Refugee Boy (12 page)

‘You can buy what you want with it, or you can save it for a rainy day.’

‘What would I buy on a rainy day?’ Alem asked.

‘That’s just a saying,’ Mr Fitzgerald said. ‘A rainy day just means when things are not going too well and you need a bit of help, so a rainy day could actually be a nice sunny day,’ he said playfully.

‘Don’t confuse him,’ Mrs Fitzgerald said. ‘It’s yours to do whatever you want with, Alem.’

On Christmas Day Alem read George Orwell’s
Nineteen Eighty-Four
. On Boxing Day he started
Lord of the Flies
and finished it on 29th December. He rested on the thirtieth and on New Year’s Eve, when it seemed like everyone else was counting down the hours and the minutes towards the new millennium, Alem walked to Barking Road and bought a brand-new thirty-speed bike.

The bike was used regularly over the next few days as Alem began to expand his knowledge of the area. Even when riding his bike he would travel with a small notepad and pen to write down the names of streets and buildings that he thought were interesting. He quickly learned that many of the street names had a relevance to the history of the area or commemorated interesting people. Forest Gate used to be the gateway to Epping Forest, and not far from where he lived he discovered Wordsworth, Shakespeare, Shelley, Byron and Ruskin avenues and many other avenues named after famous writers. One day he rode his bike deep into the forest in the belief that he would spot some wild animals, but all he saw was a few squirrels, which seemed too nice to be called wild. He had heard that there were deer and foxes in the forest but he saw none of them.

The time of Alem’s first major challenge was nearing and he was reminded of it when he received a visit from Mariam and Sheila on 6th January. In the living
room Mariam began to explain to Alem and Mr and Mrs Fitzgerald what was going to happen. Sheila butted in from time to time when she felt that things were getting too technical and some emotional reassurance was necessary. The file that Mariam had on Alem looked as if it had doubled in size. She took a couple of sheets of paper from it and put it on the table.

‘We really don’t expect much to happen tomorrow, Alem. We certainly don’t expect the adjudicator to make a decision.’

‘Well, what will he do?’ Alem asked.

‘Oh, he’ll just want to familiarise himself with the case. He may ask for some reports to be made and he may ask you a few questions.’

Alem looked worried. ‘Will I have to make some kind of speech?’

‘No,’ Mariam replied, ‘you may have to answer a few simple questions but most of the talking will be done by your barrister. His name is Nicholas Morgan and he’s one of the best. He does a lot of these types of cases.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Sheila said, smiling, ‘you’ll be all right.’

‘So when will I see Nicholas Morgan?’ Alem asked Mariam.

‘You’ll see him in the morning. But really, Alem, don’t worry. He’ll talk to you before you go into the
court and he has already read a lot about you and your case.’

It took some time for Alem to get used to the idea that someone he had never met was going to represent him, but he soon realised that everyone knew what they were doing and he felt a bit better. However, he couldn’t help thinking that he was about to face some kind of trial. He spent a couple of hours lying on his bed thinking of what was going to happen the next day, then he spent a couple of hours reading in order to stop thinking about what was going to happen the next day.

The next morning Alem was woken up by Mrs Fitzgerald, who entered his room carrying a black suit. ‘Good morning, Alem. I got you this.’ She held the suit up high by its hanger as if waiting for a response.

Alem wasn’t sure how to respond. Was this something that he had earned, or was this something that he should put away for a rainy day? He rubbed his eyes. It took some time for the words to come out. These were his first words of the day, and they sounded as if they were left over from the day before. ‘What – what is it for?’

‘It’s your suit,’ Mrs Fitzgerald replied. ‘You have to make a good impression in court and there’s no better way to make a good impression than by wearing a smart suit.’

Alem had always avoided disagreement with the Fitzgeralds and he certainly didn’t want to have one on a day like this, so he chose his words carefully. ‘I thought that the barrister will be there to make a good impression for me, so he should be wearing a suit.’

‘Very good,’ Mrs Fitzgerald replied, acknowledging Alem’s logic. ‘But this is all about you, you’ll be standing there right in front of the judge, he’ll be looking straight at you. I know these things; a suit will make a good impression, take my word for it. I know how these people judge character.’

Alem rubbed his eyes again and paused for thought. ‘If these judges are so intelligent, they should know that you cannot always judge by first impressions. They should know that a suit is just pieces of material sewn together and that you cannot judge a person’s character by the pieces of material that they wear. And besides I thought the judge was going to look at the facts – why I’m here and can I stay, things like that. I didn’t think he was going to judge my character.’

Mrs Fitzgerald looked down at Alem sitting up in the bed; the reasoning of this half-awake mind impressed her. ‘You’re right,’ she said as she placed the suit across the bottom of the bed.

Alem looked at the suit. ‘So I don’t have to wear it then?’

She turned and began to leave the room. ‘It’s up to you.’

Half an hour later Alem looked in the wardrobe mirror and whispered to himself, ‘I hate this suit.’ The sleeves were too long, the legs were too long and the chest was too tight, but he felt that he had to wear it to please Mrs Fitzgerald.

‘We have to leave soon,’ Mr Fitzgerald shouted from downstairs. ‘Get yourself together.’

Alem opened his door. ‘Mr Fitzgerald, do I have to carry anything?’

‘No, not really. You’ll be back in no time,’ he shouted back.

‘Mr Fitzgerald, can I bring a book?’

‘Of course you can,’ Mr Fitzgerald replied. ‘You won’t have much time to read in court but you can read on the tube down if you like.’

Alem went to one of his piles of books and grabbed the one at the top of the pile; he then left the room and went downstairs without looking at what he had chosen. When he entered the living room, Mr and Mrs Fitzgerald were waiting for him. Ruth wandered about in her nightdress. It was the first time they had seen him in the suit. As they looked down, they all gasped as if horrified by some unsightly slime.

‘Alem,’ Mrs Fitzgerald said loudly, ‘you can’t do that – you can’t wear trainers with that suit.’

Ruth shook her head. ‘No, Alem, get real, it doesn’t rock.’

He searched for more from Ruth. ‘It doesn’t rock?’ he said. ‘It doesn’t rock what?’

‘It don’t go, it doesn’t match,’ she said.

Mr Fitzgerald circled around him as if inspecting a car. ‘Everything’s fine except the trainers.’

‘Do you think I should change them?’ Alem asked.

‘I think you should,’ Mr Fitzgerald replied. ‘I think you should try wearing your shoes, the black ones we bought for you, they’ll do nicely.’

After a short bus ride to East Ham Underground station they caught the tube and headed towards the court. Alem had not been outside the East End for a long time. Most journeys, no matter how small, would normally arouse some excitement in him but this morning he was very subdued. Fortunately they had all managed to find seats, but as the train moved closer to central London it began to fill up. By the time it had reached Mile End, the train was packed; there was standing room only, and very little of that. As the bodies filled the carriage, the temperature rose and Alem began to sweat in his heavy suit. The train rocked from side to side and forwards and backwards as it was braking and accelerating, and as it did so the only part of Alem that remained still was his feet, weighed down by his heavy shoes.

Alem wondered why the people on the train were
trying so hard not to be noticed. Some would just stare at the advertisement boards as if they were trying to see through them, some read newspapers or books as if they were being forced, some tried to go back to sleep, and others listened to music on their Walkman. But no one was making eye contact with him and no one smiled. These were the employed people, he thought, those that had left school and obtained jobs. They were not starving, they were not at war but they looked miserable. I wonder, Alem thought to himself, are they all going to court? There was nothing else for him to do so he opened his book.

The book turned out to be a collection of war poems by Wilfred Owen. Alem had not read much poetry but he soon tuned into what was in front of him. He quickly picked up on the big stories behind the sometimes short poems. He held the book tightly with both hands close to his chest, trying to minimise the amount of movement caused by the train. At times he would stop reading and look up to digest a verse, only to find that some of the faces had changed in the carriage but they were still pretty miserable.

Alem and the Fitzgeralds got off at Borough Underground station and walked to the court in Swan Street. It was a very old building, grey and lacking in colour. Alem felt that there was something menacing about the building, yet it had a timeless beauty about
it. It looked as if giants had carved it by hand out of one solid piece of stone. They entered the building and were directed to the noticeboard, where Alem found his name along with many others.

‘I found my name,’ Alem told the others, who were still searching the many names.

‘What does it say?’ asked Mrs Fitzgerald.

Alem took a moment to read it through to himself, then he read it aloud. ‘Case Number C651438, Appellant – Alem Kelo. Respondent – the Secretary of State. Ten o’clock, Court Number Nine.’

All four turned to look for signs giving directions. In this part of the building everybody looked as if they knew exactly where they were going, everybody looked so confident.

‘Oh, I know where it is,’ Mrs Fitzgerald exclaimed. ‘It’s upstairs, I know exactly where it is.’

‘How do you know?’ Alem asked as they all began to follow her.

‘I’ve been here before with little Themba.’

‘Who is little Themba?’ Alem was trying to keep up with her as she strode up the stairs. Mr Fitzgerald lagged way behind.

‘Themba was such a nice boy. He stayed with us a long time ago. We came here because they wanted to send him back.’

‘Back to where?’

‘Back to South Africa,’ Mrs Fitzgerald said almost
as if Alem should have known. ‘His mother and father were there but they didn’t want Themba to grow up in a country that was officially racist. Nor did I.’

By now Alem was struggling not to burst into a run. ‘Did he have to go back, Mrs Fitzgerald?’

Mrs Fitzgerald slowed down as they reached court number nine. A large figure 9 hung over the door. ‘Now that’s a long story. The court allowed him to stay, so he stayed for a while. Then, when Nelson Mandela was freed and things began to change, he went back and now he’s a computer programmer. He still phones me sometimes.’

Outside courtroom number nine there were two other families. Both families looked anxious and both spoke languages that Alem couldn’t recognise. There was just enough room left on the bench for Alem and the Fitzgeralds to sit. Alem looked down the corridor where he could see other numbered signs hanging outside courtrooms, with other families sitting in front of them. In this part of the building the people didn’t look as though they knew where they were going, and these people certainly didn’t look confident.

Small children walked up and down, some would try to communicate with others through touching and offering to share toys. Many of the adults smoked nervously. When Alem heard people speaking, he seemed to hear a different language every time. He
sat and watched two small boys, one black African and one white European, colouring a book. Unable to communicate verbally, they smiled and made noises to each other as crayons magically left their colour on the pages. Suddenly, Alem heard a familiar voice.

‘Hello, Alem – Mr and Mrs Fitzgerald.’

‘Hello,’ Alem replied.

It was Sheila; she was with a man in his late twenties with very short brown hair and a goatee beard. His grey suit, grey tie and white shirt all looked as if he had bought them that morning. He smiled.

‘This is Nicholas Morgan,’ Sheila said, ‘I told you about him.’

‘I hope she’s told you some good things too,’ he said, flashing his perfect teeth and his clean-cut smile.

Sheila had heard that one before. A little embarrassed, she began to introduce the family to Nicholas. ‘This is Alem and this is Mr and Mrs Fitzgerald, his foster parents.’

Nicholas kept smiling. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

He shook everyone’s hands and then sat precariously on the bench next to Alem. As he spoke, he looked directly at Alem; his voice was clear, soft and sympathetic.

‘Alem, I just need to chat a little about what’s going to happen this morning. This case has arisen because the Secretary of State, in other words the government, has doubts about your reasons for being here.
What we have to do is convince the adjudicator that the reasons you put in the statement you made are legitimate. Now, today nothing much will happen. The adjudicator will ask you if you are Alem Kelo; the person that represents the state will stand up and say why he thinks you should go; and then I’ll stand up and say why I think you should stay. The adjudicator should then ask us to go away and prepare our cases. It should be as simple as that. Do you have any questions?’

Alem looked around. ‘Who are these people? Will they be in there too?’ he asked with a slight nod of his head in the direction of the other people seated on the bench.

‘No, these are other cases that will be heard after you. I think they’re Polish Romany people, probably in a similar position to you,’ Nicholas replied. He looked at his notes and pointed to something that he had spotted. ‘There is an interpreter available if you want one but I’ve been told that you’re happy without one. Is that right?’