THE WAITING GAME

ONE

It’s a waiting game, being here, and now I discover I have a friend, at least it is someone to talk to, in the night, whilst I wait for the dreams to come, they always do, they always take me back, and my friend, always reminding me, making sure I know the truth, remembering the way it was. There are others here, I don’t talk to them, I stay away from them, I don’t tell them the truth, I don’t tell them anything.
The waiting is the easy part, what it allows is not. It allows you to think, to visit the places in your mind that you have shut doors on, to trawl through murky waters of the past. When at night I lie in bed I have my waking dreams, they start the same as always, always at the beginning, and then I sleep, there is no definitive line between waking and sleeping, no one moment of realization of falling into unconsciousness, or waking with the taste of dust in my mouth, drums in my ears and fear as my companion, just a seamless drift from one to another, just one continuous loop, one continuous dream.
The dream makes me think, I have been thinking a lot about the mind, to me it is a bit like the sky, there are days when the sun shines brightly, then there are days that the clouds threaten to take the light away, these are the days that forewarn of storms to come. Then there are the days when there is no sun at all, obliterated by the heavy clouds, they boil over and over, storing the rain that follows, it has rained for me for a long time now.
I am told that the storm will soon pass, that the sun will shine again, these ‘weathermen and women’ have no idea of how deep the storm rages inside me. I try to keep them happy by painting a false sun for them from time to time, it seems to work for a while. If only they could see that they are helping the rain makers, they allow the storm to gather, I often think that they worship the rain, why else would they make a rain dance with their words until it pours.
The chair they ask you to sit in is comfortable, far more comfortable than the others here, it lets you look at the mirror across the room, my friend says that more of them sit behind the mirror, no matter how many times I say that only happens like that on the television I am not believed. There is too much television here. They cover the mirror for my friend, and turn the chair away, point it so only the camera sees.
I have inspected it on numerous occasions now, it is only a mirror, nothing to be frightened of, in fact I like it, it reminds me of one my mother had in her bedroom when I was a child. I am still a child, in their eyes, but to be a child implies an innocence, I have lost that innocence, they, the weathermen, say it was taken from me, that’s why they make it rain, they believe they can empty the clouds and send them on their way. I hate to disappoint them, so some days I humour them, today is one of those days, I will tell them what they want to hear, it wont make the rain go away, it will only bring on more storms.
They want to know how I came to them, I point out that it is them that come to me. If I had a choice I would not go to them at all, I would chose another option, tick a different box, but I am denied that pleasure, for the time being that is, after all, I wont be here forever.
They want to talk about the past, of choices that I made, choices I had been forced to make, I know they don’t believe me, they think they are fantastical make believe, stories I have conjured up, I can see it in their faces, after all, how could they believe, they don’t wake with the taste on their lips like me, they haven‘t seen what I have seen, or done what I have done, they are amateurs, playing at knowing. I wish I didn’t believe, but I have to, if I stop believing I have nothing, and then, there really would have been no point to it all.
It is the weathermen’s job to make the rain go away it is my job to make them believe, we all have a long way to go.
I know that fidgeting makes them nervous, they watch me pick at things, my nails, the hem of a skirt, the cuff on a sleeve, I feel them watching me, so I stop, sit on my hands, but my foot keeps a rhythm, it is the rhythm of the desert, of drums and songs that I learnt before I came here, I don’t include them in my music, as with most things, they are deaf.
‘So Maeve, where were we?’ Always the same intro, I want them to start with something different, perhaps ‘Hey Maeve fancy a burger? It hasn’t happened yet, but I’m working on it. I study the mirror, still nothing, my friend is most certainly paranoid, my reassurance doesn’t work, but I have inspected the mirror, there is nothing behind it, just the wall. ‘Maeve.’ Oh yes, I forgot they are here, I feel it is almost my duty to talk to them now, after all, they come a long way just to talk to me, I must make it worth their while. ‘Last week we talked about your father, how about we carry on and talk about your mother, would that be alright?’ I don’t know why they bother asking, it’s not as if I’m allowed to refuse, if I don’t answer their questions correctly they get cross, and I have noticed on these occasions the food tastes different, I have asked my friend about this, considered the chances of it being poisoned, it is something we are looking into together. In the meantime we hoard the good food in places that they will never find.
My thoughts must have wandered, one of them is waving a hand in front of my face, I laugh as it looks like she is saying goodbye, that she is going without getting what she came for, what she wants, that she forgot to ask me things, bombard me with questions, but she is only waving, I snap back, try to concentrate on her. ‘Good, right, can we continue, lets talk about your mother.’ I don’t want to talk about my mother, they know this, so why do they keep on, it’s like listening to a music track on constant repeat. They bring the rain with them, more of it, it joins forces with the rest, a storm is brewing.
I sulk, I believe I am allowed to sulk, children sulk, and as they keep on reminding me I am still a child, well for the time being anyway, it gets to them, it is a little piece of power that I find I have, and I use it to its full advantage. When I sulk they give me little treats, a chocolate bar, chewing gum, yes I know it sounds cheap, but then maybe I am, we all trade something in our lives, this is just one of those times, I reward their treat with my compliance, and answer their questions. It’s a stupid game, but it seems to work.
I answer their questions the way they want me to, I am matter of fact, concise with my answers, emotional in the right places, keeping a veneer of normality over the storm, hiding the rain from them.
The mirror is still there, oblique, statuesque, the guilt frame is chipped in places, but it holds no fear for me, my only fear is my dream, it is always the same, always so precise and correct, I wish I could change it, re-write the past, change my journey’s ending.
It is always after one of our ‘days’ as the weathermen call them that my dream becomes real, it plays out in its entirety, every detail, smell, sound, touch complete in its memory, tonight I will dream, standing to one side like the narrator to a play, the script is written, the stage is set, I will lie in my bed and take my place, watch, and cruelly at times even prompt myself.
It is only today, but already I pray for tomorrow, for

the dream to fast forward, to spare me just one night, so far

tomorrow hasn’t come.

TWO

2

I am an only child, and growing up in an old farmhouse was, for the most part a solitary existence, but I knew no different. My school friends had brothers and sisters to play with, it was just one of those things, I didn’t. The few friends that I did have at school didn’t come over to play, perhaps because we lived too far away, perhaps there were other reasons. It is these early days of solitude that bred in me a self reliance, I needed no one, as no one needed me, there was, as there always is, one exception, my mother, I needed her, she too, needed me.
As a small child I was tolerated, I was after all my mother’s child, a product of my parent’s marriage, and a part of their comfortable, respectable life. So, I didn’t notice the sideways glances from my parent‘s friends, the shrinking away as I approached, they were after all, adults, of course they wouldn’t want to play with a child, why would they?
Every morning my mother dropped me off at school, it hadn’t changed in over a hundred years, there had been talk of closing it down, merging it with the bigger one in the next village, but it was only talk, the school stood proud, a reminder of the village’s importance, I felt important because it was my school. We played tag and hide and seek a lot when not in classes, I was always particularly good at hide and seek, no one ever found me, quite often I would be late returning to class, it made my friends laugh, I felt a part of them, that I belonged to their group.
As we all grew older I began to grow apart from these friends, I really don’t know how it happened, again it was just one of those things. They all had their special friends, the ones they buddied up with, friendships that would see them through the trials and tribulations of secondary school, I didn’t need a special friend, I was different, I was sent to boarding school. It was here where it all started, the hallowed halls of Edgemere School, with all its chattering, giggling girls. Friendships made in those first few days that would pass the test of time, friendship eluded me.
The day came at the end of the summer, my mother had packed and re-packed my bags for school; photographs were packed carefully between layers of my new uniform, which had been ironed and folded to perfection. The bags were placed in the back of my father’s car and as we drove away I glanced back through our front gates to look at the house, it was where I had spent most of my early life, it was where my family lived, it was my home, and now I was leaving, starting a another chapter to my life, one that would start me on the road to adulthood. It didn’t really bother me that I was being sent away to school, I knew that I would miss my mother, and perhaps even my father, but as wind-screen wipers wiped the rain away, I stared out at the trees, the leaves would change soon, some of them were already changing, a bit like me, I could feel a change, a chance to make some real friends, as my father had kept on reminding me, the girls at Edgemere were more like me, in secret I couldn’t wait. Sitting back watching the world go by I thought of us, our family, there were only three of us, but, we were a close family, we didn’t really need anyone else.
I studied my parents as they sat in silence whilst my father drove, his hands making the occasional tap on the steering wheel as he listened to the radio. My mother looked serene, her long blonde hair tied loosely in a pony tail, the late summer sun creating a golden glow around her, almost like a halo, I felt that she deserved no less, in my eyes she was nothing short of saintly, a beacon of light, not just to me, but from what I knew of her work, to others as well. Her work within the social services and then as a local magistrate was at odds with my father’s views, he was and as far as I knew had always been a doctor, a firm believer in family values, and working for what you had, he was firm but fair.
I thought about our house, my home, the front door gave way to a large hall, adorned with family photos, holidays spent skiing, of summers sailing, my father at the helm, his pride and joy, his escape from the world around him. I had my own cabin, though the bunk had seemed to get shorter and shorter as I grew taller over the years. I didn’t care though, these times were some of the happiest memories that I have, I listened and learnt, watched my father’s every move, the way he felt the wind and sails, the cold creeping into me unnoticed. When I think about those photographs I can still feel the warmth of the blanket my mother would wrap around me, I can taste the hot soup she placed before me, those blankets still touch me, envelope me in kindness, if time and dreams could stand still, I would stop it here, live in those memories. I could have been hungry and cold or stranded in a desert, as long as I had what I had then it wouldn’t matter, I had everything.
Along with all the other photographs were some of my father in his college days, my mother at ascot, her hat centre stage, myself in school uniform, it was, to say, picture perfect. Only one thing stood out – there was one thing out of place – me – I am black.
It may sound a bit stupid, almost unimaginative, but I never noticed the difference. I was however, intrigued by little things, the difference in our hair, the colour of our eyes, how odd that I didn’t notice the colour of my skin.
I was perhaps eight when I first tried to cut my hair, it was an experiment that didn’t work, I did a lot of experimenting. I only stopped cutting it when my mother read me the story of the ugly duckling, I believed, wanted, needed to believe in that story, I always imagined that one day I would grow to look like my mother.
Sometimes I try to relive the sanctity of that naivety, to go back to a time when I didn’t know any different, didn’t notice the difference, ignorance can be bliss, but as I grew older that ignorance faded and I became acutely aware that I was different from my parents and also different from many of my ‘friends’ – we had grown apart.
So, at the age of eleven I first set foot in Edgemere School, with its hallowed halls, excitement boiled inside me, it would be here that I believed I would finally belong, be apart of something great, grow into that beautiful swan.
The school loomed in front of me, like some medieval castle, its windows a myriad of knowing eyes, scrutinizing every new comer wishing to step inside its walls, checking for their worthiness, daring us to step over its threshold and find the secrets that lay within. I stood frozen to the spot, the only noise I could hear was the gravel beneath my feet as they involuntarily fidgeted beneath me. My mother broke my trance by taking my hand in hers, a reassuring look on her face, she winked at me as together we walked up to the main doors, my father in tow, carrying my cases.
My house mistress, Miss Winters, had herself been a pupil here, she oozed pride for the school, lived and breathed its very being, it was as though she was born of the school and like an old oak tree that would always be there, dependable, sturdy, a landmark that never faltered. No doubt she expected to be teaching, caring and administering to the children of these children, she was not one for listening to problems, to her the school was the beacon of light in an otherwise dark and dirty world, it was a sanctuary and nothing could be said to mar that reputation, ‘You wont let me down, now will you girls?.’ Her words echoed off the stone walls as we made our way to our dorm. We were now no more than paying orphans, subject to the school’s whims, rules and and regulations.
There were six of us, all new, but not all as naïve and placid as I was. I still believed in fairness, it was the way I bought up, and how I expected others to behave, it was a belief that was soon to be shattered. We each had a single bed, our own duvets and pillows. Beside each bed was a small chest of drawers in which we could place all our personal things. Along one wall were the hanging cupboards for our uniforms and anything else that didn’t fit into our bedside chests. Apart from the meagre furniture in our room there were a couple of chairs, it struck me as stupid that there were only two for six girls, were we supposed to take turns, or alternate days? It was quandaries like this that scared me most, the not knowing, believing that they would find me out, that I didn’t belong, then sending me back like unopened post. There was also a desk in the room, anything more than that was not needed as we were expected to finish our prep in the prep room before coming upstairs, Miss Winters was most adamant about that ‘Prep first, play later’. It was upon this desk that Veronica had decided we all place photographs of our families and friends. She seemed much older than the rest of us, maybe because she managed to disguise the fact that she wore make up, it was something we weren’t allowed, she assumed a sort of captainship over us from the moment she arrived, she had bagged the best bed by the window, it was the newest one, and didn’t sag in the middle like the others did, she also had far more belongings than us, and took up a lot of room in the hanging cupboards. Simone was the smallest out of all of us, it was a sweet pretty name and complemented her button nose, dimpled cheeks and neatly bobbed hair, even then reminded me of a doll. She the first to put her pictures on the table, one of her dog, Megan, and one of her with her Parents and little brother, Timothy, I wondered if she missed her brother, I know I would have. Veronica was next, placing hers in front, it shadowed the other one, she made no attempt to move it, it took pride of place. Next followed Bethany, Georgina and Anna, their pictures arced in a semi circle behind veronica’s, like little soldiers to their leader. I still do not know why it suddenly hit me, but looking at all the faces staring back at me from all these happy families, it realised that they all matched, they all fitted together.
I slipped out of the door and headed for the bathroom, glad that it was at the other end of the corridor, but Veronica called after me, ‘Hey Maeve, we want to see your photos, why haven’t you put them out, have you got something to be ashamed of, is your mother an ugly monster – the witch of the west, come on Maeve, let’s see them’. Whilst still taunting me from inside the room she opened my case, I rushed back, hysterical, my private world was open and strewn across my bed, I screamed at her to stop, and flew at her, pulling at her hair, scratching her face, it was Miss Winters who split us up. She pulled me off Veronica, kicking, biting, screaming, protecting my private world. The other girls stood, stock still, not knowing what to do, or what to say, who’s side to take, Anna made the decision for them, ‘Maeve started it – she’s crazy’. It seemed for ever that I stood there, disbelieving, even outraged by her betrayal, she knew, they all knew I hadn’t started it, I shot a look at each of them, so tidy in their new clothes, so similar, a pattern emerged in my mind, one by one they looked away, I didn’t fit, they wouldn’t let me.
Outside Miss Winter’s door I replayed her words of not letting her down, letting the school down, but I had been let down, the unfairness belittled me.
I waited silently whilst Veronica re-enacted our fracas, embellishing my violence, forgetting her own part in it. I tried not to listen, but it was difficult not to, her howling and exaggerations could be heard throughout the building, her threats as she brushed past me could not, through gritted teeth she hissed, ‘I’ll get you, you little man.’
Eternity is a very long time, and that is what it felt like, waiting for my punishment, the waiting was punishment in itself, with each passing minute the trepidation grew bigger, took on a life of its own, I wanted my punishment over with quickly, if it was designed to make me feel guilt and shame it worked, I felt shame, not for protecting my world, Veronica, she had no right to touch my things, but I felt shame at showing through my actions that I was not a part of their world, this was why I felt shame.
My punishment came in two parts, first the stern words, I listened, even felt myself blush, Miss Winters secure in the knowledge that she had cut out the rot, the rot however was in the second part of my punishment, this was metered out, not by any member of staff but by my fellow pupils, I became the object of their games and laughter, the laughter was noted, the reason not noticed.
Closing the door behind me softly, my wilfulness now subdued I shuddered at the thought of returning to the dorm, from the bottom of the stairs I heard their laughter, their friendship complete, each as complicit as the other. Every part of me wanted to run and hide, to shrink into a corner, to close my eyes and find myself at home, but closing my eyes only heightened my fear, the laughter intensified by the darkness, with a hollow awareness of my solitude I made my way back to the dorm, to face the silence I knew would come.
The silence was there, it had formed masks over their faces, their guilt hidden by sideways glances, a quick check with their neighbour of how to react. Veronica was there, she had no guilt only a smirk, she stood beside the desk, her flock standing awkwardly, awaiting direction she showed me what she was holding, it was my photograph, my favourite photograph of my father and me on the boat, taken during the summer, my mother had taken it and said that it showed just how much we were alike. As I started towards her, I realised that two fights in one day would surely end up with my parents being informed, with my shame and possibly with being asked to leave before the term had even really started. I stopped in my tracks, ‘Give it back, it’s mine…it’s mine, give it back’. I went to grab it from her, but she pulled it way at the last moment, she was taller than me and held it above her head so that I couldn’t get it. I lunged for it, but she just laughed and threw it to another of the girls, as I tried to grab it a hand would come from nowhere and snatch it away, both the hand and I missed the last time and it fell, smashing on the floor, I collapsed on the bed and started to cry, I cried because it wasn’t fair, because I was alone.
Veronica came and sat beside me on the bed, she held the photograph in her hand, at first glance I thought a shard of glass must have ripped it, I realised that the tear was deliberate, it split my father and me, a tear straight through the middle, separating us. ‘Who’s this Meade.’ She accentuated my name, still taunting me she ripped away at it, making the separation complete, she threw the part of it that had me sitting, smiling, happy, it landed face up to me, I saw the girl in the picture, but I didn’t recognise her, the girl in the photograph had gone.
Veronica took the other half of the photograph, she held it between her fingers, looking straight into my eyes she slowly ripped it in half, then half again, throwing the pieces up like confetti, they spun in mid air then fell to the floor. With a snicker she turned away, followed by the others, their new taunt ringing in my ears… ‘Maeve, Maeve, the little man slave.’
I cut my finger on the broken glass, and still have the scar to this day, I didn’t place any photos on the desk, I put them in my top drawer, at the back so that no one could touch them, when I was by myself I took them out to look at, but slowly over time even this diminished as it always made me cry, and I couldn’t show any weakness, they couldn’t make me cry any more.
During the first few terms of school I didn’t make many friends, the taunting didn’t stop, whispers at mass, being left to sit by myself in the dinning room, notes being sent under desks between the other girls, notes that usually had some comment or joke about me in it. I shut off from them, I didn’t register the cruelty, I blanked the jibes, but got my own back in other ways, I excelled at languages, French and Spanish, I embarrassed them with my abilities, the victory of one battle in a war that was already lost.
We were fortunate that the school had horses stabled nearby, so was able to escape to them, I talked to the them, they became my friends, they listened and understood my solitude, they never judged me or turned their backs. When the stables were empty I would run, the freedom it gave me was like air to my lungs, mile after mile until it hurt, until the pain faded.
All of the hurt and emptiness that I felt in school I hid from my parents, I continued to study hard, continued to take home excellent end of term reports, I refused to let them believe that anything was wrong, I would not fail them.
The summer party at the end of year one was seen more like a right of passage, we, the snivelling timid mice of a year ago had all started to grow, this was now becoming our school, we were heading for year two. I sat at my desk in the prep room, bile building in my throat, the date of the party nearing. I endured the party, and even managed a coating of happiness to shine for my parents, it was all false, along with the smiles and waves I received as we drove away, my back turned, we headed for the sanctity of home.
It was at the start of this summer break that I first summonsed the courage to ask why I was different, I needed to know why, it had never occurred to me that I was adopted. Some of the girls in school had taunted me about it, but it was something that I had pushed to the back of my mind in school, something I wouldn’t even consider, I was who I was, I was my parents daughter, I belonged here, this was my home. There were times in school, late at night with the lights out, when all the others were asleep that I would let these thoughts wander through my mind. If I was adopted, then surely one day I would have to go back to where I came from, I didn’t want to go back, I wanted to keep the family I had, but these thoughts haunted me, in my dreams I would be taken away, I could hear people, lots of people all talking at once, over and over, ‘there’s been a terrible mistake – we have to send her back, have to send her back…’

THREE

3

My parents bedroom looked like something from a table top magazine, my father hated, but if my mother wanted it he would never say no. The curtains were a deep cream, with large gold tasselled tie-backs, the walls seemed to blend into them, the wooden furniture the only stripped pine in the house. Large cushions placed as if they had been carelessly slung onto the bed, the cover itself made of rough silk with autumn leaves embroidered by hand. A large comfortable armchair, my mothers concession to my father’s comfort was strewn with clothes, all of which I had grown out of, all soon to be destined for some charity shop, most, I am sure I had never even worn. I was lost in thought, staring at my mother’s hair, tugging at my own unruly mass, comparing our differences, noting with each one that the list was growing, I started to believe that there had indeed been a terrible mistake.
‘You’re miles away princess, do you not want to go through these now, we could just go into town, put this lot away later, if that’s what you want?’. I was more than miles away, I was in another world, lost in the darkness that I would be sent to when the mistake was realised. As I stared at the floor boards they seemed to reflect the images in my mind, acted like a projector of my thoughts, happy thoughts out placed by the memories of the taunting I first received at school, tears started to form in the corner of my eyes. I swallowed hard, and took a deep breath that caught in the back of my throat. As I looked up our eyes met, hers a pale blue, the difference twisting, wrenching me away from her, it was at that moment that I realised that I could never be like her. I looked away unable to hold here gaze. Instantly she was by my side, her love for me was total. I was holding back the tears, but felt them build behind my eyes, stinging, pushing to burst out, tears that I had held inside for a whole year, tears I should have spoken of before. She held my chin in her hand and slowly brought my face up to hers. ‘Princess, what on earth is the matter – what has happened?’
I sat heavily down on the bed, catching a glimpse of myself in the long mirror that stood by her dressing table. My stomach caught somewhere in my ribcage, making my shoulders suddenly jut forward, I felt sick.

It was my mother’s voice that I could hear, I could feel her hand on my shoulder, I could smell her perfume, but with my eyes firmly shut, trying, and losing the battle with pent up tears, all I could see before me was veronica, holding the photograph of my father in her hands, tearing at it, tearing us apart.
She was kneeling in front of me now, one hand on my shoulder, the other she used gently to tilt my chin, we were eye to eye – there was so much compassion in her eyes, so much concern and worry. I had let her down, I was causing her to worry, every inch of me guilty, every inch of me knowing I didn‘t belong. No matter how much I wished the situation away it was the here and now, the decision to ask why I was different had been taken from me, it had acquired a life and motion of its own. ‘Mu…I….why…?’. ‘Princess, please tell me what the matter is, I can’t help unless I know, is it school? Is there a problem at school? Princess…’. Staring at the floor, half wanting it to swallow me up and half holding my gaze on it as if it was giving me the strength to talk, the past year’s hurt and unhappiness came out, first faltering, then an anger that I didn’t know I had seemed to take over, I was hot and sweating and for the first time ever I physically pushed my mother away, she had still been on her knees, still trying to comfort me, and the shove took her by surprise, she fell sideways, knocking her head on the edge of a footstool. By the time she stood up and regained her composure but still a little shocked and dazed I had locked myself in my room. The tears now replaced by anger, anger at myself, anger at Veronica and the others, all their venom had grown inside me, I had allowed it to, stored up their hatred and thrown it in the wrong direction.

I was still sat in my room, bolt upright at my desk, staring at nothing out of the window when I heard, rather than saw my father’s car come up the drive, the gravel crunching under the wheels. It shook me out of my trance. I was in new territory, the child in me had gone. I felt so ashamed at what I had done, but still I had no answers to all the questions and doubts in my mind. I had no idea as to how my father would react. I knew that some of the other girls at school were scared of their parents, I had overheard them talking of times when they were smacked or even worse when they did something wrong at home, this was all new to me, the unknowing was taking over my thoughts, I now no longer cared about being different, I just wanted the last few hours to not have happened. I ached for my mothers arms to comfort me, for my father to ruffle my hair – to chide him for doing it – I had changed my life, my family, it would never be the same, this was all my doing, I hated myself, more than I hated veronica and the others.
It was dark when I woke up, the curtains were only partially closed and I could just make out the half moon obscured by a cloud. Sat beside me on the bed was my mother, stood by the door, my father. She moved forward to touch my face with her hand, staring at me, maybe she was searching for answers to questions that I knew were coming. ‘It’s all right sweetheart. No matter what you think at the moment, no matter what anyone has said to you, you are and have always been ours.’ I noticed a slight red mark and the start of a bruise on the side of her face and remembered that I had pushed her over in my haste to get away. The guilt that I felt brought back the tears, more than anything else I felt ashamed.
It was when I went to touch my mothers face, to feel for myself what I had done that I noticed the bandage on my wrist, at first it didn’t register. Then like being kicked in the stomach it started to come back to me. I remembered hearing the car on the drive, and pushing at something, the shock of remembering that it was my mother that I pushed mad me reel back. Memories began to flood before me, horrible red memories, my arms and hands covered with blood, it was my blood. I touched my wrists, as if by doing so the memories would fade, the bandage wouldn’t be real, but they were real, I shuddered as I ran my finger over the covered wound as I recalled my actions. I had taken a small mirror that sat on my desk, threw it against the wall and taken one of the shards of broken mirror and started to drag it against the skin on my wrists. I vaguely remember screaming and shouting, crying and sobbing. I didn’t know why I was doing it, I didn’t want to be doing it, I just wanted all of it to go away, I wanted to go back to being a little girl, to sit on my fathers lap whilst he read me to sleep. I wanted so much to cuddle up under a blanket with my head on my mother’s lap watching the TV. I just wanted it all to go away, to not be true, I wanted to be me again, but I had made it al vanish, in an instant. If it hurt I can’t remember, or even how many times I tried to cut the skin, I don’t believe I knew what I was doing, I remember the anger and frustration, I’m sure I remember my father’s shouts of ‘Let me in Maeve – we need to talk’.
The door to my room hung at an odd angle, for a moment it fascinated me, the splinters protruding from the top of the door frame stood out, silhouetted by the hallway light, I could see how they had taken some of the paintwork with them, small flake like pieces of paint, they clung to the door as if by magic, defying gravity, not wanting to fall to the floor, it didn’t seem right, it wasn’t normal, I’m sure it wasn’t like that before, and then it came to me, it had been pushed or knocked, I remembered the sound of the door, at first the thud of the knock, then the cracking, splintering of the wood against the hinges, followed by an almost silent whoosh a the door was heaved across the small patch of carpet that now held it in place due to the angle it now hung at. My father did that, be broke down the door, it was he who found me, bandaged my wrists. I thought back, I could see the blood, and bandages, arms, my arms pointing up to the ceiling, I didn’t put them like that, I was empty, no longer a part of me, my body was there, I hadn’t hurt it that much, but I wasn’t there. Whilst they fussed and mended me I stepped out, and away, I watched it all happen from the other side of the room, listening to their muffled words, confused, empty, tired and broken.
The emptiness was still there as I looked up into my mothers face, the mark was still there, but also the smile, how could she still smile at me, I didn’t deserve it, where was her anger, why did she smile, why did she hold me, show me concern, didn’t deserve it. She lent over to kiss me and stroked my face, it brought me back from the other side of the room, I felt the throbbing in my writs, the tightness of the bandages, I closed my eyes, tried to return to the corner from where I had been watching them, but I couldn’t get back there, I was stuck where I was, in reality. Gently my mothers held my hands in hers, she inspected each finger, perhaps to check they were all there, like a mother with her new-born child, counting each finger in turn.
She kissed my forehead, her hair fell across her face and onto mine, Its soothing strands caressing me, taking me from the here and now, to another place, where I felt safe.
I shouldn’t have cried, I had no right to, it was self pity, an uncontrollable urge to be loved, almost a demand to be held safe, the child in me needing surety. It was selfish.
‘We don’t need to talk now, there’s no harm done, you get some sleep princess, Daddy and I will be down stairs, just call if you need me.’ Even in what must have been a deep and dark moment, she mother only had thoughts for me, my guilt and shame doubled, magnified, it gathered itself in the depths of my stomach and made me retch.
Unknown to me my parents were in a deep discussion, the moment they knew would arrive, had, though both of them had buried it deep, almost forgotten its importance, but important matters have a habit of showing themselves when least expected, when all seems calm, a sudden storm will rise out of nowhere and knock you off course. The reality of my existence, my very being, of how I came to them had thrown itself to the fore, hidden for years, it now reared up ugly and threatening, it had to be dealt with, soothed, calmed, put away again. But it wouldn’t go away, I was there, there was no more hiding, and though somehow over the years they had managed to convince themselves that it wouldn’t really happen, that I would grow up not noticing that I was different, not asking the questions they didn’t want to answer, the past was simply that, the past, it could not, and my parents, would not, let it surface here, it lay in the dirtiest most squalid part of rural Africa, in the middle of a civil war, thousands of thousand miles away, and there it belonged and must stay, a secret forever, if only to protect us all.
I slept fitfully for a couple of hours, woken every now and then by the itching on my wrists. Scared as I was to go downstairs, I had to face my parents, I needed to say sorry, I needed forgiveness from my mother, I had to know that they wouldn’t give up on me, I needed my family.
Quietly opening my bedroom door I slipped out, unheard, for once the handle pulled down effortlessly and silent, avoiding all the floorboards that I knew to be squeaky, those that would betray me, I slowly made my way to the top of the stairs that led into the living room. There was a dogleg part of the way down, where, when I was younger I used to sit un-noticed by my parents when they entertained their friends, the ones who’s children no longer came, and I would listen to them laugh and joke, they were magical moments for me, I listened to their words to their conversations and silently joined in. My pride would glow as I listened to my mother talk of my achievements, the rosettes and cups I brought home from school, my grades, she never spoke of my friends. I remember her saying once that I was meant to be, a miracle, that in a way it wasn’t them that had saved me, more that it was me that had saved them, I didn’t understand what it meant, but it felt good.
As with then, I crept down onto the dogleg, crouched in the corner furthest from the banisters, my back digging into the high skirting board, I was cold in my night dress, and thought about going to get my dressing gown, but listening to my parents talking stopped me from moving, I was frozen to the spot, all the questions I had, the nasty ones that festered in the back of my mind, the private ones I shut away, I shouldn’t have listened this time, it is true, eves-droppers seldom hear good of themselves, my parents were deep in discussion, and I was the subject.
‘Susan, I knew that this day would come, we both did – we can’t hide from the truth of who she is’. My fathers voice was calm and reassuring, he sounded more like my mother than himself. ‘I just hope that the paperwork will still stand up to scrutiny – or we wont just have Meave to deal with, both of us will have a lot of explaining to do – you know what I’m saying Susan, for god’s sake…’ His voice was rising, he was getting angry now, impatient. ‘Susan, we need to think about what we are going to tell her, how much, I mean where do you start…Hi Maeve, just Daddy here’ his voice squeakier and sarcastic ‘You’re not really ours, oh I mean, yes you do belong to us, but Mummy and Daddy sot of stole you from some nasty African types and smuggled you back into the country, then Mummy went to see some really dodgy people she had met at court one day and got you a fake passport and birth certificate, then Daddy being the really clever one went and got some fake adoption papers – so yes, princess, you might be a bit messed up now, but just wait till all this gets out…’. It was odd to hear my father speak like this, the only other time that I had really encountered sarcasm was from the girls in school, I didn’t imagine ever that my father could have the same spitefulness in him, confusion and fear rose inside me, more questions emerged, nasty, horrible, spiteful questions, accusing me, the finger of blame pointed at me, I could see it through my tears, through the confusion, a thick fog descended over me. ‘Richard, shut up, don’t you think I know what a mess this all is, we’ve been blind, the last few years…’ The creak from the stairs stopped my mother in mid sentence. I was standing now, gripping the banister rail, unable to speak, unable to move, my knees felt like jelly, the fog got thicker, suffocating me, drawing the air from my lungs, I held on tighter to the banister, but my grip was no good and I fell, backwards, tumbling, steps, the wall, everything hitting me, my eyes closed as I lay crumpled by the bottom step, the fog making them heavy, keeping them from opening, shielding me from the information.
‘Shit!’. I had never heard my father swear before, it sounded odd, the word didn’t belong to him, the fog lifted, I opened my eyes, at first I saw his feet, he bent down to me, my mother bent down to me, my eyes moved upwards, the fog began to form again, it whisked me away, somewhere else, another place, a split second of calm, then it spat me back out again, threw me back to where I was, disorientating, confusing me, forcing me to confront the hear and now.
I wanted to sink back into the fog, become lost in it, wander through it unaware, the bad things hidden by its opaqueness. But it left me, lifting its shield, showing me, almost taunting me with what it previously concealed out of sight, pushing the questions to the fore, intensifying their importance.
Like a rag doll I allowed myself to be picked up, lead to the sofa, even the act of sitting was done for me, my legs now stiff, a hand placed behind my knee forcing me back onto the cushions, sinking into them, not feeling them. The room shrank, the walls crowed into me, photographs in frames laughed at me, faces peered into mine, I knew the faces, but I didn’t recognise them, it was my mother and my father. They spoke, muffled sounds, they put their hands up close to me, lots of hands, too many, I push them away, the muffled sounds get louder, I see a train, a big old fashioned steam train, it is coming for me, I am in the way, their sounds, their words, if they stopped the train would stop, it would miss me, maybe go round me, I see it coming, steam belching out of its funnel, I can hear the pistons push the wheels, the hiss, the noise, getting louder, nearer, its here, I scream.
As the air forced its way back into my lungs, I gulped at it, greedy for more of it, compelling it to stay. The faces had pulled away a bit, but they were still there, the scream had frightened them, dislodged them from their lock on me, it felt good to breath again, to see some space in front of me, I breathed in hard, taking all the air around me, keeping it.
‘Jesus, for god sake’s Susan do something with her.’ The voice, it reminded me of my father, but there was an edge to it, a harshness I had never heard before.
My eyes scurried between the two of them, I didn’t recognise my father, his words, the way he said them were alien to me, I searched my mother’s face for a sign, any sign that she was still as she was before, that I could trust and hold onto her, I found what I was looking for, her smile, the softness of it gave me reassurance, I still had a foothold in her life, she hadn’t changed, calmed and reassured I steadied my breathing, watching her, my eyes not leaving her, frightened that if I did I would lose her as well.
‘I think now’s the best time to talk’. There was fear in his voice, just below his authority. ‘Really, Richard, Maeve’s been through too much today, she needs to rest, we can all talk tomorrow, I don’t think she can take much more, goodness knows what’s been going through her mind.’ As my mother spoke she stroked my hair, smoothing it from my face, making the same kind of hushing noises she used to do when I was younger and she wanted me to sleep. I pushed myself upright, my head hammering inside. The light in the living room seemed brighter than usual and hurt my eyes, I kept them open, not blinking trailing my mother, not wanting to lose her for even one second. My throat was dry, but I knew what I had to say, what I had to ask for, I couldn’t risk not knowing. ‘Mummy, are you going to send me back, I don’t want to go, I want to stay with you and Daddy, don’t let them take me away, I promise I will never do anything wrong ever, Please, Daddy tell her, tell her Daddy, don’t let them take me.’ The arms came around me so tight that it felt like I couldn’t move, let alone breath, one hand on my back, another cradling my head. ‘Shush, princess, no one is going to take you away, no one’. My mother moved her hand away from the back of my head to lift my face to hers, her eyes scanning me, searching, reassuring. I didn’t want her to speak, I didn’t want to break the spell. ‘He’s right, we need to sit, and talk, calmly, it may not be the right time, but we have to talk, but later, after you’ve slept – then we’ll tell you, everything, but believe me princess, you are not going anywhere, no one is going to take you.’
I didn’t sleep well, my dreams full of strangers, touching me, taking me, putting me in a cage, I forced my hands through the bars, towards my parents who stood there, not noticing me, I tried to grab them, still they didn’t notice me, I tried to shout, but no sounds would come out of my mouth, they walked away.
The men had come for me, they opened the cage door, tugged at me, pulled me back to them, away from the bars, they placed a hood over my head, roughly, hurting me, pushing it into my face, stopping me breathing, it hid my parents from view, plunging me into darkness. I struggled to free myself from it, tearing it away from my face, biting at them, tasting his blood, hitting out at them, but they evaded my blows, they knew the steps to take to avoid me making contact, they danced around me, I could hear the drums, beating to their footsteps, my arms thrashing wildly, then I hit one of them, the hood came off…
The blanket covered my face, I pulled at it, tore it from me, tasted blood in my mouth, not knowing where it came from. Beside me I heard a noise, I turned to look at the man who had tried to take me, he wasn’t there, my mother jumped backwards. Small spots of blood appeared on her arm, they seeped through the sleeve of her cotton top, the blood came from a bite on her arm, the man was gone. She clutched her arm, I saw her take in a deep breath, the look of shock on her face reflected that of mine.
‘Susan… what the?’ My father hadn’t witnessed the commotion, he had only heard my mother’s scream and came running from his office which lead from the kitchen. ‘I scared her, that’s all Richard, it’s nothing to worry about, just a nick.’
My world was starting to crumble, it’s weight I could feel crushing me, I was physically trying to push myself as far back into the sofa cushions as I could get, I didn’t want to feel my fathers anger, I didn’t know how he would react, what type of anger would surface, but I could see it in his face, gone was the normal round cheeriness of his cheeks, replaced by a rising tide of crimson, his eyes bursting, his mouth wide open, it was the first time in my life that I knew I would be hit. My father had never raised a hand to me, this was now all changing, I braced myself, told myself it was coming, felt the blow, it never came, but I felt it all the same as if he had hit me, his reticence stung just the same. We were all treading a new path, all of us entering into pastures new, a world that none of us wanted to be in, but one that there was now no way of escaping.
‘Richard…don’t!’ My mother saw, sensed, anticipated the blow as much as me, the air in the room stood stagnant, heavy, threatening, even the dust that danced freely in and out of the shafts of lights held still, waiting. ‘Just leave it, she was only having a nightmare, it’s only a scratch. Let’s calm down, we all need to calm down, I’ll put the kettle on, then we can talk.’ Everything in the room waited for his reaction, I held myself rigid, hoping to have enough strength to take the blow, my mother, frozen, mid movement, her stance a silent plead, begging my father to let us all breath again, to not cross the line. He breathed in through his nose, I heard it, felt it, the room felt it, the layer of doubt lifted, the threat was over, I breathed again, gasping for air, taking what I could, filling myself in readiness. No longer in control, my body made movements for me, jerking, twitching, my eyes darting back and forth, from my mother, to my father, back again, faster and faster, making me dizzy, then stop. They stopped, I looked away, then back again, not wanting to see what had been there, I was sure that as my eyes darted between my parents I caught a glimpse of the man in my dream, his face superimposed onto that of my fathers, it was only a glimpse, but it was there, I saw his face change, the muscles, the expression, the eyes, they were all there.
I hid in the black tunnel that lay behind my closed eyes, I was safe in there, its dense black walls a barrier keeping me safe, I could hear no movement, it was a good sign, it meant I was alone, able to think, I didn’t have to face them, I had no excuses, no explanation.
The room was silent, there was still no movement, no rustling of papers, or the whoosh of air from a cushion as it was sat on, no footsteps. Bewildered and disorientated I tried to think clearly, rummaging through the last few hours, looking for answers, I found them, they were not what I wanted, the tunnel was getting darker now, it frightened me, I wanted to get back out into the light, I opened my eyes.
What I saw was not what I expected, despair had replaced the look of anger on my father’s face, he was slumped in an armchair, his armchair, his head in his hands, shaking from side to side. His head in his hands, his elbows resting on his knees, over and over, I heard him swear. ‘Shit, shit, shit, shit’. Over and over again, nothing more , just ‘shit’. My mother returned from the kitchen, her composure regained, her ability to try to control a situation with tea obviously something that she was clinging onto, the cups rattled against one another as her hands were shook the tray she carried, almost tipping it up as she placed it on the table. The tea spilled, splashing over the bloody stain on her sleeve, it forced her to look down at her arm, to revisit, to face reality. Like so many things I was witnessing today, I had never heard or seen my mother cry, she sat on the edge of the sofa, her back pressing into me, and cried, each drop burning me with guilt.
We sat in stunned silence for a long time, the phone had rung, but no one answered it, the sun had now lost its heat and was beginning to set, the house got cold. I stood up from where I had been kneeling, my legs were sore with being in such a position for so long. My movements seemed to stir my father from his previously lifeless state. ‘Maeve, please…don’t disappear, we need to talk, we need to explain, you need to know where you came from, why we chose you… Meave, you will need to listen to us, you will need to be very grown up about this, and you will need to keep this secret, it’s important Maeve.’
Secrets were bad, everyone knew that, it was a fact of life, no one should keep a secret, the girls in school, they kept secrets, excluded me. I didn’t want to hear this secret, wanted to be excluded, but I had to hear it, it tore at me, I felt my head splinter, shatter with the weight of the word, secret.
Saliva filled my mouth, it rose then fell with every gulp, I swallowed the secret bit by bit, it tasted as foul as it sounded, the extent of what I was hearing not really sinking in, I had lost my appetite to listen, not thirsty for the answers anymore, but they kept on coming, drowning me – I had no choice but to listen, kept in place by an invisible, subconscious yearning to know.
The whole situation was too enormous, a lurid and callous dream that I truly believed I would wake up from, sadly I didn’t, everything they talked about was the truth, but the truth was very hard to bear, too much for one person, too much for even the three of us to bare, even as my father calmly started to recount the history – and horrors – of my early life, the story itself seemed to erode my mother, as I listened, stock still, nodding, accepting and not accepting at the same time, I only took my eyes off my father to look at my mother, her shine now all but gone, lines appearing across her forehead, her eyes sinking deeper by the moment.
‘Maeve, what you heard was unfortunate’. My father had regained his composure, his air of authority had returned, if a little dented, he was after all in control, he was supposed to be in control. ‘A long time ago’. ‘Daddy, I am not a baby, please tell me where I come from.’ I was pleading with him by now, desperate to know, but still in denial. ‘OK, as it is, the whole story, from the beginning – like I said it was a long time ago, you were only a baby, before you became ours, and believe me I have moved heaven and earth to make you ours.’ He stopped, I heard him gulp, saw the action of his throat, could feel him brace himself for what he was about to say, he took deep breaths then continued. ‘Before you were ours, Mummy and I were on holiday, a working holiday more or less, we went to Africa, to help out, there are not many doctors in certain parts, and we wanted to help.’ He looked at me, searching my face for recognition of what I was hearing, making sure I understood. ‘Anyway, a very sick and poor lady had too many children, she couldn’t feed you all, and you were so young, so…vulnerable – we offered to take you, to look after you. We brought you back here, we made you ours, we chose you out of all the children in the world – that is how special you are.’ Even as the child I was then I realised that the ‘story’ was lacking in credibility, you don’t simply chose a child, the simplicity of the story patronised me, anger and annoyance surfaced, blood raced to my head, exploding before me. ‘Don’t lie!’ I shouted, I had never shouted at him before, the rage in me had resurfaced, I wanted to know the truth, demanding I shouted repeatedly ‘Tell me the truth, tell me the truth…’ I paused, took in a breath, had to, there was nothing left in me. The outburst shocked me, time stood still, it snatched my mother from her trance, it brought the face from my dreams back to my father, it slid easily over his features, engulfing him, consuming him, replacing him with my fears. The face sucked the life out of the room, spat hatred at all it could see, covered us all with its venom, it took my fathers voice and changed it, gave it anger and loathing, it roared at me, instructed me to be quiet, to sit, the power with which the order came, pushed me back into a chair, compliant and broken there was no room for me to think to sort through the images and words, I had to listen, to be told, to be made to understand.
The voice changed again, it was my father who spoke, but still I felt the fear, each word threatening me, daring me to challenge it, I didn’t, I was too scared, I listened.
‘I don’t believe you, you and Mummy said other stuff, when I was listening’. I had admitted to listening, to eavesdropping on their private conversation. But instead of remonstrating with me, my father’s face dropped. ‘What did you hear Meave, you know, Mummy and I were upset, we said lots of things, things which might not be true’. He was lying, my father, the paragon of virtue and truth, the fear of the situation making him lie, I was making him lie, I was beginning to feel sick again, sick with the hurt and upset I was causing, but I needed to know, my world had come crashing down, perhaps with answers I could start to rebuild it.
I was sobbing, wiping my nose with the sleeve of my shirt, rubbing the tears away with the backs of my hands, ‘You said they were nasty, you said you smuggled me, why, why were they nasty, did they try to hurt you, wouldn’t they let you help them, I thought they wanted doctors. Why do I have to keep this all a secret, being a doctor is a good thing – isn’t it?’. At that point my father knew that he had to come clean, that only the truth would do.
My mother curled up like child on the sofa, her knees tucked under her chin, her eyes wide but not really focusing, it was almost as if this was the first time that she had heard the story, the vastness of it, the obscurity of it seemingly too much for her to take in. My father addressed both of us, like two children, occasionally requesting only that my mother agree or disagree with what he was recounting, she simply nodded or shook her head at these requests.
‘Maeve, princess, what I said is basically true. We were in Africa, we were trying to help people and I was working as a doctor. We ended up in some really poor areas, I want you to imagine what we saw when we got there. Very few people wore shoes, certainly none of the children, the black market was thriving though.’ I could see him snort with contempt. ‘Oh yes, if you knew people, had a bigger gun than the next guy, you could have almost anything, you just can’t imagine it, there were children starving, and men driving around in new cars, women were treated no better than animals, young girls, no older than you were married, younger than you, often pregnant, and for all their bloody religion they asked for abortions. The other aid agencies were bringing in food, but again, if you had a gun, you had food. People were growing up in this, they were living like this. So we left the main camp and went to help in some of the more forgotten places, stupidly we thought they would welcome us with open arms.’ He flung his arms out in mock expression and continued with. ‘We were welcome, once they knew we had stuff, medicine, money, food, there was never any real food, we gave them everything we had, not because we wanted to, but because we were scared, we were scared, scared for our lives, they didn’t want us there, and we knew it, we were out of our depth, we didn’t belong there. But when the food did get through it wasn’t the likes of you, or your mother, or your brother or sisters, no the bastards kept it for themselves, do I have to explain what some of the women had to do just to eat – do I!’ My father was clutching the top of a chair, his knuckles were starting to go white, his eyes burning into mine. ‘Richard she doesn’t need to know this, she’s too young, for heavens sake, stop it.’ My mothers voice was pleading, she had put her arm around me, trying to reassure me, but the more my father spoke, spittle forming at the corner of his mouth, the more it bore into me, I was bewildered by what he was saying, shocked that they were there, that they had been in the middle of all that chaos. My father was still talking, more shouting, not at me, he was reliving the past, seeing images – I could see contempt in his face, ‘We might as well have not been there’, he was venting anger, pushing the back of the chair. ‘But it didn’t stop them wanting food, taking bread from starving children, they were like animals Meave, your mother was very vulnerable there.’ Again my mother lifted her head, I began to understand, he blamed her. ‘I feared for her safety, it wasn’t safe to stay. We wanted to stay, we wanted to help, your mother tried to teach the women, just basic things, she tried to get them to help themselves, but they mistrusted her, most of the women wouldn’t even acknowledge her.’ I thought about what he said, what it meant, was all this her fault, was she to blame, I didn’t know what to think, how to react, who’s fault was all of this, then I worked it out, it was my fault, all of this mess was my fault. I closed my eyes again, wanting to sink into the tunnel, it didn’t seem so inviting now, so I opened them, he had moved towards the window, but didn’t stop talking, explaining, apportioning blame and liability, reinforcing his position. ‘It was very difficult, just to see the children, I don’t think a day went by without there being a death of a child. You see your mother couldn’t have children of her own.’ ‘How dare you Richard, neither of us could, remember that Richard, don’t lay all the blame on me.’ She turned away, allowing my father to continue, but he was no longer talking to me, the atmosphere in the room had changed, I was no longer there, I watched them, both of them, feeling their silent accusations, they didn’t notice me anymore, this was between them, sparing now, scoring points, forcing the blame for my existence from one to another, an unwanted problem. ‘Yes well, our situation was different, don’t confuse things Susan, none of that matters anymore, we have to deal with this now.’
If he had hit my heart with a hammer it wouldn’t have hurt as much, I had been reduced to a situation to be dealt with, an inconvenience, with each beat that tried to return to my heart I saw the man in my dreams come closer, the hood in his hand, near enough to take me away. I looked away, willed him out of sight, concentrated on my father, on what he was saying, but still the man was there, getting stronger now, with each passing second his features became more focused, his presence more real.
‘The tragedy is that not one of those children was ill, they were simply hungry, all they needed was food, crying night and day, it was all very distressing.’ He looked towards my mother, seeking agreement and co-operation, conciliation, reason crept back into his voice, the man with the hood began to fade. ‘For both of us, it was distressing for both of us, no one in their right mind can watch a baby die from starvation, but that is what he had to do, it was heart breaking. We made the decision to leave, or rather the decision was made for us’. As he continued to talk his top lip curled, his anger more apparent, memories were not always good.
He stood staring out of the window for a long time, I couldn’t see what he was looking at, I couldn’t see his face anymore. I wanted to go to him, wrap my arms around him, tell him I was sorry, but I couldn’t I was scared, if I touched him, looked into his eyes I knew that I would see the face of the man with the hood, and I didn’t want to face him, I only wanted what I had once had, but somehow that was all gone. What I had now frightened me, unfamiliar feelings, things I didn’t understand, a past I didn’t want, I wanted to change it, but couldn’t, I was trapped in this new life. Finally he calmed down, and pulled the coffee table up in front of the sofa where I sat, moving the tray of cold tea onto the floor, sitting on the table he carried on telling me my story, I didn’t see it as his story, this was my life, my beginnings he was describing, I flinched with every word he said, each one taking a little part of me and replacing it with a part of someone else’s life, I felt myself start to change inside, become the girl in his story, the girl I should have been. I searched his face to see his reaction to everything he said, interpreting his eye movements, the way he spoke, seeing him relive it through his actions now.

He held my hands in his, they were large powerful hands, they covered mine, I noticed how pale his skin was against mine, just how different we were, I didn’t feel warmth or the connection there should be between a father and child, I felt nothing. I said nothing, but he caught my look, calm and taking deep breaths, he spoke directly to me. ‘Meave, the past is the past, what matters is now, but do you see how important this is, you must try to understand.’ Try to understand, I understood none of it. He continued…
‘It’s different there, they have a hierarchy, do you know what I mean by that?’ I wanted to tell him I wasn’t an idiot, that I knew what he meant, that I understood, but it would only have brought the man with the hood back so I nodded. ‘We told the village elder that we intended to leave, he didn’t want us there, so in our naivety we thought that he would just thank us and that would be that.’ He huffed at what he had said. ‘The bast.. sorry, he had the temerity to ask, no, demand, all our supplies, everything we had, of course we said no, but, like I said Meave, it’s not like going down to the village shop and talking to the shop keeper, this guy had power, what he said went, they took everything we had, well, what they knew we had. But we were stuck, we were miles away from anywhere, and he knew that, but he just didn’t give a shit, he sent one of his lackeys to take our stuff, fucking little shit, he stood in the middle of that room and went through everything, bit by bit, it wouldn’t have been so bad if he had just taken it, but he had to taunt us, inspecting every item, it was like watching a chimpanzee in the zoo. Then the little shit pissed on our bed…’ I heard my mother make a small quiet snorting noise, she stood beside the two of us, a smile had crept across her face, it perplexed me, she saw my reaction and added to his story. ‘Your father has left something out, after he pissed on it, he then pushed your father back onto it, right in the middle.’ The memory of it made my mother smile, it made my father squirm, it was odd watching them like this, as if the tables had been turned, she regained some control in the conversation, the spot light taken off her, some of the blame washed away, the memory of his humiliation evening out the score. My father looked repulsed, though I couldn’t work out if it was due to my mother or from the memory. His voice changed again, I felt the coldness in it, I didn’t want to hear any more, I moved away. My father stood, he pushed me back down onto a chair, he stayed there, standing over me, making me listen. ‘You started this.’ I looked up at him, every part of me screaming at him, I didn’t start it, they did, but the words stayed inside me. ‘You wanted to know, so listen. After, well, after that happened we were summonsed to see the elder again, and knew the very moment we set eyes on him that we were treading on shaky ground, he made it very clear that we were no longer wanted, and that we were lucky to be walking out with our lives. We believed him, I tried to explain what all the medicines were for, how some of them could be dangerous, but he didn’t want to know, just saying that we would be taken at first light to the road and that from there we would walk. That little jumped up shit had just taken everything from us and then expected us to walk, fucking miles, through no-mans land, in the middle of a civil war, I don’t really think he expected us to make it.’
My mother was listening too, they were things she didn’t want to remember, she wanted it over with, quickly. ‘Just tell her Richard, she doesn’t need to know every last detail, just tell her why we did what we did, then perhaps we can forget about it, put it all behind us, start again.
My father addressed my mother, speaking to her like as if she were a child. ‘Susan, she needs to know why, for god’s sake you don’t just walk out of Africa with a child without there being a bloody good reason. Just let me tell her, then its over with.’ He turned back his look changed again, I couldn’t read his expression. ‘Maeve, you have to understand that what we – I, am about to tell you, you must never repeat’. His eyes bore into me, I had never seen this intensity before in him, I was about to step into their world of secrets. ‘I promise.’ I didn’t really know what I was promising, I didn’t understand the magnitude or importance of that one word – promise, such a small word, such huge importance. ‘Promise me Maeve, it really is important.’ He was getting impatient now, his control over everything was starting to fall away, I promised again, still not registering its importance.
‘OK’, he started to pace, then sat, composing himself – readying himself for his big finale.
‘We didn’t have any children then, it was just your mother and me, your mother….’ He stopped, corrected himself before my mother could. ‘We, we both wanted a child, we wanted a baby, we talked about the children that we saw, every night, it was all your… we talked about, but, like I said, we talked about it, about taking one of the children back with us, a baby, you see, so many of them were starving, so many of them needed us, your Mother…we, well, we weren’t serious of course, we knew we couldn’t just take one, it was just talk, keeping us from thinking about other things, and we had to be out of there. It was a horrible night, so hot, so dusty, and as I am sure your mother will say, the place smelt of piss, all we had left was the money that they didn’t know we had and the clothes we stood up in.’
My mother started to shift uneasily, it unnerved me, I was a voyeur in this strange world they talked about, held there, forced to listen, each word took another part of me away, diminished me a bit more, they had set the scene, I wanted to change the ending, but it was set solid, I guessed what was coming and tried to brace myself for what would be the final blow, my stomach muscles started to spasm, I wanted to run, to cover my ears, but an invisible force held me in place. Even my head wouldn’t move, I tried to make it turn to look around the room, but nothing, I was set like stone. Forced to listen I closed my eyes, I still had control of them, I could still shut out a part of it, my father not noticing my rigid form continued. ‘Maeve, you have to understand, you mother, your real mother, she came to us, it was late, very late. But she came to us Maeve, we didn’t ask her, she came to us.’ My Father was emphasising the fact that they hadn’t sought out this woman, she had gone to them, again he had someone else to blame, he could relinquish himself of the blame, I opened my eyes to look at him, to see the man whom I adored, he looked tarnished now – dirtied by his own words. ‘She was very poor, but with so many mouths to feed she couldn’t cope, she was desperate, she only wanted the best for you, for all of you.’

I started to feel movement in my limbs, I had brothers and sisters, the rest didn’t matter, I had brothers and sisters, I wanted to know their names, to imagine them, to give them life in my mind, I had questions to ask now, important ones, how old were they, what did they look like, why didn’t they come too. I looked out towards the garden, it was dark, shadows sprawled across the lawn, the grass would be wet now, but I could see them, on my old swing that sat under the trees, the grass was dappled with light from the sun that shone through the leaves, all of us, playing together, my brothers and sisters, I could hear them now, laughing, singing, pretty summer dresses, daisy chains, hide and seek, I reached out to them, to trace their forms with my fingers, but the darkness came back, the shadows hid them, I searched with my eyes for them, stood up, went to the window, looked out, but they were gone, they were never there. He voice came back to me, replacing the laughter and giggles. ‘Maeve, for god’s sake, sit down and listen.’ It was gone, they were gone, I sat back down, empty and alone. ‘Maeve, don’t go getting stroppy on me now, this is important, and I am doing my best to explain – this isn’t easy, for any of us. Anyway…’ He took my hand again squeezing it every time he felt something needed emphasising, an important fact or sequence of events, but none of it was important anymore ‘She came to us, you were in her arms, you were so thin, so ill. I had treated you earlier in the week, it was a miracle in itself that you were still alive, she handed you to Susan, your mother.’ At this my mother looked up, she nodded and tightly shut her eyes. My father continued. ‘Your mother didn’t know what to do, she didn’t know what to think, there we were only moments before saying to each other how we could make a difference and save even just one, that we could have the child she, we, so wanted, and then, it was as if god himself was listening, you were placed in her arms. Your real mother, your African mother put her hand out to us, we knew she wanted money, anything. Susan, your mother, tried to hand you back, but the woman wouldn’t take you, she pushed you back across to Susan. The woman was scared, anyone could see that, she spent the whole time looking around at the door, I’ve never seen anyone as nervous as that, she was desperate. It was a moment of madness for all of us.’ Another hammer blow, me, my life, I was only a moment of madness. ‘Look, we, all of us only had a moment to think, you were there, you needed us, so we took you, gave her half of what we had, and then we ran.’
I thought about what he had said, I imagined them there, running through the night, with me in their arms, taking me away from the poverty, then I saw the others, my brothers and sisters, looking for me, trying to find me, through the eyes of the that baby I saw them get smaller and smaller and fade into the distance until they were gone. I didn’t feel good, I didn’t feel saved, I felt separated and lost.
‘You didn’t make a sound, you were too ill and hungry to cry, thank god, you kept quiet. So, there, now you know.’ My father stood up, he walked over to the big bay window that looked out over the lawn, he seemed edgy. ‘Maeve, it is important you understand that you never, never tell anyone about this, I’ve told you the truth, so we will leave it at that.’
He was at the end of his story, read me the final page, closed the book. But the story didn’t explain it all, I wanted to know what happened to the others, did they grow up safe and happy, were they still there, searching for me, waiting for me to return. Questions crammed my head, but I understood, my father had made it quite clear, that was that, my questions would go unanswered, he had closed the book, put it back on the shelf, out of sight, the secret safe.
I closed my eyes to imagine what I had just been told, to put it all in front of me, to see it, feel it, sense it. I wanted to breath in the heat of that night, see my mother’s, real mother’s face, but alluded me, the image of her was there, stood with me in her arms, but her face was cast in shadow, I scanned the image for the others, my brothers and sisters, wondered why there was only me. Emotions churned inside me. I held in my minds eye images of what we would have looked like, my African family, a snapshot, the sky blue, the dusty ground, my brothers and sisters crowding around my mothers legs, one or two of them sat on the floor, and me, in my mother’s arms, it was a reality that never was, I opened my eyes, my mother stood beside my father, she reached out to him, to touch him, he hunched his shoulders, her hand slipped quietly away from him, he didn’t want her comfort.
I studied the pair of them, their clothes, their hands, the way they were, little things that I had never noticed before, things that are always there. It all seemed so alien, like watching strangers in a café, how they drink their tea, or hold their knives and forks, how they walk or smile. I held my hand up to my face, turned it side to side, I felt the skin, rubbing the palm with my thumb, I pinched the end of my fingers, they went red then white, I wanted to do the same to , to see if they were real, to prove that none of it was real, hoping it wasn’t.
I watched them, my mother stood like an empty shell, my father, remorseless. I left the room.
There was only a small glimmer of light coming through the bedroom window, I had left the curtains open, as I lay in bed I wanted to see the garden, to catch a glimpse of what I had seen before, my brothers and sisters, I wanted to see them play on the swing, hear the laughs and giggles, but it wasn’t there, only shadows and darkness.
Slowly, trying to remember word for word what my father had told me, I re-visited the evening. Everything was jumbled, words, images, people, places, none of it made sense to me. I was only a child, it wasn’t meant to make sense, I was too young to understand, it was about the only thing I did understand. When morning came it was cold, I looked out of the window, still nothing, no one playing on the swing, I wondered, hoped everything had been a dream, over breakfast I realised it wasn’t. The silence I had taken my self off to bed with was replaced by the day’s normal chatter, nothing had changed, but everything had changed, I had changed. My father hid behind his paper, the pages rustled as he turned them, that was the same, my mother made toast and placed it on the table, that was the same, I sat in my chair, the same chair I had sat in for years, but it was no longer my chair, I couldn’t feel it beneath me, or the knife I held in my hand, or taste the food in my mouth. My world had been taken from me and they didn’t notice, I imagined them carrying on their lives, without me, if they had never been to Africa then that is how it would be. I thanked my mother for breakfast, she acknowledged me, I kissed my father on the head, he squeezed my hand. ‘Just please remember Maeve, what we talked about last night, it’s not to be repeated to anyone.’ It was all he said. I smiled and left the room.
The swing had rusted over the years, I hadn’t played on it for a long time, the once shiny red paint now pitted with brown rust. My arm caught on a jagged bit, ripping a small in it made a small hole in the cuff of my top, I stuck my finger through it, making the hole bigger, it helped, helped to concentrate my mind, to feel the others around me, to stop being so alone. I sat on the swing all morning, rocking to and fro, my feet skimming the grass, now growing out of control, mingling with the weeds, creating a private world for me to hide in unnoticed. If I stopped swinging and listened I was sure that I could hear them, but when I turned to see where they were, there was nothing, no one there. I heard the voice again, I didn’t recognise it ‘Maeve, Maeve…’ I had drifted off, the voice was there again, this time I did, it was my mother, she was stood leaning against the swing, I went to warn her about the rust and the sharp parts but didn’t, something in side me had stopped caring, stopped loving even. I wasn’t apart of her world any longer, I was a secret, an embarrassment, maybe even a nuisance, the product of an act that shouldn’t have happened. She went to touch me, catching her sleeve on the same sharp metal as I had, I didn’t say anything, there was nothing to say. ‘Oh, I didn’t see that there.’ It wasn’t the only thing she didn’t see. The others were stood behind her now, I could see them, their bare feet sunk into the grass, small hands holding bunches of wild flowers, they were holding them out to her, a gift. She put her hand on my shoulder, they left, she made them go. I looked behind her for them, nothing, she turned to see what I was looking at, ‘What are you looking at Maeve? there’s nothing there.’
The summer past quickly, it hadn’t been the same as summer’s of my younger years, I no longer sat on the swing, I was too old for it, and the others no longer played there, they had gone. I has asked for the grass not to be cut, it grew knee deep, jostling for position with the weeds, I wanted nothing changed, I wanted to keep the memory. As the start of the new school year, at a new school, the local one approached the swing sat silent, I watched it through my bedroom window, other thoughts on my mind.
There had been times throughout the summer that I had tried to ask questions. My father had made it very clear that the subject was closed, as far as he was concerned I now knew the truth and that was enough. It wasn’t. My behaviour alternated between being needy and clingy, to days spent holed up in my room, a vigil kept on the swing, watching and waiting for them to return. My mother turned deaf to my questions, skirting them, never answering them. Small things niggled me, the logistics fascinated me. I wanted to know what happened when they left the village with me, how did they get back here, then what? Did they simply turn up and introduce me, the not knowing ate away at me, bit by bit it took a part of me and replaced it with doubt, doubt has its own building blocks, derision, worthlessness, emptiness, these were now my new friends.
The family I once had was now divided. I sat on the stairs, always in the same spot, hidden in the corner, shrouded by the banisters and the shadows. I listened to their conversations, the arguments, the blame. I wanted to stop it, to put it back the way it was, I silently screamed at them, my mouth opening, no sound would come out, I knew it wouldn’t, I was too scared, I didn’t want to lose any more than I already had. It was the morning after one of these nights that my mother and I set off for my new school. There were no butterflies in my stomach, no dread, no apprehension, only the acceptance of the cruelties of school. The journey passed quickly, and in silence, it seemed there was nothing to be said, she knew that I had heard the previous night’s fight, but said nothing, she knew that if she tried to justify it, then I would ask the questions she didn’t want to answer, wariness and suspicion hung heavy in the car.

I hadn’t argued, cried or made a fuss in any way when it was suggested that I go to the local school. It was a punishment for knowing the truth. Knowing the secret of my past was bittersweet, when I was ignorant of the facts I was special, now that I knew, that had all gone, it had been replaced by indifference. I both loathed and valued the secret, of what it had done to me, how it was changing my life. I wrote lists, tried to weigh up what was good and bad about knowing, and became resigned to its power.

BEFORE THE SECRET
I WAS SPECIAL
MY DADDY LOVED ME
MY MUMMY LOVED ME
I BELONGED
I HAD A HOME

AFTER THE SECRET

NO LONGER SPECIAL
THEY DON’T WANT ME HERE
AN EMBARRASMENT
THEY ARGUE ALL THE TIME
THEY ARGUE ABOUT ME
DADDY DOESN’T LOVE ME ANY MORE
MUMMY DOESN’T LOVE ME ANY MORE
I FEEL ALONE
I WANT MY BROTHERS AND SISTERS
I WANT MY MUM
AN INCONVENIENCE
I WANT TO GO BACK BEFORE THE SECRET
I HATE KNOWING
I DON’T WANT TO KNOW

I wrote lots of lists, I tried to make them equal, but each time they ended up the same, the lists made it clear in my mind, no matter what, it would never be the same, this was who I was now, it was who I always was, who I was meant to be.
FOUR

By Christmas time I had begun to live my new life. I stopped listening on the stairs, the arguments were always the same. My questioning abated, the child they wanted was what I gave them. Their secret was safe.
School became my refuge, replacing my emptiness with work, spending my spare time in the library. I could see the playing fields from the window by the desk I always sat at, I watched the other girls, linked arm in arm, swapping their stories and thoughts, and secrets. Their friendship alluded me, but they didn’t bother me, they didn’t taunt me, they didn‘t even notice me. I was happy with my books, I had free reign on the internet, it led to another world, the one I wanted to find.
I was trusted by the teachers, left to my own thoughts and work. I was researching my past, touching my roots, finding a way home, to my brothers and sisters. I could feel them getting closer.
The following two years passed uneventfully, I continued to study hard, it wasn’t noted that I hadn’t made any friends, it didn’t bother me. I wouldn’t have known what to say to them, I didn’t know who was in, who was out, what to wear, I no longer cared for shopping, for having the latest ‘in’ things, I didn’t need any of it, all I needed was time, time to find the past.
The closer I got to the truth the greater the need was to hide the real me. I kept my own secrets now. My secrets had to stay safe, so I started to listen on the stairs again, analysing everything I heard, they were polite to each other, but the warmth was gone, it seemed as though they were acting out their lives, saying their lines, on queue, moving in the right direction, never tripping or falling, never forgetting their words. I had a walk on part in their script, but was no longer the star. They had laid the demon to rest, they had told me their story, and I had, to them, accepted it, they became blind to me.
There is a day that stands out in my mind, I can still feel it, smell it, almost touch it. It was the day I decided. I had reached a crossroads, It was a turning point, one which I knew deep in my heart I would reach and follow, but which scared me. I didn’t think beyond the decision to go, it was all encompassing, all consuming, there was nothing else, I was blinkered to the outside world, I knew where I wanted to go, and what I wanted to find.
Switching off the computer terminal for the last time in the library I said a hurried good bye to the only member of staff left working, she was usually the only one working when I was there, and had never enquired about my work, she didn’t seem interested, which suited me fine. I picked up my bag and looked around for the last time, checking that I had everything, I would miss school, not the people, not even the teachers.
I chose not to take the bus, but walked the three miles home. I was nervous, worried that my parents would see the deception in my eyes. My mouth was dry and the contents of my stomach were being picked over by various field animals from where I had been sick on the way. I took a deep breath as I turned into our driveway, trying not to crunch the gravel underfoot too much, hoping that my mother wouldn’t hear me, wanting desperately to simply slip upstairs unnoticed.
‘Maeve, you look terrible’. My mother was standing by the gate, removing the last of the dead flowers, it seemed appropriate, clearing away what was not wanted. I closed my eyes, wishing my mother away, not wanting her to look too deeply into me. ‘N..no…I’m alright, I think I should have taken the bus, I didn’t realise how cold it was, sorry Mum, I’ll go and lie down, I’ll be alright, please just let me lie down.’ Tension started to rise inside of me, I could feel my cheeks go red, my voice a touch higher than normal… she knew, or did she? I wasn’t about to hang around to find out and ran to the house, up the stairs, and locking the door behind me threw myself onto my bed. I clutched the cover, breathed in its smell, remembering its smell, I wanted to remember everything now, take in my heart what I loved and leave the rest behind.
I sat up abruptly, there were things to be done. I didn’t have time to dwell on what I leaving. Over the past few weeks I had secretly collected most of the things that I needed. Taking from the garage my father’s large rucksack, the one he used when we went to the boat. All of my money was safe in a money belt tucked away at the back of a drawer. I had bought chocolate, for energy, and bottles of water. I only took a few items of food from the kitchen, I didn’t want my mother asking questions. From the bottom of my bag I took out my sports kit and placed it in my dirty clothes basket, holding it for a moment, it was the last time I would ever do it, I let it drop down and replaced the top. From under where my sports kit had been I took out the folder paper, it had been easy to print it off in the library, easier than I had imagined. Unfolding it, I read and re-read it, my flight instructions for Casablanca, Morocco, from there I would take the train, I had been surprised to find a good website, it felt right, everything was falling into place.
From my research I knew that I would be needing both warm and cool clothing, and had found an old puffa jacket in a bag waiting to be taken to a charity shop, I didn’t want to stand out in new clothes. I had taken my passport from the draw in my father’s desk where it was normally kept, hoping that he wouldn’t notice that it was missing, but I couldn’t risk leaving it to the last moment. I opened it up to the page with my picture on it, looked at the name Mavis Stalbright, place of birth, London, I wondered if there really was a Mavis Stalbright, born in London. All lies of course, there was no Mavis Stalbright.
It was all there, all packed, checked, everything I needed. My heart was pounding, I either went tonight, or knew that I would never again have the courage to go. My mother’s footsteps on the landing shook me out of my thoughts, quickly I threw the rucksack into the bottom of the wardrobe. I heard the door handle go down and then back up again, ‘Maeve, are you alright in there, open up for me princess, I’ve made you some soup and bread’. It seemed an interminable time between getting from the wardrobe door to the bedroom door, inside my room were the instruments and means to find my past, outside on the landing stood my mother, I opened the door.
It should have been a wretched feeling lying to my mother, but it came easily, telling her that I was alright, but just a little tired, saying that the soup was enough for me and that I would go to bed and not have supper. I wrapped my arms around her for the last time, and told her I loved her, as soon as I said it I knew it was the wrong thing to say, I had stopped saying it a long time ago, why now? It was guilt and uncertainty, I wanted her to know that I loved her, I owed her at least that. ‘Maeve, are you sure you’re all right, is something wrong at school, you know you must never keep things wrapped up inside, they will come and get you in the end – if there’s a prob…’ I pulled away and looked at her, still with perfect hair and porcelain skin, I wondered how awful she would look tomorrow when they discovered that I was gone, when they had read the note that I would leave. ‘Mum, I’m alright, I’ve just got a bit of a head ache, I’ll be alright tomorrow – I’ll bring the bowl down myself – don’t worry – anyway, I think Dad’s just got back’. My father’s car ground to a halt outside, a thankful distraction. ‘Alright sweat heart, but don’t keep things bottled up, talk to me anytime.’ She carefully shut the door behind her and headed downstairs.
The guilt was there again, I didn’t want it, no matter how hard I tried not to think. But anger was in my heart, the anger I had felt for them, kept hidden for the past couple of years, that had driven me to do what I was doing left me, the guilt was shadowing it. I started to doubt myself, the anger returned, it hadn’t left, it was playing with me, I let it win.
Sleep was not something I had expected that night, though having sorted my bag, leaving it by my open window, and after writing a note for my parents, I slept, there were no dreams. I woke before my phone’s alarm went off, I felt good, ready, had I been superstitious I would have seen this as a good omen of things to come.
At 5am, an hour before either of my parents would be up, I carefully lowered my bag from my bedroom window down onto the drive below. I re-checked everything was as it should be in my pockets, and placing the note to my parents on the dressing room table, I too climbed out of my bedroom window. To my right was a ledge, from which I could jump down to the lawn, the frosty wet grass masking any noise. The first bus of the day left at 6.30am, and I would easily make the 3 miles into town within the hour.
So this was it, stood on the frosty lawn, I was already shivering, more from anticipation than cold, but more than cold, I started to feel lonely, I shook the thought from me. I looked up at the house, beautiful in the half light, warm and safe inside, everything I knew was on the inside, now already out of reach, I turned, picked up my bag and ran silently over the lawn towards the road.
The bus journey from town had not been as bad as I thought it might be, I had images of me getting off at the first stop and running home, but I didn’t even notice the different stops, the early morning workers, or the strange looks they gave me. If any of them asked, I was going to say that I was off on a school trip and we all had to meet in London, a stupid idea really. Of course they all knew that I was a runaway, but I was a runaway with a difference, I wasn‘t to be yet another nameless face on the streets of London, thankfully not one of them cared enough to ask.
I had changed buses twice and had taken the commuter train into London, no one had noticed me, it was all too common a sight to see a young girl heading into the bright lights, most of them heading straight into a life of misery and abuse, they could not in a million years have known what was going on in my mind, or the journey I was taking.
Waterloo station was different from what I remembered, the system for buying tickets for the tube had all changed since I had been there last with my mother on a Christmas shopping trip when I was younger. It all seemed so loud, so busy, everyone pushing, ipods and mobile phones replacing conversation and human contact. It was cold and impersonal and big, but at least it felt as though it camouflaged my intentions, in truth it smothered me, making me nauseous and light headed. I sat down, clutching my bag, believing every passing person was sizing it up to steal it – my bag was so important to me, it contained all that I now owned. Within a few minutes I had composed my self sufficiently to make my way to Heathrow, terminal one, my flight to Casablanca on the Moroccan Atlantic coast and from where I would start my long journey south to find myself.
The bus dropped me in front of the terminal building, concrete, glass, shops, people, bags, bags everywhere, as if they had come by themselves, did they belong to anyone, had anyone else not noticed how many unattended bags there were.
The weariness must have shown on my face, something I wasn’t able to hide by simply brushing my hair and cleaning my teeth, which I had done before approaching the sales desk. ‘You all right love? Are you travelling alone – ‘cos you look a little pale’. For the first time in the 5 hours that I had been travelling someone had noticed me, someone cared enough to ask if I was alright. On one hand it made me feel human and loved again, on the other it sent warning pangs through me, ‘don’t give yourself away…not now…keep calm’. ‘Yes, I’m fine, thank you, just a long journey getting here, I’m going to see my father…in Casablanca…he’s…’. ‘you’re rambling…shut up…just ask for the ticket and go…’ . ‘Sorry love, what were you saying, I didn’t catch any of it, do you have your passport and ticket – how many bags do you have.’ I lifted up my rucksack, it didn’t need to go in the hold, it was small enough, I wanted it with me anyway, not wanting it out of my sight. I handed over my passport and the paperwork, my hands were shaking, I knew I was about to get caught, the moment she entered my name into the system it would show that the ticket had been bought with a stolen credit card number, my mother’s credit card number. I looked away from her, trying to be as calm as possible, I didn’t want to look at her, I started to sweat. ‘Excuse me, Miss Stalbright.’ A lump came to my throat, I imagined the police coming for me, I wanted to run, get away from here, but my feet wouldn’t move, I turned to face her, expecting to see the accusation on her face, she handed me my boarding pass and passport. ‘Have a nice trip.’ That was that, I held the boarding pass in my hand, looking at it in disbelief, the person behind me asked me to move, I shuffled my bag with my feet, stood staring at the card, I was on my way.
Feeling insignificant in such a large and overwhelming place was having a calming effect on me, I didn’t stand out, I looked just like all the other back packers, though most of them were either sitting in cafes or at a bar.
I had over four hours to wait before departure and spent most of the time reading travelogues and brochures, anything that was free, I had to conserve money, I had a little over a thousand pounds, everything that was in my savings account, patting my pocket to make sure it was safe I sat down and started to eat one of my chocolate bars.
‘Going to Casa,eh?’, he was about 20 years old, dressed in normal jeans and t-shirt, but his features were more Arabic than European. ‘Sorry…’. I looked up from the paper that I had found and was reading. ‘I asked you if you were going to Casablanca? Mind you, if you’re not your sitting at the wrong gate.’ Good looking is what struck me first, and not too old to worry about him asking too many questions as to why I was travelling alone – I decided to trust my instinct and talked to him, it was nice to have someone to talk to, it felt like I wasn’t quite so alone.
‘I’m going to meet my father there, he’s working…..’. It suddenly occurred to me that this guy might know Casablanca and would know that I was lying. ‘So, what does Daddy do then? In Casa?’ His mouth curled up into a smile and I couldn’t tell if he was laughing at me or just being friendly. ‘Oh, nothing much, I don’t know really…’ I was stumbling over my words. ‘Well, it’s none of my business, and I have to go now, people to see and all that, but if you get stuck, or need anything there, give me a call’. He handed me a small business card, ‘Josef’ nothing else just Josef and a mobile number. I took the card out of politeness, gave it a perfunctory glance and tucked it in my pocket. ‘Er, Josef, listen, I don’t think I’ll have time to…’ But he was already up and walking away, he turned around and winked at me, I have to say that it made me feel good, he was good looking and kind, and he did wink at me.
By the time the in-flight meal had arrived I had forgotten about Josef, his card was sat in my pocket, un-touched and forgotten about.
‘Hey, Daddy’s girl, you dining with us tonight?’ I didn’t react as I didn’t realise it was me that was being spoken to, the lady sat beside me nudged me, ‘I think he’s talking to you dear.’ Josef was stood slightly bent over the metal trolley, dispensing plastic dinner trays and banter to all who would either listen or who were hungry. ‘I didn’t realise you worked…’ I could feel my face reddening, feeling slightly embarrassed at being recognised, I didn’t like the attention it was drawing. ‘Yes, thank you.’ I took the tray from him and placed it on the pull down table in front of me. I hadn’t eaten properly since the bowl of soup the night before, the food was more than welcome. ‘Tell you what’, Josef leant over me to hand a tray to the woman beside me, ‘When I finish with all of this we’ll have a little chat – let you in on some of the secrets of Casablanca.’ I started to feel a bit uneasy, I was never comfortable with boys, let alone men. ‘No…I mean it’s alright…You don’t have to, you see my Dad’s…’. But again he was off, and again he winked, I looked down at my food, something in a sauce, but at that moment I would have eaten anything.
I slept fitfully for the rest of the flight, it was the first time since leaving home that I had allowed my self to think about what my parents were doing now. Were they glad to be rid of me, or were they worried, I didn’t have the answer, I was tired, confused and apprehensive, I was wishing that I had not started out on this journey, I wanted to go home.
It was a rare occasion that either of my parents over slept, which is what had happened the morning that I left. It wasn’t until past 8am that my mother knocked on my door, concerned that I would be late for school, she had taken with her a fresh cup of tea, when I didn’t reply she came in, it was obvious that I was not there, obvious too was the letter, still lying on my dressing table. There is still a stain on the carpet from where she dropped the cup, she had not even by that time read or even opened the letter. My mother knew that I had gone, it was not until my father finally came into the room, after hearing my mothers cries, that the letter was eventually read.

Dear Mum and Dad

Firstly sorry, sorry that I am doing this, sorry that all this had to happen, but I must find out for myself. I have enough money to get me there, and my passport is still in date. Maybe you wouldn’t understand, maybe you would, but this is my life and I need to know where I come from.

Please don’t be angry with me, and hopefully I will be back soon once I have sorted this all out in my head.

My phone is switched off, so there is no point in trying to call.
Lots of love with all my heart – please don’t worry.

Maeve

‘Richard, is she crazy, she doesn’t even know where she’s going, bloody hell, enough money, that’s going to be the last of her worries…Richard, do something…’ My mother had become hysterical, grasping at her words, fear running through her, fear not only for me but for herself and for my father, my being in Africa would open a Hornet’s nest that had long been cemented over. ‘Susan, for god’s sake, calm down, lets think, she couldn’t have got far, it’s only 8.30am, she’s probably sat in school sulking, for heavens sake, she’s sixteen, she’s a teenager, even Maeve sulks, she can’t just fly off to Africa, someone would notice.’ My father was saying this more to convince himself than my mother, my father was all too aware of my abilities – he knew that if it was possible to smuggle a baby out of Africa, it was possible for that baby, now a young woman with a passport to walk right back in. He was pacing around the room now, trying to avoid the tea stain. ‘Ring the school, no…wait…just in case, don’t say anything about her missing, just say that she left her sports kit behind, something like that, just don’t say she’s missing, Susan, go, do it, it’s important that we think straight now, shit!’. ‘What good will that do, we know she’s missing.’ ‘Susan, we know she’s missing from here, it would be nice to know she’s not just sitting at school gloating – getting her own back on us for something.’ My Father’s voice was rising along with his anger and worry. ‘Getting her own back, what for, for heavens sake Richard, she wants for nothing, I would lay down and die for her, she knows that – oh Richard, she’s out there alone, she too young, we have to get her back…’
My mother was throwing her arms up into the air now, out of control, wailing and crying. Finally my Father took hold of her by the shoulders and quickly shook her, snapping her back to some kind of normality.
‘Susan, she’s the one who has gone and done this, we have to pick up the pieces and cover ourselves as best as possible – bloody hell, if this gets out I’ll be ruined – everything gone – the ungrateful little co…’. My father cut himself short. ‘Richard, how could you, for Christ’s sake, she’s our daughter Richard, yours and mine – yes, we both have a lot to lose, not just you, but don’t you think that she’s a little bit more important at the moment – we have to get her back.’
The situation was becoming more intense between them, with my fathers outburst about position and not losing it sent my mother into a fury. Accusations were flying, my father disingenuous about how much he had wanted me, my mother accusing him of being insincere and deceitful. In truth they had both wanted me, they had both taken the decision to take me, and they had both committed perjury to obtain the necessary papers for the adoption. It didn’t take them long to realise that they were wasting valuable time arguing, time that in reality could have been spent more productively, they both slumped down on the bed, exhausted and staring at a bleak and troublesome future.
I was probably about fifty miles away by the time they had both calmed down sufficiently to phone the school and discover that I was not there, it was a bad error of judgement as it immediately sent alarm bells ringing with my form tutor. If I wasn’t in school and my parents had rang to say that I had left my sports kit at home, then I wasn’t at home, it wasn’t long after that a member of staff had arrived at my father’s surgery to enquire about my ‘well being’. The school’s phone calls to the house had gone unanswered as my mother had taken to driving around in vain, trying to spot me.
‘Dr Stalbright, we are just a little concerned by your phone call this morning, is everything all right at home with Maeve, as you now know she isn’t in school today, which is very unlike her’. My father was furious, this young know it all had simply walked in, and was now insinuating that there were problems at home. ‘How dare you, you come marching into…’ ‘I didn’t march in sir, your receptionist told me to come through – I thought you would be worried about Maeve, are there problems, where is Maeve? I would just like to have a little chat with her, just to make su…’. My father flew up from his chair sending patients notes flying across the room. ‘Mr, what ever your name is, who ever you are, I am a very busy man, I have some very sick and also some very busy patients to see, I most certainly do not have problems at home, and no you cannot talk to Maeve as she has gone away for a few days, is that all right with you – or should I have asked permission before sending my only daughter on holiday’. The young man was taken aback by my fathers reaction, not the normal reaction he thought of a caring father, most fathers, he thought, in his naivety would have jumped at the chance to have his wealth of knowledge about adolescents placed before them, he instantly became suspicious – which was the opposite of what my father wanted to achieve – the last thing he needed was some nosey busy body poking his nose in, looking into things that didn’t concern them, looking into both his and my life. ‘Ok, Dr Stalbright, in my capacity as resident social worker for the school it is my duty to inform you that I shall be taking this matter to my superiors, I am not happy with your explanation as to the whereabouts of your daughter, and you must understand that her safety and well being are my priority – no doubt both my supervisor and maybe even the police will want to speak to you, and your wife. I understand that she sits on the local magistrates bench, is that where I can find her today, because I didn’t get a reply from your home’.
My father was standing over the young man, holding back his anger, his mind working a thousand different thoughts as to what to do, of course he was worried, but this stupid man – boy, sat in front of him had no idea – he tried to placate him, only the lies were now beginning to pile up, he thought of his own father and what he would have said ‘oh what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive…’
‘My wife is away as well at the moment, she and Maeve are simply having some girly time together, it was a birthday surprise for Maeve, as you should know it’s her birthday – when you have children young man you might understand’. It was a stupid lie, it signalled the start of my parents worst nightmare – it heralded their downfall.
Of course I was aware that my disappearance would cause some problems, I was not however, aware of the magnitude. Sat on the plane as it came into land in Morocco I pushed aside all thoughts of my parents, I had come here with one thing in mind.
The air was hot , I had walked to the front of the plane with all the other passengers with a great deal of trepidation, not knowing what to expect, it seemed strange to be standing in the blazing sunshine when only a few hours earlier I was running across the frozen lawn at home.
‘Beslama’ I looked up, Josef was herding the passengers off the plane and down the steps. ‘Sorry?’. ‘Beslama – it means goodbye in Arabic, you should learn some.’ ‘Yes, but I speak French and Spanish, I think that that will do, anyway, yes, beslama.’ I started down the steps. ‘Hey Daddy’s girl, I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to chat with you, maybe later, give me a call, I’m staying a couple of days’. He winked, the lady who had been sat beside me raised her eyes brows – ‘Careful sweetheart – they all look nice, but this is Africa – know what I mean.’ I didn’t know what she meant, and the moment went as quickly as it came.
The terminal building was over crowded, the vast majority of people dressed in Jalabas, long sleeved coats with hoods, I thought how funny it was that they all looked like the Arabic branch of the Klu Klux Klan, I laughed to myself, miles away, in awe at the noise and activity, and the overwhelming smell of body odour mixed with cooked meat. ‘Where you going, I take your bag, give me, give me.’ A short man, his brown face a mass of lines, his bony hands and dirty fingernails grabbing at my bag. ‘I take, take bag, where you going, I take you to pension, Augerge, nice hotel, I know them all, we take taxi, come, come…’ I couldn’t think, was I being mugged, no, but what was he doing, he was trying to take my bag, I pulled it away from him, I looked around, no one seemed to notice that I was being harassed, couldn’t anyone see what was going on. ‘Leave me alone.’ I meant for it to come out in a controlled authoritative manner, instead it hardly made it past my lips in a whisper. ‘No, come, lady this way, good hotel, taxi – you tourist me help – don’t worry, no body they can touch you, you wit me now.’ I didn’t know what he was on about, I just knew that the situation wasn’t right, I looked around for help, for a policeman, there were none, I was a long way from home and was now beginning to feel the distance.
Catching the reflection of myself in a mirrored window, I was shocked to see how much taller I was than man who was harassing me, he seemed to stoop a little, which oddly seemed to give him an advantage whilst he tried to regain his grip on my bag which I had swung around my shoulder. ‘Come, come, no body they can touch you, you no worry, my name is Brahim, you lovely lady, what you name?’ I was beginning to feel unnerved by his attentions and actions. All at once his hands seemed to be everywhere, grabbing my bag, pulling at my wrist, his eyes darting everywhere, then it struck me, warnings in travel books, warnings on the Home Office home page regarding touts and ‘guides’. It took every part of me not to crawl away, but every part of me knew what I had to do, scream, scream as loud and for long as I could, make myself seen, heard, noticed. It came from deep within me, a fear thrown from my lungs at full pelt, both piercing and fully encompassing at the same time, now they noticed me, they all noticed me. It did however have the desired effect on my harasser, it took only for the start of the second scream to begin its climb to full crescendo that he deftly untangled his hand from the strap on my bag and released his grip on my wrist, he was gone, vanished into thin air, swallowed by the crowd, I fell onto my bag like a deflated balloon, tears that I was refusing to let through were now tumbling down my cheeks, silent but stinging, and again, no one noticed.
‘Hey, Daddy’s Girl.’, never before had I been so glad to see someone, though Josef was as much a stranger to me as the little grasping tout, I felt safe, as if by simply being a steward on a plane made taking his hand and being led to a bar as safe as if I were holding that of a policeman’s. I had never before been in a bar, this was baptism by fire. The floor was covered in disused tissues, cigarette ends and scraps of food. The edges of table legs harboured dirt and dust, old beer mats propping up the odd table leg here and there to stop them for wobbling, they too were stained yellow and were mushed into feathery mounds. Snide remarks and sideways glances were beginning to make me nervous, goose bumps suddenly appeared on my arms, it felt like an army of ants was marching over my body making my shoulders twitch, I found that if I swallowed hard it quashed my desire to be sick.
Josef made me sit at a table in the corner, he was no longer wearing his uniform, instead he carried a leather jacket over his shoulder and was wearing the same jeans and t-shirt that I had first seen him in. He threw his jacket over the chair opposite me. ‘Look after that, oh and hold onto you bag, I’ll be back in a sec..’ ‘Wait…I can’t jus…’ He didn’t hear me as he pushed past a couple of woman and disappeared into the kitchen behind the counter.
I fidgeted nervously, twirling my short frizzy hair around my forefinger, only when it became stuck did I stop. I reached into my pocket and took out my phone. Nervously I switched it on, believing that instantly it would ring, my mother would be on the other end, trying to act calm and reassuring, or my father would answer, that thought brought dread and apprehension to me, goose bumps started to reappear on my arms. The screen came to life, first telling me it was searching for a network, then settling on Maroc Telecom, then the inevitable beep of a message, no lots of messages, missed calls and texts. Not wanting to read any of the texts, and knowing whom the missed calls were from was a welcome relief from the awkwardness that I was feeling. I held the phone in my hand, it didn’t stop beeping, countless messages stacking up on one another, a waiter was standing over me, looking both hopeful and bored. I didn’t want a drink, I didn’t have money for drinking in bars and cafes, where was Josef, I shook my head slightly signalling that I didn’t want anything, he pointed to the door. ‘Orange’, It was the first thing that came into my head, but it seemed to placate him, and I was left to ponder what I should do. I ignored all the voice messages, deleting them before even listening to them, the thought of listening to my parents voices filled me with self doubt and disgust, I opened the first of the text messages. *Meave, pls, watever it is, just phone,mum* *You don’t know what you’re doing, it is dangerous,dad* , More and more of them, all saying the same things, all telling me to call, to text, to come home, pressing the dangerous angle, telling me I didn’t know what I was doing. En mass I deleted them all, yes, I felt guilty, yes I was scared beyond anything that I had ever known, but I did know what I was doing, I did!
Just as the last of the messages was being deleted Josef returned, bringing with him my Orange that I had ordered. It brought a smile to my face, perhaps he had a part time job as a waiter as well as a steward, I supposed that the two were similar. ‘Your order Madam’. He placed the glass on the table, I noticed that there was a chip on the rim, and moved it around so that I wouldn’t have to drink out of that side. ‘You know you really should tell me your name if we’re going to keep meeting like this’. He placed his hand on my wrist, instantly I pulled away. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean anything, you know you’re a bit tetchy, Daddy not here to collect you?’, his tone was sarcastic. ‘Maeve, it’s Maeve, and no he’s not here, I’ll get a taxi, thank you for bringing this over for me.’
Josef was staring at me, his brown eyes seemed to melt into his face, giving him the look of a chocolate button. ‘You know I don’t believe you for one moment, about your father that is’, I hadn’t noticed before but his accent was more French than anything else, though his English was perfect. ‘Well Maeve, welcome to Morocco, it’s not a place for young girls by themselves as you might have noticed, you need to be a bit more forceful, a bit more savvy. And you might want to consider covering yourself up, it’s not really the right thing to wear a top like that here, people, men, will get the wrong idea.’ It then occurred to me that that was why people were giving me sideways looks, even though I was in an international airport bar I was still the only one dressed they way I was, a strappy top and tight jeans. There were other westerners of course, but mostly they were dressed in what seemed like a uniform of baggy trousers and long sleeved t-shirts, with a scarf of some kind loosely wound around their necks, they blended, I didn’t. Being tall helped me appear older than I was, but I still had the puppy fat look of a child, and wore no make up or jewellery, I looked like what I was, an out of her depth child.
My father made an excuse to his receptionist about having to make a home visit, though she insisted that he was not on call, and left the surgery early, heading home, hoping to find my mother before anyone else did, there was a lot that they hadn’t thought through properly, and already it seemed that the net was closing in on them. The car tyres threw up swathes of gravel as he ground to a halt, my mother pulled into the drive after him, he yanked open her car door. ‘Susan, you have to get out of here for a few days, they know, for Christ’s sake, they know, the bloody police are coming.’ Sweat began to pour down his back, already his face was wet and red with exertion. He pulled my mother out of the car by her arm. ‘Richard, calm down’. She pulled her arm free. ‘What?! – what do you mean the police are coming, for Christ’s sake Richard I’m a JP, my daughter is missing and you tell me the police are coming.’ ‘Don’t argue with me Susan, now is not the time, just go and pack, you’ll have to stay at a hotel somewhere, a Spa thingy, and book a room for Maeve as well, in her name.’ ‘Richard, what has happened?’. But my father was already in the driver’s seat of my mother’s car, moving it to the back garage where it couldn’t be seen. My mother was stunned by the suggestion of going to a hotel, and horrified at the prospect of the police and instead of packing an overnight bag, or even looking for a hotel to book, she sat in the kitchen waiting for my father to come in and explain.
‘I’m not going anywhere until you explain Richard.’ It was not often that my mother took control, but she needed to be in control, it was her only hope if she was to find and bring back her daughter, as much for her sake as it was for mine. After locking the garage door my father returned to the house, he expected to find my mother packing instead he was met with a stony glare from glassy eyes that wanted, needed answers. He explained about the social worker, blaming my mother for phoning the school, to which she did not point out that it was in fact his idea. That the idiot of a young man wanted to see me, to make sure that I was OK, he spat out the words ‘well being’, like the man was accusing him of mistreating his own daughter, he feared that the man would be true to his word and would indeed speak to his supervisor and in turn the police.
‘Shit, Susan, shit, shit, shit, I don’t know what to do, I told them you were away having a girly few days with her, that’s I why I need you to go and pack and book in somewhere – at least if they ask I can say where you are, and if they want to be really nosey they can ask if Maeve is there too, so if you book a room for her they should just leave us alone to deal with this.’ It was on the face of it a good idea, my mother did as my father requested, packed, booked two rooms in a Spa hotel not far from the house and left in a taxi. It was my father’s idea, if she did not have her own car then she could not go driving around trying to find me, making people suspicious, it would prove to be another big mistake.
By the time the senior social worker knocked on the front door of my parent’s house, I was walking down a litter-strewn alley into the old medina of Casablanca, nothing had prepared me for what I was seeing and smelling. People were jostling for pavement space everywhere, it seemed that not one part of the street was free to escape into. The alleys narrowed the further we walked, Josef had taken my bag from me, something that I didn’t want him to do, but he had insisted. The buildings were only 2 storeys high, but they seemed to block out all of the sun. It amazed me how woman managed to negotiate buggies and prams through the maelstrom, the street vendors with their various wares expertly laid out on plastic sheeting, how even with the crush of people no one trod on them. The shops over flowed with items, clothing, mostly western, why were there so many shops selling clothes that women would not be able to wear without being leered at. Fish stalls with their tables over flowing with dismembered fish heads and entrails, all spilling onto the floor, making for a carpet of rotten slime, cats lurking at every corner. There seemed to be so many children, some had surrounded me, demanding, not asking for money, pens, sweets, until Josef had told them to go, they left in a hurry. I stopped to look at some beautiful gowns, the fabrics heavy with braid and sequins, their beauty in stark contrast to their surroundings. When I turned to ask Josef about them he was gone – so was my bag, along with my passport, and my mobile phone - my only link to home.
Panic over ran me, I started to break out in a cold sweat, I searched the crowd for Josef but couldn’t see him anywhere, I was being pushed and nudged by all the other shoppers and people in the market, to escape I entered the shop with the beautiful gowns.

‘Imshee!’ He lurched at me, screaming in my face, spit flying from his mouth as he shouted – ‘imshee!’ ‘I…’ I started to gabble, half in French and half in English, he jostled me to the front of the shop, his hand grasping for the door hand at the same time holding me firm with the other. Then he stopped and looked at me, his English was like something out of a text book. ‘Sorry, I am so sorry, for one terrible moment there I mistook you for…’ He let go of my arm, patting it with his hand before realising that I had bare arms, he reeled backwards, apologising. ‘I’m lost, I need help, please..’ I did not realise at the time that I might as well have dangled a fifty pound note in front of his eyes, a lost, scared little girl from Europe. Before I could say or even think anything a stool had been set out for me and mint tea was being poured into tiny glasses, I was to drink a lot of tea in the forth coming weeks.
‘So, tell me, what my dear, is the problem, so young, you are surely on holiday, yes, that is it, you have come apart from your group, or maybe your parents?’. He could not have spoken to true a word, I did in deed feel that I had come apart from my parents, sat in a far away place, taking solace from a man I did not know left me yearning to be at home, safe, warm, cosseted.
The feeling of being a specimen on display was suddenly dawning on me as various people came and went in the shop, each taking it in turns it seemed to sit with me, eyeing me thoughtfully, weighing up my potential, potential to exploit, when through the door, a burst of energy and fervour came Josef. He hurried into the back of the shop, a great deal of commotion, raised and whispered tones, fingers, hands arms flailing, I sat, watching, strangely detached from my surrounding, concentrating on the intricacies of the garments on show. ‘Come, Maeve, we go, now…’ Josef seemed impatient, he dragged me up by my arm, twisting it as I stood. ‘What…Where did you go, why do we have to go…?’ Everything happening so fast, the door to the shop opening and closing in a blur, next the street, the people, the shop fronts, the stalls, the smells, all a blur, Josef was dragging me along by my arm, careering into other people, knocking into shop front displays, until finally I pulled back from him, my heart was beating so fast, my mind a whirl of sensations, the milieu oppressive.
‘Josef, stop, please, I don’t understand, why are we running?’, ‘Not running Maeve, just going, going away from them – Maeve, do not ever do that again, you are too young, merde! Come, we are nearly there, then I will explain.’ Again he took hold of my arm and took me through a labyrinth of alleys, sometimes no wider than a man’s shoulders, the sunlight was completely obliterated, making the tops of the buildings appear to curl down towards me, honing in on me, suffocating me. We stopped at a oversized wooden door, large nail heads randomly placed, set within the door was a smaller door, Josef knocked, it took only a few seconds for the door to be unlocked and for us to enter a courtyard.
Light streamed down and glinted off the mosaic tiles on a fountain, though it had obviously been a long time since it had seen water, many of the tiles were stained brown, many of them were missing. The courtyard was central to a gallery that ran the full four sides of the square, ornately carved wood threw shadows in strange shapes, it was eerily quite in contrast to the medina and the noise that lay behind its walls.
‘Josef, my bag, where’s my bag?’ I was becoming quite hysterical, my whole life as I had now was in that bag. ‘Hey, Princess…’ Only my parents had ever called me Princess, it seemed oddly out of place for this man who I hardly know, and whom I was now wholly reliant upon to use. ‘You got lost, I dropped your bag here then came back to find you, you have no idea how lucky you are that I happened to look through that window and saw you there. That man – well let’s just say, he doesn’t only sell fancy clothes, Maeve, he sells fancy women as well, and how can I put this, Maeve, Princess, he would have sold you.’

‘Josef, people do not get sold’. He turned to look at me, I could sense his seriousness, ‘They do here, believe me, they do here!’ I didn’t want to believe him, and chose not to, people don’t get sold in this day and age, I made myself believe that he said it to frighten me, I chose to believe that it intrigued me.
As I took in the beauty and intricacy of the mosaic fountain, and wondered why there was no water in it, it occurred to me that who ever had opened the door was no where to be seen, only Josef and I stood in the courtyard, unease was something that I was fast becoming accustomed to. I spun around, looking for other exits, seeing that Josef was stood by the door from which we had entered, scanning the walkway above me for a door, a window, anything, just in case, then I remembered my bag. ‘Josef, I need my bag, where’s my bag?’, my voice cracking and rising. He came towards me, his arms outstretched, I stepped back, tripping on the base of the fountain, unbalanced I fell. I hadn’t noticed how perfectly manicured his hands were until he reached out to help me up, they reminded me of my mother, perfect finger nails, beautifully shaped, his hands were almost feminine.
‘I think you need some tea, come we meet my friend and then we have some tea.’ I stood my ground, though I felt dizzy with the days events I knew that I had to find it in myself to remain calm, to at least appear in control. ‘Josef, I really do need my bag.’ I was glad to have regained some control in my voice. ‘Sorry, Maeve, listen, there is nothing to be afraid of here, I certainly mean you no harm, your bag is up in a room, you can have a shower if you wish, but it is only cold water here. I really am just trying to help, even I can see that you need to friend and I don’t think that Daddy is going to pick you up, is he? I see a lot of myself in you Maeve, and believe me, there aren’t too many people here to help you. If you leave now you will end up on the streets, you will end up…’. He stopped himself, but I knew that by the streets he meant prostitution – just his intimation made me feel dirty. I accepted his offer and was led up a carved wooden staircase that I previously hadn’t noticed, to a room that was furnished with only a mat and some blankets on the floor, and a low wooden table, but at least, as promised my bag was sat in the corner, seemingly untouched.
I took the opportunity to take a shower, the water was in deed cold, but it didn’t seem to matter that much, just the feeling of being clean, of washing away the thoughts of the shop with the luxurious gowns, the tout in the airport, the stares at my bare arms, being clean gave me the edge to face what or who ever else was in this building.
It wasn’t long before I found out, Josef was waiting for me outside, sat on a small wooden stool, staring into nothingness, I believed I startled him when I opened the door to my room.
‘Hey, you don’t smell too bad now, I was beginning to think that you were wearing eau de dirt – come to think of it, I think we sell it inflight!’, it made me laugh, bringing my senses down a notch or two.
We went into a large, cool room, carpets completely covered the floor, in places they were two or three deep, around the edges of the room were benches, all with hard cushions, ornate and richly embroidered. The window had shutters, which were partly closed, allowing only a small amount of the bright sunlight in, the room though oddly furnished seemed cosy and welcoming, I sat on a bench, biting my fingernails, it was a sign of my nerves. He left and returned with a tray of small glasses, they weren’t as ornate as the ones in the shop. Behind him stood another man, shorter than Josef, he too carried a tray with an engraved silver tea pot and a plate of small biscuits, they set them down on the table to my left, Josef sat on the floor in front of me, his friend knelt by the table, pouring the tea from the pot into a glass, then returning the tea to the pot, only to re-pour it, he did this many times. He must have noticed my curiosity, and spoke to me in pigeon English with a heavy accent. ‘It make the tea best - ;you must to put many times, to make the tea best.’ He followed this with a warm smile, then handed me a glass, sweat mint tea.
I held my glass toward both Josef and his friend ‘Cheers, happy birthday to Maeve – who ever she is!’ I didn’t mean for it to come out, it was stupid of me to give so much of myself away, but the emotion that I had held onto all day spilled out of me.
I didn’t understand what they were saying to each other, but gleaned that the other man’s name was Abjeli, he gave me another of his warm smiles, got up from the floor and came over to kiss me on the cheek. ‘Happy Birthday Maeve, tonight we eat.’ ‘What, oh, no, I can’t stay, I have to go, I have to get somewhere.’ The truth was that I didn’t know where I was going, I knew that the train would take me south, but more than that I hadn’t worked out, I cursed my own stupidity for not making better plans.
Josef stood and put his hand on Abjeli’s shoulder, leaning into him as he spoke to me. ‘OK, now we talk, you are amongst friends here, no one is going to hurt you or touch you, believe me Maeve, without putting too fine a point to it, Maeve, you really aren’t our type.’ He saw the quizzical look on my face. ‘Look, Abjeli and I, oh for gods sake, we’re lovers.’ I must have looked shocked, I know that I felt shocked, I had never met a homosexual man, I had certainly never been sat drinking tea with any before. ‘Maeve, what do you think eh, I’m an air steward, it goes with the territory babe, its in the job description, even you should know that, or don’t they teach you things like that at what ever fancy school you go to.’ His joviality made me laugh, and then it sank in, the hands, his perfect hands and the fact that he didn’t leer at me, I could feel my shoulders drop as tension released itself from me. For my, Maeve’s sixteenth birthday we drank tea, ate small sugary cakes flavoured with spices and honey and I talked, I talked too much.
‘Maeve, in this city a lot of men are homosexual, they just don’t shout about it, they have wives and children and pray at the mosque, they give alms to the poor, oh and they like to persecute us a little, hassle us, Abjeli was even robbed at knife point the other night, the thief stuck the knife up, well, I think you know where, said that he thought he might enjoy it. He hasn’t been outside the building since.’ The look of horror must have leaped from my eyes as Josef continued, trying to reassure me that I was safe, that we were all safe there.
My mother had booked into the hotel, for both of us, informing the receptionist that I was coming later, after school, and that the reason for being there was a birthday treat for me, claiming that my father was away and that as a family we would all have a celebration dinner when he returned. She rambled, making up scenarios as she went along, not realising that all the time she was digging a large hole for herself. My father mean time was stood in the living room, trying to control his anger as the social worker made copious notes, umming and ahhing as he scribbled. ‘Mr..Sorry. Dr Stalbright, I do understand that you are a busy man, and that your wife’s whereabouts are none of my business, however, the well being of your daughter is my business, whether you like it or not. If you could just tell me where both she and you wife are I can speak to them briefly and conclude this, taking up no more of your valuable time.’ He had boxed my father into a corner, if he refused to give the name of the hotel he knew that this guy would not let things go as they were, he was also aware of my mothers fragility with the situation, was she able to hold it together and get this man of their backs? Handing over the phone number of the hotel saying, ‘My wife is not very well at the moment, she works too hard and she is merely having a couple of days away with Maeve, it’s her birthday, a bloody birthday treat, if I discover that you have ruined it for them I’ll…’ The man cut him off. ‘Sir, I have no intention of ruining anything for anyone, my job is to ensure the well being of your daughter, as I am sure you can appreciate, I take my work very seriously…’ It felt to my father like a threat.
Had I been aware of the serious nature of the problems that my parents were facing I would not have embarked on my journey, I would not have given up on finding my true roots, I would have found some other way to discover the truth.
The social worker was true to his word, and phoned the hotel where my mother was staying, the receptionist asking him to hold or to phone back as the line was engaged, my father had, immediately upon his departure phoned my mother. ‘Susan, they’ve been, some snooty little upstart, I had to give them this number, if they call, just say that Maeve is out or in the pool or something, don’t let me down, Susan, are you listening, I know it’s hard, and believe me honey, we will find her, but right now we have to get this jerk off our backs.’ My mother wasn’t used to my father speaking to her in such a brusque manner, and had she felt better she would have chewed his ear off, instead it bought tears to her eyes, and she simply acknowledged his demands, replaced the receiver and waited for the inevitable phone call from social services.
The duty inspector at first believed the request of the social services to be a joke, the normal procedure would be to have a case conference, cover all angles and in this day and age, not leave themselves open to being sued, especially when the people concerned were a Doctor and a Magistrate, but he knew all too well that abuse crossed all class boundaries, still the request was out of the question, for the moment. He sat at his desk with my name scribbled on his note pad, deciding to do some preliminary, almost cursory enquiries before committing himself and his team to finding me.
Dinner was couscous, something which I had always liked at home, Josef and Abjeli gave me a spoon, they were eating with their fingers, using pieces of bread to scoop up the couscous and chicken, it made me think how primitive they looked, how the whole place was primitive, I hadn’t really appreciated the culture shock that I was experiencing. So much had happened to me that day, but as we finished eating the conversation turned once again to me, and what I was really doing there. Both of them listened intensely, at first I thought that they wouldn’t believe me, that all they saw was just a little rich girl from Europe who had thrown a paddy at her parents and had simply run away, but the hug I received from Josef when I finished went beyond friendship, I knew that he was there for me, on my side, eager to help me in any way he could. ‘Wow, baby, how…how have you managed to keep all that inside you all these years, it must have been eating you up, not knowing, no wonder you’re here, even I would be. But you know it’s not all spices and quaint shops, you have to be careful here, people will take advantage of you, look what’s already happened.’ He held me by the shoulders gently, holding me at arms length, looking straight into me, Abjeli nodding and agreeing with everything he said. ‘So, Josef, we help, no, no, I help, Josef you leave tomorrow, ok, we help’. Abjeli stumbled over his words in in eagerness to show his willingness to help me.
‘Thank you, no, it’s alright, I don’t…want…no that’s not right, it’s just, this is something I have come to do by myself. I can, would like to come back and visit, can I do that, once I’ve found them. It’s all I want, just to know, once I’ve been there, seen for myself, just to see where I come from, then I will come back.’ I was taken aback by Abjeli’s offer of help, though I had only known him for a few hours I felt comfortable and safe with him, it didn’t even bother me that he was gay, something that at home I would have been galled by, here however, their kindness to me, a total stranger and the affection they showed towards each other, made me feel like I had known them all my life, like I was sat with a brother and his mate. I stared out of the window, it was dark, the medina below was still full of people, pushing, shouting, constant noise, a complete contrast to the room behind me.
We sat discussing my options for a while, I showed Josef and Abjeli my notes, maps and points of reference. Occasionally they would point to villages or towns on the map and talk to each other in fast racy Arabic, I tried to listen to them, with my talent for languages I was beginning to pick up on a few things, I could pick things out of conversations and get the gist of what was being said, I began to think that perhaps I should have studied the language. They both seemed to hover over a particular place on the map, sighing they both turned to look at me. Josef spoke first. ‘Maeve, we cant let you go, it is too dangerous, these people here, they will hurt you.’ He turned to Abjeli who shook his head, ‘no, he right, you not go there, but no worry, we find new road, new route, but you must to stay here, we help, but you no go there.’ They at once had both dashed and resurrected my plans, I needed to know why the town they had pointed to was so dangerous for me, and how I was to go around it. There was only desert, it was deep into the Sahara, I was beginning to feel trepidation, maybe I had bitten off too much, if today was anything to go by I was out of my depth. Feeling depressed and deflated I sat heavily back on the bench, downcast and beaten.
Detective Inspector Thompson made calls to the school, to my mother at the hotel, asking to speak to me, and being told that I was out, and finally to my father, he decided upon hanging up the phone that the social worker had been right, I was missing. My parents were acting in a strange manner, and thus he put my disappearance at the top of his priorities. Taking with him a female officer he drove to the hotel and asked the receptionist to ring my mother and ask her come down to the foyer. It was obvious to anyone that my mother was acting irrationally, biting her nails, shouting instead of talking calmly. Reminding both the uniformed officer and him of who she was, who her husband was and that they were making a big mistake and that she would make a formal complaint, didn’t even register with the Inspector. Holding firm to his belief that something untoward had happened to me he arrested my mother on suspicion of child abduction, and led her away from the hotel to a waiting police car.
I slept that night for the first time on a mat on the floor, the blankets were heavy and not as warm as my duvet, but I felt safe even though I was in a strange building with two men whom I didn’t really, know in a part of town that at night was not safe for tourists, let alone a young girl by herself. Knowing that the following day Abjeli and I were to make a start on my travel plans, Josef was due back to work, and was not to return for another week, by which time I would be well on my way on my journey south.
The calling from the mosque at 5.30am woke me with a start, I hadn’t really taken much notice of the calls the night before, they blended in with all of the noise and commotion of the medina below, but in the quiet of the morning it made me think of ancient cities and far away places. I laughed to myself, I was in an ancient city, in a faraway place. Thinking that no one would be up at that time in the morning I crept out of my room to the toilet, a hole in the floor, with cracked tiles, but it was scrupulously clean, with a white towel and soap freshly laid on the wash stand, almost an absurdity against the backdrop of the decaying room. As I left to return to my room I caught sight of Josef, in the courtyard below, talking to a man I had not seen before, he shook hands and then embraced him, I slunk back against the wall not wanting either of them to see me, or to think that I was spying on them. I returned to my room, falling to sleep, forgetting about what I had seen.
My mother had phoned my father from the police station, a lot of the people she saw there she knew, she was after all a local magistrate, she had heard evidence from a lot of them, she now knew how the defendants who came before her felt, the system closing in around her, suspicious of everyone, she understood now why they always seemed to claim it was a ‘fit up – a conspiracy’, she shuddered at the thought of standing in the dock, being eyed by her fellow JP’s, judged even before she spoke. Even the smell of the place began to make her feel like a criminal, she felt weak and suffocated, the walls closing in, she grabbed at the counter in front of her in the custody suite, collapsing onto the floor, her head glanced off the counter before she fell, a large cut opened up above her eye.
The seriousness of the fall and my mother’s injury was more than my father could bare The fact that she had been arrested in the first place now just a mere technicality, he had demanded that she was taken immediately to a hospital, and when this was met with derision by the custody officer, who had relayed it to the Inspector in his office where he was sat with my father, my fathers instant reaction was to lash out. It was becoming apparent to the police that my family situation was not what it seemed to be, a violent father and neurotic mother, locating me was becoming more important by the hour. They decided to interview my father first, before having a press conference and asking the public for help as to my whereabouts.
‘Dr Stalbright, please be aware that you are under caution, I advise you to seek legal advise, these are very serious matters…’ My father waved his hand at the detective, ‘Why should I need a bloody solicitor, I have apologised for striking you, I think that anyone in their right mind would have done the same, and as for these ridiculous accusations regarding my daughter…well…’ The anger was rising in my father again and he knew that he had to keep his cool, remain calm, get out of there, make sure that Susan was ok, and that she didn’t say anything that would incriminate them. He could feel a migraine coming on, the nauseous feeling rising up through his throat, he needed his pills, it was to be a long day.
‘Temper sir, you need to get that sorted’, Thompson said, ‘Did Maeve make you angry, is that why you hit her……’ He paused before continuing. ‘Just tell us where she is and we can all go home, your wife need not be here another minute, oh by the way, I understand from the Doctor who saw her that she is Ok now, just a little scratch.’ The mention of my mother and the fact that my father had been denied access to her sent him into another rage, convincing the detective that my disappearance had something to do with his temper.
It was obvious to the police that I was adopted, the colour issue nagged at Inspector Thompson, we couldn’t understand why such an upstanding and middle class couple such as my parents were, would want to adopt a black kid, surely with my mother’s contacts within social services, where she was working at the time of my arrival, they were best placed to get their hands on a white baby. But his was not to reason why at that moment. As they had not got anything from my father, who had eventually demanded to see his solicitor, they decided to interview my mother, as the police had wanted, her time spent waiting in the cells had unnerved her. Thompson felt sure that she would be ready to talk, that either my body would be located by the end of the day or I would be tucked up safe and sound with what he now believed to be my very dysfunctional family – he was wrong. The wait had only hardened my mother, she immediately asked to see her solicitor, and after consulting him was led to the interview room, Detective Thompson was met by a very stern Mrs Stalbright, and a very slick lawyer. Within the hour my mother had left the police station and was heading home by cab, turning into the drive at the same time as my father. Neither of them said anything to each other before reaching the sanctity behind the front door. ‘Fucking hell Susan, this is all your fault, you stupid cow, all you had to do was tell them Maeve was out, then none of this would have happened – that fucking police man was accusing me of all sorts, little gobshite…..’ The drive home had not softened my father, his anger and rage on overdrive. ‘How dare you Richard, have you forgotten something, Maeve is still over there, we still have to find her and bring her back, for Christ’s sake, they think we’ve murdered her, do you hear me, they think she’s dead…..’ Hearing her own words brought my mother down with a bang she sat on the bottom of the stairs and sobbed uncontrollably, my father turned leaving her to it and went into his study, he poured himself a large brandy, throwing the last of the liquid to the back of his throat he hurled the glass as the fireplace where it shattered over the carpet and armchair. ‘Don’t even think I’m going to tidy that up you stupid bastard.’ My mother screamed at him, then ran to the kitchen, herself reaching for a glass of wine.
When I finally awoke the sun was streaming through the small window in my room, I could hear the crush of people below in the street, worse I could smell the street, any romantic images that I had managed to convince my self regarding this place were being replaced by the truth, this was indeed a third world country, the people would rob you or worse as soon as look at you, my fantasies were being crushed. But I had at least had Josef and Abjeli, who, though god knows why, were my guardian angels, they were the one bright spark in all this filth. I changed my t shirt that I had slept in and left to find Abjeli, as he had stated the night before, we had a lot of work to do, I intended upon getting started right away.
I found him praying, not wanting to intrude I stood back from him, allowing him his privacy with his god. Watching him kneeling and bending to touch the ground with his forehead fascinated me, had I seen this reverence to any god anywhere before my journey had begun I would immediately have thought of extremists, but here I saw simplicity, obedience, serenity, I realised I had a lot to learn, it was confusing.

Abjeli arose from his kneeling stance, he beckoned me over to him, and pointed to the table that we had sat at the night before, he had laid out breakfast: eggs, cakes, yoghurt, cheese and coffee, I was not allowed coffee at home – how far I had come in such a short time – not wanting to offend him I sat and ate, though I was more concerned with getting on with the day’s work in hand.
‘Josef, he go to work, but he no forget, he leave you money, says you need money, here.’ Abjeli handed me an envelope stuffed full of Dirham notes, greasy and dirty. I handed it back, I didn’t want to take anyone’s money, their generosity was already too much. I was beginning to feel a little embarrassed by it all. He pushed the envelope back into my hand, telling me that they both wanted me to have it, if I didn’t use it I could return it, but that I must take it with me just in case. I accepted and pushed it deep into my jeans pocket. In truth it was a relief to know that I had some back up funds, only if it were an emergency would I use it, otherwise I would return it to them untouched.
The first part of the morning seemed to go by in a bit of a daze, I was still trying to acclimatize to the noise and crush of people, I hoped that I would never get used to the smell of unwashed bodies, rotting fish and raw sewage. I was fascinated by the tajines cooking outside the pavement cafes, and thought how odd it would seem if the restaurants back home left the food to cook on the pavement amongst the rubbish and filth. There was so much to take in, still so much to learn. The railway station was ordered, how strange that the crush outside would fan out and find some form of perverse structure once inside. I was beginning to spot the touts, one or two had started to make a bee line for me until they realised that I was with Abjeli, it was like having a personal body guard, or rather they thought that he had already bagged me. There were a hand full of European tourists, all wearing the same cargo pants, as if they’d been issued them upon arrival in the country, some of the backpackers looked no older than me, and Americans, they stood out like sore thumbs, they were being shepherded by a large Moroccan woman, I noted that for a country that seemed to dislike any overt display of flesh it was far more revealing to wear tight trousers when you were her size, her flock didn’t seem to mind though and hung on her every word.
As we queued I realised that soon my body guard would be gone and I would be at the mercy of the touts, the pickpockets and children, who relentlessly harassed anybody, locals and tourists alike, I wondered why they weren’t in school or at home, at their age I would not have even been allowed out by myself, let alone to a place like this. I brought the subject up with Abjeli. ‘The children, they are the worst, they know you homosexual they ask for money, they make, er, fun, that’s it, they make fun, so I give money, they go away. You think all children go to school, no, not here, yes, we have schools, good schools, but not all children go, when you go south, you see, no children go to school, they are like rats, take from pockets, they worse than guides, never give them anything, never give them money, they tell parents, parents rob you, promise me Maeve, don’t give the rats a thing.’ As he spoke about them his mouth curled up at the edges and he spat on the floor, it was a habit that I was beginning to detest about these people, that and the fact that men used the street as a toilet – no wonder whole town stank. ‘But, you said you give money to them, why?’ Abjeli gave out a small laugh. ‘My dear Maeve, I am a homosexual, I get beaten, this is the first time since I was robbed that I have been out, the children if I give money they leave me alone, I am, oh, how you say, an easy target. But I can hide in the house, you must not give to them, when you catch train tomorrow you on your own, need to watch for them, they are rats.’ His demeanour changed when he spoke of the children, I didn’t believe they would all be the same, but I took his advise at face value and changed the subject, but it left an uneasy feeling in my thoughts.
It was gone 2 O’clock by the time we returned to the tranquillity of the house. I had my train ticket in my hand and some printed maps from the internet, Abjeli had also bought me a head scarf, he was correct in saying that it would ward off unwanted attention, as soon as I left the shop with it on it was as though I had become just part of the crowd, another face, my advantage over most other Europeans being my colour and language skills – I was now really beginning to understand the basics of Arabic, listening to every word uttered, making mental notes as to the structure and intonation. I was missing my studies and teaching myself a new language was warding off my feelings of guilt.
Again Abjeli had laid out a feast of food, he would not let me help, stating that as a guest it would be wrong of him to allow me to. I knew that I wouldn’t be eating like this for a long time to come and took advantage of what was placed in front of me. He was easy to get on with, and helped enormously with my desire to learn his language, he was impressed with my ability to have picked up so much in such a short space of time. When I asked about the house and who it belonged to Abjeli told me that it had previously belonged to his mother, and that when she died she had left it to him, he did not have any brothers or sisters, I asked about his father, but he too was dead, having died before his mother, he said it was from shame, that his only child was homosexual, I could not convince him that people do not die from shame, but backed off when he got upset and waved his hands in front of his face. He carried on talking though, about Josef, how they met, how Josef was his saviour, that his wages were what was saving the house from ruin, Josef was his rock, everything to him, he need not work, and he liked the fact that he also had time to himself when Josef was away, it gave him space, but he sometimes wondered how Josef managed to keep him, spend money on the house and send money to his parents with just his wages from the airline, he wasn’t paid that much, but Josef was a miracle worker and never let him down, he always had enough left over for little treats, outings, usually to the mountains, to small guest houses, always made welcome. ‘But Maeve, too much about me, we need to get you away, safely, you need to be aware of who is around you, I have something for you, just to keep you safe.’ He handed me a small spray, the original printing on the can had been scratched off and replaced with a label from a can of hairspray. I looked quizzically at him. ‘Its CS gas, you not get it in your eyes, you spray, like this, if some one they attack you, you spray.’ I knew that it was a gesture to try to keep me safe and reassure me, it was doing the opposite. ‘Is it legal?’ I asked. Abjeli laughed ‘Not exactly, but then attacking people, here you look after you, no one they will help you, you not legal, not go to the police. Abjeli’s warnings were in stark contrast to the day that we had had, being able to walk unimpeded through the medina, looking at the shops and stalls, taking in the scents and smells of the spice stalls, it all came crashing down and brought me back to reality. Tomorrow was fast approaching, I longed for my mother, I swallowed the trepidation in my mouth, stood up walked to the window. ‘Abjeli, I don’t know if I can do it, I shouldn’t have come, I need to go home, my parents will be…’ He put his hand on my shoulder. ‘Of course, the choice is yours, but you come so far now, you be safe, I am sorry to scare you, but I know you be safe – you choice.’ And he left it at that.
Back in my room I sat on the mat on the floor, he was right, I had come this far, the damage was already done at home, I did not know if my parents would want me back now, I had thrown it all back in their faces, all the love they had shown me, and here I was, trying to find the very people who they had rescued me from – I decided to see it through to the end – I still needed to know.
‘Richard, we need to get all the papers sorted, before they come back here, they wont stop you know, not until they find her. Where is that birth certificate, and your records, are you sure that it is all in order at the practice.’ My mother stood in the door way, she had turned her anger into actions. He looked up at her, ‘eh, yes, yes, you’re right, we need to stick together now, for god’s sake we need to make sure our stories are straight. Where did you put the paperwork for Maeve’s passport, I didn’t see it in the safe, and anything from the department, think Susan, because we need to put it all into order and burn what might dump us in it.’ My mother looked up to the ceiling and let out a long sigh. ‘There is no paperwork for her passport - I…. Just leave it.’ ‘Just leave it?! Are you nuts, the police will be into everything, I need the copy of the application form…’ ‘There isn’t one, I got the passport from someone I know….knew.’ ‘Susan, please god, don’t tell me it’s fake, tell me you didn’t….’ My mother nodded, my father sat down heavily in his seat. ‘Well that’s it then, we can wave good bye to all this, you stupid cow, what have you done, where the bloody hell did you get it from, how, I mean, shit, I thought that you dealt with it a bit too easy.’ My father was exasperated now. ‘How was I to know all this would happen, anyway, we know that the passport if OK, for heavens sake, we go away enough, have there ever been any problems before – no, the passport is not an issue.’ My mother was searching through drawers, taking out paperwork and tossing it onto the desk, my father grabbed her hand, ‘I want to know where the passport came from, who it came from and why I knew nothing about this, tell me now or by god I’ll….’ ‘You’ll do what Richard, do what?’ She pulled her wrist away, knocking a clay paperweight that I had made for my father when I was younger, it fell to the floor breaking in two. My mother picked it up, cupping it in her hands trying to piece it back together.
Standing up my father went to mother holding her in both arms, she buried her face in his chest and sobbed. ‘This can’t be happening, I would do anything to have her back, I made a mistake with the passport I know, but I can’t…I don’t have his number…’ ‘Who’s number Susan, who did you get the passport from?’ My father sensed that my mother had got herself into something that she, both of them were about to regret. She spoke softly explaining as though talking to a child who didn’t understand the complexities of the adult world. ‘He was in court, I believed him, there was a terrible scene, the CPO solicitor threatened to report me… I advised the defendant to plead not guilty, he had children Richard, he was a single parent, I believed him. Sorry, I’m not making sense am I, but let’s just put it this way, I interfered when I shouldn’t have, we found him not guilty, because of me. He came up to me in the car park, shook my hand, his bloody girlfriend was there with him, single parent, lying bastard, but anyway he said anything I wanted anytime, he could get it, I was so angry I even shouted at him that I suppose you can get a passport, I think I called him a conniving c… I’ve never used that word before, but he made me so angry, I could have been struck off, taken off the bench. You know he just laughed, ‘course lady, you want me to get you a passport I get you one, for you free, lets just call it payment for what you did for me in there’ then he stuck a piece of paper with his number on it in my pocket. I was stunned Richard, I mean I think he really thought that I was doing some kind of deal in there, I believed him.’ She held my father tighter, not wanting to let go, but he pushed her to arms length. ‘Then what Susan, tell me where the passport came from.’ ‘I phoned him, he didn’t want any money, he just took Maeve’s details, and hey presto two weeks later there it was, on the door mat, here, he had been here, honestly Richard I’ve not spoken to him since, and I don’t want to. He said the passport was ‘right’ that a mate of his worked in the passport office, well I think that we can assume it is right as we’ve never had a problem. Richard I did it because it was easy, I was so busy when we needed to get it for her, shit I wish I’d done it myself, but I was worried as well Richard, that birth certificate isn’t worth the paper it’s written on.’ ‘Oh no, don’t you go blaming this on me, the birth certificate is fine, children die all the time, no one cross references it to their birth, the certificate is fine, shit, Susan, this man, do you still have his number? And what else did he do, he was here wasn’t he, here in my house, you slut…!’ For the first time in his life my father struck my mother, she fell backwards into the bookcase, just managing to keep herself upright – thoughts raced through her head, disbelief, shock, betrayal, how could he even think….
Had I known the fall out my disappearance was creating I would have ran home if needed, but I was not aware, too naïve to understand the magnitude of what my parents had told me a few years earlier, maybe I had even romanticised it, not truly understanding the severity of their situation.
There was still a hollow feeling inside me from the day before, celebrating my birthday with two strangers, a birthday that wasn’t my own. I wondered what would have awaited me had I not embarked on this journey, but quickly pushed those thoughts away, any thoughts I had now were turning bitter and dark, birthdays were for those who knew when they were born, a luxury I didn’t have. The thought was making me angry, it brought tears to my eyes, tears I didn’t want to cry now, bitterness was replacing self pity, all I wanted was the truth.
Repacking my bag, and upon the advice of Josef and Abjeli I removed some things that I wouldn’t be needing. I could collect them upon my return. I understood their insistence that it was better to travel as light as possible, a change of clothes, a warm jacket, an old sleeping bag that they gave me, the smell of rancid cooking oil from it made me want to retch, but I took it all the same. I removed sentimental and unnecessary items from my bag and replaced them with the hard bitterness of betrayal that was beginning to wrap around me, an impenetrable outer shell, it was needed to get me through the forth-coming weeks.
For the last night in my impromptu hotel sleep came easily to me, my dreams however sat heavily in my mind when I awoke to the sound of the Muezzin, the call to prayer wafting through the window, touching me, reminding me of my past, propelling me into the future.
I was not the only one who was awake in the early morning, the knocking on the front door was insistent and loud, my parents were still blinking back sleep as the police searched the house, they were neither careful, or tidy. When they had finished, and it had become apparent that I wasn’t hidden under the floor boards or locked in an attic room Inspector Thompson made a start on my fathers study, his hunch that educated people did deeds with paper not weapons and violence was about to bear fruit.
‘There are confidential patient files in there, I will not allow you to….’ His path was blocked by a uniformed policeman, ‘Sir, your daughter is missing, both you and your wife are being most uncooperative, I, as you know, have reason to believe you know more than you are saying. Should you so wish you can call your solicitor, but it does not alter the fact that I will be going through your personal papers, I will be taking your computers and I will not be told where I can and cannot go.’ It was designed to enrage my father, being told by someone that they could do what they wanted in his house, it only made him dig his heals in even further. ‘Go ahead, you’ll not find anything in there, but I warn you about my patient files…’ ‘Or what, Dr Stalbright, you are in no position to warn me, advise me or anything else, in fact if I were you I would seriously consider my options.’
The drawers to my fathers mahogany desk were unceremoniously up ended, documents and files read and re-read, the slightest inkling of something to do with me, or any family matter was placed into plastic bags, the glass that my father had hurled at the fireplace still lying on the floor, testament in the policeman’s eye as to his violent and erratic nature, the broken paperweight was inspected and that too was bagged. My parents were taken away, in separate cars.
The train left at 10.30am, it would take half an hour to walk to the station, I had asked Abjeil not to come with me, both he and Josef had done too much already, I was focused, in a way it felt as though I was re-born, no longer Maeve the spoilt little rich girl, I was now apart of what I saw around me, just another black face in the crowd.
Deciding to keep the scarf around my head had been a good idea, as I boarded the train I pushed and shoved my way through the carriage until I found an empty seat. The train itself was a surprise to me, clean, on time, nicer than some I had been on at home. The people on the train were not however, the man who sat beside me smelt of body odour, he coughed constantly, never once putting his hand to his mouth, no one complained, or even noticed, it was as if I could feel his germs touching me – I just wanted to get the journey over with, to get out the other end away from him, away from the dirt and smell. Pushing my hand hard down into my pocket it was reassuring to know that should the worst come to the worst I had the emergency money that Josef had given me. The man looked at me whilst I fumbled, believing him to have realised what I was doing I pulled out the handkerchief that was concealing the envelope of money and blew my nose, these people saw everything, waiting for their moment to strike, I had to be more careful.
My father was sure that they had placed him in the worst cell they had, a deliberate course of action, and for the second time in two days he wondered how his wife was coping in this place, he knew that she would eventually break, anything to get away from here. He was a man used to being in control, and these people held all the cards, they were also picking away at his life, it was inevitable that they would finally get to the truth, and then what? He sank back onto the hard concrete bed realising that his whole life had somehow managed to be wiped away, he wondered if he would still be allowed to practice, smashing his hand down onto the concrete he swore under his breath about being a bloody police doctor, where was their loyalty. At that moment it didn’t occur to him that they were being loyal to the one person he should have been loyal to as well – me.
The door to the cell was thrown open, to unnerve my mother, she had been curled up on the end of the concrete bed, not wanting to touch the thin mattress that covered it, the plastic torn and soiled. ‘There’s no need for that.’ It was the voice of her solicitor, she looked up, the custody sergeant gave them privacy to talk before the interview with inspector Thompson. ‘Susan, you have to talk to me, if you tell me where Maeve is, well, we can get this all sorted out – they let you go yesterday due to lack of evidence, but it’s getting serious now, they don’t mess around with missing children. Is Richard involved, are you covering for him?’ The very thought brought my mother out of her shell. ‘Don’t be so… She’s gone, she’s gone to find her real mother, that’s all I know, she left a note.’ Placing her hands palms up to emphasis the fact that that was all she knew. ‘What note, you’ve not mentioned this before, have you told them, where is the note?’ Her solicitor was more pleading than asking, he had known my mother for a long time and was concerned for her being in such a place, and though he had dealt with many strange cases where the impossible happened, he could not believe that my mother was involved in my disappearance, he was a little less sure about my father. ‘I threw it away, when I was at the hotel, she’s gone David, if only I’d been more honest with her, she’s gone…’ ‘Susan, you are not making sense, where has she gone, for god’s sake, do you really want to end up in some low life prison, do you want me to explain to you what they would do to someone like you in there…’ The word prison made my mother straighten up, her eyes wide with fear. ‘Prison? They can’t, I haven’t done anything.’ ‘Susan, they can, it’s imperative that you tell me about the letter, then I’ll talk to Thompson, but first, I need to know where she is, and what the letter said.’ Reluctantly my mother went through the whole story of my beginnings, her time in Africa, the false papers, finishing with how she found my letter in my room. The custody sergeant knocked on the door before opening it. ‘Times up children, I think you’re presence is required.’ He was unsympathetic, his sarcastic tone showed it.
‘Susan, you stay quiet, and only answer when I tell you to, this is going to take some sorting.’ The two of them were led from the cells to an interview room where Inspector Thompson sat waiting, his head buried in paperwork which he hurriedly scooped back into a folder when he saw them.
‘Ah, Good morning Mrs Stalbright…Susan, David, don’t see you here very often, you must be lowering your standards.’ Every comment was meant to lower my mothers self esteem, whittle her down until she had nothing left, nothing left except the truth, which he knew would eventually surface.
The Inspector motioned for my mother and her solicitor to sit on one side of the table, he and another detective sat opposite, at the end of the table, by the wall was the tape recorder, he took two cassettes from his pocket and started to remove the cellophane wrapping, humming to himself. My mother’s solicitor interrupted him. ‘Inspector, I think we, that is Susan, would like to talk, off record.’ His statement was met with a raised eye, he wasn’t expecting my mother to cave in so quickly, it normally signalled the start of some sort of deal, but when children were involved there were no deals. He looked over solemnly at my mother. ‘Sorry, I want it on tape, shall I continue?’ My mother started to talk, her solicitor reached out to touch her arm, to stop her. ‘No, it’s alright David, I can’t go on, not knowing if she’s safe, I’m ready to talk. The tapes Ok.’ She paused, her lips pursed, resigned to what ever the future now held. ‘Right, Susan, let’s get started, let’s find our Maeve shall we…’ The interview took a long time, meanwhile my father was left in his cell, waiting to speak to his own solicitor, fearing the worst, knowing that my mother had lost the will to keep quiet.
At the end of the interview Inspector Thompson sat with his elbows on the table, his chin on his hands. His colleague made odd facial movements, his face clearly showing his disbelief at my mother’s story. ‘Every word is true, she’s gone to Africa, that’s where she is, all I want is her back, here with me, safe…’ Having relieved herself of her burden my mother now felt that she had someone on her side, someone who could help her, the reality was different as she was led back to the custody suite to be charged with procuring false documents, it was the first of many charges to be brought, and the only one that Inspector Thompson had at that time to charge her with and keep her locked up until she could be taken before the magistrates in the morning, before her own bench, in her own court. It gave him a sense of satisfaction.
My head was filled with dark and spiteful thoughts, not twenty four hours before I had been a naïve and open child, all to suddenly I was learning to hate, to sneer at my surrounding, to hate the fact that I had been reduced to being in this place, had I known about my mothers plight at the time I would not have felt a thing, my thoughts were black, I needed someone, something to focus all these thoughts on.
The train stopped short of the next station, outside no more than 10 feet from the tracks were concrete and mud buildings, most half finished, strands of metal rebar poking upwards, waiting for the next storey to be built, if ever. The path beside the train was dusty, everywhere litter blew around in the wind, small children threw stones at the carriage, I jumped back in my seat, they ran away laughing, throwing stones at other windows, the conductor threw a lump of wood at them, it hit the smaller child on the back of the leg, but he didn’t cry or complain, just carried on with his minor vandalism, as if he had a right to it. As people struggled to both board and leave the train at the same time, the large bags they all seemed to carry would get in the way, from one or two of the passengers there were occasional pleasantries exchanged, more often they greeted each other with vipers snarls, it seemed that at any moment they would resort to violence and fighting, but only once did I see a man slap another’s face, followed by an intimidating fist hovering only inches away. The scene both fascinated and scared me, there seemed to be no structure, no authority, yet they all huddled along in their own worlds, thankfully unaware of my existence.
It was a long and arduous train ride, being bumped and knocked at every station, all the while clutching my bag as though it was some precious child.

FIVE

Dakhlar, the first stop on my journey south and then ultimately east hummed, as though a low growl was rising slowly from the ground. Again the stench hit my nostrils, rancid oil, body odour, dirt and grime. I pushed my way through the crowds, mingling easily with the human tide. I searched in my pocket for the phone number Josef had given me, a friend of his who would put me up for the night and drive me east, towards my final goal, I was nervous, again I was trusting a man I didn’t know. Looking back at the train I wanted to run, jump back on it, hide until it started to make it’s return journey. I wanted the ground to swallow me up, my hands were trembling, my throat was dry, my head felt like a over blown balloon ready to burst, if it did it would have been a relief, some one, some where would come and look after me, I wouldn’t be so alone. I stood outside the station, the afternoon sun here was hot, aggressive and hard. I could feel the sweat begin to trickle down my neck, my head scarf was too tight and I longed to take it off, I left it on, it was like a barrier, cocooning me in my own safe little world.
The shove came from behind me, as I stumbled slightly I felt my bag being ripped from my arm, then nothing, it was gone, I saw a flash of it through the ebbing tide of commuters, before I could even shout, it was out of sight, and with it everything I had. No one noticed, I was sure that some one must have seen it happen. I spun round, grabbing at people, ‘Did you see him, can you help me’. I spoke in both French and Spanish, I was unsure, frightened, petrified. I was pushed away by people who I was sure had witnessed the theft, one woman who had been stood not three feet from me spat at me, I stumbled backwards. Swearing at me, she flung her arms around as if she were warding off some evil spirit, contempt filling her eyes. My head scarf loosened and came off, the arm of my cardigan came down over my shoulder, I fell to the ground, trying to steady myself with the palm of my hand, it dug into some broken glass, the pain adding to my misery. I sat on the ground, my arms around my knees, my head, still pounding sagged forward, my eyes shut, keeping me from the milieu surrounding me, the misery I felt, all consuming, too powerful to allow me to stand, to think even. I had at that moment sunk into the depths of hell.
I heard the thwack before I felt the sharp and numbing pain on my arm startled I looked up. A policeman was standing over me, his baton slowly rising, hanging in mid air, ‘Imshee!’. It came down again, this time harder, hitting the same spot. I tried to push myself up and backwards at the same time, not comprehending what was happening, not understanding. People appeared to fly past me, bags knocked into me, the baton raised again, this time aimed at my head, the hand that propelled it belonging to a face that snarled and spat at me. ‘English, Anglaise, Je suis Anglaise, please…’ I was stood now, my arms had involuntarily moved to form a cross over my face, I started to crouch as I saw the baton begin its swipe towards me. The few seconds that I cowered waiting for the blow stretched out inconceivably, half crouched, my arms protecting my head waiting for the blow to come, though it didn’t. My arm was roughly pulled away, forcing me to straighten up, forcing me to look into the face of the man who was beating me. ‘You English? Passport!’ It wasn’t a request, it was an order. A few more seconds passed, I saw the baton start its rise once more. ‘My b..b..bag, my bag was stolen, it’s in my bag.’ I stuttered, wincing when I looked from his face to his stick. He hadn’t let go of his grip on me, dragging me towards the concourse doors he threw me out onto the street, I fell into a small child, holding it’s mothers hand, unsteadying both of them, as they regained their composure the mother shouted in Arabic. I shrank back, her tongue more vicious than the policeman’s baton, the child not even shocked, just looked at me, it struck me how benign he was, hardened to life at such a young age.
Sitting on the pavement, rubbing my head, I quickly replaced my head scarf. I needed to find a safe place to hide, to compose myself and found the toilets. There were only two cubicles, I slipped into one, leaning up against the door and slid to the floor, it was covered in urine, it was only a hole in the floor toilet, and it seemed that most people had missed the hole, I retched as my hand slid on the wet surface. I wiped my hands on my jeans to dry them, and reached into my pocket, I needed to see just what I had left. I thought about reporting the theft, but couldn’t risk getting the same treatment from them again, all they saw was a black girl, claiming to be British, with no passport to back up her story, I wished now that I didn’t blend in quite so well, I wanted now to look like any other tourist. From my pocket I brought out the envelope with the money in it that Josef had given me, tears started to form in my eyes, dripping onto the money. I had a handful of change and my mobile phone. Every part of me wanted to stay in the cubicle, safe from the outside, but I knew that if I was to have any chance at all I had to fight back the urge to stay, I picked up my phone and dialled.
Inspector Thompson did not waste any time in verifying my mother’s statement, though large parts of it were almost incoherent, even larger parts were inconceivable, a trip to Africa, a child smuggled to England, paperwork forged. The most sickening part was that a dead child’s identity had been used, their family unaware that her name lived on, he felt that this was theft of the lowest kind, no matter how great the need. He still felt however that there was more to my disappearance, he believed that either one or both of my parents was hiding a secret and that where ever I was it was not of my own free will or volition.
‘She’ll get bail sir.’ The voice was that of his sergeant. Thompson replied without lifting his head. ‘Don’t be so sure, I haven’t finished with the lovely Susan yet, it all seems too – well – fantastical, and we still have to find the child.’ ‘She’s not a child any more sir, she turned sixteen yesterday – social services wont want to know, not their problem anymore.’ His sergeant was beginning to get on his nerves. ‘Fuck social services, these two have fucked with the system, That arsewipe Stalbridge thinks he’s better than me, did you see their place, how do you get to be that rich eh? Not by just being a doctor – no, something’s wrong – I want all their bank statements, the lot – lets blow their world apart – and don’t go feeling sorry for her, she’s no better, you know I remember that case, the one where she told the tosser to plead not guilty – we should have had her then, got her removed from the bench – shit I hate this job some times…let’s get the organ grinder up for interview, he should be finished with his brief by now, let’s see what the slimy bastard’s got to say now – do you want to tell him or shall I?’ His sergeant looked at the floor. ‘I think you should sir.’ He knew that Thompson was going to enjoy destroying my father’s world, it had now become personal, but the sergeant could not work out why.
The table in the interview room was covered with stains from years of Styrofoam cups, the rest of the room wasn’t much better either, my father glanced around assuming that the depressing state of the place was designed to intimidate, make the poor sods who passed through desperate to get out, making them confess just to escape, it wasn’t going to work with him. ‘Right, first things first.’ Inspector Thompson was now beginning to enjoy himself. ‘We’ll cut straight to the chase, I have enough to charge you regarding the falsification of documents and the use of a deceased person’s birth certificate…’ His words hung in the room, they knocked my father sideways, he knew in an instant that my mother had given in, his anger at her stopping him for enquiring as to her well being. ‘Yes, Dr Stalbright, I’m afraid to say that your wife, Susan, and it is good of you to ask after her by the way, your wife has told us everything, I think it would be in your best interests to tell us your side of the story, tell us where exactly Maeve is, we can get onto the relevant authorities, then, I can go home….’ The reference to going home was to reinforce the idea that perhaps my father would not be.
‘I would like some time to confer with my client.’ My father’s solicitor looked incredulously at everyone in the room. ‘Fine – take your time, I will just go and check to see if your wife is settled in for the night.’ Thompson was really turning the knife now, the heat was on, he could smell victory.
The phone was answered the other end in French. ‘Allo.’ For a moment I couldn’t speak, when I did it, came out in a high pitched squeak. ‘Is that Mohamed?’ I asked, I didn’t know if he was expecting me to call, or if he would simply put the phone down. ‘Yes, Yes, you must to be Josef’s friend – I miss you at station, I wait in bar, Rue Rabat, bar with blue chairs – come you find me.’ As I finished the call I felt a relief wash over me, it seemed to clean away the acrid smell of stale urine. I hurried out of the toilet, asking directions to Rue Rabat, my eyes darting from person to person, hoping to recognise the thief who took my bag, though deep down I knew that it was long gone.
The bar was no different from all the others, glass fronted with a counter down one wall, plastic chairs pushed into cheap metal tables, outside the tables had at least been covered with cloths and the chairs had cushions. I stopped, looking around I only saw a couple of groups of old men playing cards, smoking butts of cigarettes, their coughs rattling through their lungs, half finished cups of strong coffee beside each of them, in turn they each moved their heads sideways to run their eyes over, through me, I felt dirty, used. ‘Come, come, sit, you don’t be scared, no body here they can touch you.’ He was sat at one of the inside tables, reading a French language newspaper, beckoning me with his tobacco stained finger. I stood motionless for a minute the ground spinning, the faces of the men leering, their eyes tearing through my clothes, devouring me inch by inch. A burst of Arabic in reproaching and threatening tones made them look away from me, the man at the table gestured me to sit. I held the back of the chair before moving it to sit, making a note of every conceivable escape route, the streets leading off, the shops, women who might give me sanctuary, though I knew deep down that they wouldn’t . ‘I need to know…’ ‘Maeve, my little child, you need to know nothing except that I am here and so you, unless you would rather sit with our friends over there, I think they like you.’ He spoke in French, his tone was at once mocking and threatening, I decided to sit, pulling my chair around, allowing me to run if needed. He folded his newspaper, placing it on the chair between us. ‘Sorry, I….. I….. My bag has been stolen… I…’ I felt the need to apologise for my reticence, my rudeness. He put his hand in the air to stop me. ‘Come, we walk.’ Mohamed didn’t give me time to regain my breath as no sooner had I sat I was up, guided through another dank and dirty town with another stranger, entrusting my life as if it were worthless, I felt worthless.

SIX

For an old man Mohamed walked briskly, not talking, the hood on his Jalaba up, the rim covering his eyes, casting shadows over his face. I watched as the sunlight created different shapes over his hideous features, I laughed to myself, I don’t know why, but my inner laughter dragged me from the brink of despair, I could still laugh at these people, I knew I wasn’t lost to them completely, there was still a little bit of me inside, I held onto that thought.
Inside I was panicking, my bag was gone, my passport, half of my money, the clothes that I stood in were dirty and my cardigan torn, as I picked at the threads coming loose the bruise on my arm from the policeman’s baton became apparent, darkening, red and swollen. I hadn’t noticed how much it hurt, my inward laugh was beginning to leave me again, the shrouded streets were taking me into their darkness.
We walked for a long time, Mohamed only stopping to acknowledge acquaintances along the way, they eyed me with suspicion, I didn’t speak. I stood back as they shook hands and kissed each other on both cheeks. Stopping on the roadside on the outskirts of town I looked around, roughly constructed block houses lined both sides, windows shut, bars covered every one of them. The road itself was full of pot holes, the verges were encroaching towards the centre, in parts leaving only bare mud and stones. Household rubbish was simply thrown out onto the street, caught on branches in the occasional tree, half trodden into the ground, swirling in mad circles as cars went by. I stepped back to avoid a rough wooden cart being pulled by a mule, its feet un-shoed, there was no life in its eyes, its young driver forcing it forward with whips from a stick, I could do no more for it than look away. As I stepped back I tripped over what I thought was a pile of old blankets, huddled inside was a man, just sat there, he put his hand out, like everyone, he begged. I shook my head and stepped away, realising that I had lost sight of Mohamed, panic started to rise inside me, the beggar was becoming more aggressive, the rubbish started to collect at my feet, blood was rushing to my head making it pound, bringing stinging tears to my eyes, and then I caught sight of him, talking in low tones to two other men, their hoods and the dappled light coming through the trees making their discussion seem conspiratorial, they looked towards me, one motioned for me to join them, I did as beckoned, reluctantly, I had no other choice.
They spoke Spanish here, a childlike Spanish, not their first language, I had to strain to listen and understand. ‘You come with me, help my wife.’ It wasn’t Mohamed that spoke but one of his conspirators, I shot a glance at all three of them, I didn’t understand what was happening, Mohamed was to arrange to send me east, he held my life in his hands, I realised how stupid I had been, I had followed him, believing he would help me, Josef said he would help me, I found myself betrayed, half dragged into one of the houses, pushed through the door, and left. I stood momentarily, taking in my surroundings, the dusty mud floor, walls half painted, a solitary light bulb hung precariously by wires from the bare ceiling, the window as usual was barred.
My heart was beating fast, every nerve in my body stood on end, my mouth dry. I spun around, looking for any other door, or hatchway, anything to make my escape, there were none. I looked back over to the door that I had been dragged through, I didn’t know what was on the other side, I didn’t know who or what was outside, I couldn’t even remember how I got here. I stood still trying to think, one moment I was stood next to the three men, the next I was dragged into the room, I didn’t know what was happening, what was going to happen, I pushed myself back against the wall and slid towards the door, it began to open. Half in shock and panic I threw myself at the woman who came in, sending her backwards like a Catherine wheel, her layers of skirts tangling around her legs, she hit the floor with a thump. She looked old, her head covered with an old scarf, accentuating the deep lines on her face, ink tattoos on her chin gave her a primeval appearance, she grabbed at my ankle as I bolted for the door, my hand just reaching the latch. The door flew open again, not by my efforts, I was pushed backwards, stumbling and falling, I shuffled using the palms of my hands and the heals of my feet backwards to the far wall. The woman stood now, she raised her hand and came towards me, I put my arms in front of my face to protect myself. The man who had led me here was standing beside her, even in the dim light I knew it was him and not Mohamed, his sandaled feet were knurled, his toe nails long and dirty. She didn’t slap me, her arm restrained, instead she kicked out at me, glancing my leg. They spoke to each other in a dialect I hadn’t heard before, it was different to the Berber Arabs of the north, the only words I could make out were Josef and money. They left me in the room, I heard them turn a lock, a ball of sick worked its way into my throat, my stomach muscles began to spasm, suppressing the urge to vomit whilst I held my breath. I was too scared to breath, like a rabbit caught in headlights I could only look forwards, my head twitching, my hands splayed on the dirt floor, fright heightening my senses, fear dragging me to think.
I had been a fool to believe that Josef was kind, that he truly wanted to help me, I thought about Abjeli, we had laughed together, eaten together, I felt sick, the betrayal too much for me, my mind started to play tricks on me, I could see him and Josef standing in front of me in the room, laughing at me, pointing at me, telling me what a stupid little girl I was, chanting in Arabic, the rhythm pounding into me, building up into a crescendo, then as loud as a firework it stopped. I swung my head around, looking for their faces, straining to hear them, but it was gone, I was back on the floor, my fingers digging deep into the hard mud floor, grit pushed far down into my nails, prising them from my fingers which had gone white at the tips with the pressure.
I pushed my self upright, using the wall to steady myself, the adrenalin making my legs shake, sweat was pouring from me, my hands and nails still clogged with dust, I wiped them on my jeans. In my pocket I still had the envelope of money and my mobile phone, I hovered over the listing for my mother, waiting just a little too long, the courage to call her went from me, I dropped it to the floor then joined it, sobbing uncontrollably. My throat was dry and my eyes were swollen and sore, the tears attracting the dust, when the last of my sobs subsided, I was all cried out, empty. I picked up the phone, dusting off the dirt. If I was to get out of here and find some help I had to stand apart from myself, think – a thousand thoughts and scenarios were going flitting through me, like surreal nightmares, each one perverse and obscene. Think, think, that was what I needed to do, but my mind kept taking back to the laughter, again Josef and Abjeli were in front of me, though this time they were joined by a crowd behind them, all laughing at me, at my stupidity, all pointing their fingers as me, the chanting was in English now ‘got you now, got you now – no where to run, no where to hide…’ It went on and on, a hundred faces leering into me, laughing at me, taunting me. I concentrated, trying to pull a memory, any memory back into my mind to push them out, to make them go away, the shop with the gowns, I could see it now, relaxed a little, I saw the shop front, the chanting was quiet now, allowing me to think a little more, I stared hard at the shop front, peered through the window, I saw myself, sat there, I wanted to go into the shop, to look at the gowns, then I remembered Josef’s warning ‘they sell you here’, I could still see myself, sat on the stool, drinking tea with a man, he turned to look outside, at me stood now at the door, I was trying to get in, but it was locked, I tried turning the handle, looking at it in disbelief, then back up, through the glass at him, I had to warn me, I had to get me out of there, the man stood up, he took me by the arm, pulled me, I was like a rag doll, I didn’t struggle, why wasn’t I struggling, I tried to shout through the glass, ‘he’s taking you – help, help yourself, help, help…’ I watched me go, taken by the man, there was nothing I could do, I reached out to me, but I was gone, all I could say was help. The image faded, there were no sounds in the room, only a faint murmur came from my own voice, I was still saying ‘help’ softly, slowly, repeating it, just to myself, I knew that no one was listening, that no one cared. It was the moment that I began to understand, I would be soiled and violated and left to die here – the phone rang – the numbers on the display looked odd, all jumbled up, it wasn’t a number I knew. The shrill ringing jolted me and I dropped it on the floor, scrabbling to pick it up and stop it, I didn’t want them finding out I had it.
‘Ye..s..’ It was all I could say. ‘Maeve, you get there ok, you find Mohamed? Maeve….Maeve’ Abjeli’s voice echoed. I heard the chanting again, it was coming through the phone, Abjeli’s voice mingling with it, ‘Maeve…Maeve…’ Mohamed, that was his name, it brought me back, the chanting stopped, I remembered it was Mohamed whom I had met, before being thrown in here. Anger, frustration at my own naivety hit me, ‘Why, why did you do this, we were friends, what did I do to you.’ The voice on the other end of the line went quiet for a moment. ‘Maeve, what you say, you ok?’ then I heard him talk to himself in Arabic, I couldn’t understand it, he started to speak again in English, ‘I phone Josef, he understand you, don’t go, I phone Josef.’ The line went dead, I could hear my own breathing, the room was silent, the chanting gone, Abjeli’s voice gone, I felt the ground underneath me, the dirt, I remembered where I was, panic set in, I had to escape somehow, I didn’t know how long I had been in the room, I could feel time running out, I scrabbled to my feet, I didn’t care what or who was behind the door, I had to get out.
I made a lunge for the door, throwing myself into it, feeling for the catch, it wouldn’t open, of course, it had been locked from the outside, I tried again, and again, nothing. I began to scratch at it, my fingers started to bleed, my nails ripped, splinters dug deep into my hands, I was frantic now, my breathing heavy, sweat began to run down my face, my back, I pounded my fists against the door, the pain felt good, it helped, showed me that I was doing something for me, I was helping myself, help, I shouted it out ‘Help.’
Again the phone rang, I stopped pounding the door, the phone, I fumbled in my pocket for it, not remembering how it had got there, the panic that I had felt earlier had turned to anger, no longer was I going to be bullied and beaten, I had suffered too much of that, anger was making me shake now, a new rage flowed through me, adrenalin surged through me, smashing through my head, ripping away at who I was, I answered the phone. ‘You betrayed me, I trusted you, you betrayed me…’ I spat the words out, venom aimed at the phone. ‘Maeve, it’s Josef, where are you? I send Mohamed to meet you, are you in trouble, what is happening, I phone Mohamed now, you wait, don’t go anywhere, you stay by the phone.’ Don’t go anywhere? I started to laugh, a loud high pitched laugh, the phone went dead. Josef as well, they were all in on it, they saw me coming, I was a god send to them, a trade, he set this up, he knew where I was, it was he who sent me here, he who put me in this hell. Disgust and loathing filled me, not just at my captors, but at myself and my own naivety.
The lock clicked from the outside, I shuffled myself into a corner, hiding in the dirt and darkness, once the door was open I could escape, the adrenalin gave me strength to think clearly, I would escape, they wouldn’t keep me here any longer. My eyes blinked as light flooded through the open door, dust and rubbish pushed through into the room before I saw who stood there, it was Mohamed, his eyes scanned the room for me, they found me, a wail streamed from my mouth, he was stood in the door way, I lunged at him. I wanted him out of the way, he stood between me and the outside, I screamed, he held me, he didn’t push me, but moved me by my shoulders towards the back of the room, breathing harder, screaming louder every part of me putting its strength into my voice, every muscle helping to keep him at bay by noise. I was pushed hard against the back wall, not moving now, just screaming. He let go of me, stepped back, turned his hands palms up, staring at me. I tried to catch my breath, the screaming subsided, I gulped at the air, dust caught in my throat, I coughed, spat out the dust. I looked around him, from side to side, he was alone, the door was open, I willed myself to move, but nothing happened, my whole body jerked, I wanted to escape, why couldn’t I, why wouldn’t my feet just take me, give me my freedom.
He knelt in front of me, not touching me, his hands still open, still palm up, like he was trying to catch something. Breathing was difficult all the air inside me thrown out with my screaming, I gulped, the air was dusty, it grated at the back of my throat, making me cough and splutter. Incoherent warnings were punctuated by my grasping breaths, every nerve ending in me alert and on fire. ‘Come, I not hurt you.’ He spoke in English, his voice was soft, calming, deceptive, I shrank back further, the roughness of the wall behind me pushing through my clothes. ‘Come.’ His voice was hypnotic now, the exhaustion and disorientation in me allowing me to betray my own will, he stood and took my hand and led me back out through the door into the daylight.
He pulled at my arm, I flinched at the pain from the bruising, but did not have the strength or will to resist. The sunlight blinded me, everything blurry, I saw women, why didn’t they see me, they didn’t even look in my direction, as if I was invisible to them. My feet took me with him, I didn’t want to go, again I looked at the women, their heads covered, their gaze downwards, I tried to struggle free from Mohamed’s grip, but my feet kept taking me with him, I swung around, surely someone noticed me, my feet still dragging along in the ground, my arm twisted awkwardly, my mouth opening and shutting, but no words, like my feet my mouth was allowing me to be taken, helping them keep me, betraying me.
It was another of the bare and baron houses, my feet had stopped moving, my mouth still opened and shut, though nothing came from it, they had control of me, I was lost to them.
The room looked like the other, the dust, the rancid smell permeating everything, catching in my nostrils, but I didn’t care any longer, they had me, they could do what they wanted with me, even my body had deserted me, there was nothing left to care for. But something inside of me was still alive, still aware of where I was, I started to shake uncontrollably, telling myself to stop, I couldn’t, I felt the trickle of warm fluid run down my inner thighs, finally loosing control.
Another rough hand grabbed at my arm, I looked at it, it didn’t bother me any longer, but I was fascinated by it, it wasn’t Mohamed, this hand was that of a woman, intricately painted henna swirled up her fingers, over the back of her hand, her nails were stained a dark orange where the dye had bled, I studied it, my feet took me with her, we went through a door and into another room.
This room had carpets on the floors, a curtain had been hung by a wire across the window, it gave an odd sense of homeliness, two carved tables were placed beside each other in one corner, one had a tray of glasses and a tea pot on it. I knew my throat was soar with the screaming and the dust, but I couldn’t feel it, I couldn’t feel anything, there was an invisible barrier, I had stepped to one side of it, watching myself from the protection that it offered. I watched more than felt myself, my senses confused and muddled, I took in my surroundings, absorbed every bit of information of where I was, I didn’t know why I was doing it, something inside me was telling me to, trying to make me understand where I was, something inside was trying to break through the barrier and help me, make me come back. I could feel it inside me, forcing me to break back to reality, it hurt, I wanted to hide back inside myself, but it kept on forcing me, it won, I stood, feeling the wetness through my jeans, understanding now the fear, facing it.
The phone rang, I struggled to get it out of my pocket, there was nothing on the screen, but I heard it again, it wasn’t mine, I listened, tried to hear where it was coming from. There was no one else in the room with me now, the woman had left, I strained to hear it, saw another door, one that I hadn’t noticed before, this time my feet did as I asked, and silently I made my way to the door, standing slightly back from it I leaned my head into it, placing my ear to the door, listening, the words were muffled, some I understood, a mixture of French and Arabic, his tone surprisingly grovelling, apologetic, the one sided conversation ended. I took a step back, then heard him speak, I was sure it wasn’t into a phone, there were more of them in there, this time in his own language, it was a woman who answered him, her tone was not apologetic, she screeched at him, cursing him, I heard her heavy feet come towards the door. I jumped backwards, startled as she bustled through, glowering at me with a snarl as she swung around to see where I was, she left to go outside, the door slammed shut in her wake.
The noise of the door slamming made me jump, the door wasn’t locked but I was too startled to go to it, to get out and take my freedom, I had lost those precious seconds, Mohamed was already beside me, stood like a jailer, he spoke to me in French. ‘Josef he will call you, but for now you eat and sleep, I promise you that no one will disturb you, my home is your home .’ I baulked at the idea of home, fighting back tears I thought about my home, the one that I had given up to come here, I didn’t want his home, I wanted my home, but was too tired, and though desperately wanting to escape from him, from her, from where I was, I didn’t have the will or energy, I accepted the food he gave me, but not the sleep.
The sound of the muezzin faded in and out, I had still not slept, but neither was I fully awake, the call to prayer hung in the air. Much of my body hurt from sitting up against the wall all night, I could still smell the urine on my jeans, nauseating, exaggerated, it clawed at my stomach. I needed proper food, not just the bread that I had been given the night before. Slowly I stretched my legs out in front of me, the muscles were stiff, my arms felt worse, bruising had appeared on both of them, I tried to think from what, the policeman’s baton, or perhaps being dragged, it didn’t matter much, I inspected them, noted the colours, the swollen aggravated skin, rolling my sleeve down quickly, they only served as reminders of the situation that I was still in. Wanting to waste no time I quietly made for the door, holding the latch with two fingers so that it wouldn’t make a noise, the metal came free, upwards, but the door wouldn’t open, it had been locked, panicking I tried again, and again, but the door would not open, I had been locked in. I ran to the other door in the room, it opened, the room inside similar to the one I had been in, it was much darker than the one I had been in all night, there were no windows, I stumbled, fell over a bucket, at first I thought it was water, but the stench that greeted my nostrils told me otherwise. I began to wipe my shoe in the dust to soak up the acrid urine, scrapping my foot from side to side, the smell made me want to retch, the thought of them, of any part of them on me made my skin crawl, it felt like a thousand ants were crawling up my leg as the fluid seeped up the hem of my jeans. Something made me stop, I heard a noise, but couldn’t make out were it was coming from, the darkness of the room swallowed the noise, contorted it. I listened, it was the sound of a lock turning, then the latch, the now familiar sound of metal scrapping on metal, it came from the other room. Standing stock still for only a second to calm and control my emotions I moved silently behind the door, waiting for whom ever came through, ready to run behind them, to get to the outer door before they had a chance, before they realised that I was out. Only one thought was in my mind, I had to escape, run, run until I was safe. I could hear two voices, one seemed like Mohamed, the other younger, a younger woman, they were both stood in the outer room, their voices got louder. There was panic in their voices, I knew it was only a matter of seconds before they came to look for me, I wasted no time and bolted out of the room through into the other, I tripped, the toe of my shoe caught in a small rut in the floor. The door was in front of me, every basic desire in me pushing me forward as I fell, every part of me lunging forward as I fell, even if I could get a hand to it, at least touch the door, know that I had a chance, my whole body stretched out forward as I fell. But it wasn’t enough, it was as if the dirt floor itself had taken ownership of me and had held me to it by some invisible force.
I lay in the dirt, all of my body on fire as though it were angry with me for failing, the door was shut now but only moments before it was open and I had had my chance, I wanted to cry but couldn’t, I wanted to scream at them to let me out, to tell them how unfair it was, to plead with them, beg them, but I couldn’t, I stayed where I was, face down, laying in the dirt.
My head moved slowly from side to side, I blinked through the dust that was now hanging, thrown up into the air from when I fell, it stuck to my teeth, I tried to clean it off with my tongue, but my mouth was too dry. Wiping the dust from my eyes only made them worse, the grit drew itself across them, blurring my vision, I kept on rubbing, scratching at them, wanting to get the filth from them, wanting them to be clean. What I saw when they focused were two pairs of feet, the sandals of Mohamed, his toes repulsed me, the dirt engrained, the skin, hard and cracked, and then another pair, smaller, I could see slender ankles, younger skin, trainers, not dissimilar to my own, a child? I wanted to think that I wasn’t alone in this, I hoped that there was another one like me, another captive, I hated myself for wishing another person to be here with me, but my survival instinct, needing a companion, even a stranger to share my despair with overshadowed everything. I followed the line of the ankle with my eyes, the hem of a skirt swung freely, it was a girl, another girl, confusion then terror gripped me, they had brought another girl, there were more of us. I grabbed the ankle, wanting to warn her to run, she still had a chance as she was standing, she was close to the door, she could get help, help for me, help for both of us to get out of there. The foot shot backwards, accompanied by a high-pitched scream, she didn’t understand, she could run, get out, she had a chance. Straining my neck I looked up, I wanted to tell her somehow what she had to do. The skirt was layered, over it an old baggy jumper, then the face, half covered by swathes of cloth. Mohamed held her by the arm, I could see by her discomfort that it hurt, he let her go, I willed her to run, she was free now, he wasn’t even looking at her. She looked down at me and spat.
Mohamed turned to her and spoke, it was their local dialect, listening made no difference I could not understand what he said. She left the room, he didn’t try to stop her, my heart sank, she wasn’t like me, she wasn’t a prisoner, she was one of them, it felt like she had betrayed me, all my hopes left with her.
‘Come, come.’ He reached down to me, his bony fingers wrapping themselves around my arm, I pulled away, not wanting his touch on me, pulling myself up off the ground. ‘I make mistake, sorry, you do not have to be afraid, she is only a village girl, she will help you clean, give you food, then tomorrow we go.’ I didn’t understand him, confused and disorientated I stood compliant, looking at the door, knowing I should run, I looked back at Mohamed. ‘I want to go, please, just let me go.’ I searched his face whilst I spoke, hoping to find answers, something to help me understand what was happening. ‘Yes, we go, tomorrow, I make a mistake, Josef, he your friend, ask me to help you.’ Just hearing Josef’s name dragged me back to a sense of reality, I remembered it was because of Josef that I was here, his betrayal, and yet he called him my friend. ‘Josef is not my friend, please let me go.’ His betrayal was one thing but to be told that he was my friend stung me, they were playing with me, it was a game I didn’t understand.
The phone rang, I didn’t want it to ring, I didn’t want him to know that I had it, he would take it from me. It rang a couple more times, Mohamed stared at me, expecting him to try to take it I grabbed it first, instinctively answering it. ‘Maeve, Maeve are you there?’ I recognised the voice, tried to think who it was, it was someone who I knew but I couldn’t place them. ‘Maeve, Mohamed says you are safe now, please tell me what has happened.’ It came to me, it was Josef, I couldn’t answer, I didn’t know what to say, he sounded concerned, why? When it was him who had put me here, delivered me to these people. A part of me wanted his concern, wanted to be held safe, if only in voice. ‘I don’t understand, why are you doing this to me, I must be stupid to have believed you.’ I felt like a child, not understanding, amidst grown ups who controlled me. ‘Maeve, Mohamed…’ He paused ‘Mohamed, he made a mistake, but he will pay for it, but don’t worry about that, he will help you now, you must trust him, tomorrow he will take you by car.’ Trust was something that I had lost along with my bag, and then my freedom, how could I trust anyone? I went to answer him, to scorn his trust, but the line went dead, I was left with Mohamed, and my thoughts on Josef. It rang again, this time I answered quickly. Again it was Josef, ‘Maeve, look, I am sorry, there was a misunderstanding but I’ve sorted Mohamed now, he owed me, but don’t worry, listen, you must do as he says, I promise you, he will keep you safe, he will drive you, to the border, from there, well, I can’t help anymore, it’s up to you, if you want to stop your crazy games then come back here, I will get you on a plane home – it’s up to you…Maeve…Maeve…are you there, can you here me…merd!’ I had heard him, my mind to-ing and fro-ing, I didn’t know who or what to trust, the noise level in my head rising in a cacophony of screams, I switched off the phone I didn’t want to hear his voice any longer.
The noise was still in my head, loud, screaming, wailing noises, confusing me, not allowing me to think, I wanted the noise to stop. Without thinking I turned to Mohamed, ‘Ok, I go with you.’ The noise stopped, perhaps that was what it wanted, for me to agree, agree to anything, to make a decision, I was tired of fighting, I accepted what ever lay ahead of me.
My mother answered the phone to my father, her solicitor had managed to get her bail, though she was to return in a couple of weeks, at least she thought it gave her time, though it was also time that she knew the police would use to collect their evidence, she felt as though she was in a race, the finish post out of sight. ‘You stupid bitch – why couldn’t you just have shut up and let me handle it – it’s over Susan, I wont be home, I’m staying at a hotel, and don’t even bother asking which one.’ My father spat down the phone his anger born of frustration and impotence, only once before had he not been in control of the situation, that being his time in Africa. My mother was too tired to argue, replacing the receiver without saying anything she sat with her face in her hands and cried, she cried for me, she knew the horrors I was facing, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. She woke the next morning to a half empty bed, my fathers side still made, the duvet still tucked neatly under the pillows, she was paying a heavy price now, she could cope with the vilification once everyone knew, she knew what she had to do to get me home, but now she had lost her marriage, looking around at the splendour of her bedroom, and the house, she would have given it all away to bring her family back together. It was like some weird and sadistic film that kept on replaying in the back of her mind, my father’s words, his lack of loyalty to me, it was with a heavy heart that she began to appreciate just how much my father treasured his status more than his daughter or wife. It was a bitter pill she was having to swallow, it’s acrid taste wouldn’t leave her mouth as she set about the tasks she had to do, she packed a small bag, put her hair up into a warm hat and shut the door behind her.
Mohamed left the room, I had given up trying to escape, I had accepted my fate, which ever way it turned out. He was replaced by the same girl who had been there before, I laughed to myself, perhaps she was some type of guard to ensure I didn’t run. She didn’t look at me, just placed a tray of food on the table, then sat in the opposite corner, her gaze never left me. We were about the same age, her features had a resigned air to them, her eyes a blank stare, I tried to image what she was thinking, if she wondered what type of world I came from, or if she even knew that the rest of the world was different from this. I looked away, and though I knew it was churlish not to thank her for the food I couldn’t make myself do it, she was a part of this, complicit in it.
She sat in the corner of the room all afternoon, I didn’t offer to share any of the food that she brought in, it felt selfish at first, as I tore at the bread. Had she looked at me, even a faint acknowledgement of my being the same as her, I would have offered, but there was nothing coming from her, so I continued to eat, in silence until it was finished. The air in the room had become stale, the window still shrouded with cloth did keep the sun from burning through, but the window was shut, I went over to it to open it, she moved, a jerky, stilted movement as I reached for the catch to open it, I laughed at her for thinking that I was trying to escape, if I did then it would be her fault, she would take the blame and no doubt the punishment, it would be in return for her spitting at me, for her lack of solidarity with me. As I opened the window I imagined myself running free down the road with her in pursuit, a just and befitting ending, the bars that protected the window would have prevented my escape, she must have known they were there, she needn’t have moved.
I was beginning to make bigger grooves in the floor with my feet, scrapping at the ground, pushing the dirt apart, contemptuous of their house, wanting to damage it, she stood, came over to me, pointed to the floor, waved a finger at me, I ignored her and continued with my act of defiance and vandalism, no longer scared of her, my disobedience showing it. Mohamed entered the room, it brought my foot to a halt, it was one thing to disobey the girl, but I feared him. She pointed to the floor, spoke to him, he waved her away, I could feel her unease, her annoyance with me, that I had got away with it, not been punished. ‘I have bag of food for you, we go tonight, soon.’ He turned towards the girl, she stood there silent, making him believe she was uninterested, her eyes gave her away, they pierced the bag, its contents, the very fact that he was giving it to me. Had it not been for her stony gaze I might have refused it, but it had meaning for her, I wondered if it was her own, taken and then given to me, or if it was something that she had coveted, either way it was mine now. I glanced towards her as I reached out to take it, my unspoken word immediately understood.
True to his word he came for me later on that night, I was huddled in one corner of the room, the bag held tightly in my lap, it felt good to have something to hold onto, something tangible, a barrier against the world, almost a talisman. She crouched in the opposite corner, her eyes never leaving the bag, envy etched on her face, it was a hollow victory, but one never the less.
‘Come, come, we go now, the taxi is waiting, her brother, he goes with you, show the driver the way.’ He pointed to the girl, I felt uneasy about travelling with her brother. It was the first time that Mohamed had mentioned anything about other people travelling with me, but I was in no position to argue or complain, I wanted out of the place, away from the girl, the old woman, Mohamed.
As the taxi came closer I could see that there were already people in it, two men sat in the back, they stared at me when it finally came to a stop. I expected them to get out, that this was their destination, but they stayed in the car, I turned and looked at Mohamed, he understood the expression on my face, before I had a chance to say anything he opened the rear door. I stood back, not wanting to get into the car whilst the two men were still in it, the hairs on my arms and neck started to rise, nervousness pouring out of me. Mohamed pushed me towards the open door, I struggled against his insistence, he leaned into the car, spoke to the two men inside, one of them opened the other door and got out. ‘These men will travel with us, Mustafa he knows the way, the other will not bother you, come get in, the driver is waiting. Stiffly I lowered myself onto the back seat, the man moved up giving me space, I expected the other man to get back in the side that he had come from, but he had walked around the back of the car and was now sat beside me, I found myself in the middle. The driver was getting impatient, he started to shout at Mohamed, they argued, I couldn’t make out what about, assumed it was for the fare, they settled with a handshake, Mohamed made his way to the front of the car.
I wanted to get out, it didn’t feel right, the two men either side of me were pushing into me, their legs were set wide apart, ensuring contact with me, the touch of their legs against mine started to concern me. A shout came from the house, it was the girl, she came running up to the car, her brother wound down the window, she leaned in, whispered in his ear, he patted her cheek, her agitation instantly calmed she stood back from the car and smiled at me as we drove off. The smile hid the true meaning behind it, I couldn’t work out what it was that it meant, but I knew that there was more to it than a simple expression.

SEVEN

As we made our way into the darkness, the streetlights faded behind us, the road stretched out ahead, the lights of the car barely making any difference. It was an old taxi, the stench inside was no different to that of its occupants, old dirt, body odour, rancid oil. The two men beside me continued to push their legs into mine, I tried to force my knees together, to break the contact. I looked from one to the other, both leered at me, their teeth were stained yellow, the whites of their eyes bloodshot, the girl’s brother had a scar above his eye, it accentuated one side of his face, I looked away. He rubbed his knee against mine, it didn’t feel like an accident, he was doing it deliberately, perhaps his sister had asked him to intimidate me, if so it was working. I placed my hands on my knees and slid my fingers between my knees and both of theirs on either side of me, trying to prise us apart. I knew they could feel the pressure, but they didn’t move, their forced their knees into mine, trapping my fingers, I yanked my hands out, looked at both of them, their eyes wider now, I looked from one to the other, hoping to see some hope.
The hand slid over and across my thigh, I screamed, went to grab it, to tear it away from me, it only gripped me tighter, Mohamed turned around in his seat, the driver jolted and the car swerved to the left, the hand moved away. ‘Why you scream, do not scream you make the driver do stupid things.’ He hadn’t seen the hand that had been on my thigh a moment earlier, I knew that there would be no point in explaining, I took his disapproval without complaint, hoping that it would serve as a warning to the men in the back.
I sat upright in the seat, not wanting to relax, I couldn’t, the pressure from their legs was starting to hurt me now, I could feel them push harder, their thighs now fully in contact with mine, again a hand slid across my legs. I started to scream, but it was silenced by another hand, placed over my mouth, it stopped me from breathing, I tried to pull it away but it was too strong for me. The hand was running freely now, up over my thigh, pushing itself between my legs, feeling me, touching me. Another hand grabbed at me, stopping me from trying to free my mouth to scream to make Mohamed aware, then it hit me, he must be aware, perhaps it was he who set this up, neither the driver nor he seemed to notice what was happening.
The hand that was over my mouth moved away, I gulped at the air, taking enough in to scream, but it had moved downwards onto my throat, it felt its way around, tighter and tighter, I tried to jerk, to wriggle, but nothing they had me pinned between them. There were two hands running freely over my legs now, pushing them apart, I resisted, my heart pounded, my breathing difficult, laboured, impeded by the hand that held my throat, I couldn’t scream, I couldn’t breath. They shifted positions slightly, allowing my legs to be parted. I felt a hand push deep in between them, another tore at my top, exposing me. The same hand grabbed, squeezed my breasts the pressure felt like he would burst the skin. I tried to concentrate on what the hands were doing, it was difficult, breathing was hard, I had to get the hand away from my throat, I used my free hand, tried to get my fingers behind his, the exertion and the lack of air put stars in front of my eyes, my vision blurred, the grip loosened, I gagged for a minute, unable to take in the air that was now available to me. The hand moved back over my mouth, I tried to fend off the hands, they were everywhere, scurrying over me, my body now exposed to them. The button to my jeans popped, the zip wrenched down, it wasn’t until that moment that I realised what they intended to do, they weren’t simply trying to frighten me. I knew that they would rape me.
I stopped struggling, trying to come to terms with what I knew to be happening, perhaps he took it as my acceptance, he moved across me, his other hand now grabbing at my breasts, his face loomed in towards me, his teeth bared, his mouth open, spit languid on his lips. I moved my head only to have my chin held tightly by his left hand, I could feel the pressure on my jaw, his right hand now pushing, pulling at my jeans. I tried to resist, but he managed to get them past my thighs, the struggle in me returned, freeing my left arm I tried to hit him in the back, but the other man held my wrist. He was completely on top of me now, clawing at my clothes, pulling my jeans down, they were past my knees, I thought innocently if he couldn’t get them any further then he could do no more to me. The other man grabbed my ankles, lifted them, I reacted too slowly, he pulled one leg of my jeans, the bunched up denim cutting and scrapping my skin as it was wrenched from my leg, his left hand now around my neck, I could feel him squeezing, again he pressed his face into mine, I felt his tongue push against my mouth, he pressed harder on my neck. I gasped for air allowing him access to my mouth his tongue reaching, our teeth clashing. The taxi swerved around objects that went by in a blur, throughout the noise level in the car stayed the same, the radio still played, but my struggles made no sound. Mohamed and the driver ignored the drama being played out in the back.. The second man pulled at my leg with his free hand, jerking it upwards, forcing me lengthways, my right knee wedged between the door jam and the front seat. I could feel my muscles ripping as he yanked harder at my leg his hand pressing into my bare flesh. The first man used his fist to push hard into my ribs, his other hand still clasped tightly around my neck, allowing me only the occasional gasp of air, stars and blackness filled my vision, the energy of the struggle surging through me. Without reason I shifted position, my right knee coming free, allowing the second man to pull me to a lying position on the seat, the first man’s hand had moved slightly, his thumb now pressing heavily into my throat, his second hand feeling me, taking what he wanted. I felt his hand, then a sharp pain, I knew what he was doing, the disbelief stunned me, subdued me, he felt inside me, I could feel the skin rip and tear, he pulled away, I sunk back he had done his worst, I was still alive, I felt myself relax a bit, I wanted it to be over, but he was on top of me, he trouser buckle was what I felt first, the metal dug hard into my skin, I tried to scream, the other mans hand got to my airway first, he placed his hand around my throat, I heard his high-pitched animal scream, his guttural laugh surged I jolted, jerked, tried to stop him penetrating me, I felt him inside me, pushing harder, his animal groan deepening, the hand around my throat tightened, more stars, more blackness, darkness came, it was a relief.
I came to, my body felt heavy, I knew the car seat was beneath me, I saw my legs, stared at them, not understanding the position they were in, pushed up high against the top of the door and the roof of the car, one held against the back seat the other held out, butting up against the back seat of the car, between them the second man kneeled in from of me. I felt nothing, just heavy, the other man leered over me, he was kneeling in the foot well, his hand hovering over my throat. I watched with curiosity the man between my legs undo his trousers, I heard the clunk of his belt as it hit the seat, I heard him undo his zip, watched it, there was no movement in my body, I felt nothing, he pushed the other mans hand away from me, replacing it with his, he squeezed my throat. I still felt nothing, my eyes penetrated his as he penetrated me, though this time I felt nothing, just the heaviness of his breathing, his breath mingled with the little air I had, his mouth wide open, saliva fell in droplets, it landed on my face, he loomed in closer, licked it off, still I didn’t move. I knew what he was doing, what he was taking, he knew it too, he stared into my eyes, his enjoyment almost complete, the pain returned, his body forcing itself into me, pushing my head up hard against the door, the handle banging into my skull, his whole body juddered, his hand tightened on my throat then went slack, his grin widened. Movement came back to me, I kicked, threw my arms up, caught him in the eye with a nail, he lashed out at me, the back of his hand swiped across my face, I started to scream, to kick, convulsions overtook me.
The taxi braked hard, one by one we were thrown forward, my head hit the back seat, one of the mean grunted as he was hurled through the gap between the seats. I instantly grabbed at my jeans, still wrapped around one of my ankles, my top torn, I tried to gather it together with my other hand. A hand was cupped over my face, both my nose and mouth were covered I couldn’t breath, I tried to shake my head from side to side to release it from the grip, I could feel the top of my head scrap against the door. I don’t remember the hands leaving me, my skin left bare, I listened too stunned to move now, all four men were shouting, spitting insults and trading grunts, I couldn’t understand what they were saying. I heard a door open, it was the door nearest my feet and I started to kick. I saw Mohamed, I kicked and kicked I knew what was coming, I felt it inside me, I knew how it would feel, I didn’t want to have to feel it again. I carried on kicking, throwing my arms around, I hadn’t noticed both men leave the car, I felt a hand on my leg, the feel of it like fire burning into me, I wouldn’t let it happen. The car door was open, the night was pitch black, the road had dwindled to a track. There was nothing else to see, no trees, no buildings, nothing and no where for me to hide. It was a different panic that I felt, I knew my body was hurting, though I didn’t feel any pain, that I was sure would come later, I would cope with it, it wasn’t important any longer. I had never feared being touched, had never thought about it, but had lived through it, they had hurt me, but I was still alive, now I felt true fear, they had taken me to a lonely spot, where no one would hear my cries, no one would see what they did to me, no one to witness my death. The fear inside me now taking over, making decision for me, it was better that way, not to think, to let my inner self take control, guide me. I stopped kicking, listened through their shouts, tried to see through and beyond the darkness. There was only I chance I had, I took it. They continued to argue, all four now out of the car, stood in the dim glow of its headlights, busy with their fight they didn’t notice me as I crawled out of the car, crouching behind the open door. I made myself as small as possible, listened and watched, still nothing, inch by inch on hands and knees making my way to the back of the car, fighting the urge to stand up and run, they would see me. I made myself crawl, forcing myself into the ground, making it a part of me, hiding in the dirt I slid under the rear of the car, brushing the exposed skin of my leg on the exhaust, stifling the urge to scream. Pushing myself further back under the car until there was no more space for me to crawl into, I waited, my inner self would find a way I was sure, it would show me where to run. I looked around, nothing but dust and stones, I picked one up, it felt heavy in my hand, I turned it round and round, its smoothness comforted me. I heard myself, ‘one isn’t enough, more, get more, one isn’t enough’. I began to scrap at the ground, collecting more of them, placing them next to wheel, the pile getting bigger, the more I searched the less I noticed, the arguing had stopped, silence was almost complete, the scrapping of my hands in the dust too loud now, I could hear it, they would hear it, I stopped, a small stone still in my hand, hovering over the pile, I clenched my fingers around it, holding it tight. The fear returned, adrenalin coursing through me, forcing its way, pushing the blood to my head, it throbbed in time to my heart, faster, louder, my breathing heavy with it. The foot steps came, I knew they would, I tried to see under the car, wanting to know which way there going, they stopped, voices, I couldn’t make them out, two of them, where were the others? I swung my head around, trying not to shift my body as I strained to see under the other side of the car, nothing, I looked again, moving my head back again, there were two of them there, the car door slammed shut, they stood closer to the car, talking quickly now, I saw their feet, the feet moved, they were coming my way. The stone wasn’t enough, I dropped it, wanting the first one I had found, it was at the bottom of the pile, but I needed it, one by one I moved the other stones away, the pile shifted, stones started to tumble down from one another, a small sound, but too loud, they heard it, the feet moved quickly now, they were coming for me. The noise in my head grew louder with each second, I grabbed at the pile, now flattened, taking the first stone my hand fell upon, at the same time the feet had found me, a hand reached down and touched my ankle, the scream came from me before I even thought of it. I kicked out, tried to lash out with my arm, it hit the underside of the car, the stone fell from my hand, I was trapped. There were shouts, but not beside me, they were further off, two voices, shouting, screaming in the dark, shouting at the feet, then nothing, no sound, I listened, the voices had gone. I pushed further back, as far as was possible, the underside of the car stopping me, the feet moved, one pair stood back, the other was replaced by knees, I cringed backwards, cowering now, my resilience down, a face came into view, it was dark, it didn’t say anything at first, then spoke. ‘They go now, you safe, come.’ With it came a hand, reaching out to me, almost touching me, I slunk back not wanting its touch.
It took the two of them to get me out from under the car, the struggle lasted a long time, my arms and legs kicked and punched, my finger nails scratched and gouged, I lay on the ground, my exhaustion complete, accepting the final outcome of what was to happen. I let them take me, I saw the darkness ahead of me, out away from the car, forcing the images of what was hidden in the black night from my mind, I closed my eyes. They stood me up, made me walk, pushing me forward, I heard the car door open, my eyes still shut, my body broken and obedient. The car seat felt strangely soft, I opened my eyes, I was alone, it was only me on the seat, the two men were no longer there, Mohamed and the driver returned to their seats. I heard the radio again, it hadn’t stopped playing, it dimmed a little as the engine was started, the growl of the engine drowning it out, the car lunged forward, I heard every sound, the stones underneath the car being thrown up against the bodywork, the dust cracking as it was driven over. Mohamed turned around in his seat, ‘You make trouble with men, I tell them to go, it is not good to make trouble.’ There was nothing left in me now, the fight or even the will had gone, the throbbing in my head seemed like it was a part of me, something that had always been there, the pain returned to my body, my body made me feel it, my nerve endings taking me on a tour of my injuries, each one jostling for position, fighting for attention. I stared ahead, not understanding, there were only three of us in the car, my attackers gone, the relief I felt replaced by Mohamed’s words. ‘They say you are English whore, you want to make trouble with them, you are bad woman, bring trouble to my home, you insult my family, tell girl about men.’ His face was getting closer to me, he spat as he spoke, I didn’t hear all the words, one stuck in my mind. ‘whore.’ The word went in circles through my mind, ‘whore’. I knew what it meant, I knew what had happened to me, the girl, I hadn’t spoken to her, I hadn’t told her about men, we didn’t speak, she lied, she made this happen, she wanted this to happen, it was her payback for the bag. The pain focused me, making me nauseous, I shifted in the seat, leaned up against the door and opened the window, wanting the wind to blow away the words in my mind, cleaning me, taking me away.
We stopped for petrol, the fumes woke me, the driver talk to the attendant, I slid down in the seat, making myself small and unseen. The attendants eyes fell on me, I imagined his hands on me, they crawled over my skin, touching me where the others had, taking the same as they had, but it didn’t happen, the driver returned to his seat and we set off again. Through the darkness I could see that the towns and villages, the buildings getting more desolate, the roads turning into tracks and rough ground, then back into roads, I let the momentum of the car take me away into a sleep.
The world outside the taxi’s window didn’t change, the darkness contorted shapes, faces superimposed on houses loomed in at me, I closed my eyes, shutting out their world, trying to keep a hold on my own, the momentum of the car lulling me to sleep, taking me away. The pains that now controlled my body woke me, I had no idea how long I had been asleep, the bright sunlight disorientated me. I looked straight ahead, Mohamed’s head lolled from side to side, he was asleep, the driver stared at the road, he didn’t notice me move. The pain burned in me, I looked down, not knowing what to expect what I would see when I looked. My clothes were torn and ripped, my jeans, though on me, were undone, I didn’t remember when I had dressed, the zip was undone, I went to do it up, not wanting to touch myself, it was revulsion I felt, I hadn’t fought hard enough, I had let it happen, I wished they had taken me into the desert and killed me, I wouldn’t be feeling the pain and loathing I felt now. I ignored my injuries, deserved them, I had betrayed myself.
I could feel my legs start to shake, uncontrollably, words, images, smells and the physical feeling of being touched and penetrated were beginning to flood my mind. I sensed my world slipping from me, I only understood one thing, I had allowed it to happen. I fixed my eyes on the world outside the car, each and every man we passed could see me for what I was, I flinched instinctively, pressing myself further into the seat. I could still smell the two men on me, their breath and body odour the stench of their clothes, with every breath I breathed them in. I could still feel their hands, I could sense the ripping of my clothes, the tearing of my skin, exposing me. Terror ran through me like a constant shock of electric, every hair on my body bolt upright waiting for the next attack. The word continued to taunt me, round and round it went, spinning in my head until I felt as though I couldn’t take it anymore, that one word ‘whore’. My head shook from side to side, I didn’t believe it now. From somewhere deep inside a huge gust of breath burst from me, I saw fire in my eyes, I felt the scream more than heard it, ancient, primeval, the most basic form of emotion, suppressed then released. I tore and grabbed at my own clothes, they felt dirty, tainted, I needed to rid myself of them, I ripped at my own skin, my face and arms, my legs flailed wildly, I roared like a beast in hell.
The taxi veered from left to right as I kicked at the driver and Mohamed, my hands still tearing at my clothes, blood now streaming from my face and body. I could feel my heart pounding, thumping against my chest trying to escape. We ground to a halt, dirt and stones scrapping the sides and bottom of the car, then two sets of arms held me down, I could hear their voices as if they were at the end of a tunnel or under water, I couldn’t make out what language they spoke in. My energy waned, and with each diminishing breath my screaming stopped, the voices at the end of the tunnel became clearer. I could hear Mohamed tell the driver to carry on, the pressure of his hands left me, again I began to struggle but slowly now, there was nothing left inside me, either emotionally or physically. I had used my last reserves and stared into Mohamed’s eyes, he was as scared as me. He spoke slowly as if I were a small child. ‘You quiet now, soon we be there, I get you new clothes, you say nothing and nothing bad will happen again.’ I nodded in agreement, submissive and beaten, I spent the rest of the journey in shock, clinging to my own beliefs, rejecting theirs. My mind was already hard at work filing away the memory, already it was drifting towards the darkest parts of my conscious, I willed it away, ignoring the smells and images that were biting and snapping at my nerves.
Towns went by in a blur, the same rubbish and dirt adorning every street, the same huddled figures in every doorway. Mules and carts rapidly replaced cars the further we drove; houses became huts made from sheets of iron. Children ran up to the windows, tapping on them, forcing a trinket, tissues, what ever they had to sell, through the open gap, with each and every blast of the horn came a kick at the door, or a stone thrown by their friends. I cowered in the back, the noise from the streets we drove through found its way into the car, into my head. I gathered my torn clothes around me, withdrew from the door, wound up the window, it was the first time I had allowed tears to fall freely.
I didn’t know the driver’s name, he was a small wiry man with a concentrated look about him. He didn’t speak much now, I assumed he was tired, he hadn’t stopped to sleep or take a rest, just drove. The sun was getting lower in the sky, orange hues of light glinted off the sloping iron roofs of the houses that we passed. I watched the sun start to dip below the horizon, expecting it to throw us all into darkness, but the night was still light, I wanted the darkness to take me, hide me.
We travelled on, the roads becoming increasingly rough, holes sending the wheels of the taxi careering off in all directions. Mohamed spoke to the driver in hushed tones, concentrating on their conversation calmed me, it mingled with the radio.
The driver seemed agitated, it showed in his driving, it was getting erratic, swerving from side to side, I held onto the door handle. Finally he calmed, placated by what ever Mohamed had said, we stayed on a straight course, my nervousness subdued slightly.
The enormity of what had happened pushed and cajoled its way to the front of my mind, I fought with it, I tried to put it back to where I wanted it to be, the black hole where you hide thoughts, images and events that have lost the right to be free, to remind you. The struggle in my head became fervent, even with my eyes wide open I could see the two men, feel them touching me, hear them, smell them, taste them, Mohamed’s words, safe, whore, my breathing quickened, my heart rate ran out of control, I had no where to go, to run to, there was no where safe. Fidgeting wildly in the seat my thoughts had taken over my body, it screamed at me to get out of the car, my body needed to run and hide, my mind needed time to think. My mind won, thoughts came slowly, controlled decisions, I looked for the bag that Mohamed had given me, my mind assuring my body of food, I found it tucked under the passenger seat of the car, I still had my mobile phone, but my money was missing from my pocket. frantically I checked for both of them, it wasn’t on me, panic set in, I quelled it, forcing the lump in my throat to subside, wetting my lips, counting the beats coming from my heart, making them slow, not wanting Mohamed or the driver to sense my unease. I slid my fingers down the back of the seat between the backrest and the seat cushion, moved my hand horizontally checking from end to end, nothing. The money that I had was my only chance. I felt sick, lost, it would have given me a chance, images of the two men came into view, it was they that had taken it, anger replaced my grief, anger that they had taken from me what they had wanted and then stolen my money, the anger was taking over my body, I could feel it surge upwards, I felt a scream careering forward. But from the corner of my eye I saw something under the driver’s seat, the corner of a roll of paper, I didn’t want to look, believing it would vanish if I gave it my full gaze, fearing to reach out and grab it. The taxi swerved, I lurched forward, steadying myself on a headrest, the movement of the car dislodged the paper, it came into view, it was my money. I didn’t care about them noticing me now, I reached forward, grabbed, held it tightly before returning it to my pocket, my security and freedom replaced, my hope renewed.
The knowledge of having my money, some food, even my life gave me courage. I had to get out of the car, go somewhere quiet, where no one knew me. My speech was faltering but deliberate, I knew what I wanted to say, but the words came out of their own accord, randomly, illogically. ‘Like..stop..we…I…now…..ok….walk…trouble…no…say..please…leave…walk….now…please.’ The clarity of the words in my mind overwhelming, it was where it stayed. I was screaming at them to let me out, but my whole body, my voice, all my actions were silent, I was screaming to myself, I hadn’t made a sound.
I sat rigid, my body unable to move, my voice silent, invisible forces keeping me prisoner. Anger rose in me, gnawed at my inability and weakness, my own lack of self control, the longing to leave the car and my impotence fighting a soundless battle inside me, the struggle drained me, sapping what was left, my mouth was dry, my wounds were throbbing, I stared at the footwell, impotent, weak and helpless. Neither Mohamed or the driver heard, neither of them answered me.
EIGHT

The phone rang six times before the answer machine kicked in, my father slammed down his receiver, it was the fourth or fifth time that he had tried to ring the house, with no luck. He had stayed some distance away, in a small hotel where he hoped no one would recognise him, where he hoped the police would not find him. He had not reckoned on being followed, he returned to the hotel bar and ordered another brandy.
The slur and aggression in his voice gave concern to the barman, he didn’t like drunks in his bar, no matter who they were, he suggested that my father had had enough, he tried to duck as the glass was flung at him, glancing off his cheek and smashing into a row of optics behind him. Once more my father faced the cell wall, this time with tears in his eyes, the alcohol blurring reality with emotion.
‘Leave him to sober up at bit – give him time to think a little – you know, I think we have him now.’ Inspector Thompson was more than a little delighted at his new guest in the cells, he knew that the moment had come when my father would finally tell him the truth which would lead to me.
At some point I must have fallen to sleep, though the taxi was driving on rough roads the gentle swaying action of the car and my exhaustion had got the better of me. I awoke to see the sun rising, it’s beauty was not completely lost on me, and for one moment I was lost in wonderment at the serenity, then realization set in . The dust clouds on the horizon gave it a haze, it appeared to shimmer and dance on the distance. I glanced out of the window, the emptiness was vast, overwhelming, dust flew into my eyes from the open window, a sharp reminder of how far I had travelled. As I moved in my seat I could feel my limbs tighten, my whole body ached, touching my face revealed my self inflicted wounds. I could not bear to look at the rest of my body, it was no longer mine, it wasn’t just my innocence they took, a part of my soul had gone with it, there was an emptiness inside.
I sensed the parts shutting down, closing their doors and retreating, the parts of my mind that could no longer accept my situation, they were protecting themselves, protecting me, it left only a small part of me to cope with reality. I struggled to think, to put things into perspective. The purpose of my journey became paramount, I had to see it through to the end, it was a tangible thought, real in its availability to me, there was no turning back, I would take what ever lay ahead of me, live with it, my life, the world after it became a blur, I would deal with it when it came.
The closed parts of my mind were opening their doors, allowing me drive memories into them, the attack went in first, I shut the door on it, it hammered to get out, reminding me of its presence, I closed my eyes and bolted the door on it, ignoring it, turning away from its insistent calling. I opened another door, gently placed the images of home behind it, being careful not to damage them, took one last look at them then shut the door on them, not holding them prisoner like other memories, keeping them safe, clean and untouched, ready to retrieve them when the time came. I wasn’t prepared for the questions that circled in my mind, now able to roam freely, nagging me for answers, accusing me, they sought conclusions. The attack had thrown open the door which was holding it, burning through me, stabbing me, persistent in its quest for knowledge, why had I let it happen, why did Mohamed and the driver let it happen, they saw it, heard it, they were as guilty as the two men, but I was still with them, why? The word flew around my mind, smashing its way through my thoughts, I knew the answer, but wouldn’t let myself acknowledge it, they were the means to get to where I was going, the resentment inside me sat heavy, the knowledge that I could not survive without them, for the moment. I tried to listen to their conversation, their dialect and language mingled with the radio, the noise of the car and my own fatigue, voices, music, noise all garbled, the pain throughout my body screaming at me to straighten up, to move my limbs to stretch. The movements came involuntarily, my legs jerked out from me, my arms followed, my neck twitched and felt like cracking, Mohamed turned to look at me, his eyes at first registering pity, I didn’t want his pity, then the cold steel came through, the hatred and loathing he felt pierced me, it left me in no doubt as to his true thoughts. He spoke in Spanish, ‘We are there soon – then you go on your own, we can help no more.’ Help, I wanted to laugh at him, to scream, to tear at his flesh the way his friends had torn at mine. I wanted to see him hurt, to watch him suffer in humiliation to feel the burning inside that I felt, the filth that I felt. There was no way that I could convey my true thoughts, I could not let him see how deep and low I had sunk, I stared blankly at him, my face expressionless, hollow deep emptiness.
Methodically and mechanically I checked and re-checked the contents of my bag, taking my money out of my pocket I spaced it out within the confines of the bag as I counted it. I crumbled a piece of dried bread between my fingers, the crumbs gathering in the bottom of the bag, crumbling them into dust focused my mind.
It was another hour before we finally stopped. Again I had fallen to sleep, and awoke to see yet another dreary, dirty town. I noticed the women dressed differently here, their whole bodies where swathed in what appeared to be printed sheets, theirs heads still covered. The men grouped themselves around tables outside what seemed to be makeshift cafes. Dogs roamed the street, their bones sticking through their mangy fur, occasionally a stone would be thrown in their direction sending them scurrying and yelping for temporary cover, before venturing out again to see what they could scavenge. Children ran in what seemed like an endless game of criss-crossing the dirt road. Rubbish swirled around the street corners, gathering in small piles, being picked over by women and children alike. I looked up, a painted coca cola sign was swinging from a rusty metal pole jutting out from above a door way. Through the open window I could hear loud voices coming from inside the building, men came and went. I felt my heart beat faster, above the noise coming through the window I thought I could hear it beating. Panic gripped me, the scene was biblical, the coca cola sign bringing me into the present. People were staring at us. Mohamed turned to the driver, talking hurriedly, I sensed their unease. I instinctively covered my head with my scarf, averting my eyes from the curious. The driver turned in his seat, his top lip curled, he spat out words that I didn’t understand, his outstretched hand tightly balled into a fist, shaking it only inches from my face. I looked from him, to the scene outside, to Mohamed, searching for something to recognise, something to help me orientate myself, nothing came forward. The panic rose to a crescendo within me, my stomach churned, my throat dry, I sat motionless in blind fear. Mohamed took the drivers fist into his own hand pulling it away from my face, placating the driver – my fear lulled slightly. Mohamed spoke in a low monotone. ‘Now you must go, we bring you here, no more, you tell Josef, I pay my debt – now you go.’ I closed my eyes, inside I wanted to believe that when I opened them again I would be somewhere else – anywhere but here. ‘GO, GO, WE CAN NO LONGER HELP YOU!’ The words screamed through me, Mohamed’s arm reached towards me, instinctively I ducked to avoid the blow, but his hand felt for the door handle, it flew open. I had been leaning against the door and fell backwards out of it, my foot caught between the floor of the car and the seat, my bag spilling its contents on the dirt floor. I twisted around releasing it, grabbing to save my belongings, children were already gathering, eager to take what they could. The few who had been watching my arrival were now joined by others, a crowd watched like vultures. I held on tight to my bag clutching it to my chest, my feet now out of the car, before I could say or do anything the taxi sped off, the door flying freely as the car spewed dust and dirt from its wheels. I sat where I had landed in the dirt and watched it leave.
Inspector Thompson had his man, or so he hoped, he was frustrated with the progress he had been making, and was beginning to believe my mother’s version of events, that I had indeed travelled to Africa on my own volition, and that I was responsible for my own absence, it did not however deter him from digging into the whole history, my history, my family’s history. His walk was deliberately nonchalant as he entered the interview room, my father was already seated, along with his solicitor they both noticed the inspector’s air of triumph. ‘Richard, it’s ok if I call you Richard, isn’t it?’ Inspector Thompson spoke quietly yet firmly, the question was rhetorical. He carried on not waiting for a reply. ‘As you know, your wife gave us a very detailed statement regarding the disappearance of your daughter, sorry, adopted daughter.’ He added the last bit to rankle my father, it worked. ‘Adopted or not she is still my daughter, you have no r…’ He was interrupted by his solicitor. ‘Inspector, I do not see where this is leading, my client has cooperat…’ The solicitor was in turn interrupted by the inspector. ‘With all due respect, a child is missing, I have evidence to suggest that she was, in the first place illegally brought to this county and that subsequently documents pertaining to her parentage and birth were forged and obtained fraudulently, so please do not lecture me on where this is leading, or on cooperation.’ His voice did not quaver or rise above a monotone, he was completely in control and he knew it.
The interview began and ended as the inspector had hoped, my father had eventually, against his solicitor’s advice, opened up the hornet’s nest. The answers the inspector received though were not to his liking, as he left the interview room he shook his head, both in bewilderment and disgust.
The information that my father gave corroborated that of my mother’s. To a casual eye it would have appeared to be the most fantastical and elaborate story ever, the workings of overactive imaginations, but every word was true, most of what he had said could be substantiated, the inspector knew that it would take time to collate the evidence, but he had time now. He knew that he was treading on thin ice, that he would have to involve the immigration authorities, but once they were involved then the case would no longer be his, and he wanted to see this through to the end, he turned to speak to his sergeant. ‘First things first, I need to find what flight she took, damn, I should have believed the mother, our little Maeve really has gone on a fishing expedition to Africa.’ He stopped to rub his brow feeling a migraine coming on, not knowing if the nausea he felt was from that or the thought of a dead child’s birth certificate being used to provide a false identity – the memories of his only child flooding his mind. He took a deep breath. ‘let’s hope that she finds what she’s looking for and comes straight back home to our green and pleasant land, as I for one would not want to be going where she’s supposed to be. Bloody hell!’ The pain was building in his head, and he left he sergeant to it and walked up a flight of stairs to his office. Closing the door he sat at his desk and took a small photograph out of his wallet. The picture was torn at the edges, but it was the only photograph he had of the child he had lost when she was only 10 days old, laid to rest. He popped two pills into his mouth and promised to find me, not wanting another child to suffer any distress. He picked up the phone – he knew that he couldn’t keep this to himself and that he had to involve other agencies, he spoke into the receiver in a professional manner, it was his way of coping with his own memories of grief. ‘Sir, Thompson here, we’ve had some significant information regarding the missing girl, I will need a case conference immediately with social services, immigration and…’ he paused ‘and yourself, I think that this will need very careful handling, this thing will blow.’
It didn’t take long for all of the agencies involved to meet to discuss my case. By the time the conference was called most of the evidence has been checked and corroborated, there were only a few holes, the information having been lost or forgotten over the years. The final decision was taken, a press conference and appeal for witnesses to my whereabouts, collaboration with the relevant African authorities and the immediate arrest of both of my parents, the latter was considered to be for their own safety once the press had learnt the truth.
My father was re-arrested, he was at home, his drinking had increased and it was not an easy task to take him into custody. The arresting officer made many searches of the house but could not find my mother, my father was not cooperative when asked about her whereabouts, he simply stated that he didn’t know, that he didn’t care, that she had left, it was in breech of her bail.
‘So, we have number one tucked up in bed.’ Inspector Thompson had been joined by his senior officer, ‘now we only have to find number two and three and we’ll have a full house.’ The superintendent had become the face of the operation to locate me, a task he relished, knowing that the cameras liked him, he gladly made the appeal for my return, believing that a good outcome would further his career. ‘Of course sir, there is always the possibility that the wife has also gone to Africa, we have her passport, but that means nothing, but something tells me she is just lying low, can’t take the pressure, after all, she’s fallen from a very high perch, she is probably licking her wounds.’ The superintendent stood in his immaculate uniform and brushed an imaginary piece of fluff from a cuff. ‘Yes, yes, or course, and as soon as she breaks cover, let me know and I’ll arrange another press conference, best to give them the right story rather than let them make it up.’ What he really meant was that it gave him yet another chance to preen his feathers for all the world to see.
I pulled myself up from the dirt road, still clutching my bag to my chest. Some children started to pester me for money, I couldn’t understand what they wanted, they tugged at my clothes, their chatter incessant, the dust on the road rising as they jumped around. I turned sharply, knocking one of them to the ground accidentally, loosening the grip on my bag to help him to his feet I immediately felt the tug, with my attention diverted my bag had been ripped from me, before I even had a chance to grab at the assailant they were gone, I stood, dazed and bewildered, my last hope taken by someone I had tried to help.
I stood in the early morning sun, dust dancing through shafts of light, the stench already apparent, my head felt fuzzy and confused, I was beyond fear and trepidation now, if I could have cried I would, but I just stood there, rooted to the spot, unable to comprehend the magnitude of my situation, it had all become too much for me. The dust started to settle, the light became suddenly very bright, I felt dizzy, my eyes searched for something, I don’t know what, and then I fell to the ground, I don’t remember falling, but I must have done as the next thing I knew a group of people were standing over me, all chattering, one pocked me with his toe and I instantly crawled into the foetal position. More murmurs came from the crowd, then a hand on my shoulder, I opened my eyes, they were blurry, a pot marked faced came into focus, I could see his mouth moving, but I couldn’t hear the words, my head was full of jumbled sounds, loud, just noises I couldn’t understand. Next, two arms reached under mine, I started to struggle, feeling the need to escape, but my legs wouldn’t move, then more shouting and scuffling, more murmurs, I felt myself being dragged into a building and placed on a stool, water was splashed onto my face. As I blinked through the dust and water in my eyes I could make out that I was now in some kind of bar, red plastic chairs were grouped around rusty metal tables. The crowd was less now, just a handful of people, all staring at me. The pot marked man was still there, in his hand he held a cigarette, his fingers were stained yellow, his nails engrained with dirt. I needed to focus on something to try to get my bearings, my heart was pounding in my head, my eyes hurt and my body drained, not even the adrenalin pumping through me could help me now. ‘Ah, ah, ah, oui, oui, oui!’ It was the pot marked man, staring quizzically into my face. I tried to speak, I really wanted to scream, to scream at them all to leave me alone, I had had enough. The noise came out of my mouth dry and grainy, I tried again. ‘Please, leave me alone, I’ve not done anything to you, please..pl…’ The pot marked man moved to touch me, I scrambled back, the chair under me stopping me, it simply rocked on its legs. A hand was placed on my shoulder, it sent shivers through me, instant terror, the memory of the attack in the car. Again the pot marked man spoke, this time in broken English. ‘Ingleesh, you ingleesh?’. I nodded, I was too tired, too frightened to do anything but be compliant now, perhaps if I didn’t struggle they wouldn’t hurt me too much and I could escape when they had finished with me. But the attack didn’t come. Instead a young boy arrived, he was pushed towards me, he looked as nervous as I felt, the irony gave me a lift inside, as if I suddenly had a chance. Again he was shoved towards me. He spoke with good English. ‘My name is Amir, what is your name?’. It confused me a bit, and for a moment I sat there shaking my head, of course I knew my name, but was too dazed to answer. Then again. ‘Me, Amir, you?’. He voice was pleading, he looked directly at me and smiled. His smile seemed forced, but nonetheless it too gave me a bit of hope, I rolled my tongue in my mouth, and swallowed the dust that was there so that I could speak. ‘Maeve, I don’t have anything, please let me go, I just want to go.’ Amir turned to the others and spoke in the language that I still could not understand, they all nodded and then gestured for him to continue with our stilted conversation. ‘They…we want to know what you are here for, this in not a good place for you, why do you come here?’. His question stumped me, for a moment I could not think of an answer as I couldn’t remember why I was there, thousands of miles from home, beaten and without money, then with a sickening feeling everything came back to me, images of my mother flashed in front of me, my father’s voice was banging away inside my head, the attack in the car, the policeman who hit me, everything, all at once came flooding back, tears started to form in the corners of my eyes, tears I refused to shed in front of these people, I held them back. I saw my conversation with Amir as a chance, maybe I could talk my way to freedom. I started to speak slowly, I needed him to understand that I had nothing and meant them no harm, that all I wanted was to be allowed to go on my way. I cleared the rest of the gritty spittle from my throat. ‘I am on my way to find my family, they come from a village near here – I have travelled a very long way, I have no money, what I had left was stolen a moment ago.’ I stopped to let him translate what I had said, the occupants of the room were all nodding, some started asking the others questions, the pot marked man spoke to Amir. Amir turned to me with their questions. ‘You say you come to find your family, why would an English woman be here, there are no English women here?’. I shook my head, I needed to make him understand me. ‘I know’, I said, ‘My mother….I mean…I was born here.’ Amir looked at me for a moment, puzzled, as though he were trying to remember me from somewhere. ‘I beg your pardon miss.’ The statement startled me, of course he had learned his English from books and believed that we spoke just that way. He turned to his companions, translated what I had said. A sudden murmur rose up from them, and then they all stepped forward together, each one scrutinizing me, each one looking into my face, trying to place me, searching for some form of recognition. As quickly as they had stepped forward they all retreated, Amir as well, and huddled together. Their discussion became fervent, hands and arms started to wave in the air until finally the pot marked man came to me, he grabbed my chin with his hand, forcing me to face them all. I pulled away from him, terror seeping through me again. Amir stepped forward, placing his hand on the pot marked man’s forearm, I didn’t understand what he said, but the pot marked man withdrew a few paces and smiled an apologetic smile, my tension eased a little. Amir spoke. ‘Forgive him, I have to tell them that in England you do not do such things, he means you no harm.’ I nodded adding that it was ok. It was not ok, but I was not in a position to say otherwise. Amir drew up a chair. ‘You say you come from here, but none of us know you, you must be mistaken, my friend here is the village elder and does not know you, and he knows everyone in this village and the next. And why did that taxi throw you onto the ground, perhaps you did not pay the them, I am sorry, but these are questions that we ask of you.’ His directness took me aback, I looked around the small room, the floor was rough mud, the walls too. Although it was obviously a bar of some kind I could not see any kind of counter or serving area. I found my self getting to the end of what I could endure, I had no money, I hurt from the attack in the car and I was hungry and thirsty, I made the decision, rightly or wrongly to tell them exactly why I was there.
Even before I was half way through the room had filled with more people, it seemed as though the whole village had come to listen. Amir translated, but the room’s occupants often became frustrated and impatient with him, poking him, insisting he ask more questions. Quite often they would huddle between themselves and discuss what they had just heard, either nodding or shaking their heads, but either way they held their attention. Finally it was over, I had got to the part of my ejection from the taxi, and my bag being taken from me outside the bar we now sat in. Murmurs scurried around the room like Chinese whispers, a couple of people left the room and returned with a small child, they handled him roughly, I wanted to tell them to stop, the words didn’t leave my mouth, I was in their world now. The child dressed in a tatty blue robe and no sandals on his feet came forward, from behind his back he produced my bag and he handed it to me, lowering his head and uttering words I could not understand. He was immediately slapped across the back of his head and scurried away. I felt inside the bag, the money was gone, I wanted to say something, to tell them that it was missing, but then thought of the child, the repercussions, the punishment he would receive, I put his needs before mine and let the thought go along with my money.
The return of my bag was more than that, it showed me that these people meant me no harm, the children had taken my money, it didn’t surprise me, it would have been split up amongst them, divided time and time again, but the return of the bag itself gave me hope.
It felt good to talk, I didn’t feel so alone, but the effort of telling my story had made me tired and dizzy, I had not had a drink for a long time and the sun outside the room was now blazing fully, the dust in the room was swirling in the shafts of light coming through the window and door. The air in the room was thick and musty, it smelt like old socks, it smelt like what it was, of unwashed people. Then the questions started in earnest, Amir could not keep up with the translating, everyone was talking at once, some of them getting impatient. I must have passed out again, as once more I felt water being sprinkled onto my face, this time by a young girl, she looked about the same age as me, I cringed back from her, my experience of the girl with Mohamed making me nervous of her, suspicious of her intentions. She wore a long skirt, its hem poked out under the swathes of material that covered her from head to toe.
Amir was kneeling beside me, he spoke softly, his look was of concern. ‘I think maybe you need food and water – here you try to eat and then we talk – but first please eat – it will help.’ A table was placed beside me, then water and a bowl of what looked like stew, at the time it was the most welcome sight in the world. I drank quickly, the water dribbling down the sides of my mouth. I ate the bowl of food and a whole loaf of bread – immediately feeling both better and sick.. Their generosity and kindness was startling, and I began to feel anxious, there must be a price of some kind to pay, yet they knew I had no money, nothing to pay with, the thought of why they were being kind nagged at me.
By now the room had emptied, only the man, whom I believed to be their village elder, the girl who splashed the water on my face, Amir and myself remained. My eyes darted back and forth between them. Outside through the door I could see that they crowd was still there, it had dissipated, but there were too many of them to try to escape, once again I felt trapped.
I shifted nervously in my chair, Amir immediately placed him hand on my arm. ‘You need not worry, we mean you no harm, we want to help, that is why the children gave you your bag.’ I thought about the money, ‘they also mean no harm, we are, how can I say this, my English maybe is not as good as I like to think, yes, I know the word, we are intrigued by your story, and also we feel great sorrow for you and great anger at the people who have done you wrong.’ I immediately assumed that he was referring to the two men in the taxi. ‘I suppose I should not have got into the taxi with them, it is something I would not have done at home’. The word home seemed strange to me. Amir looked at me and smiled, ‘No, no, I did not mean them, though what they did was beyond sin, and if they were of this village they would suffer a punishment befitting their sin, but I was referring to your parents, or rather the man and woman who took you to England.’ I looked at him, unable to reply, my self pity eating at me, anger rode in me, how could he judge my parents, I wanted to protect their honour, their integrity, but the truth if the truth, they had denied me the rights to my roots. They had taken away my right to be who I was and had given me another life, that of someone else. It was not my life, and the upshot was that now I was here, I had lost sixteen years of my life, that was how it felt, at that moment the squalid surroundings seemed familiar and homely, as if I belonged.
‘Amir, you speak a great deal of truth, and I thank you for that, but I must carry on and find where I come from, maybe then I can start again.’ Amir looked at me and smiled, he turned to the older man, who’s name I didn’t know, the young girl was busy sweeping the dust around the floor, moving it from one place to another. He spoke to the older man, who nodded in turn, Amir returned to my gaze. ‘We understand your position, and yes, you may look like one of us, but it is far too dangerous for you to travel alone, you would get lost and find yourself in great trouble and difficulty – you must show me the information that you have of where you come from, and then we maybe go together, we perhaps can find your family, there is no more that we can do.’
I laughed, perhaps it was not the best thing to do, my fear of them had now turned to admiration and Amir’s offer of help was the last thing that I was expecting, I laughed because of that, it took me some time to explain why I laughed, perhaps my English sense of humour was coming out, it was not something I was proud of at that moment.
The food and water that they had given me had begun to help my body heal, I no longer felt faint or dizzy. Amir and I spent the rest of the afternoon huddled in a corner of the bar, the normal days proceedings had resumed and customers came and went, eventually their curiosity in me dwindled and the stares and murmurs subsided. By the end of the afternoon we had devised a plan and had plotted a route. With the help of others we had drawn a map, but Amir just laughed at it, we were to travel by mule, where we were going there were no roads, and in some places not even tracks. The young girl entered the bar, Amir told me to go with her, she would show me a place to sleep, we would set out at sunrise, he instructed me to sleep well – I would be needing it for the journey ahead.
For the first time since I had arrived in Africa I did not hear the morning call to prayer, it was only the gentle knocking on the door that woke me. Temporarily I had forgotten where I was, I felt disorientated, the blackness of the room intimidated me. I heard the latch on the door move and behind a small oil lamp was the silhouette of a man, I shook my head to remember, my heart pounding, my breathing quickening. ‘Maeve, we must go soon, I bring you some tea and bread.’ Then my memory returned, it was Amir, the sweat that had quickly formed on my forehead now cooled just as fast, I shivered. Amir came into the room, in one hand he held the lantern, in the other a small tray of tea and bread, with a small bowl of oil. ‘Thank you, sorry I was fast asleep’. I was still bewildered by his kindness and generosity, he reminded me so much of Josef, my thoughts immediately scrolled back to my time in Casablanca, it seemed so far away now. ‘You know you English people say some strange things, why were you ‘fast’ asleep, I do not understand this.’ I laughed as I could not work out why you should be fast asleep and not in a deep sleep or just simply asleep – I laughed at how stupid the English language was, now was not the place to give an impromptu lessons on English idioms, Amir just smiled.
As promised, waiting outside for us were two mules, their baskets laden with food and water, I realised how little I appreciated what these people were doing for me, and how little I understood of my surroundings, and of my situation.

NINE

Our journey took us over miles of hamada, the hard baked ground rippled like corrugated iron in places, barren stretches of land seemed to last into eternity. We skirted mud hut villages, not making ourselves seen to anyone, the sun was scorching, the ground hard and unrelenting, nothing grew, what had tried was now withered to brown straw or twigs, everything had a thick layer of dust, including us. We rode on the backs of the mules, our feet protruding around their necks. The mules did not complain about the sun, or stumble on the hard and uneven surface.
It was many hours before we stopped, there were a few trees which were covered with large strange shaped leaves, their existence in the arid landscape fascinated me, all around there was nothing but dry mud and dust, yet we sat in the cool shade of a tree. We tied the mules to one of the trees and took from one of the baskets some water and bread, Amir was searching at the bottom on the basket for something and finally found what he was looking for, two oranges. After the heat of the day and the discomfort of the ride I sucked slowly at first savouring the sweetness, then devoured it, the juice dribbling down my chin, falling in tiny droplets onto the ground. We ate in silence, exhausted and tired I nodded off at some point.
It was Amir’s hand over my mouth that startled me awake, I tried to prise it free, but when I looked at him I saw fear in his eyes, with his other hand he singled for me to keep quiet. He whispered in my ear. ‘Bandits, keep quiet and they will not notice us, but you must do as I say.’ Far out in the distance I could see a cloud of dust, it was moving our way, slowly I realised that it was a large four by four, men were sitting on the roof and leaning out of the back with the tail gate open. It was not only the men that frightened me, each of them carried a gun, slung over their backs, as they drove towards us I tried to count them, tried to note their demeanour, wanting to see into them, to know who they were and what they wanted. The dust cloud drew nearer, they were within a hundred feet of us. ‘Put your scarf over your head and look down, do not speak, do not say a word, just follow what I do.’ I could sense Amir’s fear now, he stood up, I followed his lead and stood too, but kept looking at the ground as instructed. The jeep screeched to a halt, the brakes scrapping metal against metal, the dust and dirt shrouding their faces, a couple of them took their guns and casually aimed them at us. Their relaxed stance frightened me, it showed their control, control over me. Amir stood motionless, I followed suit, my heart pounding, holding my breath, sweat streaming down my forehead, my back, even on the palms of my hands, I reached down needing to touch Amir’s hand, searching for some reassurance, as if by simply touching him I could bolster my own feelings, he squeezed it then brushed it away.
The men in the truck shouted something that I didn’t understand, Amir replied, his voice soft and almost childlike. Roars of laughter erupted from them, it shock their vehicle, the bouncing on the ground, they shouted and screamed, then a sound like fireworks, but not the kind I was used to, a small pall of smoke rose from one of the guns, rapid, cracking through the air, slicing through me. The mules started to panic, one broke free, the baskets on its back spilling their contents as it ran free and away from the noise, I couldn’t see which way it went, my gaze still held on the ground. My legs start to shake, trying to stop them only made it worse, so sure that they could see my unease I stopped breathing, not wanting any movement to come from my body.
As fast as they had approached they left, in a cloud of dust and gun fire. A young member of their troupe took pleasure in aiming his rifle straight at us, then firing into the air, the noise pulsing through the air, hitting me as hard as if it were the bullet itself. Amir slumped back onto the tree, although my legs were shaking I could not move. I could not even turn to look at him, I did not know if he had been shot, at that moment I did not know anything. Then I heard a large sigh and Amir take huge gulps of air, I managed to turn to face him, sure to find him lying in a pool of blood, instead he was sat on the ground, sweat pouring from him, he looked up at me, and beckoned me to sit.
We sat motionless for some time, our one remaining mule now also sitting on all fours, the sun and gun fire perhaps too much for it. It was Amir who finally spoke. ‘They…we…’ He stumbled over his words. ‘They wanted to know what we had, but I told them that I had brought you here to….I am sorry, I have shown you disrespect please forgive me, it was the only thing I could think of.’ It struck me then why the gun fire, the men in the jeep were saluting his manhood, they assumed he had brought me here to have sex with me, I did not feel disrespected, in fact it struck me even then that I did not even think about the men who had attacked me, I felt the opposite, Amir had probably just saved both mine and his life. I placed my hand on his shoulder. ‘Amir, you have not disrespected me, thank you.’ He smiled back at me, but it was a weak smile, a weary one.
It was a long time before either of us spoke again, we simply sat, both of us lost in our own thoughts, Amir stared into the distance, I stared at the ground, immersed in my private world, everything that had happened to me since I had left England was running through my mind like some kind of perverted film, one I did not want to watch, but none the less it kept on rolling. I had come a long way, not just in miles but in myself. School seemed a distant memory, I could no longer imagine the corridors or classrooms, places that were, before all of this, my havens, my sanctuaries. In its place were brief images of bars, policemen, children, Josef and Abjeli, I had only been away from them for a few days, but it seemed like a life time, I wondered what they were doing. Images of my mother and father briefly flittered by, but I was now too angry with them, angry with them for taking away my heritage, what was rightfully mine. Even though I sat in the dirt, with little money and only the clothes I stood in, at that moment I felt at home, a belonging to something struck me.
It wasn’t too long before the police found my mother, she had checked into a hotel under a different name, gone was the sheen on her hair, her pale skin looked almost grey, and her clothes crumpled and a bit ‘whiffy’, according to the receptionist, ‘But we take all kinds here, you should see….’ The receptionist carried on talking as if she were discussing a shopping list with a friend, not the discovery of my mothers body. She explained that the woman, calling herself Sandra Brown had checked in a couple of days before, that she had paid cash in advance for one week, that she only had one bag. It was the first and last time that she had been seen. The morning after my mothers arrival the do not disturb sign was hung outside her door. The chambermaid, as was correct, did not enter and so left it till later to refresh the towels, but the sign still hung there. This was not uncommon. It wasn’t until the next morning when the sign was still there that the chambermaid became a bit suspicious, so, with a clean batch of towels in one hand she knocked on the door, there was no reply. Thinking that the sign had been left out accidentally, she let herself in to deliver the new towels and to make the bed, it was then that she found her, hanging from the curtain rail. The receptionist was keen to add that all the fixtures and fittings in the hotel were of good quality, should it have been ‘The Hampton’ down the road then the pole would have broken with the weight. It was a remark that the policeman taking her statement didn’t like, the girl was an imbecile. But he continued taking her statement, whilst she continued to file her nails. As my mothers body was placed into the back of a waiting ambulance Inspector Thompson arrived, he had been alerted to the possible true identity of the deceased and needed to preserve the area as a crime scene, he half expected there to be two bodies, that not just of my mother, but of mine as well. The whole case was taking on new and sinister twists that he was not expecting, he thought back to his own child, and to his wife’s depression, he understood why my mother had done what she did, it didn’t stop him feeling sorrow for her, anger for the loss of life, anger at himself, had he been too hard on her? Anger that he vowed to vent on my father.
It is true what they say about time being a great healer, my ordeal in the taxi was beginning to seem like a faded memory, I was shutting it away, closing the door on it. In Amir’s presence I felt safe and secure. He had an easy wit, and good judgement, I thought about the encounter with the bandits as he had described them. I hadn’t really appreciated the danger that both he and I were in, like the attack in the taxi and the policeman’s treatment of me, it all seemed so normal here, my previous life had ended and I had become accustomed to the precarious ways of this one, as if it had always been like this.
Amir turned to me, he was deathly pale, his hands were shaking, his eyes wide like saucers. ‘We must go, it is not safe here, perhaps they come back.’ The sun was overbearing now, sweat was trickling down his forehead, collecting in the corners of his eyes then making muddy rivulets down his cheeks, I couldn’t be sure if they were tears or not. I picked up a small handful of the dust, and let it fall through my fingers, the bigger grains getting stuck between them. I reached out to touch him, reassure him. He pulled away, wiping his face with his sleeve and started to stand up. ‘You don’t understand, this place is dangerous, the desert is not a good place for you, for me. Those men, they take anything they see, they have no rules, no laws, you….you….’. He stopped mid sentence, kicking the dirt around in circles with his toe. ‘Maeve, what happened to you in the taxi would seem like nothing if they got hold of you, maybe you don’t understand, you come from a different world, you don’t belong here, you should go back, back to England.’ I pushed myself up from the tree, anger now rising inside me, how dare he say I didn’t belong here, this was my home, my real home, I wanted to shout at him for dismissing my longing to be here, he was making me feel like a small child who had wandered out onto the street and was being coaxed back home by some kindly stranger. I am not a child, and I do understand I wanted to shout at him, but before I could speak another dust cloud appeared on the horizon. ‘Come, now, we must go’. He pulled at my arm, and went to untie our remaining mule. I pulled away from him, out from under the shade of the tree the sun was unforgiving, it tore through me. Amir was leading the mule away from the tree, he turned, frustration and anger mixed with his words. ‘Now, we go now, do you want to die?’ It was such a simple word, and I didn’t understand why he had used it, of course I didn’t want to die, there had been times though over the past few days that I might have answered yes to his question, but now all I felt was a belonging, I wanted to live and discover this place, to claim what had been taken away from me. He carried on walking, begrudgingly I followed, I had to run to keep up with him. ‘Hey’. I shouted. ‘What’s all of this about, they have gone, there is nothing to worry about… is there?’ I was beginning to feel unease, though I was trying to push it to the back of my mind. Amir stopped and spun, the sudden movement of his feet threw clouds of dust up around him, the breeze swept them my way making me cough. ‘I like you, maybe a little too much, that is why I want you to go home, we should not go on, this is very wrong.’ He looked nervously at the dust cloud in the distance, it was getting nearer, then seemed to stop, he swivelled around and put his hand to his forehead to shield his eyes from the sun, I squinted to see what he was looking at, in the distance I could see a small village, the mud huts and simple concrete buildings were almost invisible in the haze and dust, they shimmered in the heat. ‘Come, I don’t think they will follow us there.’ ‘Who, Amir, who, who is it that wont follow us, you’re scaring me.’ And he was, the unease that I had previously tried to quell was now in the forefront of my mind, I felt a chill run through me, an inexplicable feeling of both searing heat from the sun and frozen bones. Amir motioned for me to get on the mule, as I climbed up he started to run, making the mule canter awkwardly, I held onto the baskets for balance. ‘Amir, slow down, you cant run in this heat.’ But he kept on running. The village came into view, I could see people milling around, I had to rub my eyes to remove the dust that was being thrown up by both Amir and the mule. As we came closer to the village we slowed to a walk, Amir was sweating profusely, his breathing deep and laboured, I jumped down from the mule and put my hand on his shoulder. ‘Amir, please, you must tell me.’ He was taking big gulps of air, warm dusty air that made him cough. Finally he spoke, ‘Ok, but first we sit there.’ He pointed to a pile of rocks that I hadn’t noticed, there was a small patch of shade. As he sat on the ground I took our last bottle of water from the mule’s basket and handed it to him. ‘Here, you must drink.’ He pushed it away, but I unscrewed the top and handed it to him, he drank. As I sat beside him in the relative cool of the shade I began to wonder why I was there. Confusion was taking over all the corners of my mind, on one hand I so desperately wanted to know everything, on the other I wanted to curl up in a ball in the safety and comfort of my own bed, it didn’t just seem thousands of miles away now, but almost unreal as if that part of my life had just been a dream. He stopped drinking and handed the bottle back to me, I drank thirstily, not appreciating how valuable water was, forgetting that we now had none.
‘Amir, when I left England, all I wanted to do was to find my family, I wanted to know if what my parents had told me about them was true, all my life I have been different, and now I am here, where I belong you tell me that I don’t belong, that I am different here too. I didn’t know what to expect, maybe I had some stupid romantic notion of finding my family, living in a pretty little hut, that they would welcome me with open arms, that everyone would. It’s not been like that, there have been times that I have wanted to die, there have been times that I haven’t understood, and now I don’t understand. Who were those men, you said they were bandits, what did you mean?’ I was more pleading with him than asking, I needed to know, I desperately wanted to understand, to be apart of it all, to belong.
‘OK, but maybe you will not like to hear this, you are an educated girl, an English girl.’ I started to protest and then thought better of it, he continued. ‘You do not have to do the things, live the way we do. I have learnt to speak English so that I can work, sometimes we have rally’s through the desert, I work as a guide, I earn money for my family.’ I look at him, he seems so young, and yet he works to feed his family, it strikes me as unfair, but I let him continue. ‘The men in the truck, if they knew you to be English, first they take you, they would do things to you, then they would sell you, what would happen after that would not be right to say, bad things, Maeve, bad things. They have many friends in the desert, but they stopped, they didn’t go into the village, perhaps they are not welcome here, they are not welcome everywhere, so maybe this village is safe for us, maybe they do not have friends here. But you must not speak here, you may look like one of us, but you can never be one of us, if they know that you are a foreigner then you would not be safe, Maeve, you are worth money, I know it sounds wrong, and yes it is wrong, but you are, believe me, in danger here. I will help you find your family, and then we must leave, you must go back to England, forget this place.’
I gulped back the spittle that had formed in my mouth, more than ever I felt the urge to go home, but the longing to find out was still there, and I had come so far. Amir’s words were resonating through my mind, I felt naked, even though my clothes covered me from head to toe the thought of more men touching me sent shivers down my spine, goose bumps rose on my arms, I could feel again their touch, the revulsion of what they did to me. Amir had risked his own life to protect me from the men in the truck, I owed him a great debt, and the only way I could replay it was to listen to him and try to understand, though it was becoming increasingly difficult to even think, let alone understand what was happening in my life.
The old man in Amir’s village had told me it would only take a couple of days to get to where he believed I was heading. I could not turn back now, everything that had happened to me would have been for nothing if I did that. ‘So, what do we do now’. I felt small, out of control, lost, I needed Amir to be strong for me.
‘We go to the village here, I ask for water and food, you have a little money, so we can pay, they will think that we are nomads – they will not take any notice of us – then we must find a safe place to rest, tomorrow we find your village – then this will be over.’ I nodded in agreement, I needed to rest, the sun had taken its toll on me, and though I had been assured that the mule was used to such work, I could not help but feel guilty about our use of it.
The village was much the same as all the others, mud and tin shacks scattered around haphazardly, there was a bar, again with a hand painted coca cola sign, again the same red plastic chairs, and again children, all tugging at my clothes, their hands out stretched, their feet bare.
‘You stay here, and do not speak, keep you head down, do not go anywhere.’ His instruction seemed so obvious, where would I go, I felt the whole village stare at me as I lowered myself onto the dirty ground and hunched my knees into my chest. I held onto the mules rein, convinced that if I loosened my grip for even one second someone would take it from me, I wondered what had happened to the other one, I hoped that it had found shelter, perhaps a new and kind owner, but I believed them to be far and few between here.
It didn’t take long before the inquisitive children found their way over to me, chattering and kicking up dust, I turned my head away from them so as not to make eye contact, my grip on the rein tightened. They seemed to circle me like vultures, talking to me, at me, around me, the dust getting ever thicker, rising in great clouds around their feet and legs. Closing my eyes I wished them away, if I spoke they would betray me, then the whole village would know, they would know that I wasn’t one of them, Amir’s words came rushing back, ‘they would sell you’. I shuddered, aremembering being shut in the old mans house, now knowing what people had in store for me, images of text books I had read about slavery forced their way into my head, I could hear the taunting of the girls in school, ‘Maeve, Maeve the little man slave.’ Perhaps they were right after all, perhaps this is where I belong and I should just let happen what will inevitably happen, my head sunk lower, I pulled my knees tighter into my chest.
Inspector Thompson drove himself to my father’s house, he knocked on the door, it took three tries before it was opened, the greeting was not pleasant. ‘What the bloody hell do you want, you’ve got a bloody nerve coming here.’ My father was drunk, he held onto the door for support with one hand, in the other he held a large tumbler of whiskey. ‘If I could come in perhaps, I need to tell you something.’ My father let go of the door to push the inspector away, as he did he tripped and fell, shattering the glass and cutting his hand at the same time. He got to his feet and shuffled back into the house, murmuring to himself, the inspector followed. He found my father slumped in a chair in the lounge, blood trickling down the cut on his hand and onto the fabric on the arm of the chair. His belligerent shouts were slurred by too much whiskey. ‘Whash you want, I said get out, this is my house.’ The inspector sat down, ‘I have something to tell you Richard. My father looked up at him, ‘Yoos found her, the stupid little cow, well she can’t come home, I wont let her – ungrateful little man.’ His outburst both shocked and angered the inspector, it was after all my father who had brought me to England, I was after all his daughter. Through clenched teeth, he started to talk then softened his stance as he remembered the enormity of what he was saying. ‘Richard, earlier today I attended the scene of a suspicious death, I am sorry to have to inform you, but I believe it to be the body of your wife, I will need you to make a formal identification.’ He sat there waiting for a torrent of abuse to spew from my father, instead my father began to rise slowly from his chair, and then just as slowly he sat back down, placing his head in his hands he let out a wail that sliced through the room, he felt the walls close, the ground surge up, the whole room crowded around him, forcing the air from his lungs, his wails and howls sounding like a trapped animal.
The children soon got bored of tormenting me, as they left to find new amusements one or two of them kicked dust towards me, one last defiant strike against a target that wouldn’t play their game, my relief at their departure was short lived. The hand that touched my shoulder made me jump up instantly, I let out a small screech, it was Amir, he looked me straight in the eye. ‘Shush, don’t say anything, we must go.’ He took the rein of the mule from me and started to walk briskly towards the outskirts of the village, I kept up with him, not saying a word, glancing at him from time to time, otherwise keeping my eyes fixed firmly on the ground.
Only once we had finally reached the outskirts of the village did he speak. ‘Maeve, this is too dangerous to continue, these people, they are afraid of the bandits, they say that they come often, take what they want, they asked me who you were, I tell them that you are my sister and that I am taking you to another village.’ He carried on walking fast as he spoke, not taking his eyes off me. I felt that there was more than he was saying, I tried to ask, but each time he just told me to walk, we walked a long way that afternoon, well into the night.
Our resting place was under a large tree, I couldn’t tell what kind, even those I thought I recognised were too gnarled to hazard a guess at, most of the leaves were dead or had been eaten, an ant colony slowly taking the remaining greenery back home. I fell to the floor, my feet, legs, arms, the whole of my body hurt, my head was in turmoil, I wanted to know what Amir wasn’t telling me. He was fussing with the mule, avoiding my questions, I stood in front of him my frustration finally giving way I needed to know. ‘Tell me Amir, what is so wrong, if it’s the water we can last until tomorrow, we will find another village tomorrow.’ He looked away from me again, this only made me angry, I pushed him hard on his shoulder, knocking him backwards onto the ground, as he fell I flew towards him, my fists balled tight, I needed to know what he knew and didn’t care how I got the information from him – I was desperate.
Amir flinched back from me, he scrambled to his feet, the incomprehension visible in his eyes, my arms fell to my side and eventually I cried. All that I had been through, the one thing that I craved most was human contact, a gentle touch and a hug, I clung to him and sobbed into his clothes, he let me cry without saying a single word we both understood. He both envied my life back in England but felt great sorrow for me, my feeling of not belonging. I also envied him, his family, his village, his simplicity, but also I felt great sorrow for him, he would never be more than he was. I at least had a choice, he did not.
It was a moonless night, something that we were grateful for, beyond our immediate surroundings everything was black, it felt like space itself had descended to earth and was waiting for us to walk into its depths, I kept a weary eye imagining what lay beyond the darkness.
It was me who spoke first, breaking free from Amir’s now sodden clothes. I held him at arms length, and thanked him, he shook his head, took my hand and squeezed it tight, he had a way of doing things that not even a thousand words could say. ‘I have bought you nothing but trouble, I am so sorry, this was all a bad idea, all I wanted was to know, perhaps it is better that I don’t know, perhaps we should return, I can telephone my friend Josef in Casablanca, he can send me some money maybe, then I can go back, Amir, I understand now, I do not belong here, I might have done, but this is a place I could never understand, it is too late for me now, too much time has passed.’ I was trying to be polite, it was a place that I knew I could not live in, I hated the poverty, the smell, the dirt and the heat. I needed to find use for my life, I could not live this existence, I already felt trapped by it. Had things turned out differently and I had not been taken to England I would not have known any different, but I did and I could not extinguish my knowledge of a different life, I didn’t want to. Amir understood what I meant, but he didn’t show any hurt or anger towards me, there was no malice in him, his acceptance of his life humbled me.
At no other point had I felt the real urge to go home, to put this all behind me, I needed so badly to feel my mother’s arms around me, to know I was safe and loved, all day I had the emptiest feeling inside me, something was nagging at me, I was homesick.
It was Amir’s suggestion that we take turns in sleeping, he looked exhausted, I offered to take the first couple of hours, promising to wake him should I hear or see anything. I watched him fall effortlessly to sleep, he reminded me so much of a child. It started to get cold, the desert was like that, scorching days and freezing nights, I shuffled up closer to Amir for body heat and lay my head on his shoulder, it was a big mistake as within a few minutes I too was asleep.
I felt the cold steel against my face before I heard anything, I was curled next to Amir, then a kick, aimed directly at my back, pain shot through me, but fear stopped me from registering it, I wanted to move but couldn’t, from the corner of my eye I could see the long barrel of a gun, the end pushed into cheek. Amir felt the kick, though it had not been directed at him he felt it through my body, he flew to his feet, only to be knocked back down again by the butt of a rifle, he shuffled back, his eyes fixed on the gun held on me. I couldn’t understand what was being said, but I could hear Amir, his tone pleading, again they hit him, this. I went to move, I wanted to protect him, the gun was pushed harder into my face. Two rough hands grabbed me and pulled me to my feet, the gun now pointed directly at my head, I counted four maybe five men, they wore western clothes under blue robes, each of them had scarves drawn tightly over their heads, they all carried guns, one or two of them were smoking. It was their smell that shocked me, my mind had blanked out the gun, but the smell, sweat, dirt, alcohol. I could hear Amir breathing, still pleading, I couldn’t make out what he was saying, they kept on hitting him, he made a sudden grab for me, clinging onto my arm. All at once the men started to laugh, raucous, shrill laughs, interspersed with coughing and spitting, they grabbed Amir and pulled him away from me, I tried to keep hold of him, I thought if only we could get out into the darkness it would hide us we could run through it to safety, losing ourselves in space. My eyes searched beyond the men, into the darkness, looking for a means of escape, looking for something that might save us, and then I noticed the truck, it was the same one as earlier in the day, it was the same men, they had come back for me.
My trance was broken by Amir’s pleadings, he fell to his knees, then tried to touch the feet of the man in front of him pleading with him all the time, the man kicked out, his boot arching across the hard ground and landing with a hollow thud in the centre of Amir’s head. I imagined that his body would have been thrown back with the force of the kick, but he just slumped, he didn’t move, his arms splayed out in front of him, I shocked myself by not screaming, my voice was silent, I felt as complicit as his assailant. Then the noise, ricocheting through the empty night, I thought I heard it time and time again, but it was only one shot, aimed at Amir’s head, still his body lay silent, from this he wouldn’t return, he pleading had come to nothing, I believe he died trying to protect me.
The warmth tricked down the inside of my leg, I had let go of myself, a small puddle began to form at my feet. I was pushed back, loosing my footing I fell awkwardly, my hand twisting behind my back. All around me darkness, cigarette smoke and the smell of the gun shot, it was an acrid smell, I looked over at Amir’s lifeless body, willing him to move, praying that he was still alive, I wanted him to live, I needed him to live.
It was the most surreal of feelings, I had gone out of my own body, almost looking down on the scene beneath me, I was there, being pushed from one man to another, cigarettes dangling from their mouths, their guns slung over their shoulders, they crowded me, pushed me, shoved me, kicked me when I stumbled and fell. All the time they laughed and jeered. I could see my clothes being ripped, I could hear the fabric tearing, one arm of my robe hung down from the shoulder to the elbow. One of my shoes came off, I could see myself try to reach it, I fell on top of it, cupping it in my hands like some grand prize. I don’t think I even felt the pain of the boot that stamped down onto my hand, releasing my grip on the shoe. And then as if in slow motion my shoe was taken from me, thrown into the darkness, I watched it summersault through the air until the black night swallowed, I wanted so much to follow it. I curled up into a ball and was then dragged to my feet. A few metres to my right was their truck, the headlights were on now, the engine running. The dust that was whipped up by all their feet danced in its headlights. My arm was yanked painfully behind my back and I was pushed forward. Resisting only seemed to make it worse, but I tried, I tried so hard not to be thrown in the truck, not to be taken by them. I fell to the ground, my shoulder twisting awkwardly, the muscles wound around in unnatural angles as they continued to hold my arm as I fell. Then one, two, three, four sets of hands grabbed me by my wrists and ankles, and like a piece of meat I was hurled into the rear of their vehicle, the door slammed shut behind me.
It was as if the thud that I landed with awoke me from a dream, only to be thrown headlong into a nightmare, I had re-emerged into my body from the trance I had been in. The men all piled into the back of the truck, only the driver in the front, throughout the journey they peered into my face, their teeth jutted out like large rocks, the little light there was gave them odd shadows, their eyes bore into me, yellow and blood shot, the smell of tobacco mixed with sweat and alcohol made me want to retch. All the time they clawed at my clothes and shouted at me. It was no good trying to resist, their hands ran freely over my body, every crevice, every part of me was exhausted by them. Again the shouting, a face so close to mine his spittle landing in my eyes, it made them water, they hurt, I screamed and stammered, finally managing – ‘I don’t understand.’ The face pulled back, the shouting and noises stopped, the truck stopped, they grunted to one another, then a great roar, like some triumph at a sports game, then silence. One hand grabbed me by the hair, pulling my head up and over the back of the seat, forcing me to face the teeth and eyes, a great grin, his eyes wide and searching. ‘Ingleesh, you Ingleesh whore?’. I didn’t answer, I couldn’t answer, again – ‘Ingleesh? Ingleesh?’. A slap across the face forced me to answer. ‘Yes, yes, English, please let me go, money, I can get money.’ My head was thrown back, I fell against the back of the truck, the laughing and noise rose, it didn’t stop for the whole journey. I stayed where I had fallen, wedged against the back of the truck, my only movement that of when the wheels hit a pothole and I was thrown up and back down with the motion.
The back door was opened, I hadn’t realised that we had stopped, there was no kicking or resistance from me, I was dragged like a rag doll in front of a fire, its embers shooting up and dancing in the night sky. From the light of the fire I could make out an assortment of tents, more trucks and more men. I heard screams and laughter from one of the tents, a sudden movement caught in the corner of my eye, pushed out from a tent close to me was a woman, I saw that she was black, older than me, she was naked but clutched what looked like clothes in her hands as she scrambled to her feet and fled. I couldn’t tell how far she got before she was dragged back. I wanted to look away, I didn’t want to see what happened next. It was two or maybe three of the jeering men who took her clothes and threw them into the fire, another two men held her down, one sat on her legs, I heard her scream at the pain, the other held her arms above her head, pushing them into the ground. One of the men who had thrown her clothes into the fire stood poking at the smouldering remnants with an iron stick, a rough handle had been formed over the end of it with what looked like leather. He lifted up the last remaining piece of cloth, watched it burn away to nothing then plunged the stick back into the fire, I could clearly see the tip glow red with heat. The woman had stopped screaming she seemed resigned to her fate, I tried to look away, but was still transfixed by her, I didn’t want to believe what I knew was going to happen. I didn’t want to believe it as I knew that what ever fate she suffered the same would happen to me. I begged my eyes to shut, they stayed wide open, fixed on her, my mind previewing the outcome.
Embers flew up into the air, making their own little dances, a prelude to the main event, they were quickly followed by the metal stick, waved high in the air by its bearer, the tip sliced through the air, it came at me, my face, I felt the heat, struggled to free myself, tried to step back, waited for the burn, the pain, but it never came, my vision blurred then returned in time to see him waving it in front of the woman, held down now by many hands, she began to scream again as she saw the poker, it red tip glowing against the night sky, her body jerked upwards, a futile attempt at escape, she knew, could see what would happen, I knew, could see what would happen. He walked slowly towards her, each step taken with relish, he savoured his control, he played to the waiting crowd, their breaths held in anticipation, they too relishing what was to come. He took one more step closer, stood over her, the other men chanted, the beat humming through the ground, rising up through me, keeping me focused; the poker lowered, the screaming reached fever pitch then stopped. I hoped, prayed that it had all been an elaborate display to frighten, to humiliate, my prayer was not answered, the screaming started again, but this time the screams came out with gurgles and coughs. The breeze sent wafts of burnt skin in my direction, I felt her terror, I felt her pain and suffering, then began to feel nothing. The poker was raised again, and again the chanting began, rising in both volume and pitch in unison with the poker that reached upwards, it stopped, again the screaming stopped, a few seconds passed. I didn’t see the poker make its decent, my eyes were open, but they saw nothing. When finally they refocused I could see the poker, held down across her bare breasts, she shuddered, let out one last high pitched scream then silence. Her silence didn’t stop their pleasure, twice more they branded her, twice more her body shuddered, but there were no more screams, they had silenced her. The smell circled me, taunted me, laughed at me, warned me I was next. With her body limp and lifeless the men left her, they jumped and danced, gun fire joined the noise and commotion of their party, the poker was returned to the fire.
Round and around, he swayed the iron in front of me before tossing it back into the fire, it mesmerized me, the end of it beginning to glow like the embers. I had seen with my own eyes what it could do, had smelt what it could do, could feel the tip begin to burn into my flesh, though it lay motionless, untouched in the fire, her screams were still in my head, they rose and fell, reaching a climax, falling then rising again. As my thoughts carried me away to what seemed to be the depths of hell I felt a tight grip on the back of my neck, pulling me up to face the man who had held the iron. His mouth was large, his teeth seemed brighter by the light of the fire, luminous against his black skin. His English was good, and oddly it soothed me, I wondered if I could placate him, talk to him, perhaps become his friend, stop him from hurting me. ‘Ah, my Inglish whore, you like what I do?…No….it’s ok….only the bad ones, the ones who do not like to be my special friend, I like my special friends, not hurt them.’ He loosened his grip and with his other hand he rubbed my breasts, I didn’t resist, his previous work with the iron had bought my physical compliance, but still my mind raced, my eyes darted, searching for something that might save me. ‘So, why you here? But that is not my problem, now you my problem, and you see what I do with problems.’ He pointed to the woman lying prone and naked in the dust. ‘Now you belong to me – if you don’t like…’ again he pointed to the woman. He squeezed my breast hard, the pain jerked a reaction from me. ‘I like, yes.’
‘Come my little whore, I think I need to make you mine.’ He took his gun from behind his back and ran it up the inside of my leg, compliance had overtaken me, I no longer thought of escape, and parted my legs. He roared with delight, beckoning his men to look. ‘Ah, she likes, my little Inglish whore.’ I felt the chill of the metal against my skin, but more than that I felt the meaning of his words, I understood. As he repeatedly ran the barrel of the gun up and down the inside of my leg he roared time and again, ‘she likes, she likes.’ Most of the men did not understand what he said, but they understood what he meant.
I didn’t count of the number of times he raped me that night, it was one of many nights to come.
The attacks had almost become monotonous, I knew what was coming and trained my body to cope, his violence was bearable to a point, only once did I scream when he held the red hot iron above my face, the heat burning my skin. He bathed in his violence, his sadism, the more he hurt and humiliated me the more it pleased him, he would roll off me and sleep without conscience.
I tried to think, to remember how many days and nights I had been held in their camp, it was one of the little things I tried to keep a part of me alive, to preserve something, if I held onto the past, kept a connection with it, then I would not be lost to them. But the days rolled into nights and then back into days again.
At night when he had finished with me I lay motionless, my breathing kept shallow, not wanting to move even an inch. He did not need a reason to wake and slap me to accuse me of trying to escape, he didn’t appreciate the power he held over me, I was too afraid to escape, I would lie rigid all night, waiting for the morning’s humiliation to begin.
Before he found that I had other uses, the cooking, the menial tasks, the dirty jobs they would not touch he kept me like a dog. He tethered me to a post outside his tent, my hands bound behind my back, the end of the tether around my neck, joining me to the post, just long enough to allow me to lie on the parched ground. He paraded me naked to all his men, the tether would tighten if I didn’t conform to his wishes, or if he felt that I had shown any form of disrespect he would push me to the ground and drag me by the neck until I started to chock, only then would he loosen the cord around it allowing me to breath. His men delighted in this pitiful sadistic display, though if any dared to touch me he would beat them, I became his ultimate trophy, paraded as such. I would then be led back to the post, a bowl of water and food placed on the ground, as I ate like a dog they howled like wolves.
It was cold, I had no clothes, the nights came suddenly in the desert, I had been left tied to the post, and I tried to huddle into the ground, to get some warmth from the still hot dust. The camp site was quiet, it was the first time that I had heard no noises coming from the other tents. Only one of the trucks remained, the others had all left. I closed my eyes thankful for the peace, sleep came easily to me, I let the night fold over me, covering me like a blanket. It was still dark, in the desert there is no real dawn, no gradual rising of the sun, no way to know how deep into the night or how close to the day you are. I awoke, there was a huge commotion, the trucks had returned, and travelling in their wake were three men on horses, riding bare back, they shouted their joys loudly. I stood, knowing that sleep equalled punishment.
He came to me, swaggering and swaying, alcohol making his feet drag in the dust, his face contorted by a huge grin, untying me with one hand he opened the tent with the other, immediately I felt the warmth, and though I knew what was in store for me, I welcomed the warmth, I traded it in my mind with his actions.
I waited for his command, but was thrown some clothes, a long robe and a scarf, he untied my hands. I hurriedly dressed, keeping my eyes to the ground. ‘Inglish whore, now you work, you clean horses, I like horses, now I have three.’ He was like a child who had just got what he wanted – thankfully it made him pleased – tonight I would be saved his brutality.
My wrists were sore from the ropes, and my arms and shoulders ached from where they had been bound, but the freedom in my body felt good, the rough clothes felt good.
I was shown to the horses, it was obvious that they had all been ridden hard, foam formed at the corners of their mouths and nostrils, steam swept upwards from their legs and bodies, apart from that they seemed well cared for, better than the mules that I had seen, these were good strong horses, someone, somewhere would be missing them.
I patted the first one on the neck, it didn’t flinch or back up from me, it was good to have such innocent contact. He came behind me, and slapped the horse on its flank, it reared up, the foam flying from its nostrils, clouds of dust and grit were thrown around. Immediately I felt anger, he had made me compliant, used me in every way, I understood, the horse did not. I shot a glance towards the weary animal, trying to sooth its fright away with my eyes. ‘You ride horse?’ I surprised myself with what I said, I don’t know why I said it, something inside of me had switched on, there was still a light shinning brightly, he hadn’t extinguished them all, I still had hope. ‘No, but I like to clean them, I will make them all good for you.’ He looked at me, at first I thought he was disbelieving, seeing through my duplicity, then he laughed, ‘You Inglish whore, can’t ride horse, good, you clean, then wait for me, but first this.’ He took from the back of one of the trucks a circle of metal, at first it didn’t register, then the full horror of what he was holding hit me, it was a metal collar with a chain. I stepped back from him, my arms stretched out in front I pleaded with him, falling to my knees I pleaded with him not to put it on me. ‘I am good, you’re good English whore – not that, please, no…no…’ As soon as I uttered the words I realised how low I had sunk, I repulsed my self, the words stung me, ‘English whore’ but at the sight of the collar I would have said, done anything. His laugh was louder than ever as he placed it around my neck, securing it with a padlock, taunting me with the key, he yanked on the chain, the pain of the sharp metal tore through me, the other end he locked to the back of the truck. He continued laughing as he swaggered away.
I watched him by the fire, he drunk from large containers filled with rough palm wine, all the time I soothed the horses, calmed them, brushed their coats. The collar took me lower than I was before, it signalled a finality. Before, when only the cord tether was around my neck it felt temporary, that I had a chance, but now I was locked into this life, with his placing of it on me he had secured his right to keep me, his power and will over me complete.
I spent many nights grooming the horses, they rode them hard, and didn’t care about the injuries they received. One of them became lame, an infection had got out of control, I didn’t cry when they shot it, silently I said a prayer, the first I had said, the irony wasn’t lost on me, I was saying a prayer for a dead animal, I had not uttered even a short one for myself. I would not eat the meat that they cooked from it, it left me hungry for many days.
After cleaning the horses he would come for me, release me, take me back to his tent, his longing to defile me was weakening, often not touching me, but neither did he take the collar off, it made deep gouges in my skin and kept me from sleeping, but always he held the end of the chain in his hand, wrapped around his wrist whilst he slept.
I knew that he had become bored with me, when he woke he lashed out and struck me instead of taking what he wanted, I was an unwanted toy, but one that still held a high price. This frightened me more than anything, at least I knew what to expect from him, the future taunted me. Dragging me with the chain he took me outside and tied me to the pole, I had not been tied to it for some nights and a deep feeling of terror rose inside me. He ripped at the front of my robe, exposing me to all the men who were there, immediately they began to cheer. Over the preceding weeks I had been paraded naked in front of all these men, but I now felt as if I was in some way a part of this group, even accepted, to be stripped, displayed naked humiliated me, dehumanised, scared me. He grabbed my breasts, pointing them towards the now panting crowd, he ran his hand over my stomach and parted my legs. I had learnt a bit of their language and listened intensely to what was being said. I understood only too well, and began to shrink back, he was tired of me and was selling me to the crowd. They moved closer, I was trapped, tied tight to the pole, he didn’t stop them from touching me, encouraged them, guided their hands, allowing them to explore what once had been his private property. Their hands probed and stroked, standing rigid was all I could do, to struggle would have given them more delight, I waited for them to take what they wanted. He grunted, swiped their hands away from me, he had let them see and touch enough, until the highest bidder emerged I was still his property.
The bidding was loud, men would stand and shout, scream at the others, hurl abuse at a higher bidder, try to appeal to the crowd, try to show his worthiness at being my new captor. My eyes darted from one to the other to the next, each of them obsessive in their belief, hollering and screaming. The bidding rose, the noise soared above the gun shots, the quietness it ended with surprised me.
I had travelled beyond fear, deep inside I had travelled to a place where they could no longer hurt me, I gave them my body, my compliance, but still buried deep beneath the hurt and degradation a small part of me survived, I didn’t want it to, I wanted for it all to be over.
I should have felt relief as the collar was removed, but my only feeling was that of trepidation. I had become accustomed to what it meant, I knew what would happen to me, had trained my body to cope, my mind to accept, as it was taken from me I longed for it to be returned, grabbed at it, my eyes begging its owner to take me back.
Weeks, perhaps more, passed. My new captor showed little interest in me most of the time, it gave me time to think, to regain parts of my mind that had closed themselves off to my surroundings. I felt nervous, contemplating the future, surely he too would tire of me, would I be sold again, or would they all just take what they wanted then take me into the night, my thoughts scared me.
With my compliance and obedience my new captor felt able to allow me more freedom. At times I walked around the camp, never straying too far from my captors tent, fearing the actions of the other men, fearing that my captor might think me disloyal. Soon he realised my worth within the camp, my potential for earning him money, he began to sell me. These nights pushed me to depths I hadn’t been to before. I had become accustomed to being a prisoner of only one man, the sense of belonging that went with it giving me status, being used and then tossed out onto the dirt in the morning seemed like a betrayal, it scared me, I no longer knew my place within their structure, I had no tenure.
Over the course of the next few days another of the horses died, exhaustion had got the better of it, one morning found dead, it was one of the harsh brutalities of the desert, life, any life was cheap. I wished to join him, he had escaped, I was jealous of his new found freedom. Concentrating all my efforts on the last horse gave me hope, I comforted him when he had been ridden too hard, bathed his sores and cuts, our contact kept us both alive.
There was a routine, my captives came and went with regularity, stolen goods and vehicles traded, along with my body, with other’s who would venture to our camp. On particularly good nights they would drink themselves to oblivion, something I would pray for as it meant I only suffered minor violations, my services used more for fetching and carrying than their sexual pleasures. The fires would eventually die, the crackle and spitting of the burning embers would make way to loud snoring.
I had one chance, the camp was dark, around the fire and in the tents they all lay in drunken stupors, what little moonlight there was, was thankfully smothered by clouds. In bare feet and only the robe I stood in I silently made my way to the fire, taking the iron that was always kept in the embers I pierced the first tyre I came to. My eyes darted from man to man as the air in the tyre hissed as it rushed to escape, no one stirred, their guttural noises louder than those of my doing. It took much longer than I hoped, but time and time again I replaced the iron in the fire, my trepidation rising with each tyre I punctured. No one heard, no one saw, the light that burned inside me was starting to burn brighter.
I found the horse, I had named him Pegasus, tied to pole, he didn’t make a sound as I approached, not even a scuff on the ground, and allowed himself to be led into the darkness, not betraying me. As I silently hoisted myself up on him and held tight to his mane a wave of emptiness washed over me, the camp had been a living hell, but I had come to understand it, accept the routine, almost accept my place in it, now I was riding into the darkness and unknown, Pegasus had no such reservations.
The camp awoke late that following morning, but not quietly, my absence noted instantly, I was not present when my captors had wanted to feast on both me and their morning food. Shouts and gunfire ripped over the hard ground only muffled once hitting an object. The uproar that followed the discovery of the trucks and the missing horse became fervent. Fights and arguments ensued, members of another gang who had spent the night were accused of subterfuge, no fewer than four men were killed that morning, I would not mourn there passing.
Pegasus had been true to his name, we flew through the night, the cloud had lifted and I tried to navigate our way by the moon. Perhaps it was a result of malnutrition, or from the constant shock and fear that I had been submitted to, but I could not remember how, it was something I had done a hundred times before, navigated by moon and stars, with my father aboard his boat, shown the way by the light of the moon, I prayed we were heading north.
The ground was good for fast riding, only once or twice did Pegasus nearly fall, each time he managed to collect himself quickly, never stopping, I could feel the adrenalin surge through him, the two us spiked with fear and exhilaration, both of us now free.
The sun rose quickly, taking us from darkness into the full glare of an African morning, out to west I could make out the vague silhouettes of trees, lots of them, it was still early, I chanced it was too early for there to be anyone around, and was right, to both of our delight a small river flowed, the water was murky, Pegasus stood and drank from the edge, I plunged head first, preferring the murky water to the smell of my captors, washing their stench from me, the light inside me still burning now burnt a bit brighter.
As I sat at the waters edge I examined my arms and legs, the cuts and sores, bruises and burns. I could see and feel them, but they meant nothing now, the exhilaration of being free fading the memory of how they came to be. I pushed the thoughts of my violation into the deepest pits of my mind and tried to shut a door on them, I knew they were there, nagging at me like a persistent child, I chose to ignore them.
The sun began to rise steadily, its heat a welcome, and with the adrenaline beginning its inevitable fall, I curled up close to a bush, Pegasus standing silently at my feet, and began to fade into a fitful sleep. My dreams became nightmares where faces loomed over me, blood poured from the corners of their eyes, their teeth were long and pointed like that of vampires, vipers tongues whipped in and out, only stopping to draw slow circles around their blood filled mouths. I awoke with a start, sweat and fear pouring from me, remembering the last time I had fallen asleep, it had cost Amir his life. Hurriedly I scanned the area around me, listening to every slight sound, noticing every movement, every particle of dust, imagining them to be signs of life, pre-runners to others coming near. Pegasus still stood beside me, he had not run or wandered off whilst I slept, it was good to have a friend, my one barrier to complete loneliness and isolation.
The sleep had allowed my body to fully realise its injuries, my arms were stiff, legs that wouldn’t move, I felt as though a rod had been slammed against my back. I had become oddly detached from the pain and discomfort I still felt from the many times I had been raped and violated, shoring up the door in my mind that closed off the memories by concentrating on the more obvious physical scars that I had, the bruises and cuts that had become infected, the rough robe rubbing against them, turning them red and inflamed. Weariness and panic started to set in, I needed to find shelter, food and money, I had none.
It was Pegasus who heard them first, his senses more in tune to the sounds of the desert than mine. A group of women, their brightly coloured clothing standing out against the stark background, as they neared I could hear their chatter, I could also see that they carried bundles of clothing, no doubt to wash in the acrid water.
I backed away, hiding behind a group of trees and bushes, Pegasus made no sound, again his hooves did not scuff or tear at the ground, he stood sentry, his ears and eyes alert, I trusted him, I had to. Through the greenery I saw the women start to wash the clothes, using sticks to bash them on the smooth surfaces of the rocks that edged the water, later they lay the sodden garments out over the rocks, the sun beating down on them drying them as quickly as it took for me to scramble forward and snatch a handful of brightly coloured items. There was no guilt attached to my theft, the need out stripping such thought, I now had a change of clothes, ones that allowed me blend, the remaining items I could sell for food or water. I rode away from the direction I had seen the women emerge from, a new spirit had caught me, I could see the way forward, if necessary I would steal and sell my way home.
With my new clothes shading me from the midday sun, we continued on, Pegasus rode steady and calm, his ears seemed to scan the area, his eyes fought with the horizon for danger, again he sensed it before me, he came to an abrupt halt. As I lowered myself gently from his back I stroked his face, ‘What is it boy – what’s the problem.’ I willed him to speak to me, to share his wisdom, to comfort me with words, but was equally as happy with just his loyalty to keep me company. I shielded my eyes from the blazing sun and peered into the distance, through the haze I could make out the faint outline of a small village. Here I had a chance to trade the remaining clothes, perhaps I would also be lucky and be able to take something else to trade on our next stop. I led Pegasus to a clump of rocks and bracken, kissing him on the nose I asked him to wait. I knew the words meant nothing to him, though somehow I knew he understood.
Holding the bundle of clothes tightly under my arm I approached the village, I had become mute, knowing that my voice would betray me, I tugged at the clothes of passing women, offering them my wares, making drinking and eating motions with my hands, eventually a mother and child stopped to inspect what I had. I didn’t expect her harsh reaction, she spat on the fabric, waving her arms in the air and cursing me, I went to take them away from her, but to my surprise she handed me some items from the bags she was carrying. I snatched at them, then grabbed for her other bag, not wanting to undersell myself, we pulled at each others belongings till finally she pulled the clothes away from me with a flurry and hurried away, leaving me her bags of food, each of us believing we had got the better of the other. I slipped away from the village as unnoticed as I had entered, Pegasus was still standing where I had left him, and like a child showing off I took each item out of the bags and proudly showed them to him, we shared our meal in silence.
The euphoria of my new existence with my friend and companion was short lived, though it seemed like eternity it was in fact only two days that we travelled together, I stole from women washing their clothes, from behind doors that had been left ajar, I was becoming brazen, hard and cunning. Sat in the shade of a small gathering of trees I ate a small loaf of bread, we had not starved over the past two days, though with each mouthful I felt uneasy, knowing that I had taken precious items from innocent people, people who had done me no harm, I threw the food away, disgusted with myself. Again I struggled to push these thoughts into the dark pits in my mind, I had to survive, I traded my guilt with my survival, and retrieved the bread from where I had thrown it, the light inside me dimmed a little.
It was becoming far more populated, where before we had travelled on hard ground, hamada, now there were rough roads, the villages were becoming closer together, there were more people to avoid, it was concerning, soon someone would notice the lone girl on a horse.
The decision was harsh, inside it tore at me, I knew that I had to do it, looking deep into his eyes I let Pegasus go. At first he stood beside me, his loyalty unswerving, I whispered ‘Go, please, just don’t get caught.’ And I slapped his rear. His head swung towards me, his eye caught mine and off he went, a free animal. I could have sold him, but he was too precious to be placed into the hands of someone who would no doubt mistreat him, he had given me my freedom, the very least he deserved was his. As he disappeared into the dust cloud of his own making I turned and headed towards a rough road that lay before me.
The lorries that negotiated the pot hole strewn roads had no regard for pedestrians, on numerous occasions only just managing to move out of their way to avoid being run over. It was overwhelming seeing the trucks and lorries, crude electricity poles lined the road. I passed through a town, bewildered by the shops, blocks of flats intermingled with the mud built houses, not making eye contact I carried on, too intimidated to stop, and though I missed my friend I silently wished him well, it was a lonely walk that day.
The house had obviously not been cleaned since my mother’s departure, the kitchen in particular had a musty, unclean smell to it, reaching into a sink of dirty dishes Inspector Thompson found two cups and washed them. My father sat sallow faced in the lounge, the news of my mother’s death was beginning to sink in, though he had not appreciated what he had said about me, it was an outburst, but one the inspector had felt had come from the heart, it was true that people tended to show their true feelings when drunk. His professionalism now eclipsing his personal feelings, he had a job to do, and pushed aside his personal dislike for my father.
The coffee was strong and sweet and not at all to his liking, but the inspector all but forced the coffee down my father, he needed a coherent and sober person to make the identification, and once done, again he would arrest him, it was after all a suspicious death.
He nodded at the morgue attendant, but was asked to give an audible answer, ‘Yes, of course it’s my wife, bloody hell, who else could it be.’ Flanked by inspector Thompson who remained silent throughout, he was led out, and once again into police custody.
This time my father was not left to think in a cell, immediately being taken to an interview room, to his surprise his solicitor already present, to his surprise, present also was the superintendent, who stood with his back to the wall, inspecting the buttons on his jacket. He spoke before anyone sat, ensuring they understood his authority and rank. ‘I am a very busy man, this really is taking up too much of my time.’ Inspector Thompson remained impassive, knowing the self importance and vanity would show sooner rather than later. My father kicked ineffectively at his chair, his solicitor restraining his arm before he could do no more, and gestured for him to sit; belligerently he acquiesced and sat glowering at the two policemen. It was his solicitor who spoke. ‘You have asked me to be present at this interview, and I am sure that my client is happy for me to be here, you stated on the phone that you have information regarding the whereabouts of my client’s daughter, but that you would also like to speak to him about the sad circumstances of his wife’s death.’ He paused before carrying on. ‘First and foremost I would like to state quite clearly that my client was not involved in his wife’s death, secondly I believe your actions to be cold and calculating, and designed to cause the utmost distress possible, no doubt my client will wish to make a formal compl….’ Inspector Thompson looked up sharply from the notes that he had been reading, the solicitors smooth and smarmy threat only angered him, he spoke venomously, at risk of loosing his temper. ‘Don’t give me that self righteous crap, the poor woman is dead, his daughter is in Africa, and you, you…. You start talking about complaints.’ The superintendent coughed politely, he found interviews messy and tawdry and was not enjoying the spectacle. ‘I am sure that we can assume that Dr Stalbridge’s wife died of her own volition, we are currently awaiting the post mortem results as you know, so I will put that to one side for the moment. However, we are still left with both the disappearance of the child, and also her appearance.’ His pompous pause for effect was not lost on anyone in the room. ‘We now have confirmation that your daughter was present on a flight to Casablanca, since then though we have no other information. The embassy in Rabat is looking into matters for us, and we are assured that should she try to leave the country we will be informed, but she could have gone south, deep into the desert, let‘s hope she hasn‘t, but more than that we do not know. However, as you are aware the press have been informed of your daughter’s disappearance, they may also be aware of her background, adding to that the death of your wife….’ It occurred to my father that the superintendent was enjoying himself at his expense, and with a contorted mouth he started to say something but was again restrained by his solicitor. ‘Richard, just let him finish.’ The superintendent continued, aware of how much distress he was causing, it was intended. ‘As I was saying, the press will now be very interested, and I suggest that you do not return to your home, but that you find somewhere else to stay, you will of course be required to inform us of your whereabouts.’ He had said what he had come to say, he left in a hurry, my father and his solicitor unaware that a press conference had been called, it was a move designed to further the superintendent’s career, it served no other purpose.
My father was not prepared for the fervent interest that would surface around him. Refusing an offer of a safe place to stay from his solicitor, he chose instead to return home. He was numb from the events of the day, first being informed of my mother’s death, then identifying her body and then the ridiculous interview with the self important pompous superintendent, as he neared the drive to the house he got his first glimpse of the interest that had been explained to him. Standing around their car’s were three or four journalists, one was standing on the roof of his car, peering into the garden another pushing his face hard into the bars of the gate, his hands gripping the wrought iron bars, he looked like the prisoner that my father felt like, he used his electronic key fob to open the gates and ordered the taxi driver to drive through and not stop. The journalist who had been peering through the gates jumped back in surprise as they started to open, we swung around instinctively, holding a small voice recorder to the window of the taxi, a photographer meanwhile pushed his lens hard up to the window and reeled off what seemed like a thousand shots, each one accompanied by the glare of his flash. ‘Run the fucking bastards over if you have to.’ He snapped at the driver, who was becoming increasingly nervous with the whole situation. As they drove through the gates, narrowly missing a photographer who had stepped in front of the car my father electronically shut the gates behind him, the hydraulic system hissed at the men left standing, ushering them to move back. It was the last time that my father was to enter the house, after the taxi left, he looked out across the garden and towards the waiting journalists at the bottom of the drive, with a bottle of whiskey in one hand he made his way to the garage.

TEN

I held the money in my hand, fingering the notes, feeling how dirty and greasy they were, they represented the manner in which I had come by them. My body had ceased to belong to me long ago, perhaps with the attack in the taxi, but certainly I lost any feeling for physical worth whilst in the camp. Sleeping rough, lonely and scared only heightened my desire to find a safe place, but I had no money left and had finished my last piece of bread. Hungry and sore from my travels I found one way to make money, I traded my body. It surprised me how easy it was, it meant nothing to me, my body was no longer my own, I let them take me, but I was in control, I took their money now, I could say no, but it was easier not to, I just took their money and let them take their prize. It wasn’t long before I discovered how to work the system and it didn’t take me long to perfect my act, approaching single men in bars my initial contact would be to beg, when that inevitably failed I offered myself, they paid.
I needed time to think, time to understand myself, time to heal, within a couple of days I had paid for a small room at the back of a simple house, there was no sanitation, and only a mat on the floor on which to sleep, but it offered me protection from the world, it did not however offer me protection from the men that came through my door, though invited to spend their money, a few would use violence to pay for my services, I rarely if ever protested.
I did not think about my life, my existence, though others did, and I was an outsider, I would most probably have been tolerated had I been local. I was not the only working girl, but I was the only foreign working girl and perhaps I took too much business away from the others. Before too long I was thrown out of my room, and once again I faced a lonely and cold night on the street, only this time I had money, enough to find my way back to Josef. The thought of friendship gave me the strength to see me through the night, I huddled outside the door of a bar, the cold seeping through me, and though now not in need of money it didn’t stop me begging, or trading my body. It was a life I had begun to know and understand, it made sense if nothing else when nothing else did.
It was late into the night before I found a small niche in a wall in which to sleep, my clothes stank of drunken men, my flesh still crawled with their calloused hands, my body sore and used. I awoke in the same position that I had fallen to sleep, cold and hungry I made my way through the rubbish strewn streets, soon I had paid my way with many others in the back of a passing lorry.
It was a long and arduous ride, men, women and children all crowed onto the flat floor of the truck. When stops were made, the struggle to vacate the lorry became fervent, bags were hurled both up and down, people shouted, cursed, some even prayed, the smell became intense, overbearing, the heat adding to my nausea. When finally the truck made its next stop I pushed my way through the tide of filthy travellers and threw myself to the ground, retching as I knelt on the dust covered asphalt.
The tide of travellers didn’t abate, as I knelt on the ground I was knocked and shoved by those eager to board the back of the lorry, behind me angry drivers honked their horns and intimidated those still trying to clamber up by revving their engines, inching forward, a bag was knocked over, its contents crushed by a heavy wheel. An argument flared, the driver did not back down, the owner of the bag threw curses and kicked at the truck, hastily I crawled to the edge of the road.
As I regained my senses, the scene that met my eyes revolted me, for all the turmoil and hate that I had been subjected to in the desert it was still a place of tranquillity and calm, before me the garbage of human life was everywhere. Filth flowed freely down the streets, half starved mules pulled over laden wooden carts full of rotting food, second hand shoes and clothes. Children still in bare feet begged and played, women wrapped from head to toe carried their babies on their backs, bags of goods hung from their arms, the weight cutting the handles of the carrier bags deep into their hands. Blocks of flats, with carpets and blankets hanging from windows thankfully blocked the sun, from somewhere I could hear music playing, Arabic music, it was different from that in the desert, it mingled badly, jarring with the call to prayer, each note struggling for supremacy over the next. I loathed the smell, the buildings, the way of life, I could feel the filth in the street rise up, envelop me, fighting the urge to rip off my clothes, to be free of who I was, it would take more than simply shedding some stolen garments to free me of the filth and shame I felt. My clothes were becoming symbolic of the wreckage of my life, they clung to my skin, in a strangle hold keeping me in dark places I did not want to re-visit.
The sun was obstinate that afternoon, not wanting to run and hide on the horizon as it should, it lingered, throwing out it last ditch attempts to scorch anything in its wake, it exhausted all who stood before it, including me. With dirt and sweat setting like glue sticking my soiled and dirt encrusted clothes to me I went in search of new, clean ones, this time acquiring them legitimately, not stealing them, then running and hiding for all I was worth, and though the money that bought them was dirty I felt a glimmer of relief, a partial cleanliness. As I counted out the last of my money, the sun made its last attack on its weary world, it was a grubby sunset, blurred with fatigue through my eyes that had seen too much. I needed to feel safe, to talk, to be told I wasn’t who I was, that maybe there was hope for me, I headed for Josef’s, it was a long walk.
No longer afraid of the men that leered at me from passing cars and bar stools I made my way through streets I didn’t know. The alley ways became smaller, then opened out again, they linked themselves into a secret maze, teasing me, beckoning me to dive further into its abyss. All around me the houses loomed over my head, pushing down on my senses, it was as though the buildings themselves wanted to squeeze the last of me out, to leave me broken like the litter that covered the ground, I kept on, turning left, then right, then back again, a dizzying array of choices, everything closing in on me, and then I saw the shop, it was the one that Josef had found me in, had warned me of, I fought off the memory of his warning, ‘they will sell you here’, at once what was left in my stomach came out, I retched loudly, an old woman crossed the street, her look of disgust hit me like a brick, I believed she saw me for what I was, what I had become. I wanted to scream at her, to make her believe that there was still some good in me, the outer layers could be stripped away, I wanted to be clean again.
Quickly I retraced the journey I had taken with Josef, the ugly glow of the shop behind me, the hope that lay ahead, I knocked, at first a timid knock and then with panic rising I hammered on the door, tears flew across my face, my hands trembled, my legs started to betray me, as I slumped towards the door it opened, Abjeli held me, he held me whilst I cried.
The mat in the corner of the room felt softer than before, the blankets cleaner, the cushion for my head wrapped itself protectively around my face. Abjeli sat beside me, crossed legged on the floor, watching over me, his purity cleansing me just by his presence. He didn’t ask, and that night I didn’t say, he saw my need for rest, and gave it to me, in my dreams however there was no peace, sleep held me deep in nightmares that jerked my body, sent screams across the room, perspiration soaked my skin. Throughout the night Abjeli kept a vigil, he prayed, he sat, he waited.
I awoke with the early morning call to prayer, for one moment, a moment of peace and self harmony I forgot where I was, who I was and why I was there, in that moment, the light shone brightly in me, the air was clean, my heart and soul were pure, it was only a fleeting moment, and perhaps its aspiration was too high, as quick as it came it went, sending me crashing down with all the debris that my life had become. I looked at Abjeli, who gave me his hand and helped me to stand. He simply said that Josef was coming, as if some great saviour was on his way, I needed redemption as much as I needed their worldly help.
The day passed by quickly, I slept for most of it, feeling Abjeli’s presence in the room soothed me, reassured me, he didn’t ask, he just waited patiently.
Something startled me from my sleep, I felt another presence in the room, it was dark now, only the street light came through the window, shadows hung in dark corners, instinctively I gathered the edge of the blanket around me. ‘Maeve, it’s me Josef, we have been worried.’ I heard his voice, it was Josef, but I needed light to see him, the shadows still hung hungrily in the air, the evening felt cold, and yet I knew it should still be warm, confusion rose in me and I darted for the light switch.
I stood by the doorway, the blanket still clutched in my hand, gathered around me, Josef and Abjeli blinked at the sudden light, I saw them, but only a part of me felt safe.
‘Come, come, Maeve, we have much to discuss.’ Josef held his hand out to me, I took it and allowed myself to be led to the main room, it was Abjeli, no doubt, who had laid out a table of food, good clean, honest food, I ate with animal hunger, the warmth of the food feeling its way into my stomach, soothing its way down. As I looked up I noticed Josef looking at me, I thought I saw a slight smile cross his lips, but it was so quick I didn’t quite catch its meaning, it was replaced with a more serious, concerned expression. ‘It is my fault, I sent you there, you should not have gone, perhaps you did not find what you were looking for.’ He then smiled at me, encouraging me to eat more, but I had eaten enough, sitting back I looked around the room. Abjeli as usual was almost serene, he blended with his home, almost invisible, as if he had grown a part of it. The naked walls and brightly coloured cushions seemed at odds with Josef’s more western appearance, his worldliness at odds with his surroundings. I didn’t tell them the horrors of the previous weeks, there were secrets there that could only be confessed to god, I asked only one more favour of them, I wanted to go home, to hold my mother, feel her arms around me, I had found what I was looking for, she was there all along, now I needed to return to her, to say sorry, to make up for my mistake. I asked Josef if he would lend me the money to fly home, the smile that I saw previously again washed briefly over his face, ‘I would have sent you home before – you need not even ask.’ It was as simple as that, I could feel myself going home.
The days that followed allowed my body to heal, the nights held me in fear, sleep only allowed the horrors to return, often I would wake in a screaming fit, sweat soaked into my covers, to find Abjeli sitting beside me. He never asked, nor did I tell him of the things I saw and felt in my dreams, I believe he knew, he followed my eyes around the room as I searched for the shadows that lurked there, he had not visited the depths of hell that I had, he couldn’t see the shadows, though I know he tried to understand, I didn’t want him to understand, it was as if by just knowing, the shadows would come for him too.
Josef was true to his word, I had a flight home, and a promise of meeting me the other end, Josef would fly the day before, his schedule did not allow for him to change his days of work. Knowing that I would not have to face the cluttered world of England by myself calmed the butterflies that were multiplying within me.
A couple of days before he left to return to work, Josef had arranged through friends a replacement passport, a courier would bring it from the British Embassy, I wondered if they knew that I was not who I was claiming to be, I imagined the whispers going through the embassy, ‘the girl with no name’, they laugh, ‘she wants a passport’, I was fraught with panic that they would find me out, but two days later a courier arrived, Abjeli signed the receipt, I was going home.
With only a day before I was due to leave I became ill, I awoke in the morning feeling sick, and a slight fever had taken hold in the night, but it felt no different from the heat I felt run through my body after a night of bad dreams. My mind however was not the same, I was frightened of going home, I didn’t know what to expect, the images of my previous life stood sentry in my mind, as I closed my eyes to try to break their spell, they would crumble into dust before me, I could see the them all, the people who I had left behind, they tortured me both in darkness and in light, there was no escape.
I wandered the house for the rest of the day, defiantly pushing the images out of my mind, to compensate I tried to capture every part of it in my mind, wanting to remember every detail, every piece of carved wood, every creak or moan. Replacing the debris of my life with the calmness of my surroundings, laying good over bad. I felt Abjeli watch me from doorways and corridors, never questioning my actions, it comforted me knowing that he was there, the thought of loosing him adding to my feeling of doom, I tried to focus on the future, on my return, each time I thought of home a huge black cloud of doubt hung over me.
There had been times, especially when in the desert camp that time stood still, each second would drag on into a minute, each minute into an hour, but as the time for my departure crept ever closer each hour became a minute, each minute a second…. ‘The taxi, it is here.’ Abjeli held in his hand a small bag, inside I knew he had placed some food and a small amount of money, enough for my journey home he had said, it was one last act of kindness, wrapping my arms around him I cried, again he simply held me, he had no need to speak, his actions said it all.
I collected from a small cupboard under the wooden stairs the case that Josef had asked me to take for him, he was not allowed to take personal belongings on a flight that he was on duty on, they were his clothes for his time in London, it struck how stupid it was to expect young people off duty not to have a change of clothes, the thought soon left me though as I stepped out of the sanctity of the house and into the back seat of a taxi, memories making me flinch as I waved a sad goodbye to Abjeli, only turning away as we rounded a corner.
As the taxi drove I stared out of the window, bitter memories flooding my mind, an anger rose inside me, anger at myself, I had thrown away all that I had been given in a vain dash for my past, in truth my past was all that it had been, I had only been a small baby when the course of my life was altered, the only real past I had lay not in the desolate and harsh world of the desert, but the comfort and safety of being with my true mother, I ached to be with her, I needed her to help me wipe the dirty memories clean.
The blur of the streets from the window of the taxi gave way to the hustle and madness in the airport. As I stepped out into the mêlée the onslaught of touts and porters pounced, but unlike my arrival I was prepared for them, I had lived as one of them. I no longer feared or shrank back from them, like pack animals knowing that their prey was not worth their energy they left me alone, vanishing back into the hubbub of the crowd, already eyeing their next prey. I fingered my new passport, gone was the old photograph of a nervous but innocent child, replaced by a blank expressionless face that could have belonged to anyone, the eyes were empty, they looked through the camera lens, focusing on something out of reach.
‘Sir’.Inspector Thompson knocked at the same time as entering the superintendent’s office. ‘We’ve got her.’ The superintendent was sat behind his desk, his uniform as usual crisp and clean, the mark of a man who does no work the inspector thought. ‘Got who?’ He replied uninterested. ‘The Stalbridge girl, booked onto a flight from Casablanca, into Heathrow. The bloody embassy over there took their time though, looks like she lost her passport, and had to apply for a new one, but there’s more.’ With an end insight to his missing girl problem, and the prospect of a victorious press conference the superintendent became instantly animated, he didn’t however like the more part added to the sentence. ‘What more could there be, she’s on her way home.’ Inspector Thompson pulled up a chair without asking, it acquired a raised eyebrow from the superintendent, but the inspector by now was past caring what he thought, things were turning from bad to worse. It was a long meeting, with the resulting phone calls giving the superintendent a headache, he felt his victorious press conference slip from his grasp. As the inspector rose to leave he turned to speak. ‘I will of course have to inform her father, I think maybe it is better that I do it myself, at this stage I do not want for him to have any ammunition.’ ‘Yes, good idea.’ The superintendent spoke whilst frantically searching his desk drawer for painkillers.
I sat in the departures lounge with a heavy heart, the Africa of my dreams had fallen away before me. I thought back to the woman I had sat next to on the plane at the start of my journey, ‘remember be careful, this is Africa…’. At the time I had no idea what she meant, I now knew. It was a long way to come to find what I already had, and the price I had paid was too high to even think about, I pushed hard on the door in my mind that held the secrets of the desert camp, and the trading of my body for money to eat and live. Even the fond memories of Abjeli were beginning to curl up at the edges, tainted by his fellow countrymen, I said a final farewell to Pegasus where ever he was, closed my eyes and said a silent prayer for his safty. The announcement of my flight shook me from my thoughts, and made my way to the boarding gate, acknowledging the man who had sat opposite me in the waiting area.
As we stood in the queue to go through passport control the same man smiled, and gestured for me to step in front of him. I remembered back to the last time I had been in an airport, lonely and apprehensive, I had met Josef, the thought of him, of seeing him in London translated itself into a broad smile that I returned to the man in the queue. He obviously took it as an invitation to speak to me, we exchanged pleasantries, even discovering that we were allocated seats next to one another.
He was an amiable man and I found talking to him easy, he made no judgement or queried my answers to his questions, in return he told me of his holiday, of his new job, his life, I envied him his normality, I envied his ‘pleasant’ time in Africa, though agreed with him that it was not a place to live. We passed the tedium of the flight in light-hearted chatter, I even laughed when he pointed out that most girls had far more luggage, I assured him that I had another case on board, though stretched the truth a bit when adding that I had borrowed it from a friend and would return it to him when I landed.
As the plane slowed to a halt outside the terminal building I finally said goodbye to my journey, it was a typical overcast and miserable day, but just knowing that I was back in the country where I knew I belonged lifted the sky, in my heart the sun was shinning, not the harsh, punishing sun of the desert, but a soft golden glow, beckoning me with its caressing rays. I turned to say goodbye to the man whose life I now felt I knew, only to find that he had already left his seat and had made his way to the front of the plane, no doubt eager to get back to his life now that his African adventure was over.
It amazed me how many suitcases people took with them when they travelled, if only they knew that I had spent weeks with only the clothes that I stood in, and at times less than that, if it were not for Josef I would not have had to wait for a case to come trundling around the conveyor belt to be claimed, I willed it out of the hole from where all the bags came from, with each one that appeared another traveller would step forward and claim it, mine it appeared had decided to take the long way round.
Just as I was about to give up my vigil and find a member of staff to report the bag missing it came out, it was the last one left, I was the last one left, to my right and left the conveyor belts were full with bags from other flights, they had made it to the terminal before their owners, I thought guiltily that had it been but a few weeks previous I would have taken one, sold its contents and eaten for a week on the profits. But that was all behind me now, I lifted the suitcase, extracted the handle and began to walk to the exit, excited to see Josef, pleased to have least done something to repay his kindness.
I didn’t get as far as the exit, as I passed a long table to my left a customs officer approached me and asked me which flight I had arrived from, I took my passport and boarding pass from my bag and handed them to him, he pointed to the table and asked me to place both of my bags on it. I did as I was asked, looking around to see who else had been stopped, there was no one, the whole area had a eerie emptiness to it, I started to sweat, I didn’t know why, though something inside me began to nag, it was a feeling of doom. His questions were short and to the point, ‘did I pack the bag myself, have I been given anything to carry, was I travelling alone?’ They came out like bullet points, and I simply shook my head, ‘Yes I was travelling alone, I only talked to one man, but he didn’t give me anything to carry.’ As the customs officer asked me open the case it still didn’t occur to me that I had been given something to carry, I was staring at it, opening it, I only thought that they would think it strange that I should travel with men’s clothes, I tried quickly to think of an answer. As I opened the case it became clear that the answer was not needed, there were no clothes, under a covering of newspaper were bags of powder, I looked at them with bewilderment, at first not accepting what they were, as I reached out to touch one but my hand was restrained, I looked up to see the man whom I had spent a pleasant afternoon chatting with, standing there, in his other hand he held an identification badge, there was no new job, only his old one, Detective Inspector.
The table in the room that I had been taken to had obviously been sat behind by many before me, many of them had carved their names into the wooden edges, collecting their names and dates distracted my mind from the whirlwind that seemed to be happening around me. A police-woman stood guard by the door, she looked through me not at me, her gaze frozen else where, I wondered if she had been trained to be so defiant of my needs. Confusion had taken over in my mind, Josef, I needed to find Josef, I knew that he could explain to them, make them understand that there was a mix up somewhere, that I must have taken the wrong case, that the case did not belong to me. I wanted my mother, at the same time I did not want her, I didn’t want her to have to go through this with me, the wrenching in my stomach stepped up a notch, I stood up, at the same time the man whom I now knew to be called Inspector Thompson came in, he sat opposite me indicating for me to sit, I did as requested. ‘Maeve Stalbright – I am right aren’t I, you are Maeve Stalbright?’ He held a large folder in his hand and placed it in front of him on the table. ‘I don’t want either of my parents here, I don’t need any one, this is all wrong, the case doesn’t belong to me, it must be some one else’s – please you must believe me, I just want to go home, I just want to go home.’ My voice was pleading, I thought back to the last time I begged a man for something, it didn’t work then and it wasn’t going to work now.
They had arranged for a social worker and solicitor, I remember neither of their faces. Neither can I recall the face of the doctor, his pills and needles, the rest of it just seems a swirling mess, voices telling me things I didn’t want to hear, paper being passed from person to person, my name being mentioned, tables, chairs, a hand guiding me through some doors, all the time the swirling in my head. Faces came and went, they weren’t those of the people around me, they were of my mother, my father, they flashed before me, different expressions on their faces, but never looking at me, when I tried to concentrate on them they vanished, as I looked up and towards the people around me it hit me, I had taken the goodness of my life, my mother’s love and father’s security and thrown it all into hell, my feelings of despair whilst in the desert camp were nothing compared to this, with my own actions I had crushed my own hope, the guilt and responsibility of my parent’s deaths were mine alone.
It wasn’t until the next day; I had spent the night in a police cell, I didn’t bother to ask where, though I know I was told, that I was finally taken to a room to be interviewed in relation to the drugs. It was a big word, much bigger than its five letters, I didn’t understand, I was tired. All through the night I had fretted about Josef, I wanted them to find him, tell him his suitcase was lost, that there had been a mistake, that someone else had his case, that I was now sat in a cell because of that mistake. I didn’t, couldn’t believe what they told me was the truth, Josef had sent me on the plane with the case, they were his drugs. He had been my friend, had helped me, taken me in, fed me, given me money, why would a ‘friend’ do that. The drugs however were found on me, Josef had vanished, they knew who he was, but I don’t think they tried to find him, they had me, they had the suitcase, that was all they needed.

I discovered the reason for my sickness, at some point, whether it was the men in the taxi, the camp in the desert or when I sold my body to eat, I had become pregnant, I had a part of Africa inside me, growing, taking over. It wasn’t the only memento I had of the desert, there were other things, but these, they say, can be treated, they say I am lucky. At first I felt nothing for the child that grew inside me, it was there, I didn’t want it there, and would happily have cut it out myself given the opportunity or a real metal knife instead of the plastic ones that accompany the meals that they serve. This baby is a link to a part of me that I am told has to be forgotten, a link that is responsible for the suicides of the two people that loved me, the only two people I loved. This baby reminded me, forced me to see that I was as responsible for their deaths as I was for the death of Amir, who’s body by now would have been taken by desert animals scavenging for food, the thought brought bile to my throat, but I make myself think of him often, of how he had tried in vain to protect me. It is because of this that I decided to continue with its growth inside me, to give a life back, pretend it is my friend, talk to it, tell it the truth so it will understand, I might, one day even love it, for now I simply accept it as it is, another part of my journey to Africa.

The immigration people are the kindest, they have lots of forms, they listen to me, never judge me, they write a lot of things on their forms, place them in big folders. They came to see me the other day, they tell me I can stay, that I can keep my name, they wont send me back, ‘compassionate grounds’ is what they say. I have asked if they would like to keep my name, give me another one, I am not bothered what, any new name would do, but I don’t think that will happen, not yet, but one day.
I know that they will take the baby away from me and give it to someone deserving whilst I continue to live here. I believe they call this a secure unit, tell me it is better than prison, that I should be grateful, I can’t comment on that.
I try to comment on my dreams, I have tried to tell them, but still they don’t believe me, perhaps a part of me doesn’t believe either, but whilst I have the baby growing inside me I know the truth, it’s just a matter of waiting now, when the baby is born there will be nothing left to remember and the truth will be hidden, it’s just a waiting game.