Before she leaves, she takes a moment to whisper Abdi’s name from the doorway of his bedroom. He shifts a little in his bed, and hope surges in her for a second, but he falls motionless again. Frustrated with him, she enters the room and pokes at his shoulder. He shocks her by flinging his arm back toward her, almost striking her. It’s sudden and violent. She backs out of the room.
At the same time as Sofia takes her seat in the lecture hall at the university and wonders how she’s going to be able to concentrate on a talk about neonatal care, Nur arrives home from driving the night shift. It was a slow night, so he stayed out to catch the early morning train station arrivals to make the shift worthwhile, and he’s weary and worried as he arrives back at the estate.
Maryam’s expression tells him everything when he enters the flat. He knows even before he peers into Abdi’s room that there’s been no change.
“Whose is that?” he asks when he sees the iPad in her hands.
“Abdi borrowed it from school. Sit down. You need to listen to something.”
She starts the recording. The volume is so low that Nur can hardly make out what’s being said, but Maryam stops him from turning it up, pointing to Abdi’s half-open bedroom door by way of explanation.
When he’s finished listening, Nur mutters a Somali proverb under his breath. If he were to try to translate it, he might say: “A snakebite received at the age of six kills you at the age of sixty.” Maryam understands immediately what it means: “Evil lingers a long time.”
She looks at her husband. “He knows something,” she says.
Nur isn’t so sure. “He’s asking questions, but we don’t know what he knows.”
“Should we play it to him? Ask him about it?” The thought terrifies her.
“No.”
“Should we tell the police?”
He thinks before answering. “I don’t think it has anything to do with what’s happened to Noah. We’ll talk to Sofia about it when she gets home. I’ll tell her that. Don’t worry.”
As Nur embraces her, Maryam feels huge relief that he’s taking control of this. She doesn’t think she could make a single sensible decision at this moment. She’s physically and mentally drained in a way that she hasn’t felt for years. It’s allowing old feelings of panic to creep in and threaten to overwhelm her, the way they used to after the family first arrived in the UK, when everything was so alien she thought she’d never stop feeling lonely.
Sofia drifts in and out of concentration during her lecture. The slides show incubators and tiny bodies with skin that looks as fragile as tissue paper. She thinks about how these children hover between life and death for weeks.
Her mother gave birth to a baby like these ones when they lived in Hartisheik camp. Sofia glimpsed the infant’s face for only a few seconds before the baby was wrapped in a cloth. It was a girl, and she lived to take only a few breaths.
Sofia walked through the camp beside her parents to the burial place, hours after the baby was born. Maryam leaned heavily on Nur’s arm. She insisted on seeing her child into the ground.
When they reached the place, Nur took turns with the other men to dig a hole in the ground as the women keened. In the distance, beyond the camp perimeter, where she wasn’t allowed to go because there were dangerous men, Sofia saw women bent over, collecting firewood. They were there for the thornbushes, whose branches grew silvery and spiky against the changing sky.
When it was done, Nur stepped into the grave and Maryam passed the baby to him so he could lay her down gently. The cloth she was wrapped in was pale blue.
Sofia remembers that when Nur climbed out of the grave and crouched beside it, he had dirt on his toes and sandals. She remembers the way his hands settled on his forehead, his fingertips snaking into his hair, sweat on his scalp and temples.
Other men filled in the red earth over the baby’s body, and the voices of the women rose and fell as Sofia clung to Maryam. The wind caught the edges of Maryam’s dirac and whipped it against them both.
Sofia’s blue-cloth sister wasn’t the first baby they’d buried at the camp. She was one of many.
When her lecture’s over, Sofia dodges her friends and slips away as fast as she can.
She heads across campus to the library and gets out a couple of books that she needs. The librarian nods at her and smiles, and Sofia returns the greeting. Her warm smile, politeness, and willingness to help others have always made her a well-liked girl, even though she keeps to herself.
At school, she found that some of the Muslim girls who had ignored her as they grew up through the school gravitated toward her later on, at the age when some of the non-Muslim girls began partying hard and hanging out with boys. It was difficult for cross-faith friendships to survive as lifestyles diverged when adulthood knocked on the door, but she benefited as her friendship group swelled. It kick-started a growth in confidence that has steadily increased since she started her degree.
She puts the books in her backpack and heads for the bus stop to make her way home.
After spending hours stewing about it overnight, she feels more rational about the recording now that she’s had a chance to think about it in the cold light of day. Her conclusion is that it’s almost certainly research material for a school project that Abdi’s doing. That would also explain the printed materials Ed Sadler had got out, and it wouldn’t be the first time Abdi’s used his ethnic roots as the basis for study. It makes her sad that he would approach Ed Sadler instead of talking to their parents, but she understands why he would, because, just like Abdi’s birth, life in the camp is something that Nur and Maryam never talk about.
She feels better once she’s rationalized this, much better. Even so, there’s a small part of her that knows she should probably tell the detective about the iPad, in case it helps him. She’ll ring him, she thinks, and tell him about the recording and her theory that it’s for a project.
She gets her phone out of her bag as she walks home from the bus stop. She programmed Detective Inspector Clemo’s number into it after he left his card at the flat.
He picks up quickly.
When we got back to the house I told Mum that Abdi and I were going to go to bed because I was very tired. She seemed relieved.
“I’m not surprised. It’s been a big evening,” she said. “All that socializing’s worn me out, too. Thanks for your help, boys.”
Abdi went up straightaway, but I stayed downstairs for just a few more minutes so I could give Mum a monster hug, just like the one I gave Dad earlier. I said, “I love you” (see Noah’s Bucket List Item No. 7: Make sure people know how important they are to you). I know she thinks that I love Dad more than her because he’s more fun, but she’s wrong. Dad’s more fun, but nobody else has fought for me like my mum has. Nobody.
She watched me walk up the stairs, her hand on the bottom of the banister. I thought of the hug when I got into bed: the way she felt, and all the things I hoped it said. I was so worn out that I fell asleep before Abdi finished brushing his teeth.
Abdi was fast asleep when my alarm went off at one A.M. My first reaction was that I was way too tired to go out, but I gave myself a talking-to (Noah’s Bucket List Item No. 9: Don’t waste time) and got up and put my clothes on.
By the time I was dressed, my legs felt like jelly because they were worn out after the party, but I wasn’t going to let that stop me.
I shook Abdi’s shoulder to wake him.
“What?” he said. He looked crumpled and tired.
“It’s time.”
I expected him to leap out of bed. It had been easier than I thought it would be to persuade him to come out with me tonight, so I felt like he would be up for it when the time came, but he just looked at me. His eyes were dark pools.
“Do we have to?”
“Come on! It’s going to be so good, you know it is.”
When I first suggested that we do this, Abdi said, “No way.” I knew he would refuse at first. He’s afraid to d
o naughty things. I said, “Look, it’s not like we’re going to do anything really bad. It’s just a trip out to see something very cool. Come on! Don’t be so boring!”
It was hard not to tell him about my prognosis, but I stuck to my guns because if I’d told him, I wouldn’t have been able to make our outing into the experience that I wanted it to be, which was a proper rite of passage. It would have changed everything and made it all sad and weird, and I would have felt self-conscious. So I had to rely on other methods of persuasion, but I’m pretty good at that. I got to him in the end.
“Okay,” he said finally. “Okay, okay, okay!” He got out of bed and pulled his clothes and shoes on, jogging around unsteadily on one foot as he did. He remembered to be quiet.
I put on my backpack—which I filled up before the party—and tried not to buckle under the weight of it. Abdi offered to carry it, but I said no because the contents were a secret. I beckoned him to follow me downstairs. The house was dark everywhere. My parents were completely peaceful.
We slipped into the porch and I opened the front door. I’d been practicing opening and closing it without making a sound, and I managed it perfectly. I gestured to Abdi to follow me carefully around the edge of the driveway so we didn’t crunch the gravel.
When we were off the property and a decent distance away down the street, I felt amped up. I wanted Abdi to feel the same way, but he said, “What if your parents notice we’re gone?”
“They won’t!” I said. I was pretty sure of that. That’s why I chose tonight to ask to have Abdi for a sleepover. Both my parents sleep deeply after they’ve had a drink.
The only small problem was that it had got much colder than earlier, and I forgot we might need coats. Our breath misted.
It was also creepier than I thought it would be. The streets were empty apart from a fox that stood panting in the shadow underneath a hedge. Head down, ears flat, it had almost no fur, and its skin looked rough and raw.
“I think it’s dying,” I said to Abdi.
We kept to the other side of the street. A hurt animal can lash out.
I felt good about how brave I was being. The only thing that wasn’t right was Abdi. I felt like he should be chatting and getting into the spirit of things with me, but he was very quiet, and I was worried he might bolt back home at any second.
“It’s going to be worth it, I promise,” I said to him.
“What if the police stop us?”
“Why would you even think that? Come on.”
He looked strange, sort of sick, and for a minute I felt a little bit sympathetic, because I felt scared, too, if I’m honest, but I wasn’t ready to give this up.
We cut down the hill, away from the creepy dark streets to the harborside, almost running because it was so steep, and then walked along the path at the edge of the water. The boats moored in the floating harbor looked cool lit up in the dark. All the multicolored lights were reflected on the surface of the water. Abdi looked around a lot and I reckoned he was starting to like it more.
We left the waterside near the big modern apartment buildings with balconies and headed toward College Green. On the green, the golden stone of Bristol Cathedral was lit with floodlights, but the stained-glass windows were dark, like big blank portals to somewhere else.
In the middle of the green a group of lads were sitting on the benches watching some others do skateboard tricks. They were playing music and had cans of drink.
“Come on,” Abdi said when I stopped to watch. He tugged on my sleeve. He pulled his hood up and kept his face turned away from them, as if he was afraid of them seeing him.
“What?” I said. I wanted to feel brave, not hospital get-offered-a-crappy-sticker brave, but real-life brave, so I didn’t move. I stood and watched the skateboarders.
“Let’s move on,” Abdi said.
“They’re not going to hurt us!” I said.
“It’s different if you’re black,” he said, or I thought that’s what he said. It was hard to hear because he kept his face turned away from them and tugged my sleeve again. I thought he was overreacting.
“Get off!” I didn’t mean to say it so loudly.
Some of the lads turned to look at us.
“What are you staring at?” one of them said.
“Nothing,” Abdi said. He started to walk away.
I stood my ground. This night was about being brave.
“What you looking at, kid?” The lad got up. He had long hair, wore low-rise jeans, and held a can of drink in his hand.
“Leave him alone,” one of the others said.
The lad carried on walking slowly toward me.
“What are you, like twelve years old?” he said when he got close. His face was sweaty. He took a long drink of his beer. “Go home, kid.”
My heart was beating, hard and fast, but I stayed still until he got even closer. I was daring myself to. He leaned over me.
“Noah!” Abdi shouted.
The lad got his face right up close to mine.
“Boo!” he said and his beery spit flecked my face.
I screamed and Abdi grabbed me and pulled me away and we ran away from them as fast as we could. They were laughing.
We pounded down the steps beside the cathedral, and we didn’t stop until a doorway set into a wall offered us a shadowy place to catch our breath.
It’s not easy to push back thoughts of Emma, but the call from Sofia Mahad helps. I ask Woodley to arrange for somebody to go and fetch the iPad. I want to hear the recording she’s talking about, but I also want to see any other communications Abdi may have made via the device.
Face-to-face with Fraser, I request an underwater team to search for both the missing phone and the backpack.
“Prioritize,” she tells me when I explain that there are two locations I want to search. “The budget hasn’t miraculously increased. All-powerful as I am, I can’t pull off loaves and fishes with the department’s money.”
I decide that the phone’s probably more important, because it might tell us something about the boys’ communications. I’m beginning to think that if there was foul play, the motive lies in what passed between these two lads. Fraser signs it off.
Woodley and I take a trip to the boys’ school.
Medes College occupies a tight city center site, and it takes us ten minutes to find a parking spot. While we wait for the headmistress to free up some time for us, I read a display in the foyer, which informs me that the school will nurture my child as an individual, as well as offering state-of-the-art facilities.
The headmistress surprises me by speaking in the gravelly tones of a long-time jazz club aficionado. In a school like this, I expected more of a cut glass accent. She wears a navy trouser suit, an elaborate enamel brooch on her lapel, pearl earrings, and reading glasses attached to a slim, gold chain.
Her office is large, and in spite of a pretentious label on the door saying HEADMISTRESS’S STUDY it’s modestly decorated. A shaft of sunlight cuts through a leaded windowpane and warms a spot on an armchair. We sit around a table where school brochures have been artfully displayed. Her assistant brings us coffee.
We’ve been told that the school is yet to have been informed about Noah’s terminal prognosis. The Sadler family wanted to wait until they’d worked out how to handle his last few months.
“What can you tell us about the boys?” I ask. It’s a general question, but I’m interested to see what springs to her mind.
“They’re both very good boys and very clever boys, much valued by the school.”
“We understand that they’re friends?”
“They’re very good friends. They give all appearance of being inseparable when Noah’s at school. You’ll know that he’s had a rough time of it, of course?”
“Indeed.”
“It’s led to a great deal of absence, but in spite of that, he’s very diligent and his schoolwork remains excellent. His courage is nothing short of extraordinary.”
“When did the boys start here?”
“Both boys came to us in Year 7, though Noah was a few weeks late because of a course of treatment. He was homeschooled the year before he came to us, but he’d been in the school system previously, I believe. Abdi Mahad won a place on our Barker Scholarship program, which is a scheme we run in conjunction with primary schools in some of Bristol’s more deprived areas. He has really risen to the challenge. We’re immensely proud of what he’s been able to achieve.”
“Barker Scholarship, did you say?” Woodley’s making notes.
“Yes! It’s named after an old boy, Jolyon Barker. By coincidence he was a contemporary of Eddie Sadler, Noah’s father. I believe they’re still friends. The scholarship covers uniform and travel expenses as well as fees. It’s very generous.”
“Do you know whether Abdi might have been doing any kind of project or piece of work either on refugee camps or Somalia or any similar topic?” Sofia Mahad suggested this when she telephoned to tell me about the recording she found on Abdi’s iPad.
The headmistress shakes her head. “No. Both boys have qualifying exams this summer. They’ll be entirely focused on the syllabus. Project work would be qualification-related only.” She consults a piece of paper that’s on her lap. “I can confirm that Abdi isn’t taking Geography, which is probably the only subject I can immediately think of where that kind of study might be relevant.”
“Can I ask whether you would describe the boys’ friendship as healthy?”
“Absolutely! Very healthy. It’s a lovely friendship for both of them. It can be very beneficial for our high achievers to bond.”
A tight smile; optimism applied to her features like another layer of makeup.
“Are we able to speak to anybody who might have had closer contact with the boys on a day-to-day basis?”
I’m not buying into the headmistress’s positive spiel entirely. In a school like this, I know her role is mostly to be a figurehead, to sell the place to prospective parents, and to protect it from negative press. I’d also bet money that she doesn’t know either boy very well personally.
Odd Child Out: A Novel Page 11