‘I did.’
‘And the fire damage.’
I swallow. Nod. ‘Yeah.’ Fire damage? Bloody hell.
‘Well, Mr Hassan claims it was Mr Bullmore did that. And that there’s been an ongoing campaign of harassment. Now, I realise how hard it can be for refugees to integrate into the community . . .’ She pushes bleached hair behind her ears. ‘Tell me this. Is Mr Hassan settled here?’
‘Yes!’ My stomach lurches, drawing itself in and up. I feel it pressing on me, am conscious my breath must smell of wine and meat. They couldn’t send him back for this. Surely? My voice rises and speeds when the effect I need is calm. ‘Absolutely!’ I squeak. ‘He’s going to go to college, he’s got some job opportunities lined up –’
‘I don’t mean Glasgow, I mean this flat. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not in any way condoning . . .’ Sergeant Heath sighs, then smiles. It’s a stunt-smile, one to leaven, not to warm. ‘In my experience, when an asylum seeker or a refugee starts getting a hard time, things often get out of hand. And it’s usually the asylum seeker that ends up worse off. Of course we can investigate both allegations . . . but . . .’ she looks at the ceiling, ‘I just wondered if a fresh start –’
‘Move him away from here!’ I seize her arm, realise what I’m doing; drop it. ‘Totally! That’s what we’ve been trying to do. We were at the Housing three weeks ago, they’re supposed to be finding him another flat. But we’ve heard nothing.’
Jenny Heath arches fine-plucked eyebrows. ‘Yeah? Well, let me see what I can do.’
She returns to the hallway. Quiet murmurs, Abdi nodding with his head down, her saying words like: no further action and this time, you understand? She shakes my hand before she leaves, promises nothing. Shakes Abdi’s hand too. There is something straightforward in her gestures, they are clean and overt and I think I trust her. When she goes, I read Rebecca a story and Abdi makes some tea. Rebecca’s thumb twists into her mouth, she’s asleep before we get to the end, but I stay on, stroking the little forehead. It is soporific. I have made a spell, and if I move, I’ll break it.
‘Your tea is coming cold, Debs.’
‘Going.’ I look at my watch. Eleven thirty. Ach, I’ve time for one cup of tea.
We drink quietly, accompanied by a ticking clock and the dull clamour of someone else’s telly beneath us. Only one lamp is lit, casting a single pool of light. Abdi is in shadow.
‘Why didn’t you tell me about your neighbour? That he’s been hassling you?’
‘Hassling?’
‘Being unkind.’
‘Is my problem. Deborah.’ He is very calm. ‘Will I go to prison?’
‘No! The policewoman said no further action, didn’t she? That means the matter is over.’
‘Police say many things.’
‘Trust me, Abdi, it’s going to be fine.’ I’m assuming the sergeant didn’t mention housing to him, so I don’t either, in case I got my wires crossed. We sip and think a wee bit more. Neither of us mention the neighbour being in hospital – or Abdi’s involvement in putting him there.
‘You know, tea’s not a good drink so late at night.’
‘No?’
‘Nope. Keeps you awake. You should try hot chocolate. Rebecca would love it. That’s what Callum and I had most nights before we went to bed.’
‘Callum is your husband?’
Have I never used his name before? ‘Yes. Yes it is.’
I wonder that he’s never asked. But then Abdi’s never really asked anything about my life. I never know if he’s being disinterested or scrupulously polite.
‘Hot chocolate is a good memory, I think. You are smiling.’
‘Am I?’ Can he see behind my eyes, to where I am lying in bed, belly aching, full of insomnia and Callum is stroking my hair? Can he see Callum’s body lying behind mine, supporting it, him raising the cup to my lips, then stopping. Wait, he breathes, blowing over the mug. Taking a sip to check, returning it to me. So my lips don’t burn.
‘Well, yeah. I have a lot of good memories of Callum. They’re just a bit – clouded, I suppose. Because he got so ill. And he was such a . . . he was really – lovely. And kind. Smart as anything – he was an economist at first, then an academic. Looking at money, how countries spend it, move it –’
‘I know what an economy is.’
‘Yeah? Sorry.’ I sook in any hint of retort; don’t want to go back to that frostiness of the last few weeks. Abdi shifts forward in his seat, face moving through the edges of light. He wears a mild smile.
‘You can go anywhere as an economist. Even rule the world. Our First Minister’s one.’
‘Now, First Minister, I’m not so clear on. Ever since I am in Glasgow, I try to watch the television news to understand. You have rulers in London and you have rulers in Edinburgh?’
‘Kind of.’
‘So is Scotland a country or a state of England? On this I am not clear.’
‘Oh, we’re a country, all right. We’re a nation – with our own money and laws and education system. Some of the world’s most wonderful inventions have come from Scotland, don’t you know? The TV, the telephone, the bike, penicillin –’
‘I think I’ve upset you?’ But he’s laughing. ‘You are very proud of your country within a country, yes?’
‘Damn right I am. Here,’ I take A History of Scotland out from where it lies forgotten in my bag. ‘That reminds me. You read this and then we’ll talk.’
‘Is this my homework?’
‘It is. And I’ll be testing you on it after.’
Abdi examines the uninspiring cover – a spindly lion rampant, pawing at air. ‘So, teacher, tell me this. If I am able to vote, who should I vote for? In your democracy, did you not vote for your rulers in London? Are they imposed on you?’
‘Abdi, it’s really complicated.’ I’m tired, my head’s sore. The tannin-tasting tea is sticky in my mouth, and Abdi’s had the police out to him and there’s a wee lassie out there waiting for money I was supposed to give her and an even wee-er lassie through the wall. Who is sleeping in her starry bedroom and will not speak a word.
‘But you are a free people, yes?’
‘Depends on how you look at it. We have devolution, not independence.’
‘So London are still your masters?’
‘At the moment. Some folk feel it’s . . . I dunno, safer.’
‘I understand. When warlords came to my village, we fled. But the land outside was . . . hostile?’
I nod encouragement. Abdi has told me so little of his home. I’d like to be able to visualise it.
‘You mean like no water, no food?’
‘Yes. It was very dry. We were fishermen, not hunters.’ He shuffles, sinking again so all I see is his outline. ‘So, we tried. But then we got sick . . . some of us eventually came back. Our village had been taken, other families there. We crawled back like dogs, and we lived outside the homes that once were ours. I begged a man to give me employment on the boat that was . . . that used to be mine. My boat, Deborah, that I had built myself. But it was too hard. Every day, they wanted more from us, more pleading, more work. More of me, you know?’
‘I do.’
‘But some of my friends, they had never left. My mother, sister, my grandfather. The village elders, they stay although everything is taken from them. I am a guardian of this place, my grandfather told me. He didn’t think any man could own the land, only walk on it. I tried to tell myself it was better here than not here, but then more warlords came . . . more men with guns.’
Abdi stands up, walks to the window. I want to put my hand on the hard square of his shoulders, but I know when I talk about Callum, I can’t bear someone touching me. It feels like infidelity, and I have to focus on their touch instead of the effort of selecting and making words. Abdi sighs. A dreadful, cleansing heave. I don’t know if I’m ready for this. If his secrets are worse than mine. I don’t move, do not breathe for fear I ripple the air.
‘They killed them
.’
A tremor in the concave of his cheek. The silence drags at the end of his words, but I can’t fill it. I can feel it with him, feel his family’s absence as the heavy presence it is. If he wants to, Abdi will tell me more. Or I’ll put the kettle on and we’ll drink more tea.
‘I was out fishing. When I returned I found . . . it was the whole village. Little children . . . My mother and my grandfather both dead.’
From the window to the couch. But he doesn’t sit. He is watching his knuckles and how the blood progresses up the veins of his unquiet arms. His wristbone ticks. Tight wrinkles move over the drumstick of his thumb, his cooried-in, pumping fingers.
‘I found my mother first. She was right at the far edge of the village, face down, with great gashes on her back. They had torn off her clothes. She was . . . her body was lying outwards, like she had been fleeing. I couldn’t understand it . . . I couldn’t understand that she would leave my sister or my grandfather. No matter what. Or that my grandfather would leave them. He was a lion, but too old to run – and then . . . then I found him. He was hanging from a tree, with the other men. I think she had been running to him when they hacked her down. My sister was . . . she was not yet dead when I found her. She had hidden in a cave by the sea. Or they took her there . . .’
Now. I take his hand now, feel his spent skin, his wasted wanting bones.
‘Abdi, I’m so sorry.’
He sits beside me. Rests his head upon my arm. I think he is crying, a little. I know that rasp, it has the same dry quality as bile, when you’ve nothing left to give but the reflex insists your body still performs.
‘Is this also when you lost your wife, Abdi?’
Caught up in the live wire of emotion that sings between us, confusing intimacy with equality – and I’m duly punished. He bolts upright. ‘I did not know her then.’
There is an awful silence. It clangs on and on above the telly-drone downstairs, above the loudness of my heart.
‘I’m sorry, Debs. You must go. Is late.’
‘Abdi, please. I’m sorry.’
‘For what? For my family dying? Where is your coat?’ He’s up and out, scrabbling through the mess and tangle of his hall cupboard for my jacket. I follow him, stand in the doorway of the living room. Speak in whispers so as not to wake Rebecca.
‘For asking about your wife again. It’s absolutely none of my business.’
‘No.’ His frenzied searching slows.
‘I have no right to pry about your life. I ask only as a friend . . . it is difficult, Abdi. It is hard to be someone’s friend when you only know little snippets.’
‘Snippets?’ He glances at me for a clue.
‘Wee tiny pieces.’ I make a scissoring motion. Stop half-snip. It looks too violent.
‘That is how you become a friend, surely? By taking time and getting to know a person in small pieces?’
Despite the sump we’ve slipped into, I laugh.
‘What?’
‘Nothing. You’ve described me perfectly. A person in small pieces.’
He leaves off his search for my coat. ‘That is a nonsense, Deborah. You think you are broken, that you are dead inside, but you’re not. You have a vitale that shows you alive? Is that the right way I am saying? You make laughter in spite of yourself.’ He shakes his head, returns to fumbling in the cupboard. ‘The will to live runs like sap – even inside dry wood. But if you keep tearing and breaking to examine what is there, it will die. Accept only that you live – and be grateful for that. Here. Here is your coat.’
His tired hand flops out to reach a hook right at the back.
‘Please, Deborah. I am not angry. Just very, very needing of sleep, OK?’
‘OK.’
‘I need to sleep now.’
‘Fine.’
‘But thank you. For coming when I asked.’
‘No problem.’
I take my coat and go. Out on my dry-wood legs. I think we’ve both had enough for tonight.
11. June
The Scotia Bar
Glaswegians love to party – and everyone’s invited. A huge array of pubs, clubs and bars allow you to sample legendary hospitality in this, Scotland’s friendliest city.
Situated on Stockwell Street, one of Glasgow’s four original roads, the ancient Scotia Bar has been home to poets, musicians and real Glasgow folk since 1792. When the inn first opened, the Clyde was a vibrant waterway, making the Scotia a popular port of call for sailors. Being so close to the Tolbooth Gaol and the Gallowgate, the inn was also frequented by soldiers, prison visitors and cheery souls off to see public hangings!
Along with food and friendly faces, the Scotia now offers a lively selection of musical evenings, specialising in folk bands and traditional singers. Popular with Scotland’s literati, the bar also hosts storytelling sessions, poetry readings and the Scotia’s own writers’ group, where all are welcome to read their own work or simply listen to the work of others.
And, if you listen quietly in the shadows, you may also hear voices from the past, come back to enjoy another dram at the Scotia. Or are those spirits just the ones in your glass?
*
I arrive at the Refugee Council with a bunch of roses. Creamy-white and full, they hint at summer. I want to surprise Deborah with my gift. Everything is fitting together, my life is taking on a momentum I’ve never known before. Happiness bubbles at the surface; the trees I pass are fixed and steady, pauses in traffic are deliberate, designed to time with me. I cross building-shaded roads, flit smoothly between high glass office blocks. My movements are focused and my direction is clear.
I have a new home!
The flat is near to where we are now, we can still go to church, we can still see Mrs Coutts. But the building will be lower, smaller, and there is no pub-and-jaggy-glass in the front garden. In fact – there is a garden! Or a park, you call it a park where there are swings and slides. Deborah knows all this, because I texted her last night. Apologised, too, of course, for my recent sharpness, mediated it with the news that Rebecca has three times said ‘kew’ after I have given her things.
This is ‘thank you’, yes?
Oh Abdi, that’s wonderful.
But I want to see her expression when I say, ‘Oh and by the way, I have a new job too!’
The roses are irresistible. I bury my nose in their faint scent, straighten my tie. I have a tie! The doors to the Refugee Council lie open, haphazard as if people have just run in or out. Inside, too, there’s an air of confusion, of hurriedness that’s different from the usual shuffling-through. It is busier than ever, there seems to be less patient explanation going on at the booths, but many static, worried faces – on both sides of the counter. Perhaps it’s a hunter’s skill, to sniff the air and know a change is coming. Perhaps it’s a trick I’ve gleaned from all those years in the camp. Like impala who can turn and flee on a single hoof, you learn when air is tainted and it is time to run.
A haphazard door is all it takes.
My meetings with Debs are opening too many doors, I think. Good ones and bad ones. All with Azira behind them.
Father Paolo had sheltered us from the police, the first time they came to his house. Had I truly thought it would stop? Nearly a year had passed in quietness at the priest’s home; me teaching at the school with Paolo, Azira growing a garden. Rebecca growing strong. Until, one day I had been returning from the school, turned right instead of left. Collided shoulders with a uniform, my red backpack swinging.
‘Forgive me,’ I said, with my head low. Do not meet eyes with the uniforms: I was, belatedly, following Mrs Mursai’s advice.
‘You,’ said the voice. ‘What’s in that bag?’
‘Books. For the school.’ Humbly, hurriedly, I opened my bag. Kept my face averted.
‘You steal them?’
‘No. I work there.’
‘You work there, huh? So you got money?’
‘No, sir, no.’
To say ‘sir’ made me wish to
vomit. It was not a voice I recognised from any time before. But the uniform was definitely police. I know that khaki green. There was a clanging in my head. I braced; to cower or sprint or punch. Or pray. I watched the uniform’s feet shift. He had fat black legs. A goat bleated, was answered by other bleats. A heavy smell of dung.
‘On your way.’
Amazed at my good fortune, I sped home. With my bright-red backpack flashing. But that was enough. I suppose even uniforms talk.
Paolo refused to let the policemen enter when they came, demanded to speak to a superior officer. None appeared. But the next day, Paolo was summoned to the city. The charity he worked for had an office there. We stayed inside all that day, sniffing the air. Azira worked hard to make a meal with the bad bananas and rice Paolo had in his kitchen, and then I read her some of the Bible. All of us were learning the Bible: me the words, Rebecca and Azira the stories. Azira was also learning alphabets: Somali first, then Italian. There are four different scripts for Somali, but I taught her the one I knew best, based on the Latin.
‘It makes more sense to learn these letters, rather than Arabic.’
‘But why? I know some of these ones.’ She pointed at the Waadad curls in one of the books Paolo had let me take from school.
‘I know. But if you’re going to read and write in other countries, these letters are better.’
‘What other countries?’
I felt her fierce breath, the quick look of disbelief and hurt gathered there, ready to fly at me if I said the wrong thing. Azira and I had met on the long road to Dadaab. She was fleeing with her village, I with the remnants of mine. I’d recognised her brother-in-law, vaguely, from some gathering. He was struggling to drive on his children, his pregnant wife, a single goat and his wife’s young sister. My Azira. It was easy to fall into conversation with them. Easy to sink into her wide brown eyes and secret smile. Easy to offer to protect her, to lie beside her in the shifting, bumping vehicles that smuggled us over one mountain or border to the next. Unaccompanied women rarely arrived at the camps unscathed. Many married ones met the same fate. I heard the screams, once, of a husband forced to watch his wife I did not nothing nothing nothing you cannot hear that you can never hear that. So.
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