A Brighter Fear (16 page)

I woke early the next morning, when the sun had barely risen, and I pulled the covers over my head, wanting to stay there, for sleep to take me again, hide me from my indecision and my guilt. My failing hope and my lost excitement.

My interrupted life.

I knew what I should do. But I knew what I wanted to do. I had so little time left before that decision had to be made.

I dragged the covers off the bed, keeping them wrapped around me, and sat at the window, peering out for maybe the last time. I flicked over the pages of my sketchbook, stopping at the last one, at Steve. I sighed. I missed him, and I really wanted to, really
needed
to, speak to him. But I was alone, and this decision was for me.

I lifted my pencil and on a clear page tried to sketch the view. But what was there to see? A burnt-out car, a shell, the body blackened. Glass strewn around it sparkling in the light. Tyres melted around the rim, the road around it charred.

Shop doorways boarded up, metal bars at windows twisted out of shape. Black graffiti sprayed on concrete walls. Paths and pavements broken and crumbling into roads. Cardboard boxes and broken bin liners spilling out rubbish.

My pages filled with heartache.

I closed my eyes, and in my imagination I strolled through Zawra Park, dipping my fingers into the water of the fountains, the grass tickling my bare feet, the sun dancing on my face as I watched the theatre in the open air.

I strolled home down busy streets with smiling people. Jostled through markets with their bright colours of bananas, oranges, lemons; their piles of cinnamon, cumin, paprika.

I wished I could stay there. In my imagination.

But guilt dragged me back. I could hear footsteps pacing, cups and pots clanging, erratic voices. I dressed quickly and headed downstairs. Peering around a corner, I saw Fatima in the kitchen, saw her turn the kitchen taps and heard the pipes groan; another day without water. Hana stared, vacant, her red eyes fixed on nothing.

I went back to my room, took my bag from under my bed and, again, slipped out of the house. I had thought about leaving a note this time, but couldn’t think what to write. I had thought about asking Hana’s permission, but knew it would be refused, and I had to go, simply had to go. There was no option. I had to get to the house. I had to get to the money. I looked at my watch, the hours, the minutes ticking by, counting down to my decision.

I hurried through the streets, my body cloaked to the floor, a niqab covering my face this time. I hated myself for wearing it; I felt a fraud, a traitor to my own religion. And I was clumsy. The long material of my skirt caught on my feet. I stumbled on kerb edges, tripped on loose stones. I didn’t glide as some girls seemed to; I was neither sophisticated nor graceful nor elegant. I was a rain cloud, an ink blot, a dark stain. But this wasn’t about religion; this was about survival. I was hidden, I was anonymous and I was protected. At least somewhat.

And when I arrived, I was still alive.

I watched my house, my home, approaching from a distance. A speck, growing, its windows and doors smiling at me, welcoming me back. And as I stepped through the door, I felt the memories envelop me, everything as it was, paused in time, as if waiting for our return. And here I was. Just me.

I wandered through the house and in my mind I could see Papa, sitting in his favourite chair, a book across his lap, his eyes nodding closed. I could see him stroll through the back door with a spade in his hands and a smile on his face, Aziz in the garden behind him. I could see him standing at Mama’s wardrobe, his fingers holding the fabric to his face, his eyes closed as he inhaled.

And I could see Layla walk into the house with her school bag on her shoulder, glancing up to the clock as I slipped on my shoes, and as I peered through the windows covered still in tape and dust, I could see her brothers playing, a football kicked down the street, a shout to their friends.

And I could see Mama laying in bed, a baby in her arms, her face a wide, bright smile, and I could see Papa sitting next to her, smiling down at the baby, at me. And I batted back my tears, as I saw Papa lean in to kiss Mama, to kiss their baby, to kiss me.

I closed my eyes as the memories of my life, of my family, and of the stories I’d been told, seeped through me. I revelled in them. I travelled back in time and age as I watched them and when I opened my eyes again, they were still there, but hiding just below the surface, in every room.

I didn’t feel Papa with me as I headed into the basement, rays of light from the small window stretching through the gloom and dust. And as I dragged a chair over to the stairs and pulled the tin out from behind the broken brick, I heard nothing but the heavy thudding of my heart, and felt nothing but my own fear.

I flinched against the sunlight as I emerged from the house with the tin in my bag, locking the door behind me, locking away my memories, and I paused for a moment, looking over to Layla’s house. Should I visit her? I so desperately wanted to. I wanted to share everything with her that was going on in my life. Tell her about Steve, about leaving, about Aziz, about the money. But where would I start? What would she think of me when I told her? I didn’t know what I thought of myself any more. I missed her, our friendship, our lives together.

With a sigh I walked on, a black mark stuttering through the sunlit day. I was horribly conscious of the money in my bag, how much there was, how if anyone knew it was there, they would steal it from me for sure.

My decision loomed ahead of me; I was torn. I pulled the piece of paper from my pocket, the instructions Steve had given me, the time, the place. I headed further into the city. I crossed the river. I saw Haifa Street looming. A dangerous place. I didn’t want to be near it. I moved into a side street, not far from my pick-up point now, and the truck that was to take me to my new future, my safety and my hope.

My breathing was shallow, fear and nervousness and anxiety squeezing my chest. I could feel sweat on my hands and I wiped them down my clothes. I felt the heaviness of the tin in my bag, thought of all that money inside it. I kept walking. The Grand Mosque loomed ever closer, cranes above it, still unfinished, and I knew I would soon be at the pick-up point. I glanced at my watch, ten minutes left.

And the mosque became nearer and nearer, and I could see a truck pulled up at the roadside, exhaust fumes belching out. Someone approached it, a bag on their back, an envelope in their hands, passed to the man standing to the side.

I felt my pace slow. I stared at the man stood waiting, stared at his face, his receding hair, his long nose, his stained teeth. And I couldn’t breathe. The money burned in my bag. I saw Aziz in my head. Papa. Mama. Layla. Hana. The boys. I saw my house, my home, my city, my school, my friends. I saw my memories. I felt the warmth of them. Home. Friendship. Family. Love.

My feet stopped. And I looked.

My breathing stopped. And I stared.

I felt the paper still in my hand.

My contact for Steve, my escape from here.

I crumpled it up and dropped it to the floor.

And with the heaviest of sighs, of fear, of relief, of disappointment, of resignation, I walked on.

Whatever happened to Sacha? Part VII

He held the necklace in his palm: green stone, filigreed gold. He remembered the day,
that
day. Pats on the back from his colleagues, low whistles at his booty. He had gone up in their esteem. And as the youngest and newest guard there, always made fun of, always given the worst jobs, how pleased he was at the time.

But how many years ago now? And still her face loomed in his dreams, her eyes pouring into his. Her begging. Her pleading. The scene still played over in his head, over and over and over, but now the pain he felt, felt so much worse.

It woke him in the mornings. Followed him all day.

It laid with him in the evenings. Kept sleep from him.

Ate him. Lived off him.

And still the memories of that place haunted him. The actions he took under orders, how wrong he knew they were, even then. But still he did them. With his conscience turned off, hoping to keep his guilt at bay. What else could he have done? What were his options? He knew then, and knew all the years following as guilt chased him, hid in the darkness waiting for him, bearing down on him, laughing at him, that he had had no choice. He could not have refused.

The memory of her, of that day, of the promise he had made, never left him. All his guilt from all his actions in that place, focused on her and that promise.

He rubbed his finger against the green stone, wrapped the chain around his hand, the guiltiest piece of jewellery he’d ever touched.

He should’ve sold it then.

Instead he’d kept it like a medal of honour.

But what honour was there?

He’d thought about giving it to the girlfriend he’d had at the time, but something had stopped him. The same thing that had stopped him selling it, and kept it hidden in a drawer away from sight; his or anyone else’s. And now, now that Saddam’s police and the army were disbanded, now he had no job, no income, no future, now he felt he could really do with the money, and no one would be interested in it, or buy it, even if he found the will to sell it.

There was no need or desire or money for expensive jewellery. Bread, water, fuel and a generator were far more valuable.

Time stagnated around him, and memories returned like ghosts. Greying mist turning from invisibility into something tangible, clawing at his soul.

The woman’s face returned to him frequently, and not just in dreams or nightmares, her eyes pleaded with him, seeing right into him, past the training and the regime and stared right at
him
. He knew what he should do, what he had been putting off for five years, but his courage evaded him. Used up, he thought, on that day, yet still unsure if he’d done the right thing.

But maybe, just maybe.

Maybe if he did return it, it would mean he could sleep again at night. Not see her face every morning, feel her walking with him every day, waiting. Not see her eyes staring into his every time he looked at that stone. With some kind of thanks, but with impatience, with anger.

And maybe, just maybe, it would help them, her husband and her child, to know what had happened to her. What he had done. But fear clawed at him. What would they say to him? What would they do? How would they feel? He was not sure if they would be angry or relieved, to finally know.

But surely they would know already? Someone would’ve told them?

He thought his argument around in circles, but he knew what he had to do. It was inevitable. He pulled open a drawer, lifting out that piece of paper, unfolding the creases of those years, staring down at his own handwriting.

The names, the address.

And he knew.

The niqab hid my tears as I walked home, my baggy clothes hid the sobs racking my body. But neither went any way to concealing the guilt that tore at me. And the pain. I cried for a million reasons, yet with every tear came guilt that I was crying at all.

There should’ve been no decision to make and there should’ve been no tears to shed. I should’ve been smiling that Aziz would be coming home. And I was glad, really I was.

But my last hope, given to me by two men so special to me, I was to give away. What would Papa think? What about Steve?

I ran through conversations in my head of what to tell Hana. I could’ve saved her from all that pain, all that heartache; trying to find the money, begging neighbours, friends, Aziz’s colleagues. I could’ve spared her all that. And I had no reason, other than my own uncertainty, and my own selfishness.

I arrived back to a house silent with trepidation, expecting the anger Hana had shown me the day before. I walked through to find her at the kitchen table, a pile of grubby bank notes in front of her, her head in her hands. Fatima with her. Saad counting the money.

“I don’t know what to say,” he whispered. “There’s nowhere near enough.”

Hana didn’t look up. Her grief, her worry, her fear, was palpable, the house was thick with it, it poured from her. I sat next to her and took her hand. She looked at me and I lifted off my niqab and smiled at her through my own disappointment and pain.

She frowned at me as I unzipped the bag on my lap and pulled out the tin. And her mouth fell open as I lifted off the lid and the money sprouted forward, crumpled, creased, dirty American bank notes, forced into a tin far too small.

“An educated man gave it to me,” I said.

I felt all eyes upon me, on my bruised face and my red eyes, and I blushed, ashamed and embarrassed.

“But it was his love that taught me to do the right thing with it,” I whispered.

I looked into Hana’s eyes, at all of her loss and suffering, her love for her family, for me even, and I smiled and I really meant it.

I went with Saad and Jamail to drop off the ransom money. In their car. Safety in numbers, we thought. I stared through the window at the streets I had only recently walked down. We avoided roadblocks, as was usual, but were stopped at checkpoints, keeping the money hidden under a seat.

We drove past the mosque, past the very spot the truck had been parked, gone now, on its way out of the country, as I could’ve been. And I thought of my decision. And I thought of Aziz; my big, cuddly uncle, with his piano-key teeth still stained with tobacco, and his smile that split his face in two and lifted my spirits soaring to the sky.

There really had been no decision to make.

We dropped the money off in Zawra Park, as ordered, left in a bin. I wondered if they were watching us, hidden in the bushes, sat on a bench, waiting near the grass. Their eyes everywhere. I hoped they were. I hoped they were seconds behind us, taking that money, releasing Aziz, returning him home.

And then, we waited.

Hana paced and cooked and cleaned. I helped and played with the boys. We shot looks at the phone every few minutes. We glanced out of the windows, peered down the street, made excuses to go outside to look. We paused when a car went by, waiting, listening to it get louder, waiting, hoping it would stop, waiting, sighing as it didn’t and returning to work.

We waited, and time went on and the sun went down.

The boys went to bed. Hana took some Valium and fell asleep in the chair. Darkness engulfed me again.

I don’t remember falling asleep, I don’t know what time it was, I just remember waking, stiff and uncomfortable. The silence felt wrong. I threw a blanket over Hana and tiptoed around the house. The air was thick and musty. I eased the door key around in the lock, and stepped out into the cold.

I stayed close to the house, a robe wrapped around me. The slightest breeze lifted through my hair and danced over my skin. I breathed it in. I could hear something. Faint, barely a whisper, my ears straining. A car engine.
Could it be?
I dared to think. I ran to the low wall surrounding the garden, peering over, I could see nothing. Yet I could hear it. I waited as it became louder, then, in the distance, I saw a pair of white headlights shining towards me. Surely not, I thought, not now, not in the middle of the night. I moved back towards the house, keeping low, hidden, listening, waiting.

And it kept getting louder. And I didn’t know what to do. Whether to wake Hana, find a torch, to stand in the road waving, or to go inside, to lock the doors, to hide, and so, instead, I just crouched there, on the floor, next to the wall, with my heart thumping out of my chest.

The car slowed, the headlights brighter, and it pulled up, right next to the house, beams of light casting down the street, shadows across the garden. I heard the car door open. I held my breath, desperate for them not to hear me, not to find me. I saw the silhouette of a man, another door opened, and I heard something thud on the floor, something heavy. And the car door slammed shut. The engine revved. The headlights drew off. The car disappeared.

Silence covered me again. Dare I move? I didn’t know what to do. What had been dumped out of the car? I was afraid I already knew the answer. With a heart as heavy as lead, I stood up. I went back into the kitchen, taking the oil lamp from the table, lighting it with a match from the drawer.

The light flickered, the shadows dancing on the walls and cupboards. I lowered the glass over the flame, held the lamp by the base and stepped outside. I edged slowly to the gate; my breathing heavy, my heartbeat a drum. The gate creaked open and I stared at my feet as they shuffled around the corner. I didn’t want to look up. I didn’t want to see what I thought I was going to find.

I lowered the lamp, stretching out my arm, tiptoeing forward, bending down to my knees. And there he was.

Oh, Aziz.

My beloved, cherished, wonderful, smiling, happy, Uncle Aziz. Lying on the ground. Thrown in a heap without a care. I held the lamp to his face, ran my fingers along his skin, covered in bruises and cuts, his eyes swollen shut, blood dried on his lips. I brushed his hair from his face, barely recognisable, but it was him. And he wasn’t moving.

Panic rose in me. I rested the lamp on the floor and ran my hands over him. He can’t have been killed, I shouted in my head.
He can’t have, we paid the ransom, he can’t be dead
. Tears poured down my cheeks and I rested my head on his chest, snuggled into the crook of his neck, wanting to feel his heartbeat, hear his booming voice, feel his arms wrap around me and hold me.

What had they done to him? Why? We paid the ransom, I wanted to shout, we paid it. I didn’t understand. Why? I wanted to scream, why have you done this?

Then I felt his chest lift.

I caught my breath, sat up, my hands over my mouth. Daring to believe.

I watched his chest fall. Saw his lips move. His eyes flicker behind their swollen lids.

I touched his face. Put my ear to his mouth, felt the tiniest breath on my skin, heard the faintest whisper of my name. “Lina?” he breathed.

And I cried.

And I sobbed. Relief filling me.

When I heard Hana’s feet running up behind me, and I turned to see the torment in her eyes, I could barely mouth the words, “he’s alive,” through disbelief, and shock and the emotion shaking at my body.

I watched her fall to her knees, take her husband’s face in her hands and stare into him with love I had never before witnessed. I saw her tears of relief fall on to his broken skin.

She smiled. She kissed him. She held him.

And sometime later, when we had carried him into the house with help from our neighbours, when we had strapped his broken leg, bathed his cuts, stared into his eyes with concern that he may never regain his sight, when Hana had fed him, and the boys had cuddled him, we went back to bed with a strange sense that sometimes, sometimes, despite all this chaos, sometimes the right thing can happen.