A Distant Shore (9 page)

Apparently I am convalescing. They always keep a light on somewhere. In the corridor, or on the other side of the room. I confess, I can’t sleep properly. I’ve told them this, but they said that if the tablets and the hot milk don’t help, then they can always give me the needle. But I’m not sure that they really listen to me. When I went to the seaside I didn’t sleep. It took just over an hour to get there, and as we entered the town I saw a big field with maybe a hundred caravans set down on top of thick concrete slabs. In the corner of the field there stood a row of rusting tin sheds that I presumed to be the toilets and showers. Kids were drinking from standpipes, and recent rain had turned the whole place into a huge sea of mud. Once I got off the bus there was nowhere to go, so I lugged my suitcase into the bus-station café and found a seat in the far corner. I noticed a sticky mess of honey on the table where it had not been properly wiped off, so I was careful not to put my elbows up. A pregnant young girl came across and stood with pocketed hands. Before I could say anything she announced, “We’re all out of buns, but we’ve got cellophane-wrapped fruit cake and sandwiches.” I just wanted tea, and when it finally arrived it did so with a clatter. I sat in the bus station for a while and had one cup of tea after another and watched the pregnant girl, who was clearly stupid with confidence. She ashed her cigarette into a tea cup that was similar to the one that I was drinking out of, and then she started to gyrate to imaginary pop music as she stacked the saucers on top of the side plates. I felt my arms fold up across my chest, like the sleeves of a shirt after it’s been ironed, and I stared at the creature.

Eventually it got dark, and little Miss Know-it-all made it clear that she needed to close up the café. She gave a deliberate yawn in response to my question, and then pointed me towards a small hotel that overlooked the promenade. It had one of those signs outside that advertised the name of the hotel, then beneath it there were two hooks where they could hang a sign that said “vacancies” or one that said “no vacancies.” I was lucky, for the sign said they had “vacancies,” but judging by the dismal state of the place, I imagined that on most days they would have vacancies. The woman asked me if I’d like dinner in my room or in the dining room with the other guests, but I saved her any bother by letting her know that I didn’t want dinner, full stop. I wasn’t nasty about it or anything, but I felt that I had to make myself clear so there would be no confusion on her part. She asked me if I wanted a hot water bottle, as mine was an attic room and it could get a bit nippy, but I let her know that there would be no need for a hot water bottle. Fatigue had begun to cloud my mind like a thick fog, and I didn’t want to be disturbed.

The room smelled of mice and unwashed clothes. There was a single bed, a severe upright wardrobe, a pine dresser, and in the corner a metal chair over which a white towel was draped. There was also a paraffin heater, but it didn’t look like anyone had used that in a while. The bed felt warm and clammy, as though somebody had recently crawled out of it, and so I reached for the towel, which was as rough as sandpaper. I spread it on top of the brown bedspread, and then listened. I heard feet pass my door and then fade away down the corridor. A door opened and then closed with a powerful echo, and I turned and glanced in the mirror on the dresser. I was tired, and I looked terrible, but I knew that I wouldn’t be able to sleep in a single bed. For most of my adult life I’d associated them with not being grown-up, and they always made me feel like I’d stepped back into an era that I remember being anxious to leave behind. I kicked off my shoes, and then lay on the towel and looked up through the unadorned skylight. There was no bedside lamp or radio, and I now understood that I would have to survive till morning staring at the black night through this skylight window.

Dawn broke without emergency. I had been presented with the gift of the whole night to think everything through. I wanted Solomon to understand that he wasn’t going to be able to just take me for granted. I wanted to be able to tell him about my adventures with my sister, and then I would wait a few weeks and disappear again. Lonely Solomon. I wanted to keep him on his toes until he realised for himself that he really didn’t like it if I wasn’t around all of the time. Then he would want me. I swung my legs down off the side of the single bed and felt the damp chill of the floor. I remembered something else about single beds that I didn’t like. They reminded me of when Sheila turned up at university with her rucksack. After I’d cancelled my music practice for that evening, I sat back on the edge of my bed with her and we both cradled our cups of tea in our hands. And then she told me. I knew I should have made more effort to help her instead of just staring at her, but it wasn’t easy to hear what she had to say. I kept trying to get the conversation back onto more pleasant things like Mum’s embarrassing attempts at singing, but Sheila would have none of it. She kept asking me why I wouldn’t believe her, and why did I think that she would lie about something like that? “You
know
he used to take me to the allotments with him. I mean, what’s the matter with you? Why can’t you believe me?” The problem, of course, was that I did believe her. I knew she was right when she said that the fact that it had stopped now didn’t make it any better, but underneath it all the real question that I wanted answered was how come I escaped his attention? Did he love her more than me? I knew that he loved me more than he loved Mum, but why take Sheila down to the allotments with him? Of all people, why our Sheila? I tried again to change the subject, but Sheila still wasn’t having any of it. She wanted to make sure that I’d heard her, and I had. I eventually slipped my arm around my sister’s shoulders, but her weeping had now given way to silence. Trying to change the subject was stupid, and I’d not said the right things. I’d failed her, and we both knew that something had changed between us. In those few moments, sitting on the edge of my single bed, a part of my sister simply disappeared from view. The rest of her life had not been very satisfactory. Including our brief time together in London. After nearly thirty years we tried once more to be together, but it was too late. Following that night in my dormitory room, Sheila couldn’t talk to me again, and her grief was not something that I could simply penetrate by sympathy. We were civil with each other, but I’d lost her that night, with her rucksack standing by the door. After Sheila died I wrote to myself and pretended it was her doing the writing. It was all I had left of her. My imaginary Sheila who likes me and still needs my help. But my cowardice had lost me my real sister. My poor, grieving Sheila. Daddy’s little pet.

My memory is getting stronger. I think that’s a part of convalescing. If so, then it’s a good part for I don’t want to forget things. The people in this place give me tablets and hot milk, but although they don’t help me to sleep, they help me to remember. I checked out of the depressing hotel and spent my second day by the sea sitting on a bench on the promenade. The water was being lashed and torn, and it leaped upwards in great buffalo-headed waves. What I really desired was a steady, comforting beat, with the surf printing its pattern like lace against the sand, but instead I had been presented with an angry summer sea. The wind was making a clown of my scarf, and it kept blowing strands of grey hair across my face. Regular as clockwork I had to take the loose hairs and pull them back from my eyes, but there was not much to see. A cargo ship far out on the horizon, and just beneath the promenade an energetic dog acrobatically fielding a Frisbee that its bored owner was dispatching with increasing impatience. I kept wondering what he’d be doing right now, whether he’d be knocking at the door to make sure that I was all right, or just peering from behind his blinds and wondering where I’d got to. By the time the afternoon came it was starting to get a little chilly, so I picked up my suitcase and began to make my way to the bus station. I thought about killing some more time by popping into a pub, but the only one that I saw had a garden out front whose grass was worn bald, no doubt by yobbo powwows, and wooden tables that were covered with empty pint glasses and overflowing ashtrays. I pressed on, and I waited in the station until a bus was leaving for Weston. Once on board I sat near the front so I could look over the driver’s shoulder. Across the aisle a blowsy woman proceeded to annoy me, for she slapped sand from her unshod feet onto the floor of the bus, where she no doubt imagined that somebody less important than her would clean it up. I decided not to get off at Weston, and instead I went straight through to town and saw Dr. Williams, which was a waste of time. But the truth was I just wanted to take up a bit more time so that Solomon would miss me even more. However, an hour or so later, when I finally got back to the village, I knew that something was wrong. When I saw the policeman and the policewoman standing at the door I felt my stomach lurch. I told them to come in, and they took off their hats as they did so. Then they told me.

II

Gabriel wipes the blood from his friend’s eyes. An hour earlier Said had fallen from the bottom bunk and onto the hard concrete floor, and although Gabriel had immediately jumped down and made an effort to haul Said back into bed, he soon realised that his friend should not be moved. Said had hit his head as he fell, and Gabriel continues to mop the petals of blood from the floor with a paper tissue. Said does not seem to notice the blood, and he lacks the energy to wipe the vomit from his mouth. For much of the past hour Gabriel has been kneeling beside this man, and hoping that Said might talk to him. When not kneeling beside him, Gabriel has been holding on to the bars of the cell and begging the night warder to call for a doctor. But the night warder continues to watch television with his boots up on the desk, his legs crossed casually at his ankles and the flickering glow of the screen illuminating his face. Suddenly Gabriel looks up as the man in the next cell once more kicks the wall.

“Can’t you lot just fucking shut it with your puking and carrying on?”

Gabriel climbs to his feet and crosses to the door of the cell. He prepares to launch yet another appeal for a doctor, but his neighbour’s outburst has won the night warder’s attention. The boots swing down off the desk and the man walks slowly towards Gabriel. The night warder is a tall stocky man, and his dark uniform, and the jangling keys that hang from his belt, suggest a severity that is betrayed only by his boyish face. He stops short of Gabriel, who watches as the man places both hands on the bars of the cell next door. For a moment the night warder simply stares. Gabriel imagines that, faced with this display of authority, his loud-mouthed neighbour will now be backing down, for he is sure that this man is a coward. The night warder continues to stare, and then the neighbour speaks, but this time in an almost helpless voice.

“What am I supposed to do? I can’t get no fucking sleep with them going on like that.”

The night warder leans forward. “I told you to be quiet, sunshine.” He pauses. “I’m trying to watch the telly.”

“How can you watch the telly with all that fucking puking? It’s disgusting.”

Gabriel watches as the night warder lifts one hand from the bars of the cell and points directly at its occupant.

“I don’t want to hear another word, right?” The night warder does not blink. He repeats himself. “Right?”

Gabriel hears a short grunt, and then the creak of a bed as his neighbour sits back down.

Now that he is satisfied, the man turns towards Gabriel. He speaks as he walks. “He’s not getting any better then?”

Gabriel steps to one side so that the night warder can look in and see for himself.

“What’s the matter with him?”

“Please, I have seen this type of illness before. It is like malaria, but it is something more than this. I think Said is dying if we do not find a doctor.”

The night warder peers into the cell, but he seems reluctant to get too close. The pools of vomit are beginning to congeal, and the smell is ripe. The man pulls a crumpled handkerchief from his pocket, and clasps it to his face with one hand, and he points with the other.

“It would help if you cleaned up that shit.”

“Please, Mr. Collins. Said needs help, that is what I am telling you.”

The night warder looks from Gabriel to Said, and then back to Gabriel. His brow furrows, and he understands that a decision is being forced upon him.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Gabriel is quick to react. “Thank you, Mr. Collins. And perhaps some water for Said while we wait for the doctor?”

The night warder says nothing. He turns on his heels and begins to amble his way back towards his desk, all the while keeping the handkerchief pressed closely to his face.

Gabriel is once again enveloped by a silence that is disturbed only by the night warder’s television set. There are no windows to this cell, but Gabriel knows that it is night time. Beyond this prison there is England. Three days ago, when they first locked him in this cell with Said, Gabriel began to doubt that he would ever again see England. As his cellmate began to speak, Gabriel could see that the man was ailing, for his hands were shaking and his eyes were damp with fear.

“They say I robbed an Englishman and his wife on a train.”

Gabriel waited for Said to tell him what had actually occurred, but Said simply shrugged his shoulders.

“It is not exactly how it happened.” He thought for a few moments and then continued. “Yes, I was on a train and I was talking to some English people. My English is good. In my country I am a teacher. I practise hard with my English. I was talking to some English people, for I am not afraid. I know that when the train gets to the town I will ask for asylum at the police station. That is the way. I am a human being who has paid over United States dollars three thousand, everything that I have, to come from my country in a small space under a truck. From Iraq I travel like this like an animal, but maybe worse than an animal, but I do not care for I know that in England they will give me money and some kind of voucher and let me work. Everybody wants to keep out the Muslim, but in England freedom is everything. They can change the law, but you cannot change the culture of the people and so I am not afraid. British people are good. I have friends who tell me the truth. I do not hate Americans, but they are not gentlemen. Why should I be afraid?”

He looked at Gabriel as though expecting an answer, but Gabriel said nothing.

“And then an Englishman and his wife they asked me if I would watch their bags while they go to the restaurant car, and I say yes, of course, yes. And then they come back and look at their bags, and the woman says that I have taken their money and she runs to get the man in the red jacket, the train manager. But why would I come all the way from my country to make a new life here and then take their money? I cannot go back. I sold my land and animals to pay for my journey. I have nothing to go back to. My wife and family are with my brother and waiting for me to send money so they can come to England. I have two hands, I can work. One day I can buy a television and a radio. A fridge. A carpet. Maybe, one day, a car. I have two hands.”

Said showed Gabriel his hands, but his hands continued to tremble and Gabriel noticed the beads of sweat on Said’s brow.

“The police,” he said. “When the train stopped, the police, they come for me. I told them, I have lost everything. My family, I have left my family behind. Despite my education I cannot feed my family. I am no longer a teacher. I am here to begin my life again and I have the appetite to do this so they must help me, yes? I told them I have a case to present, but they do not listen to me. I tell them, please do not send me back to my country. Not there. The policemen they ask me, what happened to you in your country? I told them that I cannot talk of this or I will lose what little appetite I have left. The policemen looked at me, so I ask them, is it true? Is it true that in England you can smell freedom in the air? That it is a different air? But they will not answer me. I say, I have smelled a little of the air and it is good, but why are you putting me in this prison? I do not want these filthy trousers, or this grey T-shirt that another man has worn. I will not wear your slippers. England is not my country. I have done nothing. I am not a criminal man. I have never been a criminal man. I have two hands, I can work.”

Gabriel asked his new cellmate if he was all right, but Said shrugged his shoulders.

“I am cold, but I have no money to see a doctor. And now maybe I will never see England again. But have you noticed? The light in England is very weak. It depresses me. They have taken the sun out of the sky.”

Said looked forlorn, and so Gabriel suggested that he try to sleep. Gabriel squeezed his friend’s shoulder, and then he climbed onto the top bunk and stretched out. He listened as beneath him Said continued to cough and splutter. Sadly, for the past three days, his cellmate’s condition has only deteriorated.

And now the night warder arrives back at the cell, and he javelins a wet mop and then tosses a roll of paper towel through the bars.

“Here, clean up this shit, Gabriel. It will make everybody feel happier.”

Gabriel looks down from his bunk, but the night warder is already walking back to his television set. Gabriel climbs from his perch, and he picks up the mop and the roll of paper towel and he begins to clean up the floor around Said’s prostrate body. His friend continues to breathe in a rasping whisper, and although his eyes are still open he appears now to be incapable of focusing on anything. Gabriel bends down and he places the roll of paper towel underneath Said’s head so that it becomes a squashed tubular pillow. During the past three days, the story of Said’s life in Iraq has become increasingly improbable and riddled with contradictions, but Gabriel has been a patient audience. He readjusts the roll of paper towel under his friend’s head, and listens once more as Said struggles to make himself heard.

“Please,” whispers Said. “My brother and my children. You must tell them.”

Gabriel takes his friend’s hand and squeezes hard.

“Said, you must continue to allow hope to grow.”

“Please, you must tell them.”

And then Said’s eyes fall shut. Gabriel leaps to his feet, scattering the mop to the far side of the cell.

“Mr. Collins, it is Said. Please, we need a doctor.”

The night warder abandons his precious television set, and he moves quickly to the cell. For the first time Gabriel can see concern on the face of the man. The night warder speaks to Gabriel, but without taking his eyes from Said.

“I’ll call the doctor, but they do everything in their own sweet time.”

The night warder leaves Gabriel marooned with his friend. According to Said, his brother is still in Iraq, but at other times he is in America. And sometimes Said has a wife, and at other times he is a bachelor. But he always has children, a boy and a girl. Gabriel looks at Said until he cannot bear to look any more, and then he slumps down to the floor and rests his back against the bars of the cell.

It is the sound of keys in the cell door that alerts Gabriel to the fact that he has fallen asleep. A tall, thin man ignores Gabriel and steps quickly into the cell. The night warder follows him. The man puts down a brown leather bag, and he kneels beside Said. Gabriel stares at this reed of a man, who now stands and turns to face the warder.

“He’s been gone for some time.” The night warder looks shocked, but the doctor is ready to leave. “I suppose we’ve got some paperwork to sort out, right?”

The night warder waits for the doctor to stride from the cell, and then he locks back the door. Gabriel clambers to his feet.

“Please, Mr. Collins, you cannot do this. You must take him away!”

The night warder does not trouble himself to look at Gabriel. He calmly escorts the doctor back in the direction of the television set, and Gabriel retreats to the furthest corner of the cell and huddles his body into a tight ball. He slides to the floor.

Eventually, the day warder arrives. He is a short, but powerfully built, man who looks as though at one time he might have enjoyed a career in professional sport. He stands by the door to the cell and looks contemptuously at Gabriel.

“So what’s the problem then? What are you wailing about? He’s dead. He ain’t gonna bite.”

The man in the cell next door starts to laugh.

“You should make him eat him. Fucking noisy cannibal.”

The warder steps to his right and looks into the neighbour’s cell.

“And you can shut it, you stupid little cretin.”

Obviously these few words are enough, for immediately there is silence. The warder steps back and looks at Gabriel, who now realises that the impossibly thin doctor is standing with this man.

The doctor peers into the cell, and then he simply instructs the warder to “open up.” Gabriel climbs slowly to his feet. The doctor whispers something to the day warder, who begins to peel off his jacket.

“Well, sonny, what’s with all the shouting? You losing it up here?” The day warder taps the side of his head.

Gabriel stares at the warder, and then slides back to the floor and curls himself into an even tighter ball. The warder shakes his head in disgust and turns to the doctor.

“You might have to help me get him up and onto the bunk.”

The doctor puts down his leather bag and he now slips out of his jacket. Unlike the warder, whose jacket lies in an untidy heap, the doctor folds his neatly and places it on top of his bag.

“What’s he in here for?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“He’s not an illegal then?”

“Oh, he’s that all right, but that’s only half the problem.”

The warder takes Gabriel’s legs while the doctor grabs his arms. Gabriel begins to kick out, but he is powerless in the grip of these two men.

“Which bunk?” asks the doctor, who is now struggling to keep control of Gabriel’s flailing arms.

“It doesn’t matter. Stick him on the bottom.”

Gabriel continues to kick and wrestle, but they easily lift their malnourished patient onto the bottom bunk and the warder reaches into his pocket and pulls out four strips of rubber. He passes two to the doctor, and they begin to strap Gabriel to the frame of the bed.

“This should hold the bugger in place,” says the warder. He gestures, with his head, towards Said. “What about him?”

The doctor pulls his final knot tight and then takes a step back. He begins to slip his jacket back on.

“They should be here for the body before too long. But who knows.”

A terrified Gabriel watches as the doctor opens his bag and pulls out a syringe and long needle.

“Don’t tell me,” says the warder. “Cutbacks, right?”

“There’s just not enough ambulances. In some boroughs they’re using private cars.”

The doctor sits on the edge of the narrow bed and focuses on Gabriel.

“This won’t hurt, but you’ll feel a slight scratch.”