If You Were Me (8 page)

‘My brother worked as an interpreter for the British army. They want to punish him for that, so they came to our house. Three of them with guns. That's why we had to leave my country.'

This wasn't a game or a movie I could switch off and
forget. These were real people. Real lives. Real deaths. I couldn't walk away. Not this time. The guilt was growing inside me, churning and swelling, and the voice in my head was getting angrier, telling me to get it over with and call the police right then and there. I couldn't do it. Not just because of Dad. Because of Mum. How could I destroy her life? But one look at this girl, shivering in her flimsy dress, and I knew if I didn't do something, I'd be destroying the lives of her whole family. There was only one way out of this. If I worked with her, then maybe I could find some way to prove Behrouz was innocent that didn't involve Dad. Her frightened green eyes were scouring my face, trying to work me out. I rubbed my sweating neck, pointed to the phone, and for the first time since I'd seen the kidnap I almost took a breath without it hurting. ‘Have you seen the photos on there?' I said.

I watched her as she laid the phone on an upturned packing case and opened the picture gallery. She stopped at the ones of the Meadowview fundraiser, tensing up, staring hard.

‘Seen something?' I asked.

‘No . . . I don't know . . . it's just that the day he took these was the day he started to get nervous and worried.'

I glanced down at the bunting and the tea stall and the little kids crowding round the juggler. Of course there was nothing on the screen to show that I'd deleted any photos, no trace of them at all, and no sign of all the grubby grey lies I was telling except for the quiver in my
finger as I clicked open the next file and the catch in my voice when I said, ‘This lot are all of the same man – do you know him?'

I bent closer while she took her time studying the pictures of Cement Face. Close up she smelt of soap and a dusty sort of spice. ‘No,' she said at last. ‘I have never seen him before.

‘What about the wall he's leaning against? Seeing as he's wearing overalls and rubber boots, it's probably some kind of factory. Look, you can see the corner of a red sign and a bit of roof.'

‘I do not know where it is. I do not know many places in London.' She frowned a little. ‘When did Behrouz take the pictures of this man?'

‘Tuesday. I already checked.'

‘That's the day before the explosion.' Her eyes blinked nervously. ‘The day he came back with the gun. Can you tell what time he took these photos?'

‘Between 12.34 and 12.42. Looks like he caught Cement Face having a fag in his lunch break.'

‘What is a fag?'

‘A cigarette.'

‘Why do you call this man Cement Face?'

‘Look at him.' I smiled but she didn't smile back. ‘Here.' I handed her the set of photos I'd printed out. She looked at them, a bit bemused. ‘Why did you make these?'

I just about managed a shrug. ‘Oh, you know, I thought you might want to show them around, find out who he is.'

‘Thank you.' She folded them neatly and put them in her little backpack. Giving me a careful look she said, ‘Can you find out who Behrouz called that day?'

She watched intently as I showed her how to pull up the call log.

‘All right, it looks like Khan's Cars rang him at 6.30 in the morning, then again at 11.00; then there's nothing till 1.15, when he phoned someone called James Merrick – you know him?'

She nodded eagerly. ‘That's Captain Merrick. He helped us to escape from the Taliban. How do I call him?'

I pressed the call button and put it on speaker. It went straight to voicemail.

She leant in and left a message. ‘Captain Merrick. I am Aliya Sahar, the sister of Behrouz. I need to speak with you. It is very urgent. Call me, please. I am using Behrouz's old number.' She hung up and scrolled down to the next call in the log. ‘This number has no name.' She pressed recall. It rang once before a crisp voice said, ‘Houses of Parliament.'

She shot me a panicked look and hurriedly cut the connection.

‘Parliament?' Fear pricked my spine. ‘Who does he know there?'

‘Colonel Clarke. His old boss, the one who is sponsoring us. He is in the government now.'

‘Oh, yeah. The old guy whose wife's that actress. I saw him on TV. He seemed pretty upset about Behrouz.'

‘The police are crazy. They think Colonel Clarke is the one Behrouz was planning to bomb.' She pressed her hand to her mouth as if the thought had made her feel sick.

‘This next call is to someone called Arif,' I said quickly. ‘Who's he?'

She swallowed hard. ‘Another driver at Khan's. Behrouz likes him. He went to school with his cousin in Kabul.'

She tried the number. A ‘number unavailable' message crackled over the speaker. ‘Maybe he worked late last night and wants to sleep,' she said. ‘Did he make any other calls on Tuesday?'

‘No, why?'

‘I told you. That's the night he came home with the gun.'

I kept scrolling. ‘At 9.22 on Wednesday morning he got a text from Merrick, look, “Called in a couple of favours, got Clarke's home number, no luck with address or mobile. Will call u. Keep ur head down.” Then he rang Clarke's number, the call lasted seven minutes, and that's the last one he made on this phone.'

‘That fits with what the police told me. They said he talked to the colonel's wife and got angry and upset when she said he was out of the country.'

She glanced up at the rain and tucked a few strands of hair under her scarf.

‘What are you going to do now?' I said.

‘Go to Khan's. If Arif isn't there, I will talk to the other drivers. Do you know how I can find a place called Stoke Newington?'

‘It's not far. What's the address?'

She handed me a card from her purse. I keyed the postcode into my phone. ‘You get the 476 bus to the High Street, then it's like a two-minute walk.'

For the briefest second our eyes met. It was like looking in a twisted mirror – both of us desperate to prove Behrouz was innocent, both of us protecting people we loved, and both terrified of what we might find out on the way.

‘Thank you,' she said, and walked towards the gate.

‘Hey, Aliya!' I called. ‘Hang on!

ALIYA

 

 

 

I
turned around. The boy was blinking fast and pulling at the spiky tuft of hair at the front of his head.

‘I . . . I could go with you if you want,' he said.

It was like being struck in the face. Now I understood why he had come, why he was so nervous. I backed away from him, fury shaking every fibre of my body. ‘You told the police about the gun!'

‘No!'

‘They have sent you to spy on me.'

‘No!'

‘That is why you brought me the phone.'

‘No! Course not.'

He didn't look me in my eyes when he said it.

‘Then you want to sell stories about me and my family
to the newspapers!'

‘No way! Don't be stupid.'

That made me even angrier. ‘I am not stupid. Why else would you want to come with me? You don't even know me.'

‘I . . .' His face grew red.

‘Go on! Tell me the truth!'

‘I want to help you.'

‘Why?'

‘Because . . . because I know how you feel about your family.'

How dare he! How dare he say that!
My lip quivered. ‘Do you have a brother who is in hospital accused of something he didn't do?'

He bent his head and gave it a small shake.

‘Have you got a sister who's so scared that she won't speak, or a mother who has gone crazy with sadness?'

He shook his head again.

Anger slowed my words. ‘Then how can you know how I feel about my family?'

He raised his eyes and spoke so quietly I could hardly hear what he was saying, ‘I meant . . . I meant if something bad was threatening them, there's nothing I wouldn't do to save them.'

His answer surprised me so much that for a moment I didn't know what to say. ‘That is why you want to help me?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Do you swear to this?'

‘Yeah.'

I was still suspicious but the misery on his face made me want to believe him.

‘It could be dangerous,' I said quietly.

‘What do you mean?'

In my head I heard the hate-filled crowd outside the police station and saw the men in black suits who spat at me. ‘People are angry. They think that I and my mother were helping Behrouz to make bombs. Even when they don't know that I am his sister, this is a bad time to be seen with someone who. . .' I pulled at my head scarf ‘. . . who looks like me.'

He shrugged. ‘So ditch the outfit.'

‘What does that mean?'

‘Get rid of the scarf. Wear something that blends in. I dunno, jeans or something.'

‘I do not have jeans.'

‘I'll lend you some.'

‘You! I cannot wear the clothes of a boy! It would not be decent.'

‘Come on. We'll get the bus back to mine.' He was speaking as if I'd agreed. As if we were friends. I stepped back, still unsure. ‘Your family will be there.'

‘It's OK. My mum and dad will have left for work ages ago.'

An uneasy feeling spread inside my chest, but what choice did I have? I needed help and this skinny English
boy with a tuft of hair like the beard of a billy goat was the only person in the whole world who was offering me any. ‘All right,' I said. ‘I will come with you.' I watched him carefully: all I saw in his face was relief.

We walked through the thin cold rain, side by side in silence. The streets were busier now, full of cars, lorries, bikes, taxis and people who belonged in this city, people who knew where they were going, while I was following a boy I barely knew. A boy I wasn't even sure I could trust. I felt a moment of doubt, an overwhelming urge to run while I still could.

‘Quick, that's our bus,' he said.

Before I could resist, he was tugging my sleeve, pulling me along the crowded pavement and on to the bus. With a hiss and a clunk the door folded shut behind me.

The boy held out a plastic wallet. The machine beeped and the driver let him through. I opened my purse, uncertain how much to pay. The boy looked back. ‘You can't use cash.' I felt myself go red. He held a bank card to the machine. It shot out a ticket. Still embarrassed I followed him upstairs, clinging to the handrails, toppling first one way then the other, while he took long easy steps down the aisle and flopped on to the long bench seat at the back. The bus braked sharply, throwing me on to a man reading a newspaper. I tried to pull myself up. ‘Excuse me, please. I am sorry, I didn't mean . . .' but the picture on the front page sucked the words from my mouth. It was a pile of scorched bricks, charred wood and melted metal. Even
before I read the words, ‘Bomber's Cache of Hate Backfires', I knew this was the garage where they'd found Behrouz.

The man glared at me. His lips moved. For moment I thought he was going to spit at me, like those men with the golden chains. The bus jerked forward. I fell backwards into the aisle and stumbled into the corner next to the boy. I grabbed a crumpled newspaper from the floor. There were pages and pages about Behrouz, all of it twisting the truth, saying he'd only worked for the British army so he could spy on the soldiers and wait for the best moment to strike. I pulled my scarf across my face and whispered, ‘My father told me that in Britain everyone is innocent until they are proved to be guilty. Not Behrouz. No one is giving him a chance.'

‘So, go on,' the boy whispered back. ‘Why are you so sure he's innocent?'

‘I know him. He's good and kind and he would never hurt anyone.'

‘That's not going to sway a jury.'

‘All right. It would take many weeks to get hold of the things they found in that garage – the chemicals, the parts to make detonators. He did not have time or money to do that. And until last week he was happy and normal, making plans for our future and smiling and joking, then suddenly he was so frightened that he jumped when anyone walked past our door.'

‘So why didn't he go to the police?'

That question had been haunting me from the moment I'd found the gun, and now that the boy had asked it aloud, the dark coldness was filling my mouth.

‘I . . . I . . . don't know.' I rubbed the steam from the window and peered down at the passing city through the spatter of raindrops. The answer to everything that had happened to Behrouz was out there, somewhere in that sprawling mass of streets full of dangers I couldn't see, people I didn't know and secrets I didn't understand.

‘Come on,' the boy said. ‘This is our stop.'

I made my way downstairs, gripping the handrails and avoiding the eyes of the other passengers. We hurried down a main street, cut down a side road, passed a garage, a shop selling phones, another selling brooms and plastic bowls piled up on the pavement, and turned a corner into a square of new houses, built of pale yellow bricks with garages at the side and neat patches of garden at the front.

The boy walked down one of the gravel drives and when he unlocked the door, it was as if I was stepping into another world, one where everything was brighter and clearer than the dirty grey chaos I'd lived in since I came to London. It was how I'd imagined England would be: fresh, colourful, clean and safe, with soft carpets, shining paintwork and air that smelt of pine trees and lemons. I stood at the door of the sitting room gazing at the photos on the shelves – proud, smiling faces, snapped at weddings, birthdays and picnics – and thought of all our precious family photos left behind to be trashed by thieves
and looters. I followed the boy up the stairs and along the hall, peeking through the half-open doors at a large pale-blue bedroom with a white frilly cover on the bed, and a smaller room laid out like an office, with a computer and a desk piled high with papers. I felt shy about entering the boy's bedroom, so I stayed by the door and looked at the posters, the laptop and the games console that was so much newer and slimmer than the old one my cousins used to play on. The boy rummaged through his drawers and threw me a pair of jeans, a black T-shirt, a hooded sweatshirt, a pair of thick white socks and a baseball cap. ‘You'll need this as well.' He tossed me a belt. ‘Change in the bathroom if you want. I'll look out some of Mum's old trainers.'

I crossed the landing to the sparkling white bathroom and sat on the edge of the bathtub, running my fingers across the fluffy towels and the rows of bottles and creams before I took off my scarf, stepped out of my sandals and salwar-kameez and pulled on the boy's socks and jeans. Even with the belt drawn in as tightly as it would go, the jeans hung loosely on my hips. I rolled up the legs, put on the T-shirt, and took some steps around the room. The clothes made me walk differently and feel different. I pushed my hair into the baseball cap and glanced in the mirror, shocked by the stranger who stared back at me. I was pleased. If I didn't recognize her, there was a good chance that no one else would either. I slipped the phone into the deep pockets of the jeans. I'd never owned a
phone before, but the girl in the mirror looked as if she'd feel lost without one. I stuffed my old clothes into my backpack and I was standing on the landing when the boy came out of his parents' bedroom holding a pair of trainers. His eyes swept from my face to my feet. My cheeks burned.

‘Yeah, that works,' he said. ‘You want something to eat before we go?'

I hopped after him, pulling on the trainers, and sat down at the table in the kitchen while he made me a peanut butter sandwich and a mug of sweet, milky tea. I took a small bite of the sandwich. I'd tried peanut butter before, when Behrouz brought a jar of it home from the army base, but I still wasn't sure if I liked the taste or the way it stuck to my teeth and I definitely did not like this square white English bread that felt like sponge. But it was kind of him so I ate it. The kitchen was very neat and everything in it was shiny and new, just like the kitchens I'd seen in movies and magazines.

‘You are very lucky to live in a house like this,' I said.

‘We nearly lost it when Dad's business was on the skids.'

I wanted to ask him what that meant but he seemed upset and began to clear the table, so I said, ‘Your father is a nice man.'

He crashed the plates together so hard I thought they would break.

‘I've been thinking about Behrouz not going to the cops,' he said.

‘Yes?'

‘Maybe whoever did this to him was so powerful your brother didn't think the police could protect him.' He kept his back to me, as if he didn't want to turn around. ‘Has he made any enemies since he's been here? You know, anyone dodgy he's rubbed up the wrong way?'

Dark doubts numbed my tongue. I couldn't let them win. ‘Maybe this terror group Al Shaab, who claim he is their bomb-maker. Perhaps they did this to him because he refused to make their bombs.'

The boy turned to look at me. His face went still. I thought the mention of Al Shaab had made him angry and he was going to order me out of his house. But he didn't. He fetched out his phone. ‘How do you spell Shaab?'

‘With two As. It's Arabic for “The People”.'

‘Is that what you speak, then, Arabic?'

‘No, I speak Pashto and Dari, but we learn Arabic at school. It's the language of the Koran.'

He scrolled up and down, his jaw muscles tense. ‘There's not that much about them, it just says they're a shadowy terrorist organization that's claimed responsibility for attacks in Britain, Pakistan and Afghanistan. Maybe someone used their name to make it look worse for Behrouz.'

I shook my head. ‘No. The man who called the police told them things about other Al Shaab bombings that only the bombers would know.'

He chewed on his nail as if he was thinking this over,
then he handed me a little plastic card. ‘Here.'

‘What's this?'

‘Mum's Oyster card. It's a pass – for buses and Tubes. She hardly ever uses it.'

My eyes burned. I looked away. This boy had done more than give me clothes and food and a travel card. He had pulled me back from despair and given me hope. Though I still didn't understand why he would do all these things for a stranger.

‘Thank you,' I whispered.

‘Are you all right?' he said.

‘Yes.' I quickly slung my backpack over my shoulder and slipped the pass into the pocket of my jeans.

‘OK,' he said. ‘Let's go.'