by Danuta Reah
Not Safe
by Danuta Reah
Published in 2011 by Crime Express
Crime Express is an imprint of Five Leaves Publications, PO Box 8786, Nottingham NG1 9AW
www.fiveleaves.co.uk
© Danuta Reah, 2011
Crime Express 11
ISBN: 978-1-907869-44-0
Five Leaves acknowledges financial support from Arts Council England
Five Leaves is represented by Turnaround and distributed by Central Books
Cover design: Gavin Morris
Typeset and design: Four Sheets Design and Print
The night was cold. The temperature had been dropping all day and now a sleety rain was falling, making the paving stones gleam in the lamp light. Amir’s bag cut into his shoulder, reminding him of the days when he was plumper, when Nargus used to laugh and tell him he would grow fat and she wouldn’t love him any more.
“I’ll be fat, but I’ll be rich,” he’d told her.
“You’ll still love me.” She’d punched his shoulder in mock outrage. He wondered where she was and what had happened to her, then pushed the thought away. Not here. Not now.
He hitched the bag higher. He needed it, heavy though it was. It contained all his possessions: a change of clothes, a sleeping bag, a wind-up torch, his books and his Q’ran, some tea bags and some biscuits.
He sighed and let the bag slide to the ground, straightening up and stretching to ease his spine. The dual carriageway behind him was still busy with the roar of traffic and the rattle of heavy lorries racing past. In front of him, the steep hill vanished into the shadow of a railway viaduct. The street, lined with industrial sheds and old brick warehouses, was empty.
He’d already been walking for 20 minutes and he had at least another 20 minutes’ fast walking ahead of him before he reached the old church where the night shelter was based. The hill looked formidable and his energy was fading. He could walk back into the city, try and find a place to sleep – the bus station, a shop doorway – but places like that weren’t safe. Late at night, the streets were the home of drunks, drug users and the police.
He really didn’t want to run into the police.
He switched on his phone, using up valuable charge, in case there was a message from Tehreem. Tehreem had a room and sometimes, against the rules of the National Asylum Seekers Support, let Amir spread his sleeping bag on the floor, but he hadn’t called.
Amir could feel the cold creeping through his layers of clothing. He summoned his resources and picked the bag up again. It was the shelter or the streets, and the streets weren’t an option. He pushed himself into movement, and encouraged his weary legs with promises: nearly there, nearly there.
The sound of footsteps broke his concentration. Years of street living made him move quickly. He shoved his phone into his inside pocket, checking automatically for the plastic edge of his identity card. The phone was his lifeline and the card gave him what few rights remained to him. He backed against the wall and waited.
The footsteps approached rapidly, and as the person behind him drew closer, there was enough light from the moon for Amir to see her face.
It was a young woman. He didn’t remember seeing her before. There was no danger of a mugging here. Her footsteps slowed as she walked towards him. He realised that she knew who he was and had been following him. He waited.
“Hello. I see you at the place, the… Nadifa.” She meant Nadifa’s House, a small support centre that gave what help it could to destitute asylum seekers like Amir. Amir worked there as a volunteer.
“Are you… a place. I need a place. To sleep.” Her English was heavily accented, and she was struggling to find the words. “Could I… come with you? Or stay with you? If… On the street, I meant.”
Amir hesitated. He didn’t want to be responsible for her. In this kind of life, it was hard enough to take care of yourself. There was very little left for anyone else. He shook his head slowly, about to say no, but something stopped the word from coming. She was very young, still in her teens.
Her face was pinched with the cold. She was wearing jeans and a jacket, far too thin for the winter night. The beads in her hair clacked together as she pushed it back from her face, and he saw traces of bruising high on her cheek.
“I can… If you let me stay with you, you can…” She struggled to find the words. “…fuck,” she said. “You can… with me.”
Amir wondered what had happened to her since she had arrived in this country to bring her to this. The weight of responsibility settled round his shoulders. When he spoke to her, he switched to Arabic and kept his words formal to remove any possibility of misunderstanding. “No. Please. My sister, there is no need.” He was puzzled. Nadifa’s House had limited resources, but they wouldn’t leave a young and vulnerable girl like this on the streets. “Why didn’t you ask at Nadifa’s House?”
She looked away, and didn’t answer. He tried again. “You must go back to them. Tomorrow. They can help you.”
She nodded, still not meeting his gaze. He wasn’t sure if she would listen to him, and for now, she was his responsibility.
She was too young to be out on her own. The shelter he was heading for didn’t offer any accommodation for women, but there might be something they could do. If not, maybe he should stay with her on the street. He didn’t want to do that. The cold was eating into his bones, and the thought of warmth was irresistible. “I know a place. They might help you.”
She chewed her lip, looking round the dark road. “Where?”
“Not far.”
Her eyes went past him, to the hill behind them. “Not the street?”
“Not the street. Come on. We should go. It’s too cold to stay here.” He began moving, and after a moment, she followed him. He looked at the girl trudging up the hill beside him, trying to plan ahead. There was every chance she would be turned away, then… what was he going to do?
It all depended who was on duty. If it was his friend Andre Mutombo … Mutombo knew what it was to have no home. He was a refugee from the Democratic Republic of Congo. Unlike Amir, his claim for refugee status had been accepted and for the time being, he was allowed to stay, along with his two small boys. Amir had met him at Nadifa’s House where they both did voluntary work. The two men were good friends. Amir switched on his phone, trying to work out how much credit he had left, and keyed in Andre’s number.
As if in response, a phone rang. The girl jumped and took it out of her pocket. She checked the screen and switched it off, shaking her head and looking around nervously. Andre wasn’t answering. There was no point in leaving a message. Amir would find out if he was on duty soon enough.
The girl wrapped her arms round herself, and the small bag she was carrying slipped out of her hands. He picked it up and gave it back to her, realising that her fingers must be numb with cold. He hesitated – it was everyone for himself in this life – then pulled off his jacket and wrapped it round her shoulders. “Come on.”
The girl’s steps became slower and more reluctant as he led the way. Amir tried to conceal his impatience. She was cold and she was probably ill. She seemed frightened as well.
They were walking through residential streets now, rows of red brick terraces in the intermittent street light. The pavement was uneven, the flagstones gleaming as a thin rain began to fall. A dog barked somewhere close by, and the girl shrank against him.
Their slow pace meant it was almost half an hour before they reached the shelter. It stood at the top of a steep, narrow street. The girl’s grip on his arm dragged as she moved, step by reluctant step.
The shelter was half way up the hill, barely visible behind a wall, the gate opening onto a small yard. The sign outside said, “St Barnabas Church Hall,” with a faded list of
opening times below. He was aware of her footsteps slowing even more. “Is this…?” Her voice was a whisper.
It was just gone 11. As Amir watched, a light came on and the doors opened. Like magic, people emerged from the shadows round about, from where they had been waiting in the cold. He squinted, trying to focus, and thought he saw a tall, broad silhouette move across the window. Andre Mutombo. Relief flooded through him. He could hand the girl over and rest. “Come on.”
Before he could react, she turned on her heel and fled back down the road into the shadows, vanishing with his coat into the night.
“Hey!” He moved to follow her, then realised the weight of the bag would make it impossible for him to catch her up. He dithered, moved the way she’d gone, then stopped, muttering a curse under his breath. The lure of shelter was irresistible. She’d be OK, she’d got his coat. She wouldn’t freeze. He might. There was nothing else he could do.
Now he was here, he allowed himself to feel the cold, and to acknowledge he was hungry. He had food in his bag.
Unlike the girl.
He was frozen, but he had warmth and shelter waiting for him.
Unlike the girl.
The shelter didn’t offer much. He would have to unroll his sleeping bag onto the floor. He’d be out on the street in the cold again at eight the next morning with the long walk back into the city in front of him and another day ahead, but he could sleep safely.
Unlike the girl.
He crossed the road to the entrance and rang the bell. Andre’s bulk filled the small window, and the door opened. “Amir!” Andre gestured him in with a companionable arm. “The kettle’s on. I’ve got the chess board set out if you…”
Amir shook his head. “I can’t stay. I have to do something. Can I leave this?” He indicated the bag. “And come back later…?”
“How much later? Radcliffe’s in charge tonight. He might not let you in.” Radcliffe was the minister of St Barnabas Church. “Are you in trouble?”
“It isn’t me. There’s a girl I’m worried about. I met her on my way here. She doesn’t have anywhere to go. Is there somewhere you could put her, just for tonight?”
Mutombo stood in silence, assessing the situation. The rules of the shelter were clear: no women. “How old?”
“Young. Seventeen? Maybe younger.”
Mutombo had had a daughter. He never talked about what had happened to her. “There’s the store room. No one goes in there at night. She’ll have to be quiet. If he finds her…” If Radcliffe found her, they were all in trouble. Destitute asylum seekers were not wanted, not even in this part of the city where most of the people were first and second generation immigrants. The church needed little excuse to close the shelter down.
A car pulled up in the road, and a man got out of the passenger side. He leaned forward to speak to the driver, then reached into the back seat to collect something. “Radcliffe,” Mutombo said.
Amir nodded. He moved into the shadows of the small car park as the tall shape of the minister straightened up and he headed towards the door. “Andre!” Amir heard him say, then his voice was drowned by the car engine as it pulled away. Wrapping his scarf more tightly round his neck, Amir went back the way he had come.
The wind was rising now, a thin, cutting wind that blew needles of ice into his face and cut through his clothes. No coat. He had no coat. He shouldn’t have listened to the girl. He should have walked away. He should be in the shelter now drinking hot tea and playing chess with Andre and Jim Radcliffe.
His feet were hurting, and the sleet was turning into snow, the flakes whirling in the darkness, making him stumble and stagger as if he were drunk. He knew he must be cold, but he couldn’t feel it any more. Stupid, stupid. Nargus’ voice reproached him as she wrapped something round him. Lie down, you must rest. He was tired, so tired and the blanket was so warm…
He stumbled, and he was back on the dark street, the blank eyes of the windows watching him. He was going to kill himself like this. He should go back to the shelter.
Her face had been thin, drained of colour, but still the face of a pretty young girl, a girl who should be with her family, not offering her body to strangers on the streets of this country that had refused her sanctuary.
He didn’t know where Nargus was, if she was waiting for him, if she was even alive. Maybe, somewhere in the world, she too was depending on the kindness of strangers. He couldn’t abandon the girl.
He was better than this. It was all he had left. He was better than the people who refused help to a young girl in trouble, he was better than the men who used her desperation for their own ends. He had to find her.
He stood at the top of the road, his hands tucked under his arms, trying to decide what to do. She had run away. She had looked – not angry, but scared. Ever since her phone had rung… Something had frightened her. He trudged on.
He was back on the road where they had first met. Below him, the road vanished into the shadows of the railway viaduct. On the far side of the valley, streetlamps made ribbons of light. Silhouettes of trees lined the distant hill tops.
There was no sign of the girl. Sheds and warehouses loomed above him. They were solidly locked – she couldn’t have got into one of them, and they had no doorways to offer even minimal shelter against the cold.
It was hopeless. She could be anywhere. He took his phone out of his pocket and switched it on. The battery still showed two bars, and he could charge it at the shelter. He hesitated again, then pressed the call button. Dialling number … calling … He was about to lift the phone to his ear when he heard the sound, faint but clear in the cold air. Somewhere close by, a phone was ringing.
* * *
It was after midnight. Sophie Shepherd tried to swear as she stumbled up the long hill that led away from town. Her feet kept turning in her shoes – spiky heeled sandals that had seemed so cool when she put them on. She didn’t have the breath left for swearing. She’d promised she’d be back by midnight. Her dad was going to kill her.
Her face felt stiff where the tears had dried. The wind was blowing now, thin and cutting, finding its way through the fabric of her dress.
Nathan. She wanted to kill him. She wanted to be dead, lying there in the cold so that he and Becky would be sorry when they found her, when they came running after her to say they were wrong, it had all been a mistake. But it hadn’t. She knew what she had seen, Nathan and that slag all over each other in the passageway outside the bar.
It was the cold that was making her eyes water and her nose run. She rubbed an angry arm across her eyes, sniffed and looked up the hill in front of her. It stretched away into the shadows of the viaduct. The road was empty. No one came this way.
She’d stormed out of the club, forgetting she didn’t have any money for a taxi, forgetting how cold it was, waiting for Nathan’s voice, Hey, Sophe, come back. He hadn’t noticed. He hadn’t fucking noticed her standing there, him with his hand down Becky’s front and his tongue down her throat.
She needed to pee. She kept walking, trying to keep her thighs pressed together, but it was no good. She couldn’t hold on till she got home. There was no one around, but she couldn’t just pee here, out in the road. She walked further up the hill, the tears starting to trickle out of her eyes again, when she saw the gennel. It was invisible until you were on top of it.
She stumbled into the gap between the high buildings, pulling down her tights and knickers. She crouched down and relaxed, letting the warm liquid flow out of her, splashing up from the ground onto her shoes.
Her gaze darted nervously around as she took stock of her surroundings. She was in a narrow alleyway, the brick walls high above her glinting where the moonlight caught them. Down here, at street level, it was pitch black. She put her hands against the rough surface of the brick to help her balance, recoiling as they pressed against something clammy and wet. Moss, she told herself. Weeds growing out from the wall. She groped in her bag for a tissue to dry herself, then fro
ze.
In the dim shadows along the gennel, she could hear something moving.
Rats.
She stumbled to her feet, forgetting about the sticky dampness of her crotch, the tangle of clothing around her knees, her hands scraping against the rough brick of the wall. Her legs were caught and before she could stop herself, she fell, her face smacking into the ground, her bag flying out of her hand, its contents scattering.
And there was a faint light now, shining from somewhere beyond her, showing her things she didn’t want to see: a shape huddled on the ground, a face, with a trickle of blood running from the corner of the mouth, blank eyes staring at her.
Then she realised there was someone else there, someone who had been crouched over the figure on the ground coming slowly to his feet. He was looking at her. He was looking right at her.
The light was extinguished, and she was alone with the thing on the ground, alone with the man in the alley, trying to get her breath, trying to scream for her dad in the darkness.
* * *
“…and then this week, Chris Moyles live from Card...”
Tina Barraclough groped for the radio switch and silenced the manic cheerfulness of the presenter. She fell out of bed, waiting for the headache to strike. No headache. She hadn’t been drinking last night. She hadn’t had a drink for over two months.
A two-minute blast from the shower woke her up. She told herself she didn’t want a cigarette, and went through to the kitchen, towelling her hair.
Tina’s flat was in one of the many new blocks that had shot up in the city centre during the boom. It was a convenient place for a young single woman to live. OK, her view was the pub across the road, but what could you do with a view apart from look at it? They had hanging baskets in summer. That was enough green for her.
She could hear the sound of impatient horns, and the clank and clatter of the trams as they wove their way through the gathering congestion. She needed to get moving. She put a cup of last night’s coffee into the microwave and started pulling on some clothes.