Dalila Page 3

  He unconsciously tilts his phone towards her. Something in that gesture makes her wonder if the question about money is coming from him, or if he is relaying a question that has just been sent to him.

  But Mama Anne flaps her hand at him. Later, Markus, she says.

  He turns his face away and thumbs a message into his mobile. Mama Anne looks down the road at where she expects the bus to appear.

  Will I stay with you? asks Dalila in Kiswahili, thinking they can speak more privately in their native language.

  Mama Anne looks up, surprised that she is being spoken to. We don’t talk here, she replies in English.

  But where are we going? Dalila persists. I was told you would help me. That once I got here you would help me to stay in the UK.

  The Mama looks away and says, Sit.

  Dalila doesn’t sit. She moves her weight from one foot to the next. The air pushes down the back of her neck, it bites at her bare toes and edges up over her ankles.

  It is very cold here, she says.

  Yes, it is very cold. This is Britain. Get used to it.

  The bus arrives. The hydraulics hiss as it stops.

  Mama Anne has tickets for everyone and waddles down the centre aisle carrying the child. Markus puts his hand on Dalila’s suitcase and motions for her to get on the bus. She climbs the steps and takes a window seat across the aisle from Mama Anne and the child. Markus shoves Dalila’s suitcase onto a luggage rack and sits beside her, his bulk pressing against her. Dalila shifts over a little but she has nowhere to go. She turns her head and watches this new world out the window.

  The bus swings left at a roundabout, past an area fenced off for airport utility vehicles, up a slip road and onto a dual carriageway. With every turn of the bus she feels herself becoming more and more lost in this vast city. Within a few minutes she is unable to remember the way back to the airport, but uncertain why she would ever want to return. A parade of foreign images swoop past the window. With a deep breath she tries to ignore her anxiety and focuses on one thing at a time.

  Dust-free brake lights on the cars – different.

  Lush grass on the side of the dual carriageway – different.

  Hundreds of orange street lights – different.

  Billboard advertising – different.

  Old buildings, which must be houses – different.

  Traffic lights – same.

  Motorists obeying the traffic lights – different.

  She stops watching the road and slowly exhales. All she has now are these three strangers. Her fate lies with them. Closing her eyes, she reads the list of instructions imprinted in her mind. Each step had gone to plan. Her ‘Aunt’ had turned up at the airport and played the part with a flourish. The child was a good sign. It proved these people had thought things through. They are professionals. Only two more things need to happen. First, she will give them the money. Second, they will arrange her asylum process, and then the plan will be complete. After that, she will finish her studies and restart her life.

  Dalila opens her eyes. Mama Anne pouts a little, leaning her head gently to counterbalance the sway of the bus. Markus glances up to see what Dalila is looking at before attending to his phone again. The heat of his thigh presses against her leg, his elbow nudges her as he texts. He smells of Nivea and raw chicken meat and Dalila wonders if, in fact, it is he who is in charge.

  They change buses in a brightly lit depot in the city. This time they sit upstairs. After a few minutes the child falls asleep and no one breaks the silence.

  London is a swirl of lights and shopfronts, cars and narrow streets.

  People use umbrellas – different.

  Many stroll with their hands in their pockets and hoods pulled over their heads – same.

  All the buildings are made of brick and stone. Dalila doesn’t see a single sheet of corrugated iron. She spots rubbish bags and litter but no rubble. Neon advertising shines above every shop, the reflected light shimmers across the wet concrete pavement.

  Mama Anne rings the bell and they get off. The child whimpers, so Mama Anne raises the little one onto her hip and carries her towards a maze of low concrete buildings. Markus carries the suitcase. Dalila follows, lowering her head against the gusts that twist between the buildings. Their group climbs stairs to the third floor and along an open balcony. Mama Anne unlocks a front door and goes into the flat. Markus stands aside, allowing Dalila to enter before he shuts the door behind him.

  Dalila finds herself standing in a corridor. A three-seat sofa is pressed against the wall, leaving only just enough room for one person to shuffle past.

  You wait, Mama Anne tells Dalila, before disappearing with the sleepy child into one room.

  Behind her, Markus clears his throat. Dalila stands absolutely still trying to sense his movements.

  Mama Anne returns, pushes right up to Dalila and says in English, The money, give me.

  Dalila glances back as Markus steps up directly behind her.

  Mama Anne takes off her green hat and with it all the charm she employed at the airport is gone. She switches to Kiswahili and says, Give me the money, now. All of it.

  Dalila sinks her hand into her handbag and pulls out the plastic zip-lock pocket. Mama Anne snatches it and immediately starts counting the notes. It is three hundred US dollars and twenty thousand Kenyan shillings. She slips the dollars back into the plastic pocket and holds it up to Dalila’s face.

  Where did you get this?

  Charles gave it to me, says Dalila.

  Charles? Who is this Charles? I don’t know Charles.

  Charles Okema. He works for my uncle. He’s a matatu driver, explains Dalila. He helped me. Charles paid Eddie to get documents to come here.

  So this is Eddie’s money?

  Yes.

  You met with Eddie?

  No. I gave money to Charles and he paid Eddie for his help, his services. Then, after two weeks, Eddie gave us a plane ticket and some letters and three hundred dollars. He gave me a list of instructions and said I must memorise it. Then, I came here.

  Mama Anne holds up the wad of Kenyan shillings. And whose money is this?

  That is mine, Dalila answers. My uncle gave it to me.

  Your uncle?

  Yes.

  Mama Anne watches Dalila’s face, waiting for something else. She glances at Markus and back to Dalila. What did you say at the airport? she asks.

  Dalila swallows. I said it was my money for a holiday.

  What else did you say?

  About what?

  About me. What did you tell them about me?

  I said only . . . what was in the instructions. I told them you are my aunt and I am coming to visit only for three weeks.

  What did you say my name was?

  I said you are called Anne Nafula.

  Did you tell them my real name?

  Your real name? I . . . I don’t know your real name.

  Mama Anne pouts and thinks. Where did you say we live?

  I gave them the address that Eddie sent to me. I did everything exactly as the instructions said. Believe me.

  But they kept you back, says Markus. They must have asked you a lot of questions.

  Before God I swear, says Dalila, turning to look at Markus, I didn’t say anything. I only told them what I was instructed to say. For two hours I said the same things again and again.

  Mama Anne lifts her chin and whispers, If you are lying, Markus will—

  I am not lying. I promise. I promise! I only said what I was told to say. I don’t know anything else.

  And the instructions, where are they?

  I flushed them down the toilet before I got to Passport Control.

  Mama Anne exchanges a look with Markus. She turns and walks back down the passageway.

  What happens now? Dalila says. The instructions said I would meet someone here in London who would help me. Do you work for Eddie?

  Mama Anne stops and turns. We don’t work for anyone. I am my own
boss. I do what I want. Do you understand? Sometimes Eddie asks for a gesture of kindness, that is all.

  So, you will help me?

  Mama Anne walks back towards Dalila and says, We only help Eddie. We need money to help you.

  But I just gave you the money.

  The big woman laughs, slapping the US dollars against her palm. This? she says. This is Eddie’s money. It must go back to Eddie. If you want a place to sleep and food to eat, you need to pay rent. How much do you have?

  Dalila lowers her head. Only what I gave you.

  Mama Anne holds up the wad of Kenyan shillings still in the polythene bag. How much is this?

  Twenty thousand, says Dalila.

  It’s not enough, says Mama Anne, rolling her eyes. Not even enough for food.

  It is all I have.

  Mama Anne’s eyelids lower. Take off your shoes, she tells Dalila.

  Why?

  To see what money you have.

  Dalila slips off her shoes and pulls out each inner sole. You see, she says, I have nothing else.

  Markus pushes up behind Dalila. She feels his breath at her ear. He wrenches her handbag away and empties out the contents on the sofa. Mama Anne picks out the glittery blue purse, unzips it, and pulls out five hundred shillings.

  Please, I only ask for a place to sleep, says Dalila. Eddie said you would help me. Please, Mama.

  Calling her Mama has an effect. The woman sighs and points her chin at the sofa in the hallway. Tonight, she says, you sleep there.

  Thank you, Mama, says Dalila.

  Markus’s hands rest on Dalila’s waist as he shuffles between her and the sofa. He wanders down the hall and enters a room where Dalila glimpses a TV and at least three other men before he closes the door behind him.

  Mama Anne pulls a duvet from the hall cupboard and dumps it on the sofa. If you make trouble, she says to Dalila, you are out.

  I won’t make trouble.

  Mama Anne clicks her tongue and enters the room where she had put the child and closes the door.

  Dalila sits down on the sofa. She replaces the purse, bread roll, fruit salad, passport and the photographs of her family into her handbag. Through the walls come voices. Sounds of movement from deeper inside, from the other people living in this flat. The deeper tones of male voices and then, light female giggles sprinkle across the room. It’s difficult to determine how many are in the flat, impossible to know where they are from, what their intentions towards her might be.

  She stands up. The front door is right there and beyond it, London. Great Britain. The great land her father had often talked about. But beyond the door is also darkness, and cold, a place with no instructions to follow. It is better to stick to the plan. Only one more step remains in the plan. She has given them the money, now they must help her.

  She places her shoes neatly next to her suitcase at the end of the sofa and considers digging out her nightdress but the thought of changing clothes here in the hallway stops her. Better to just sleep in her dress. Tomorrow, when they trust her more, she will wash and eat, but now she must sleep. She lies on the sofa and tucks the duvet around her neck. A deep tiredness moves up through her body and into her head. The last time she slept was on the floor in her uncle’s house.

  The voices mumble in the background. Images of the day roll, unsummoned, across her mind. The food tray on the aeroplane. Her instruction list flushing away. The sky-blue eyeshadow of the immigration officer opening her passport. The pink razor burn on the man who escorted her to the holding room. She adjusts herself on the sofa till her neck is straight and her feet poke out from under the duvet.

  You are here, she whispers to herself. You have made it. You are in England.

  Unbelievable, improbable words. That she, Dalila Mwathi, could be on the other side of the world. Her father had always said England was the Father of the World. Now, here she is. With her heart, she reaches out, trying to feel the Englishness around her, but there is only the warm duvet and the hum of voices in the other room. For now, it is enough. She breathes out and allows herself to sink deeper into the cushions beneath her.

  A door clicks open. Dalila wakes, listening without moving. Very light footsteps. A shape in the dark approaches the sofa. Dalila blinks as her eyes adjust. Markus is looking down at her, his hands hanging limp, his shirt hanging open.

  What do you want, Markus? she whispers.

  I want to help you.

  Okay, says Dalila. Thank you.

  Markus sits down next to her. The flat is silent. The chatter she fell asleep to has been swallowed. Dalila tugs the covers up around her neck.

  Do you want me to help you? asks Markus.

  Yes, says Dalila.

  Markus shifts his weight and places his arm across the top of the covers.

  Dalila flinches. I’ve paid my . . . my rent, she whispers. You saw me pay.

  I saw you give rent to Mama Anne, says Markus, but this isn’t rent . . . this is tax. He leans onto her, his mouth at her ear.

  From under the duvet Dalila shoves upwards, forcing him back. No! Get off, she shouts. She wriggles under the duvet trying to sit up, to break free. Markus pulls his head back and shunts his forehead down against her chin. Her head snaps back, stunned. Before she can call out again his hand covers her mouth. He is quickly on top of her. Her arms pinned across her chest under the duvet, her two free fingers claw at the hand across her mouth. She twists, pushes with all her strength but can hardly move. Markus’s free hand reaches down and starts to pull up the covers around her legs. The cooler air touches her exposed thighs. She kicks and thrashes but his weight is too much for her. He hooks his arm around her left thigh and wrenches it to the side, brings his face right up to hers. Stop kicking, he grunts, or this will get worse for you.

  Dalila fights to free her face from under his hand. His fingers are pressed right up against her nostrils. Her lungs pull frantically, trying to inflate. Blood from her burst lip is filling her mouth.

  Markus shifts himself between her thighs. His hand gropes at her underwear.

  Not this, cries Dalila, but the words can’t come out. Please God, not this. She wrestles under the duvet but can’t free her arms, can’t breathe, can’t move. With enormous effort she pushes against his weight, trying to sit up, and feels herself rising, floating up out of herself, hovering over the sofa. She sees herself from above. Apart.

  He pulls her underpants, trying to slip them off but her legs are too splayed. He tugs hard sideways, trying to rip them.

  Uncle Markus, I’m hungry, says a little voice.

  Markus looks up. The child is at the armrest of the sofa, rubbing the corner of her eye with her wrist.

  Get out of here, hisses Markus. Go to bed. Go.

  Markus shoves the child away with one arm while keeping Dalila trapped with his other arm. There is silence, and then, the child erupts into howling.

  A light flicks on and Mama Anne comes into the hallway. She squints in the brightness and sees Markus on the sofa with his trousers down, his hand over Dalila’s mouth.

  You stupid boy, she says, pushing the child into the bedroom with one hand and in one fluid movement stepping close and slapping Markus across the ear.

  You stupid boy, shouts Mama Anne, slapping him again and again. The child stands in the doorway screaming.

  Markus jumps up, pulling at his trousers. Stop, he yells, shielding himself with his forearm. Stop. He lunges at Mama Anne, pulling her flailing arms down.

  Dalila gasps for breath. The air rushes into her as she flops off the sofa and scrambles across the ground, away from Markus, till her back is pressed against the front door. A light switches on deeper inside the flat. People appear in the hallway shouting in English and Kiswahili.

  Are you crazy? shouts Markus. What is your problem, huh?

  You, says Mama Anne, wide-eyed and unafraid. You are a problem, for all of us. For our business. You don’t think.

  Markus looks at the hallway full of faces. He pushes
past Mama Anne and sneers, What do you know, old woman?

  She pursues him down the hall, shouting, I know you are a selfish boy! What if this girl talks? Huh? What then, stupid boy? We are all finished. Believe me. The Home Office will take everyone in this flat. And if she talks to Eddie? Then you are finished!

  The argument moves into the kitchen. Two men and a woman blink and stare at Dalila before following the action into the kitchen. Dalila sniffles and touches her mouth. Her lip is swollen. There is blood on her fingers.

  The shouting continues. The toddler’s wailing gets louder, closer. A girl Dalila has never seen before appears in the hallway carrying the child.

  You are hurt? the girl asks in English.

  Dalila holds up her bloody fingers. I’m okay, she says.

  You are okay?

  Yes.

  The girl bounces the child, trying to calm her down. She looks towards the kitchen and back at Dalila. You must go. Now, she says. Quickly.

  Dalila doesn’t move.

  Markus won’t leave you alone. Get your shoes. Now.

  The girl disappears with the child into the bedroom. Dalila jumps up, slips on her shoes and loops her handbag across her shoulder. The girl returns without the child. She grabs an anorak from the cupboard, forces it on Dalila.

  Take this, she says. Don’t come back.

  Dalila goes for her suitcase but the girl pushes her towards the front door. She unlocks it, opens it. Go, she says, run.

  The door closes behind her.

  Dalila runs. Arms reaching into the night, tears on her face, she runs.

  The open anorak flaps behind her as Dalila sprints, instinctively, back the way she came, to the bus stop. Her breath steams out under the street lights. From behind her comes a noise. Wood scraping over concrete. Markus? The other men?

  Glancing behind her, she stumbles, almost falling, yet spots no shapes within the black.

  She races across a junction and along a wider road, her legs working hard. She passes houses on either side, a shop, another junction, she runs across a wet street, under the red glow of a traffic light, looking back, expecting to see her pursuers, she slams right into someone and screams, scrambling back to her feet, pressing her back against a hedge. The person she slammed into is a man, a white man, in uniform.