Into My Arms (23 page)

Instead of taking photos he kissed her. Kissed her after she’d been sewn back up; kissed her again as she was wheeled away to recovery, a transfusion bag dripping platelets into her veins. Hamish tried to follow the gurney, but was gently prodded in the direction of the nursery and instructed to sit with his baby. It was only as the child was handed to him that he wondered what they’d had. In the operating room, all that had mattered was getting it out, seeing Skye safely delivered as well as her cargo.

‘Boy or girl?’ he asked the nurse who had handed him the infant.

‘Look for yourself,’ she said, smiling, and he peeled back the white hospital-issue blanket to see what they’d made. A girl.

‘She’s beautiful,’ he said, though the baby was puce and angry-looking, legs streaked with meconium.

‘She’ll do,’ agreed the nurse, and then added, ‘She’s fine, you know. They got her in time. And your wife too. She’ll be in the ICU for a bit, but she’ll be alright.’

Tears blurred Hamish’s eyes and he wiped them on his sleeve, suddenly shaky. This wasn’t how he’d imagined it, but it was OK after all. The baby yawned and regarded him solemnly, big eyes unblinking. Hamish juggled her into the crook of his arm and glanced at his watch to check the date. March nineteen. The day his life was remade.

26

‘We’re out of tape,’ Ben said hopefully.

‘Here,’ said Arran, reaching into the pocket of his jeans. ‘I’ve got one more roll.’ He passed it to Ben, who accepted it with resignation and turned back to the flyer he’d started attaching to a lamppost. ‘We’ll just get through that roll, OK?’ Arran cajoled. ‘Or the rest of the pile—whatever comes first. Then dinner. My shout.’

‘Your shout,’ Ben echoed. He carefully aligned the tape with the bottom edge of the poster, pressed it down firmly, then stepped back to make sure he’d got it straight. ‘Do you think anyone will see them?’ he asked.

Arran considered the flyer. It was grainy black and white on pale yellow paper. He had chosen the colour because he hoped it would stand out, but now he wasn’t sure if it didn’t just make the poster look old, tatty, the kind of thing you’d glance at and move straight past. Habib and Iman stared back at him, their faces cropped from a holiday shot taken half a decade ago, then blown up and photocopied. Habib appeared slightly startled; Iman, the eldest, looked somewhat detached, almost haughty. Their cheeks were round with regular meals; Iman’s beard had been shaped and trimmed. Even if they were still alive, after years of flight and fatigue and fear could they possibly bear any resemblance to their younger selves?

‘I bloody well hope so,’ Arran replied. ‘We’ve got to go home in a few more days.’

So far he didn’t even have a suntan to show for the trip. They had begun in Lebanon—one day playing tourist, then two spent trawling the refugee camps around Beirut. After that they’d headed south, into Syria, to visit the camps along the border with Jordan, then travelled back up to Damascus. Most of the many camps there, Arran had learned, were for Palestinian refugees, but a Greek World Help doctor at one had suggested they try Yarmouk, eight kilometres from the city centre. Yarmouk, he explained, was an unofficial camp, without walls or wire, and while again dominated by Palestinians it was home to many other nationalities too. ‘Lots of refugees wash up there,’ he’d told them, rubbing a hand across his tired eyes, ‘particularly those with a few resources. It’s overcrowded, but they can work, go to school . . . Syria’s good like that.’ He peered at them, evaluating their accents. ‘Your country could learn a thing or two about it.’

Arran had agreed and thanked him. Now he stood, deep inside Yarmouk, still gazing at the poster.
Family seeks sons
, it read, in Arabic and then English. On his first attempt Arran had written,
Have you seen these men?
, but then he’d realised that such a line made them sound as if they were wanted by the police, so he’d started over.
Iman and Habib are desperately missed by their father, mother and brothers
, it continued
. If you have any information as to their whereabouts, please call 232 5441 or email [email protected].
The phone number belonged to the missing persons arm of the Damascus office of the Red Cross—the Red Crescent here, he reminded himself. The email address was one he’d set up before he left Australia, thinking that people might be more inclined to communicate if they could do so over the net, where they could explain themselves anonymously, in their preferred language, and without the possibility of further questioning. But would anyone know anything anyway? In his heart, he knew the chances were slim. Iman and Habib might have met foul play at the hands of those who’d forced their father out of Iran; more likely, they’d simply dropped through the gaps between countries, along with all the other human flotsam in this part of the world.

‘There’s just so many people,’ said Ben, as if he’d read Arran’s mind. The two of them stood on the pavement while Yarmouk heaved and pulsed around them: dust, sun, litter, exhaust fumes. ‘Where do they all fit?’

‘They make do.’ Arran shrugged. He pointed to the concrete-block towers dominating the skyline. ‘There’s probably at least ten people to one of those apartments. Fifteen, maybe. It makes the housing commission where you work look like the Hilton.’

Ben shook his head. ‘God, I don’t think I could even live with a flatmate these days. I’m too set in my ways. I don’t want to have to be polite to anyone when I get home each night.’

Arran laughed. ‘They probably work in shifts so there are enough beds to go around.’ His fingers twitched. He wished he had a cigarette. ‘I’m guessing they’re just grateful to have a roof over their heads, instead of a tarpaulin. You do what you have to do, don’t you?’ He picked up the bag holding the flyers. ‘And we have to get these posters up.’

They moved through the streets, hanging the posters in the last hours of the Damascene afternoon, until the light dimmed and cooking odours swelled in the air around them. When they were finished they hitched a lift to the old city, Arran handing the driver some extra pounds in thanks when he dropped them at the covered souq near the Grand Mosque. He and Ben had visited the mosque a few days ago when they’d needed a break from their search. Ben had been wearing shorts, and was gruffly handed some black robes to put on to cover his bare legs. Female tourists were required to do the same, and Arran had immediately begun calling him ‘Bendolyn’ and ‘Bennifer’. Ben had just grinned, completely unconcerned. They got on well, Arran reflected. Travelling could strain the best of relationships, but Ben was cool. He changed his shirts daily and paid his way. He knew that being together didn’t mean you needed to talk all the time. And he was serious about helping to find Iman and Habib, as invested in it as Arran was. Maybe it was because Zia had been in his class, or that the boy was now under his wing at the drop-in centre; Arran didn’t really care what Ben’s reasons were. He just appreciated the support.

And the company. He’d been lonely, he realised, lonely for so long since Charlie died and things ended with Mark. He could have done this trip by himself, but it was so much better with someone else. Was it blood? he wondered. Did they get on so easily because they were related, or was that just luck? All Arran was sure of was that when he and Ben had stood side by side at the mosque, admiring the mosaics on the Western Arcade, Ben had turned to him, smiling, his face aglow with the reflected gold of the tiles, and Arran had felt his heart shift and swell.

‘These are fantastic, aren’t they?’ he’d said, eyes alight. He leaned forward to gently touch a minaret picked out in tiny lapis squares. ‘I’ve never seen anything so intricate.’

Arran had just nodded. His thoughts were full of Ben, of this sudden, surprising sibling, but he was thinking of Skye too. She should be here, seeing the mosaics. It was what she did, it was the cradle of her art. She would have loved it. Under the circumstances, though, he was afraid to say her name. Ben had pulled out his camera and stepped back to take a shot. He’d clicked twice, then straightened up and motioned Arran in front of the lens. A tourist next to him saw what he was doing and offered to take a picture of the pair of them.

‘If anyone at home sees this they’ll think you’re my girlfriend,’ Arran had muttered as they posed, and Ben had laughed, a laugh that sent birds flapping across the marble courtyard but came out beautifully in the photo.

‘That’s great—thanks!’ Ben had said to the tourist as he checked the image on the digital screen. Looking over his shoulder, Arran was struck again by their likeness and had had to agree. But it would have been better if Skye had been in it too.

‘Felafel, or do you want something different?’ Ben asked as they wandered down an alley to the east of the mosque.

‘Nah, I feel like a bit of a splurge tonight,’ Arran said. ‘My treat, remember? Let’s look for a restaurant. Somewhere with
nargileh
, the water pipe. You can’t leave the Middle East without trying that.’

Ben shook his head in mock despair. ‘I’m so clean living and you’re trying to get me hooked on drugs. I knew this trip was a bad idea.’

‘Better not tell your mother, huh?’ Ben shot him a look and Arran raised his hands in apology. ‘Sorry. I wasn’t thinking. Stupid thing to say. I need a beer to make my brain work.’ Hearing the clink of cutlery and glassware, he stopped outside an old house with people dining on the terraces. ‘This looks promising?’

Ben shrugged. ‘Sure. Lead on.’

They followed a path to a courtyard at the rear where tables were clustered under an enormous orange tree and a fountain gurgled in the corner.

‘There’s no free tables,’ Ben said, scanning the crowd.

‘We’ll just share,’ replied Arran. ‘That’s how they do it here. Look, there’s someone with a table to himself. We’ll sit there.’

The lone diner was scribbling in a notebook, but he looked up as Ben tentatively pulled out the chair opposite.

‘Is it OK if we—’ Arran began, but the man cut him off.

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘I’ll just give you some room.’ The table was strewn with travel books and documents, which he quickly corralled. He had sandy hair, fair, freckled skin and the faintest hint of an English accent.

‘Thanks, mate,’ said Arran, then looked over to Ben. ‘Drink? What’ll you have?’

‘The arak’s good,’ said their companion, holding up his glass.

Arran regarded him with more interest. ‘Yeah? Have you been here before?’

‘A couple of visits this trip, and last time as well. The food’s great. Don’t look at the menu. Just ask for the mezze.’

‘Yeah, I know. Ta,’ Arran said curtly, dropping his daypack between them. He wasn’t some newbie traveller bussed in on a Discovery tour. Sure, it was his first visit to Syria, but he’d been there for six days now, and in the Middle East for almost a fortnight. He didn’t need to be told what to do.

‘I’m starving,’ said Ben too loudly, glancing around the table. ‘Mezze sounds fine.’

There he goes again, thought Arran. Ben the peacekeeper, the diplomat, the avoider of conflict. Yet he’d confronted his parents about the whole IVF thing, then estranged himself from them. How much must that be costing him? Arran winced in shame at his earlier joke. The blond man gave Ben a small smile and went back to his notebook.

Just as they were finishing their meal, Arran’s phone rang. He jumped at the noise and spilled some of his third beer. The phone had been silent all trip; he had almost forgotten what it sounded like. Now he reached into his pocket and pulled it out eagerly, hopeful for news of Iman and Habib. The number on the screen, however, read
Nell home
. He put it to his ear.

‘Arran,’ she squawked, her voice cloaked in static. ‘Are you there? Are you there? Arran, you’re an uncle!’

Ben looked across at him questioningly. ‘Yeah, I’m here,’ Arran said, ‘but I can hardly hear you. Hang on. I’ll see if I can get better reception.’ He dropped the phone below his chin. ‘It’s Mum,’ he said to Ben. ‘I’ll be right back, OK? Don’t let them make you pay. I want dessert.’ Ben nodded and forked some tahini-covered
fattah
to his mouth.

Arran threaded his way between the tables, crammed together in the courtyard. He bumped someone’s arm, turned to apologise, and sprinted out into the street, impatient to know more. Already? But Skye hadn’t been due for another few weeks, three or four at least. It was one of the reasons, apart from mere impulsiveness, that he’d left almost immediately for the trip once he’d had the idea he’d wanted to be back for her, for this.

In a quiet laneway a few houses from the restaurant he squatted down on his haunches and lifted the mobile back to his ear, panting slightly. ‘Are you there?’ he asked Nell. ‘Where are you?’

‘I’m at home,’ she said, her voice distant but clear now, lit up all over. ‘I’ve just got back from the hospital. Oh Arran, she’s the sweetest little thing! Molly, I think they’re going to call her. Skye wasn’t up to talking much, but Hamish told me that’s what they’d agreed.’

The news went through him like champagne. Nell was babbling, Arran thought. She never babbled, but if there was a time to babble and burble and gush, it was now. ‘God,’ he exhaled, his heart pounding. ‘That’s fantastic! I wish I was there. It’s early, isn’t it? Is everything alright?’

There was a pause. ‘Sorry,’ Nell said, when she came back on the line. ‘You dropped out for a minute. Molly’s gorgeous. Skye was sick though, which was why they had to get the baby out before she was due. She needed a C-section, an emergency one. She had preeclampsia, which is when your blood pressure suddenly goes up. No one knows why, and—’

‘But she’s OK?’ Arran interrupted.

‘She’s in ICU, which is why I didn’t ring you earlier. I’ve been sitting in the nursery with Molly. Skye was too sick to hold her, and Hamish wanted to be with Skye. I thought someone better give Molly a cuddle, so she didn’t feel as if she’d been abandoned—’

‘Nell,’ Arran roared. ‘Is Skye OK now?’

‘Sorry,’ Nell said, chastised, a blur of tears at the back of her voice. How frightening, Arran wondered, had the last day or so actually been? ‘Skye also had HELLP syndrome. I forget what it stands for—something to do with the liver, I think, and platelets. That’s why she got so big, and was so sick. She went into renal failure after Molly was born, which is why she’s in the ICU. Her kidneys stopped working. They’re improving now though. The doctor thinks she should recover completely.’