No Safe Place (12 page)

When Abdul opened his eyes the next morning, the first thing he saw was Cheslav. The Russian was sitting cross-legged on the other side of the cave, the stolen trumpet in his lap. He was polishing it with his shirt-tail, making the brass sparkle in the candlelight.

“He doesn't even care,” Abdul said to Rosalia. “Look at him. He doesn't care that he put us all in danger.”

“If you feel you are in danger around me, feel free to go somewhere else,” Cheslav said calmly. “I'll be staying around until tonight.”

“That's when I was planning to leave!” Abdul sat up and rummaged through the food box to see if there was any juice left. “Why don't you leave this morning? You've told us how much you'll blend in here. You and that stupid trumpet could just walk out of here into the open arms of the British people.”

“Stupid trumpet? You are an idiot.”

“Shut up, both of you,” Rosalia said.

“I know why you think this is stupid,” Cheslav said, holding the trumpet up in the air. “You've probably never lost anything that meant something to you.”

“Who do you think you're talking to?” Abdul's voice was low, like the warning growl of a dog about to attack.

“I am talking to a boy who is mad at me because I take control of my life, while you spend your days rubbing some little gold disk you have hanging around your neck. Is that your good luck charm? I make my own luck.”

“Stop talking.” Abdul clenched his fists.

“Let's see this magic necklace.” Cheslav crossed the cave in a couple of steps and put his hands on Abdul's shoulders.

Abdul knocked Cheslav to the ground and rolled on top of him, swinging and yelling. Cheslav fought back and tried to grab Abdul's medallion.

Rosalia moved the lit candles out of the way.

“Come, Jonah,” she said. “Let's let them kill each other.”

But before Jonah could get to his feet, Cheslav and Abdul rolled into him, smashing against his hurt arm. He cried out.

The fighting stopped.

At the same time, Gemma appeared in the doorway.

“Good morning,” she said brightly. “I brought breakfast. Are you fighting?”

“It's over,” Rosalia said. “They're boys.”

Abdul straightened himself up and brushed off his clothes. Cheslav adjusted Jonah's sling.

Gemma took buns and jam out of her school bag.

“Won't your mother miss this food?” Abdul asked. “You didn't tell her about us, did you?”

“I couldn't tell her about you without telling her I'd missed school, could I? And she won't miss the buns. She knows I have a big appetite.”

Abdul and Cheslav eyed each other warily as they sat down to eat, Cheslav cradling the trumpet again.

Abdul watched Gemma setting up their breakfast as if she was setting up a party for her dolls. Her school uniform was clean, her hair shiny. She was loved and cared for. She would never be able to understand his life.

Maybe I should just leave, Abdul thought, as he chewed on a roll. Maybe I shouldn't wait until dark. If he started walking now, he could do twenty kilometers or more before the sun set. And if he kept walking through the night, he would really be well on his way by this time tomorrow.

He looked at the change of clothes he'd bundled up for himself, on the floor near the crate of comic books. It would be easy to pick it up and walk out. Cheslav and Rosalia would be left with the problem of Jonah.

He was halfway to his feet when a very angry woman appeared in the entrance to the cave. She was wearing a jacket over a nurse's uniform.

“Hands on your heads, all of you,” she ordered. “On your heads or I'll shoot. I'll shoot you dead.”

“Mum!” Gemma went to the woman and took her hand out of her pocket where she was pretending it was a gun. “It's all right!”

“What part is all right? The part where I get called at work because you are missing school again? The part where you are sitting with a bunch of strange teenagers who ought to be in school themselves? Or the part where someone broke the charity shop window last night and stole a trumpet?”

She looked at Cheslav. He just grinned.

“And who is this child?” Gemma's mother went over to Jonah. “Which one of you hurt him? What's your name, son?”

Jonah didn't answer.

“Who are you all? Where are your parents? Gemma, start talking.”

“These are my friends.”

“Your friends. What else? What about you?” she asked Rosalia. “Are these boys bothering you? Do you want to get away from them?”

“I'm all right,” Rosalia replied. “I am in no danger from them.”

“They're not criminals,” said Gemma.

“I suspect at least one of them is.” Gemma's mother stared at Cheslav again. “That's it. I'm going to the police. Gemma, let's go.”

Abdul stood up. “Please, your daughter is right. We are not criminals. And I would like to pay for the window that was broken.” He undid the safety pins on his trouser pocket and took out his roll of money. “The boy with the sling is Jonah. He's a British citizen and his parents are dead.”

“Shut up!” yelled Jonah.

“We would appreciate it very much if you could get him to a doctor, just to make sure he is not badly injured.”

“I don't need a doctor!”

Abdul put his money in the woman's hand. “This is all we have. Use it for the broken window and for Jonah.”

“Did you steal this?”

“I worked for it. In Iraq. Take it, please. The money was to get me to England. I'm here now. Take it.”

“I will pay for my own actions,” Cheslav said. He got his bundle and dropped it at the woman's feet. “There are good things in here. Expensive things.”

“Stolen things?”

“The men who owned them were going to kill me. Why should I not take their things?”

Gemma's mother took a deep breath. She put Abdul's money in her pocket.

“I work as a nurse's aide at the retirement home. The doctor will be going through there today on rounds. I'll get him to see Jonah. I take it he's not on National Health?”

“He had an uncle,” Abdul said, “but he wasn't the sort of man to look after things like that.”

“Right. Well, we'll figure it out. Come on, son, before my boss realizes I'm not in the break room drinking coffee.”

“I want to stay here,” Jonah said. “My shoulder is fine.”

“Fine or not, now that I know about you, I can't just leave you here. On your feet or I'll pick you up and carry you.”

“She can do it, too,” Gemma said. “She's always lifting old ladies on and off the commode.”

“I'm not going,” Jonah said. “They'll leave me!”

“Your friends won't go anywhere until they see you again and know you're all right,” the woman said. “Tell him.”

“We'll wait,” Cheslav said.

“Yes,” said Rosalia. “We'll wait for you.”

“I don't believe you.” He looked at Abdul.

I should have left when I had the chance, Abdul thought. I should have just walked away.

He lifted the chain from around his neck and put it around Jonah's.

“I want it back,” he said.

Jonah touched the medallion with his fingertips.

“I'm sorry I called you a dirty Arab.” With that, he settled down and allowed himself to be led out of the cave.

“After I take care of Jonah, I expect to be told everything,” Gemma's mother called back to them. “Got that? Everything.”

Abdul was not going anywhere until he got his medallion back.

“Do you trust the woman?” Cheslav asked. “Maybe I should leave now.” He tucked his trumpet under his arm. “I have all I need right here. You two can have what's in my bundle.”

“I trust her,” said Rosalia.

“Why?”

“Because she asked if I was safe. We promised Jonah we would wait.”

In the end they all stayed, sleeping the afternoon away until Gemma returned.

“How is Jonah?” Rosalia asked.

“Jonah is good, he's great. At first Mum couldn't get him to talk. Now she can't get him to stop.”

“Where is he?” Abdul asked, thinking about his medallion.

“He's at home. At my house. Mum sent me. You are all to come to supper.”

“To supper?” asked Cheslav. “Maybe it's a trap.”

“It's not a trap,” Gemma laughed. “It's roast chicken!” She bounced up the cliff steps and danced around them as they crossed the field.

Abdul found himself thinking of Fatima. She would be Gemma's age now, he realized.

Gemma's small house was on the edge of the village. Abdul took off his shoes at the front door as they were greeted by warmth and smiles and amazing scents of food.

Jonah was first at the door, his arm in a new sling, and wearing new clothes. He was clean. Abdul spotted the medallion around the boy's neck.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“It's just a sprain. I told you I didn't need a doctor.”

Gemma's mother was next to welcome them.

“Come in. Call me Beth. I don't have enough chairs for everyone so we're eating in here.”

“It's an indoor picnic!” said Gemma.

Abdul entered the room and he thought his heart would break.

All the furniture had been pushed down to one end of the room. A big bedsheet was spread out on the floor to hold the meal. Everyone would sit on the floor.

It was like he was back in his mother's house.

He closed his eyes. He could see his brothers jostling for positions, trying to tuck their growing legs out of the way. He could see his father, taking platters of food from his mother and placing them on the cloth, looks of love and laughter passing between them. And he saw himself at Jonah's age, sitting beside his father, listening to him quote Shakespeare as he made sure his big older sons left enough food for his youngest.

Then Abdul saw a guitar propped up casually against a wall by the window.

And he started to cry.

Gemma's mother — Beth — passed him a box of tissues as though it were a normal, everyday thing to have strange teenaged boys crying in her living room.

“That was my son's,” she said lightly about the guitar. She dished out plates of chicken and vegetables and passed them around. “Help yourself to the pickles. Jonah told me a lot, and I confirmed his story by calling a cousin of mine who works with the Coastguard. The Americans were picked up unharmed.”

“I told you I was telling the truth,” Jonah said with his mouth full.

“Yes, you did. This is what we'll do,” said Beth. “We'll eat, then we'll talk, then we'll figure out what to do next. You can probably handle your plate better if you put that trumpet down,” she said to Cheslav.

Cheslav held a plate full of food in one hand and the trumpet in the other, looking like a statue searching for balance. He could not make himself release the trumpet. He put his plate on the cloth and ate from it that way. It looked awkward, but it worked.

“Abdul, before I forget, here's what's left of your money back.” Beth handed him a roll of bills. “The window is now fixed. And they only want fifty pounds for the trumpet, so I paid them out of that. Maybe Cheslav will pay you back.”

“No problem,” said Cheslav. “I have no problems now.”

I have money again, Abdul thought, checking to see how much he had left. Even if he split the money with Rosalia and Cheslav, there would still be enough for food and for transportation if the weather was bad. There were no more seas to cross and no more borders in his way.

It's almost over, he realized.

“All right,” said Beth, once the main meal was over and cleared away. The cloth was folded up so they could all stretch out their legs. Pots of tea and dishes of bread pudding were brought in. “Cheslav. Can you really play that trumpet, or do you just like to hold it?”

“I can play. I will show you.” He got to his feet, lifted the trumpet and began.

He played “Flight of the Bumblebees.” The notes came out strong and clear and filled with such joy that the flight of the bees became a dance, and the little room filled with the sound of a million happy bees buzzing around.

Abdul had never heard anything like it. He couldn't believe that someone so difficult as the Russian could create sounds so wondrous.

After he was done, it took awhile for the echo to clear from the room and out of everyone's head.

“Extraordinary,” said Gemma's mother. “Who taught you to play like that?”

A look of pain came over Cheslav's face.

“I ran away from the Russian army,” he said. “That's where I learned to play. But I will not go back! I will go to America, to New Orleans, where they have good jobs for trumpet players. If you try to send me back to the army I will throw myself off a cliff!”

“Sit down, son,” said Beth. “Start at the beginning. You are what? Fifteen? How can you run away from the army at fifteen?”

Cheslav told his story. He told it standing up, as if he was ready to bolt at the first sign of someone trying to send him back to the army.

When he was finished he said, “Now I have a trumpet again. It is not as good as my trumpet from Russia, but it will do for now.”

“It will do very well,” said Beth. “Who's next? Rosalia? What country are you from?”

“I don't have a country,” Rosalia answered. She had taken out Gemma's braids and was trying a new way to arrange the girl's hair. “Some say we came first from India. Some say we came from the devil and should go back to him.”

And then she told her story. No one remembered to drink their tea. No one even moved.

She came to the end. Abdul couldn't speak.

“Why did you come to England?” Beth asked. “Why do you want to be here?”

Rosalia shrugged. “It's a place. It's a place that's not where I was. There, it was bad. Here — maybe better?”

“And what do you want?”

Rosalia looked puzzled. “I don't know what you mean.”

“I mean, do you want to go to school? What do you want?”

“What do I want?”

“Yes.”

“I don't know,” she said. “No one ever asked me that before.”

“I need a stretch and a fresh cup of tea,” said Beth. “Gemma, let's get a start on the dishes while the kettle heats up.” She picked up the now cold tea pots and headed for the kitchen, stopping briefly in front of Abdul. “And don't think I've forgotten about you, young man.”

Cheslav and Rosalia looked lighter, like they'd each put down a heavy burden. Abdul crossed the room, drawn to the guitar. He touched the top. His finger stroked one of the tuning pegs.

“Do you play?” Cheslav came up beside him.

“No.”

“I think you do.”

“I don't.” Abdul turned away from the guitar and went over to Jonah. “I'll take the medallion back now.”

“Can't I keep it?”

“No.” He wanted to hit the kid. “It's mine.”

“I'll give it back. Before I go to bed.”

“I want it now.”

“I'm not hurting it.”

“What's wrong?” Rosalia said.

“Nothing,” said Abdul.

“It has writing on the back, but I can't read it.” Jonah showed it to Cheslav and Rosalia.

“It's Arabic,” said Cheslav. “What does it say?”

“It says mind your own business!” Abdul wanted to leave, shutting the door behind him, shutting away all these people who were trying to pry into his life where they didn't belong. He wanted to walk away and never think about any of them again.

But he couldn't go without the medallion.

When Gemma and her mother returned with fresh tea, everyone looked at Abdul.

“It's simple,” he said. “I am from Iraq. My father and brothers were killed by an American bomb. My mother was shot later by the religious militia. I came here.” He raised his cup with shaking hands and took a big swallow, even though the tea burned his mouth and throat.

“And how old are you?” Beth asked.

“Fifteen.”

“Your father and brothers died in the initial bombing, in 2003?”

“Soon after.”

“And when did your mother die?”

“Two years later. A bit more. She was driving a car and they shot her. I stayed with my uncle but it didn't work out, so I left.”

“Anything else?”

“I stabbed a policeman in Calais, but it was an accident. There was a riot. Over food.”

“And you don't play guitar,” said Cheslav.

“No.”

It was Rosalia who took the thin chain and medallion from Jonah and held it out to Abdul. He clasped it but she would not let it go.

“What does the writing say?” she asked.

Abdul hung his head.

“It's a name,” he said quietly. “It's Kalil.”