flaming arc and landing on the floor. The man was already running.

  A blast. A compressed column of air whooshed past her. At the far end of the building, the door banged shut on the fleeing men. She put her torch on and ran towards Frank. A line of flame shot along the floor. The stink of burning petrol pierced her nostrils. Sparks spun up into the darkness. She pressed her scarf against her mouth.

  Frank, slumped on his side, wasn’t moving. She slapped his face. No response. She put her hands under his shoulders and tried to lift him. He was too heavy for her. He fell onto his front.

  Her face was running with sweat. The fire was taking hold. Sparks shot towards the roof in fountains of burning cardboard. Her eyes smarted. She must get him out. She tore open the boxes stacked around her, frantically searching. Bags of salt. Tins of cooking oil. Plastic buckets and bowls. Finally her hands found softness. She pulled out a blanket and stretched it on the ground beside him, then crouched down low, put her shoulder to his and let out a cry as she used all her strength to roll him onto it. She lay across him, coughing. It’s too much, she thought. I can’t. She wanted to weep with frustration.

  A piece of burning soot landed in her hair and sizzled. She got up. The air was dancing with flame. Fragments of swirling soot made the boxes shimmer. She grabbed the end of the blanket, one corner in each hand, raising Frank’s head and shoulders from the ground. She planted her feet firmly, wound the blanket round her hands and started to inch backwards, dragging him. Her muscles strained. The blanket seemed to stick for a second. Then it jerked free with a rush and began to move. She slid him slowly, foot by foot, in bursts of effort, out of the storeroom and into the office.

  It had been ransacked. Drawers and boxes lay smashed on the floor. Files were ripped, spilling their contents. The safe door was open. She struggled to get her breath, then heaved him through the final stretch.

  The door gave at once when she leant against it. She dragged Frank to the doorway and tipped his face towards the outside air. He didn’t stir. His pulse was strong. She seized his arm and turned him onto his side.

  She stared back at the blazing stores. It would all be lost, the fakes, the evidence. She stooped low and ran back into the flames. The fire was pulling in the air around it, sucking her into its arms. The smoke was thick. She fell to her stomach and crawled. The beam of her torch bounced off the smoke, reflecting the light back into her face.

  One more sample, one more batch and I’ll leave. She reached up and clawed at the bottom of a cardboard box. It gave way. Packets scattered. She paddled her fingers through them, smoke stinging her eyes. Rehydration salts. She inched forwards and reached for the next stack of medicine. The cardboard fell apart as soon as she tugged at it. She pulled out more packets. Amongst them, the familiar logo. Antibiotics. She pushed them into her pockets with the rest. Enough. She must get out.

  Sparks were thick, singeing her hair. At the end of the row, the flames reared, blowing ash and heat. She gasped, sucking in shallow breaths, feeling her lungs fill with smoke. Pain flashed through her chest. Her eyes streamed, tears clogging the light ash on her eyelashes. Flame cracked in her ears. The smoke was in her mouth, her nose, bitter and gritty. White sparks fell in showers inside her head.

  The smoke swirled round her. She surrendered to it. Her forehead sank. She seemed to be floating, carried by swiftly flowing water. Frank was there on the shore, healthy and handsome. He lifted his hand to her as she passed by and smiled and she saw that he was young again. I saved him, she thought. I did it. At last, I set things right.

  She was jolted back into her body. She was moving. She was being hoisted into the air, head bouncing, feet dangling. Streams of hot air on her face. Pain flared in her chest, her throat burning. She started to choke. She wanted to stop this, to go back to the peaceful water and to rest. The coughing scoured her lungs. Her body was swinging, smacking against the man who was carrying her. Frank, she thought. It’s Frank.

  A rush of cold hit her in the face and set off new spasms of coughing. The hard surface of the ground banged against her hips, back, head. She was wheezing. The pain in her lungs was searing. She battled to breathe. Far away, fire was raging, a stunning ball of red and yellow, showering heat and light.

  Strong hands grasped her under the shoulders and lifted her head. Water splashed over her cracked lips. It ran into her throat. She spluttered, coughed, retched. Water cascaded down her chin and wet her neck. She struggled to open her eyes. Someone’s face was over hers, looking down at her. Brown eyes. Saeed. Saeed went back for her.

  Her hand found his arm. She unclenched her stiff fingers and groped for his hand, pushing it down into her pocket. He drew out a few crushed packets of tablets.
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  She opened her mouth. He lifted her head again and gave her water. She swallowed. When she tried to speak, he bent down low over her face to hear.

  She barely managed the words: ‘For Bul Gourn.’

  He nodded, lifted the bottle to help her drink. The ground vibrated with pounding feet. Cries in the distance. The camp had stirred. People were coming.

  She shook her head. ‘Go.’ She waved her hand weakly at him. ‘Run.’

  The mud was cold against her burning cheek. Shouts were closing in. She twisted onto her side, choking.

  Someone shook her shoulder. She was turned onto her back. The sudden shock of a slap on her cheek. Cold water splashed onto her face, ran into her mouth. She managed to open her eyes. The faces of strangers hung large, creased with concern.

  ‘Madam, are you quite well?’ someone said. ‘Madam?’

  Someone lifted her head and cushioned it with a blanket. A man took her wrist, checking her pulse. Over to one side, at the main entrance to the administration building, she could see a group of men busy round a figure on the steps. Frank. They were looking after Frank. She closed her eyes, flooded with relief, and sank back into darkness. Her last confused thoughts were of Saeed, wriggling free from the wire fence and running out across the moonlit mud, carrying Khan’s drugs to Mohammed Bul Gourn.

  Chapter 28

  Ellen was woken by a young man from the hotel. He clicked open the door in a single practised movement, shouting, ‘House-keeping!’

  Britta jumped up from a chair. ‘Shush.’

  He was already inside, standing at the end of the hallway, peering at Ellen through the gloom, his brown eyes wide with surprise to see her still in bed. Ellen, groggy with sleep, struggled to focus. Clean cotton bedding was looped over his arm. Their eyes met for a moment before Britta reached him, her hands extended. She shooed him backwards, out of the room. The door fell shut with a thud.

  Ellen sank back into the pillows. There was a brown water stain on the ceiling, the shape of a pear. She traced round it in her mind and thought back to the fire. She breathed slowly and carefully, testing the burning pain in her lungs. Everything smelt of smoke.