This Is Where I Am (40 page)

I’m sure you’ll appreciate that we worked with many refugees, so it’s not possible for me to keep tabs on them all. Good luck with your search.

All the very best

Rose Gray

My excitement plummets as I read, then bounces, right at the end. Rose has sent this message on heavy notepaper, the kind which you order with your name and mobile telephone number inscribed on the bottom of the page. It’s dated two weeks ago. I pick up the phone. Dial, my heart playing with my ribs.

‘Hello. Rose Gray.’ Her voice is cheery and hopeful. But definitely Glaswegian.

‘Hello,’ I say. ‘Sorry. But is this Rose Gray from Donegal?’

‘Eh – who is this, please?’

‘You don’t know me, but my name is Deborah Maxwell. I’m hoping to speak to the Rose who used to work for Light of the World?’

‘Yes. That’s me.’

‘Oh, sorry. I was told you were from Ireland.’

‘When I was a baby, yes. I’m sorry – what’s this in connection with?’

‘You were good enough to send me a letter about Azira Hassan? From Dadaab?’

‘Azira . . . Hassan? Oh yes . . . yes. I was quite surprised when Light of the World got in touch. But, like I said –’

‘Sorry. Can I . . . sorry to interrupt you. I don’t think they told you why I was trying to find her. I’m sorry – this is so weird, you being Glaswegian. You see, Abdi and his daughter made it here, to Glasgow – that’s how I know him. But he believes his wife was killed in the camp – on the very day they were leaving.’

‘Oh my God. But that’s not possible.’

‘Were you there?’ I don’t mean this to sound accusatory.

‘I . . . well, no. We set up the transportation, then left it to the local agents. That happens quite often, you know. I mean, Light of the World is a small charity, and I was covering several camps – not just in Kenya, actually.’

‘Of course. I’m not . . . look, I only ask, because I’m not quite sure what happened the day they were due to leave. Abdi says there was an ambush – men on horseback.’

‘Al-Shabaab?’ It comes in a gunfire crackle.

‘I don’t know. He’s never given them a name. But apparently they struck just as the trucks were loading up.’

‘Do you know where they were loading? Was it the south gate? Bloody hell, I bet it was the south gate – they were expressly told not to leave from that location.’ She halts, draws breath in. ‘Sorry. Sorry, on you go.’

‘I don’t know much more, really. Abdi and his wee girl escaped, but Azira was attacked and dragged away, along with several others. Nobody knows what happened to them thereafter. There’s a slim chance that she wasn’t killed. Maybe. Her wee girl says she saw her being put on to a horse.’

‘Oh Jesus.’

‘Look. Abdi doesn’t know any of this – he thinks his wife is dead. All I want to do is find out if there are any records of an incident, if any bodies were recorded, names of people killed. Anything. And if there’s even a glimmer of a hope that Azira wasn’t killed, then I want to try and find her. What I need from you is the exact date they were scheduled to leave the camp. And any contacts you have, or advice you can give me on how I go about getting those records.’

I fling this last requirement in like it’s a request for eggs or milk, all tumbling out in the rush. As if, slipped in with such subtlety, Rose is bound to go,
sure, no problem
and rattle off the home telephone number for the Head of the UN. She doesn’t.

‘Suffering God. Where to begin . . .’

‘That’s what I was hoping you’d know. Is it the UN we speak to? Or the Kenyan police –’

‘Je-sus no! Ach,’ there is a squelching sound, like she is rubbing her eyes or her nose, ‘it’s complicated. Really, truly complicated. I can’t believe this. It’s the very thing we were trying to avoid.’

‘What is?’ But I don’t think she hears me.

‘Problem is, soon as you start asking questions, any semblance of records or evidence – if there ever was any – will disappear. The only people you’ll ever get the truth from are the refugees: people who were there, who actually saw it. And even then, the moment they hear a
mzungo
asking for help, they’ll tell you anything you want to hear. For a price, of course.’

‘So what do I do?’

‘Deborah, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Deborah. Do you have any idea how big Dadaab is? I mean, it’s not even the one camp. There’s three of them, three great big filthy hellholes full of people disappearing every day. Charities: we go in like SWAT squads, wheech a handful of them to safety – and then you hear
this
.’

The fire in her’s all sputtered out. Voice gone to ash.

‘Have you got an email address, Rose?’

‘I do.’

‘Let me email you a photo I have of Azira. Please.’

‘For why? D’you think if I send it on to the camp some beady-eyed policeman will track her down?’

‘But you must still
know
people there. People you could trust.’

‘Deborah, I thought I could trust my transportation agents. We’d been using the bastards for the last five or six years.’

She says this with such venom that I am knocked off course. ‘Och God, I don’t know then. Maybe Rebecca just made it all up, maybe your agents are fantastic. But whether Azira lived or whether she died – she bloody well didn’t make it out the camp. And your agents never reported that, did they?’

I hear a massive sigh. My ragged finger’s singing. Flayed flesh grating on air. I take it in my mouth, suck it.

‘No,’ Rose says softly. ‘No, they did not.’

The line goes quiet. Has she hung up on me? As I say
hello?
, all miffed and querulous, she goes: ‘Ach, right. Here’s what we’ll do then. You know how I’m with Oxfam now?’

I murmur
um
, don’t want to interrupt her flow which I sense is building to a solid plan.

‘Well, we’ve a new sanitation project launching in Dadaab. I’m not strictly involved, but part of my job is overseeing operational human resources. Now, I’m scheduled to be visiting Nairobi next month, but what I could do is work in a couple of days at Dadaab too. On the basis of visiting our water guys. Only two days at the most, mind. This lot work me like a Trojan – you’re lucky you caught me at all.’

‘You mean you’d go out there yourself?’

‘Quickest way I can see. I know the girl, know the feckers who arranged the pick-up. And I daresay I’ll still know the safest hand to slip a bribe in.’

‘Right, of course. Bribes. How much are we talking?’

‘Depends how high I need to go. US dollars usually hit the mark. Ach, don’t worry – they have a bureau de change there. Right next to the camel-slaughter-and-sacrifice house, so it is.’

‘I’ll give you whatever you need. You have no idea how grateful I am, Rose.’

‘I’m promising absolutely nothing, mind. There’ll only be the one of me, and I’ll have to do some proper work too, else they’ll not pay my board and lodgings!’

She lets out a trill of crystally laughter, and if I merely thought she was wonderful before, now I’ve fallen in love with her.

‘Can I come?’ Three syllables release themselves from my unsuspecting mouth.
What?

‘Seriously?’

‘Yeah, I’m serious.’ Suddenly, I am. ‘What would I need to do? Do I need a visa, jags, what?’

‘Holy moly . . . Um . . . I’m not . . . Look, Deborah. I don’t know you from Adam. This is not a holiday we’re talking about. It’ll be roasting hot, it’ll stink the enamel off your teeth, break your heart – and it’s as dangerous as buggery.’

‘Aye, but will there be karaoke?’

There’s a beat before she laughs again. ‘Tell me. Do you do duets?’

We exchange email addresses, Rose says she will send a checklist. I’ll have to pay my own way –
and a sizeable donation to charity would be nice
– but she’ll try to arrange for me to get a press pass to accompany her.
I’ll say you’re a freelance, doing a piece on the water project or something. Might give you that wee bit more leverage when we get there.

I put the phone down, shocked. Sit for a full ten minutes until my pulse quietens and the saliva quits gushing in knots.

God oh God oh God. I am going to Dadaab! I want to run outside and scream it. How wonderful, how brave! How utterly bloody mad. But what if what if what if.

What if I go back to Africa, and find a life to save.

It’s grown dark since I first sat down here. Hard edges of my street smudged by lamplight. We have special wrought-iron lanterns, installed by the conservation society. Very grand and curly-black, very solid. But they’re an illusion. There’s no Leary coming with his taper to flame the gas. We’re all electric here, all mod cons. I remember the vast bareness of Africa, the circle of Callum’s arms around me, the unseen presences that whine and howl. What will it feel like, to sit on the edge of the bush again? Is it even bush in Kenya? I have no idea, and it’s too late to ask. What if I don’t find out what happened to Azira? What if I do? What if Abdi is horrified?

I am shivering. Cup of tea, I think. Although whisky might be warmer. I reach to switch off the computer, and my sleeve brushes some paper off the desk. The other letter. I retrieve it from the carpet. Open it. It’s actually a postcard inside an envelope. There’s no return address, and the message is brief. In simple rounded hand it says:

Dear Madam

I write to thank you for being a friend to my daughter when she is living in Glasgow. I am told you found for her a good place to stay. I think Rula did not have so many friend. It is good that you were for her there. I am most kindly thanks to you and write to advise you that she is home now safe. We have buried her beside her mother. It is very beautiful there. You can see river. For you it makes I can imagine her with friends. This means very much.

With my grateful thanks

P. Kadyrov, Esq.

I lay my head on folded arms. Keep staring out the window.

20.

‘Any chance of a refill, big man?’ Dexy waves his empty glass. ‘Just gies the can but.’ His short legs drape over the arm of my couch. Politely, he took his boots off when we came indoors, so it’s only his threadbare socks which swing against the newness. Rebecca watches, open-mouthed. She knows the penalty for jumping on the couch.

‘Oh, here, here. Turn that up, man. You heard this song? It’s fuc – it’s brilliant, so it is. You like music, hen? Gonny do a wee dance for us?’

There’s a knock, sorry no. A chap at my front door. I mean my front door is
being
chapped, not that there is a man. I put my glass down, go to let Debs in. Rebecca is staying at hers tonight, because I have an early start at college. Our English class meets at nine, and we’ve been getting in a guddle – Rebecca and I, not the class. Little heap of beer cans . . . kick them out of sight. Yes. Early rises no longer suit Rebecca; she is not sleeping so well; has once more been wetting the bed. Mornings see her fractious, huffy almost, like I am to blame. But I never shout at her. Except when she wrote ‘couch’ on the back of our couch. Debs says this is more reason she should go to school, and I am thinking she is right. About the Lara woman, I’m not so sure. It seems this wilful unease has grown since their meeting. Debs wants to take her again, but I have said no.

Have you spoken to Rebecca? Asked her how she feels about seeing Lara?

No. I said I do not want to know.

‘Hiya!’

Deborah has cut her hair. It shimmers in neat flicks, elongates her neck. Her neck. I am aware I smell of alcohol.

‘Here, there’s that money I owe you for those comics.’

I demur, she insists, crumpling paper money into my pocket it is my jeans pocket, does she feel it as her knuckles graze me? I have imagined it but not her perfume, which angers me. Her perfume disturbs the atmosphere.

‘No, please –’

‘
No.
I said I’d pay. Hello, mucky pup! Whatya –’ Debs halts midway into the lounge room, pressing her purse into her breast. ‘What’s he doing here?’

‘Oh-ho,’ smiles Dexy. A thin smile. ‘It’s yirsel, doll. Lookin good.
Not
. You put on weight?’

‘Abdi?’

Her eyes are flint. It is my medicine, these pills dull thought and reflex, but they seem to heighten my sense of smell. That is all. It is the beer and it is my medicine. I am going to stop them. Soon. Now. I want to drum my fingers. I swallow. ‘Deborah. You remember Dexy? Well, we have some very good news.’

‘He’s just leaving?’

‘Ha! No. We are not long arrived.’

‘Really?’ She has seen the beer cans.

‘We have been to the supermarket. And, the very good news is – I have got Dexy a job!’

‘You’ve what?’

‘My apprenticeship is not yet filled, so I asked Mr Maloney, and he says he will ask –’