Promising Azra

by Helen Thurloe

  ‘She all right?’ asked the woman, pointing at the wheelchair.

  ‘A little accident,’ said Uncle. ‘She’ll be fine.’

  She looked over the edge of the counter at me. ‘Gate twenty-three,’ she said. ‘Boarding in ninety minutes.’

  Uncle pushed me to a frosted glass door. A sign read ‘Passengers Only’. Why ‘Passengers’? It should say ‘Visitors’. ‘Hospital Visitors Only’. We joined another queue of people. A small boy stared at me. When we got to the front, Uncle took off his belt and shoes and put them into a tray.

  ‘Do you think you can stand?’ he asked. I pressed my hands down to push up, then crumpled over my legs onto the floor. He lifted me back into the wheelchair. ‘Kutti,’ he said under his breath. I shivered.

  A security guard waved us to the side. I sat while he ran a big magnifying glass over me. There was something I remembered about cutlery. Something B had told me. A fork? A spoon? What was it again? I tried to find it in my memory, but couldn’t.

  Uncle walked through a metal arch and came back to fetch me.

  ‘Go on,’ said the security guard, waving us on.

  This was definitely not a hospital. But my brain was sludge. Dense sediment at the bottom of a beaker. Where were we?

  On the wall in front was a big picture. A kangaroo and an emu standing in a bush. ‘Australian Government’. ‘Customs and Border Protection Service’. That was it. Protection. I remembered that. But why?

  I sat below the counter. The man looked down at me. ‘Azra Ajmal?’

  I nodded. He tapped on his keyboard. He looked at me again. ‘Going to Pakistan?’ he asked, holding up a green card.

  ‘Yes,’ said Uncle. ‘We have our visas.’

  Pakistan? Visas? A shard of ice pierced the fog in my brain. This couldn’t be right.

  ‘Are you okay?’ the man asked me.

  ‘She’s fine,’ said Uncle. ‘Just recovering from a little accident.’

  I swallowed and shook my head. I couldn’t remember an accident.

  ‘Got medical approval to fly?’ asked the man.

  Uncle laughed nervously. ‘It’s nothing, really,’ he said. ‘Her leg’s weak, that’s all.’

  The man looked at me again, then tapped on his keyboard. He reached across his desk and picked up a block. Then stamped it twice. ‘Have a pleasant journey,’ he said, handing two blue books back to Uncle.

  Uncle nodded. ‘Thank you.’ And then he pushed my wheelchair past the desk. ‘Gate twenty-three,’ he said to himself.

  I knew something was wrong. This place wasn’t a hospital. Mama wasn’t here. But I was. And I had a very bad feeling about it.

  XXVIII

  Fluorescence

  the absorption of high energy radiation by a substance so that it then emits visible light

  Uncle pushed the wheelchair up against the wall and sat on a chair beside me. It seemed like we sat there for a very long time. My head churned. Pins and needles prickled my legs.

  People stared at me. At the wheelchair, and at me in my damp school uniform. Why was I wearing my uniform? I knew it wasn’t right. Uncle looked at his phone. Then he put it into his pocket. And took it out again. He didn’t speak, just kept stroking his moustache.

  I heard the roll of suitcase wheels and the chimes of announcements. A woman’s voice said Los Angeles, last call.

  Ding dong.

  London, now boarding.

  Ding dong.

  KL departing gate twenty-three.

  Two police officers, a man and a woman, walked into the lounge, and looked around. The policewoman spoke to an attendant at the counter, and showed her something on a tablet. The attendant looked around, settled her gaze on me, and pointed.

  Both police officers looked over at us, but then they stepped back into the corridor and walked away. What was that about? I slumped into the wheelchair. It was uncomfortable. My back hurt. My feet ached. But at least I could wriggle my toes now.

  There were more chimes. ‘Would Zarar Ajmal and Azra Ajmal please report to the counter at gate twenty-three?’ They said our names a bit wrong, but I knew they meant us.

  Uncle looked up, surprised. ‘Stay here,’ he said, leaving his bag on the seat.

  At the counter, he spoke to the attendant. They were too far away for me to hear what they said. Uncle’s hands flew about. He looked upset.

  Suddenly, the police officers were back in the lounge. The policewoman went over to Uncle, and the policeman appeared next to me. ‘Are you Azra Ajmal?’ he asked. He had short dark hair and serious eyes. His name badge said ‘Constable Adam Burchell’. That seemed strange, a policeman in a hospital. Where was Mama? And was she okay?

  I nodded. ‘Yes.’ The word felt awkward in my mouth. But at least I could speak. Uncle was still talking to the policewoman.

  ‘We have reason to believe you are being taken out of Australia against your will,’ he said. ‘Is that the case?’

  I looked at Uncle, waving his hands, and felt a sudden chill.

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Really?’ My tongue was thick and dry. It hurt to swallow.

  The policeman clicked his tongue. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘I think we need to have a chat. Is that your father over there?’

  ‘No,’ I said, shaking my head. I would’ve told them it was my uncle, but I couldn’t get the right words out.

  He pushed my wheelchair into the corridor, while the policewoman walked with Uncle back to his bag. ‘This way, please, sir,’ she said.

  We passed rows of chairs and people with bags, then went down a long corridor to a glass door. A sign said ‘Australian Federal Police Interview Room’. They moved plastic chairs out of the way to make space for the wheelchair.

  ‘Take a seat, please, Mr Ajmal,’ the policewoman said. ‘There are a few questions we need to ask.’

  The policewoman put her phone on the table. ‘This isn’t a court proceeding,’ she said, ‘but we need to record our interviews, okay?’ She pressed the screen twice.

  I nodded. Uncle frowned. His leg jiggled under the table.

  ‘Can I see your passports, please?’

  Uncle reached inside his jacket and pulled them out. She flicked his open, and checked his face against the photo. Then she did the same with mine. ‘Birthday next month?’ she asked.

  I wondered. I couldn’t remember.

  ‘Seventeen next month,’ I heard Uncle say.

  She pressed her lips together. She didn’t look pleased.

  ‘Now, Azra,’ she said, ‘your name is on the Family Law Watchlist. Do you know what that means?’

  I tried to remember. It sounded important. Someone had told me. After a very long time, I said, ‘I think so.’ But I couldn’t remember properly.

  ‘Good. Does your uncle know about this?’

  I looked down at the table and shook my head. I didn’t know. I didn’t really remember what it was myself. I was very thirsty. My head felt bruised.

  Uncle blinked quickly. ‘What is this? What is this about?’

  The policewoman looked at him. ‘It sounds like you’re not aware, sir, but your niece is not permitted to leave the country. A federal magistrate has made a court order to prohibit her departure.’

  Uncle puffed up his chest. ‘But we have tickets, our visas, everything done properly.’

  The policeman said, ‘That’s not the issue, sir. You are free to travel. However, this young lady is not.’

  ‘But,’ said Uncle, his voice rising, ‘why not? She’s my niece, I have her parents’ permission, all our documents are in order, and we are expected in Lahore tomorrow! You can double-check everything.’

  I shrank into the wheelchair. Lahore. I knew about that. I remembered that it wasn’t good, that I didn’t want it.

  ‘With respect, sir,’ said the policeman, ‘that doesn’t change anything. May I ask the purpose of your journey?’

  From the corner of my eye, I saw Uncle turn to me.

  ‘It’s for her,’ he said, flinging out his
arm. ‘Her wedding. Everyone’s waiting for us.’

  My temple throbbed like there was a hammer in there. I shook my head. No wedding! Not yet!

  ‘Is that true, Azra?’ asked the policewoman. ‘Is that why you’re on the list?’

  I nodded. Yes, that sounded right.

  The police exchanged glances. Uncle pressed both his hands on the table, like he was about to stand up.

  ‘Thank you for your cooperation, Mr Ajmal,’ said the policeman. ‘I appreciate this is difficult. But we are done here. You may resume your journey.’

  Uncle looked at both the police in turn, shaking his head.

  ‘Azra?’ said the policeman. ‘We’ll escort you to the departure hall. You can request your luggage from the airline check-in. And return home.’

  The policewoman closed her phone, and put it into her pocket. The policeman opened the door.

  ‘This way please, Mr Ajmal,’ he said. ‘Azra, if you could stay here a minute?’

  Uncle looked bewildered. ‘But this can’t be?’ he said, standing up. ‘Azra needs to come with me.’

  The policeman shook his head. ‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible.’ He reached over to lead Uncle by the elbow, but he pulled back.

  ‘Don’t touch me! Do you think I’m going to leave her with you?’

  The policeman stepped back. ‘I understand this is distressing, Mr Ajmal. But it won’t help if you resist.’

  Uncle grabbed the back of my wheelchair and shook it. ‘What’s this all about, Azra? What in God’s name have you done?’

  The shaking hurt my head. But it cleared my mind. I saw it now. I understood. I pushed past the pain of the dryness in my throat.

  ‘I told you. I told everyone. I never wanted the wedding. You wouldn’t listen.’

  ‘What!’ he shouted. ‘So, you did this? To us? To our family? To me!’

  From behind, he lunged for my neck, and squeezed hard. The police officers pulled his arms off me as he shouted, ‘No, no!’

  Now I’d done it. Broken everything. My family. My life. Everyone’s future.

  I didn’t turn around until I heard a thump. Uncle was pinned against the wall. I rubbed at my neck.

  ‘Cuffs,’ said the policewoman.

  ‘No,’ said Uncle, weakly. Metal clanked against the wall.

  ‘You’re coming into custody, Mr Ajmal,’ said the policeman. ‘It’ll be better if you cooperate.’

  I looked away. I didn’t want to see Uncle. Ever again. The policewoman said to me, ‘Won’t be long. Okay to wait there?’

  I nodded. What else could I do?

  There was an awkward shuffle out through the door, as they led Uncle away. Two bags sat on the floor. What would happen to them? To him? To me?

  XXIX

  Condensation

  reduction of a gas or vapour to its liquid form

  After what felt like a very long time, the policewoman came back, with a tall glass of water. It was the most wonderful thing I’d ever seen. I swallowed it without stopping. My head ached, but I could think again. Form questions. Like, what had happened to me? Why was I in this wheelchair?

  ‘All right?’ she asked.

  ‘Kind of.’

  ‘Are you always in a wheelchair?’

  I shook my head. ‘No. But I couldn’t walk when we got here.’

  I slid the chair back and pushed up on my arms. My legs wobbled but I could stand.

  ‘Okay now?’

  ‘Think so.’

  ‘Did you know you were coming to the airport today?’ she asked. ‘Unusual to travel in school uniform.’

  I looked down at my school jumper. ‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t know how I got here.’

  The policewoman paused. ‘Right. Can I get you a cup of tea? Another glass of water? You probably need it.’

  ‘Yes thanks. Both would be good.’ I was still really thirsty. Like I’d been fasting for a whole day in summer. But I’d already had a drink in the car on the way here, not that long ago. A question hovered at the edge of my mind. There was something about that drink. Something odd.

  She came in with a tray, and put white polystyrene cups on the table.

  ‘Milk? Sugar?’

  ‘Please.’

  She passed over the cup. Then she pressed her phone to start recording again, and placed it on the table, next to her cup of tea.

  ‘It’s been a difficult morning for you,’ she said. ‘Don’t suppose you have a lawyer?’

  There was one, I thought. Mr Khan, the one that helped Rashid.

  ‘To press charges,’ she said. ‘Best to get one organised.’

  ‘Charges?’ I said. ‘For what?’

  She shifted in her chair. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘Assault, for a start. We saw that. Two police witnesses. And possibly kidnapping. From what you’ve said about the wheelchair, it sounds like you’ve been drugged. Good idea to get some blood and urine samples pretty quick.’

  My eyes widened. Drugged? By my own uncle?

  ‘I know this is unpleasant. And likely a shock. But is there anyone who could help you? Anyone you can call?’

  Definitely not Mr Khan, then. He’d be on Uncle’s side, for sure.

  I wanted to call Bassima. She would understand. But what could she do? She could ask her family, I suppose. Probably she’d talk to Alesha about it. That’s right! Alesha’s a lawyer. She could help.

  ‘Actually, I do know someone. But I don’t have her number. Or a phone.’

  ‘Find her online?’ asked the policewoman. ‘I’ll get the laptop.’ She went up the hall and came back with one. ‘Here you go.’

  I typed in Alesha, lawyer, Sydney. And hoped it was enough. It wasn’t. I tried Alesha Hussain. No good. If I knew her married name, maybe. I could try calling Bassima.

  ‘Can I phone a friend?’ I heard myself asking, like I was in some weird game show.

  She squatted down and pulled out a desk phone from the cupboard. I rang Bassima’s mobile, but she didn’t pick up. She was probably in class. And she wouldn’t recognise the number. I couldn’t remember which school Mrs Hussain worked at.

  I felt like a gas slowly being compressed. Getting more dense. Slowly turning into a liquid. Getting smaller and smaller, and less able to move. Maybe a noble gas? Mrs K would know which one. Mrs Kaminski! I knew her number. Zinc, tin, mendelevium, lead.

  I dialled her mobile number. Please don’t be in class, I prayed. Please pick up. It rang four times. Then she answered. Thank God.

  ‘Irene Kaminski.’

  ‘Mrs K! It’s Azra.’

  ‘Azra! Where are you? We missed you in class. Everything okay?’

  ‘Actually, no. I’m at the airport, with the police.’ My voice wavered. ‘My uncle, ah, my uncle . . .’

  Mrs Kaminski interrupted. ‘Not the same uncle that took you from camp?’

  I swallowed. I mustn’t cry now. I mustn’t.

  ‘Yes. Yes,’ I said. ‘He tried to kidnap me.’ I took a deep breath. ‘I need to speak with Bassima urgently.’

  ‘Oh my,’ she said. ‘Do you want me to find her?’

  ‘Yes. Yes please. I need her sister’s number. Urgently. She’s a lawyer.’

  I pushed away the enormity of what I was doing. Getting legal help to protect me from my family. Getting them all in trouble. Wrecking everything.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do. Is there a number we can ring you back on?’

  ‘Just a minute.’ The policewoman pointed to a number taped below the keypad.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘here’s the number.’

  I hung up and the policewoman lifted her eyebrows in a question.

  ‘She’s finding out.’

  The policewoman put the cups back onto the tray. ‘More tea? More water?’

  It wasn’t long before Alesha called.

  ‘My God, Azra, are you okay?’

  I was about to say, yes, I think so, but then I couldn’t swallow and the inside of my nose was burning, and boiling tears were running down the hand
set and spilling onto the table. The policewoman pulled out a box of tissues from the cupboard and plonked them in front of me. I snatched at them and blew my nose.

  ‘Azra? Are you still there?’

  I tried to say yeah, but it wouldn’t come out. I tried harder. ‘Yeah, I think so,’ I managed, through a choked-up voice.

  ‘You need to tell me where you are, and what happened,’ she said. ‘Is there anyone with you now? Can I speak with them?’

  I handed the phone over to the policewoman.

  She spoke with Alesha for a few minutes, then gave it back to me.

  ‘You stay there until I call from the airport entrance,’ said Alesha. ‘I’ll meet you outside Macca’s, but make sure someone brings you through and stays with you until I find you. That’s really important. Got that?’

  ‘Yes, okay.’

  ‘Stay put until I call. Half an hour, tops.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  I hung up. The policewoman looked at me. ‘Well?’

  ‘My lawyer’s coming,’ I said. ‘Half an hour. We’ll meet outside.’

  She nodded. ‘Good-o.’

  Her phone buzzed.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said, then spoke to the person on the other end. ‘Yep. Yep. O-kaaay. Plus charges for drugging, pending the medical. Hmmm. I see your point. I’ll be right up.’

  She looked over at me. ‘I’ll be back in ten. Anything else I can get you?’

  I shook my head. ‘No thanks.’

  I rested my head on the table. My mind churned. I pointed and flexed my toes. They felt almost normal. Drugged? Whose idea was that? Then I realised. The lime drink in the car. The phone calls all weekend. The long shadow of Uncle, always falling over us. Over me. I felt chilled, even after drinking the tea. Because Uncle was around somewhere, and I didn’t know what he might do next. Especially after this drama at the airport. And all the legal things that were now coming.

  The policewoman came back in. ‘All good?’ she asked.

  Seriously, how could anything be all good after what had happened? I nodded anyway. She was only trying to make me feel okay.

  ‘Have you got somewhere you can go?’ she asked. ‘Somewhere safe?’

  I thought for a minute. Where could I go? ‘I don’t know.’ A tear slipped down my face. I wiped it with the back of my hand.