If You Were Me (3 page)

I looked away.
In your dreams, Dad
.

ALIYA

 

 

 

I
ran into the cramped little kitchen and fell back against the wall, with my cuff to my mouth. My mother called out in her weak, fretful voice, ‘Aliya, What are you doing?'

It was a struggle to move, to breathe, to think, but I called out, ‘Making tea, Mor. I will bring you some.' I took the kettle from the stove and turned on the tap but my hand was shaking so much the water bounced and splattered everywhere except into the spout. I couldn't help it. The shock of seeing that gun and that blue plastic bag had made my muscles seize up. I thought back to last night: Behrouz had come home very late and I remembered seeing him take that bag into the bathroom and come out without it, but I never dreamt there was a gun in it.
Behrouz hated guns. Only fear and desperation would make him bring one into our home. I put the kettle on to heat, leant over the sink and stared down at the black water of the canal sliding past the buildings below, wondering if the boy would tell anyone what he'd found. I wasn't sure. He'd been scared, I'd seen it in his eyes, but at least his strange talk of murdering tea had helped me to get the gun away from his father.

What was happening to us? When we arrived three weeks ago, Behrouz had fallen in love with everything about our new English life: the endless rain that washed all the colour from the sky, even when it was supposed to be summer, the cinemas and restaurants we couldn't afford, the man at the corner shop who sold us rotten fruit, the hooded boys who reared up on their bikes and scowled at us whenever we walked by, and the angry, dull-eyed men in the other flats who had no families and no work.

He wouldn't speak a word against that miser Amir Khan, who'd given him a job driving a minicab. My brother had always loved driving and always loved cars, and he said Mr Khan had taken him on as a favour because he had been friends with our father in Kabul. But making him work such long hours for so little money didn't seem like much of a favour to me. Behrouz didn't even mind living in this damp, dirty flat. He said we were lucky to have it at all and that we only got it because Colonel Clarke and his wife ran a charity that had an arrangement with the council. They call their charity Hope Unlimited.
It is a bad name. Hope is not unlimited. It is like a fire or a child. If you do not feed it, it will die.

The day we moved in, Behrouz helped me to rip out the cracked lino and the dusty curtains and we scrubbed every room until our backs ached. When we'd finished, I wanted to cry, because the whole place still made me feel empty and sad. The next day, to cheer me up, he took us in his cab to see some of the famous sights of London: the palace where the queen lives, a place called Trafalgar Square, which was full of pigeons, and the tower of Big Ben. I wanted to go for a ride on the big wheel they call the London Eye, which is so huge I can see it from our flat, but the tickets were too expensive. Instead Behrouz bought us fish and chips. He said they were typical English food but the chips were so grey and floppy they made us laugh when we held them up and in the end we fed them to the pigeons.

That evening Colonel Clarke came to visit us. He brought us a television, some books and chocolates for me and Mor, a doll for Mina and a signed photo of him giving Behrouz his medal, to replace the one we'd had to leave behind. The colonel was very tall and I was a little scared when he walked in, but he was kind and easy to talk to and he made us laugh, even my mother, although Mina wouldn't come out from behind the sofa. He told Behrouz that in a few weeks' time there might be a chance of some work for him at Hope Unlimited. When he'd gone, Behrouz put his hands on my shoulders and said that with
two jobs it wouldn't be long before he'd be able to get us a house with a garden for Mina to play in, the best doctors to make Mor well again, all the books I could ever want and a computer of my own. I smiled up at him, and just for a second I believed that in a country like England such things could be possible.

Then, a week ago something happened to Behrouz that changed him, something bad that dried up all his hope and laughter and stopped him eating and sleeping. It was the day some women hung flags across the doorways and put up stalls, selling things to raise money to mend the broken swings. I remember it because he went down early to help them set up, and when I took Mina down later to see the clown, we found Behrouz standing on his own behind the skips. He looked very pale and he left quickly. When I saw him later, I begged him to tell me what was wrong but he said it was nothing.

Over the days that followed he started to act like a stranger, and I've felt his fear getting worse and worse, infecting everything, gnawing at our nerves like the rats in the walls. My mother has stopped taking the tablets the doctor gave her and Mina is getting thinner and has started to cry in her sleep, although she still won't speak, not a word since we left Kabul. And then this morning, just as I was getting her to drink some milk and eat a little piece of toasted naan, that mean old man from downstairs frightened her by shouting at us and beating on the ceiling with his stick. I didn't go down to see what he wanted,
because he's been shouting at us from the day we arrived. He complains about everything: the smell of our food, the money the government gives us, even the sound of our footsteps. I don't understand about the footsteps. Whenever my mother gets up, which isn't very often, she drifts around like a ghost, Mina sits on the couch all day watching cartoons and Behrouz works so many shifts he is hardly ever at home. I'm sure it isn't my footsteps he can hear. In fact I'm beginning to feel as if I don't exist at all, even though there is food on the stove that I have cooked, forms on the table that I have filled in, and suspicion in that boy's eyes when I begged him not to tell anyone about the gun.

I left the kettle to boil, crept into the narrow bedroom I share with Mina, opened the grocery bag and looked at the gun. There were bad people on this estate, thieves and crooks, people Behrouz had warned me to stay away from. Had he got involved with them? Had he done something terrible to get us the things he'd promised? I hated myself for even thinking these thoughts. I dropped the gun back in the bag and opened the tin, bewildered when I found what looked like Behrouz's phone tucked inside it, wrapped in cling film. I picked it up. Why would he hide it? He hated to be without his phone. Cold darkness crawled up my skin as if it was trying to creep into my head. I wouldn't let it in. I pressed the keys. The battery was too low to get a signal and there was no credit. I shut it back in the tin, dropped it in the bag, pushed it under the
mattress and rumpled the sheets to hide the bump. As soon as Behrouz came home I'd make him tell me what was wrong and, however terrible it was, I'd smile and tell him that I had a plan and we'd work out what to do. The way we always did.

We didn't have any English tea or any milk, so I made green Afghan tea and carried it to the bathroom. My hands were still shaking and I spilt some on the floor. The boy poked the curly leaves floating in his cup and pulled a face. His father made a tutting sound. ‘Come on, Dan, it's good to try new things.' He took a big sip and smiled at me. ‘Not bad.'

The boy tried his and pushed his cup away. His father looked embarrassed. ‘If you're not going to drink it, you can go and see if Jez has got any replacement pipe in the basement.' He threw him a heavy bunch of keys. ‘I'll need about four metres of twenty-two and a box of connectors. He keeps his spares in a cage by the door, but watch yourself, there's building work going on down there.'

The boy hurried out, jangling the keys. He didn't even look at me.

DAN

 

 

 

I
couldn't get out of there quick enough, though the dark landing and the stink of pee in the stairwell were nearly as bad as that manky flat and the fear on that girl's face.

The Meadowview basement was a lot tougher to get into than the ones in the other blocks. There was a tangle of shopping trolleys and broken wheelie bins chucked across the entrance, which had bright-yellow ‘Danger! Building Work in Progress' signs stuck all over it, and instead of flimsy metal panels and a wobbly lock that gave way if you kicked it hard enough, the doors were reinforced steel, fitted with heavy-duty bolts and thick new padlocks. I rifled through Jez's keys, trying out three or four before I found the right ones and got the doors open.

I fumbled around for the light switch. A couple of fluorescent strips flickered on, leaving the outer edges of the vast space in gloom. The place was a bomb site. The floor had been hacked into rubble and piled up all over the place, and I had to duck to avoid flapping strips of foil and loops of cable dangling from the ceiling. I looked around for the metal cage where Jez stored his supplies. Wouldn't you know it? He'd dumped it right down the other end with a load of builders' junk. I picked my way across the debris, tripping on lumps of concrete and stumbling into craters full of scummy water. I turned on my phone and flashed it across the cage. It was big, maybe two metres high by one across, and full of lengths of pipe and boxes of taps and fittings, all covered in gritty dust like they hadn't been touched in months. No surprises there. Jez wouldn't bother replacing anything if he could get away with botching up a quick repair. The lazy jerk hadn't even left the door facing outwards.

Annoyed, I shoved my fingers into the mesh and shunted the cage to one side. A stash of planks and scaffold poles came crashing down, slammed into a wobbly stack of oil drums and set off an avalanche of junk. I wrenched my fingers out of the cage and dodged back but I still got bashed by a falling pole. I dabbed my bleeding scalp and kicked the pole across the floor. It could have killed me. I flashed my phone across the mess. Why hadn't Jez and his stupid builder mates dumped all this crap in that skip I'd seen outside? It's not like it would
have taken much effort. There was a big double door right there where they'd stashed the oil drums. In fact it'd be much easier to take the spare pipe out that way than kill myself hauling it back across the building site. I shone my phone at it. The pale light bounced off three heavy bolts fastened with shiny padlocks, identical to the ones on the outer door. I clambered over the fallen planks, battered oil drums and coils of wire and fetched out Jez's keys. Three of them fitted. Wiping the dust off my face, I kicked one of the doors open and squeezed through on to the raised platform of the loading bay. As my eyes adjusted to the gloom I could see a fork-lift truck parked next to a pile of large polystyrene boxes stacked on pallets. I ran the phone light across the labels – dishwashers, washing machines, tumble driers. All top of the range. I knew that, because they were exactly the same as the ones Dad had just got for Mum. The ones he'd installed as a birthday surprise, telling her, ‘Only the best for my Debs,' the ones she never stopped bragging about to her mates.

All knock-off.

Had to be. Why else would they be hidden away in an unused loading bay?

I staggered back, feeling sick. So this was how Jez had helped him to ‘save the business'. I knew Dad was no angel, he'd done a bit of time when I was a little kid, but he'd sworn to Mum that he'd gone straight ever since. I'd seen him do it, look her right in the eye and tell her she'd
never have anything to worry about on that score ever again. What a liar! She'd go mental if she found out. My eyes flitted round the loading bay like a camera, taking it all in bit by bit. It looked like they'd got a system going for stripping the original wrapping off the boxes and rewrapping them using the heat-sealing equipment and jumbo-sized rolls of polythene set up at one end.

I squatted down in front of one of the unsealed washing machines, opened the glass door and pulled out a bundle of leaflets and a freebie pack of washing powder. I'd have shoved it straight back if I hadn't noticed a glob of glue on the bottom of the box. I stared at it for moment, then I slid my finger under the flap, plunged my hand into the soapy granules and pulled something out. A handful of little plastic bags filled with white powder.

For a second I was baffled – then, like a slow-motion wrecking ball, it hit me. I'd watched enough cop shows to be pretty sure what it was. Drugs.

I stared around me in shock, not wanting to believe that Dad would ever get involved in something like this. But the evidence was right there, staring me in the face, and it looked like a big operation. Nice little loading bay with nothing overlooking it except the canal, where they could unload and load up out of sight, and plenty of room for storing the appliances, packing them full of drugs and sealing them up again. And who was going to think twice when they saw a couple of plumbers delivering a washing machine or dropping off a few free samples of washing
powder? But if they got caught, they'd be looking at years and years inside.

Thoughts crashed round my brain. I tried to separate them out, make sense of them, think what to do. My phone rang. It was Dad.

‘Yeah?'

‘What's taking so long?'

‘Nothing.'

‘Have you found the stuff?'

‘What?'

‘Spare pipe. Did you find some?'

‘Oh . . . yeah . . . plenty.'

‘Well bring it up, then. I haven't got all day.'

‘All right. I'm coming.'

I shoved everything back and slipped through the doors, giving the pile of appliances a last swift glance before locking the bolts and stacking the oil drums back into place. The cut on my head throbbed, my heart pumped and I felt sick. Worst of all, I had no idea how I was ever going to look my dad in the eye again.

ALIYA

 

 

 

I
tried to stay busy. I swept floors, scrubbed pans until my knuckles hurt and sliced aubergine and onions to make
banjaan
. Outside in the hall the boy's father banged and sawed and clanked in and out with pieces of pipe. After a while I heard him phoning the boy. He was annoyed. He told him to hurry up.

My mother called out, asking for her tea. I poured her some, sprinkled it with sugar, the way she likes it, and took the cup to where she lay on the sofa. One of her fists was clenched against her chest as if she was holding something precious.

‘What's in your hand, Mor?'

She opened her fingers. In her palm lay a crumpled card printed with the words ‘Abbott & Co Plumbing. Prompt,
Fast, Local' and a scrap of paper with a number written on it.

I took the paper. ‘What's this, Mor?'

She frowned, searching for an answer, then almost smiled as the memory drifted back.

‘Behrouz came home. When you were at the shop. He said to be sure to give it to you.'

‘Why?'

‘He has a new phone. This is the number.'

The cold darkness made my voice tremble. ‘Why did he change it?'

My mother blinked at the floor and I knew she hadn't even thought to ask him. I stuffed the card and the number in my purse and went back to the onions, as if cooking Behrouz's favourite dish would solve the mystery of the gun and the phones and make everything all right. The boy came back to the flat. I saw him go up and down the hall at least twice. He didn't look at me and whenever his father spoke to him he grunted or didn't answer at all. His disrespect surprised me very much. I was frying the onions with garlic when his father poked his head around the door and handed me back the cups.

‘Smells good,' he said. ‘Thanks for the tea. All fixed now. Any problems, just give us a ring. Your mum's got one of our cards.'

‘Thank you,' I said.

He walked down the hall and called over his shoulder, ‘Bring the rest of the tools, will you, Dan. I want to have a
look at those drains before we go.'

I slipped into the bathroom. The boy was kneeling on the floor, dropping tools into a bag. He looked dazed and troubled and he had a cut on the side of his head. I could see where the blood had soaked into his hair. Dan. That's what his father had called him. I wanted to say his name and make him look at me. I didn't dare. Instead I touched his sleeve. He pulled back, startled, as if his thoughts had been far away.

‘Please. Don't tell anyone about the gun,' I whispered.

Still avoiding my eyes, he zipped up the tools.

‘Swear to me you won't say anything.'

He gave me the tiniest nod and walked away. The front door slammed behind him.

The flat felt very empty when he'd gone.

The rest of the day crawled slowly. I tried to fill time by reading the book I'd borrowed from the library. It was
Oliver Twist
, one of my father's favourites. But the story was sad, about an orphan boy lost in London, and my thoughts kept slipping back to Behrouz and all the things I'd say to him when he got home. When it was time for our evening meal, I ate only a small piece of naan dipped in yoghurt and stood at the window watching for Behrouz while my mother and Mina picked at the dish of
banjaan
. Night was falling, studding the view from our flat with glimmering lights as if someone had spilt a basket of jewels across a dark carpet. I watched the lights gleam and
twinkle until they merged into a shimmering blur. I was still there long after Behrouz's food had gone cold and my mother and sister had gone to bed.

At midnight, when Behrouz still hadn't come home, I threw my mother's shawl around my shoulders, took my purse from the drawer and crept out of the flat. The lights on our landing were broken and the yellow glow from the street lamps threw long jagged shapes down the stairwell that seemed to follow my footsteps. I wanted to turn and run back inside but I shut my ears to the voices in the shadows and hurried across the car park to the all-night garage on the corner. There was a phone booth on the forecourt that I used when I had to call the doctor about my mother or speak to Mrs Garcia from the refugee centre. I took out the piece of paper and dialled Behrouz's new number. It went straight to his voicemail. I hung up and searched in my purse for the card for the minicab company where he worked. I held it to the light and dialled again. A woman answered.

‘Khan's Cars. How may I help you?' She had a deep, throaty voice and an accent I didn't recognize.

‘My name is Aliya Sahar . . . please, may I speak to Behrouz?'

‘No private calls on this line . . .'

My words tumbled out. ‘Please, I am his sister. He hasn't come home and he doesn't answer his mobile. I need to know if he stayed to work a night shift.'

‘I've just come on, but I'll check for you.' Her voice was kinder now and it got fainter as she swung away from the speaker.

‘Hey, Liam, is Baz on lates tonight?'

I clamped my hand over my other ear, straining to hear the answer.

A man's voice said, ‘Nah, he came in early, dumped his car and buggered off.'

‘Was he sick?'

‘Don't think so. I reckon he's got himself a bird.'

I heard other men laugh. The woman snapped something I couldn't make out and came back to the speaker. ‘Sorry, he didn't work today.'

‘Oh . . .'

‘Are you all right?'

‘Yes. Thank you.'

I hung up. But I wasn't all right. Not at all. Why would Behrouz take the day off when we needed all the money he could earn? Where had he gone? Where was he now? The flickers of doubt were taking on life, turning into a monster in my mind that was feeding on the thought of the gun beneath my sheets. I knew what I had to do.

I crossed the road at breakneck speed. A taxi blasted me with its horn. I hurried across the car park, keeping my head down. Doors slammed, an engine revved and a pair of headlights snapped on, blinding me as a van shot out between the cars, swerved towards the exit and screeched into the traffic. I ran upstairs and let myself into the flat.
Moving quietly so as not to wake Mina, I took the grocery bag from under my mattress and ran back to the landing. There were people on the stairs. I pressed my back against the wall and waited until their voices and footsteps had gone before I dared to run downstairs. I crouched behind the skips and made my way around the edge of the car park, darting from one patch of shadow to the next until I reached the muddy alley that led down to the canal. I'd taken Mina there once to see the ducks and the painted boats but the burnt-out warehouses by the water had made her cry. I think they reminded her of the bomb-blasted buildings in Kabul that people said were haunted by djinns. The warehouses looked even eerier by moonlight. Tattered posters flapped and whispered from the blackened walls, and behind the broken windows there was nothing but hollow darkness. My feet slithered on the muddy path, I lost my balance and fell, smashing my knee on a sharp stone. I cried out, I couldn't help it. Shadowy figures ran from beneath the bridge, where a small fire flickered on the path. I tried to limp away, frightened they would hurt me. When I turned around, they had slipped into one of the darkened doorways.

Something rustled the rubbish along the path. I jumped back. A fox bounded out, shaking a rat in its jaws. Its eyes glinted at me for a second before it loped away. I was hobbling and sliding but I forced myself to keep searching until I found what I was looking for: an old wooden boat called the
Margaretta
. The first time I saw it,
I'd felt sad that a boat with such a pretty name had been left to rot. Now I was glad it had been abandoned. I pulled on the rope, bumping the slimy hull against the bank. With a quick glance along the path to make sure no one was watching, I pushed the bag through a tear in the tarpaulin. The heavy thump of metal on wood echoed along the water. I heard a footstep. I spun round. An old man with long white hair and a dirty white beard staggered out of the darkness with a bottle in his hand. The smell of him made me choke. He swayed towards me, holding out his arms and making a gurgling sound with his mouth. I pushed him away and I didn't stop running until I was back in our flat. Even then I didn't feel safe.