Dalila Read online

  Hey, he shouts. What the hell you doing?

  Stunned, her lungs burn, she can’t answer, doesn’t have time to answer. She looks back up the street and then again at the man’s uniform. He’s a postman. Only a postman. As he steps towards her she darts off, running for three blocks, head back, arms swinging.

  Her ears ache in the icy air. Abruptly switching direction, she runs down a tree-lined street for four blocks, for five, moving fast enough for neither Markus nor her panicked thoughts to catch up with her. In her peripheral vision, over the roofs of parked cars, a figure in the road chases her. She speeds up, gasping for air, trying to keep going, scanning desperately for a place to hide, a weapon, a sign. The figure appears alongside her. It’s a man on a bicycle wearing a helmet. His eyes flit up at her, delivering a concerned, questioning look. His expression is touched with alarm. He speeds up and pedals on down the road. It’s enough to make her slow down, to stop.

  She places her hand on a wheelie bin and tries to slow her breathing. Daybreak is approaching, the sky changing from black to indigo, it will be light soon and she’ll be easier to spot when they come looking for her. A car rolls by. She turns from it, zips up the red anorak and strides along the pavement.

  The girl. That girl in the flat told her to run. So she got up and ran. She just left. So, so stupid. How could she do that? What is she going to do now? She knows no one and her money is gone, all given to Mama Anne as payment. Dalila stops walking and places her palms against her face. She should go back. She could apologise for her behaviour and beg Mama Anne to take her in. She has to go back. She turns and walks back the way she came. The cold air seeps through the fragile layers of her clothing. She has to go back, if only for her grey jeans and her mother’s knitted orange jersey.

  Dalila places a finger against her swollen top lip. There is no blood but an image of Markus’s face rushes up at her. She stops. The smell of his beery breath is distinct in the morning air. She can still feel the pressure of his hand across her mouth. She can’t go back. Not to stay. Perhaps she could wait till Markus leaves and persuade that young girl in the flat to return her suitcase and then she’ll leave.

  As the sun rises, the terraced houses and shuttered shops all seem very similar and above them are concrete tower blocks of various heights. One street looks like the next. She tries to recall the specific architecture of the building she fled. An image of the child sleeping on Mama Anne’s shoulder comes to her. She remembers Markus clutching her suitcase, walking through gusting wind in the middle of the night, but she can’t picture the building. She has the address memorised, but the way Mama Anne questioned her last night makes her suspect that the address she gave to the immigration officers was not where she ended up. Dalila stands at a crossroads. She studies one road and peers along another.

  More people emerge onto the streets. Traffic starts to queue at the junctions, people in cars wait patiently for the lights to change. Half a block away, three heavyset men in dirty jeans and fluorescent waistcoats walk up the pavement. A fourth comes out of a newsagent’s and joins his friends. He unwraps a packet of cigarettes and lights up, exhaling smoke into the brittle dawn. They move as a pack, each man with a shoulder-swaying gait. To avoid them, Dalila crosses the street. She catches up with a couple of women in saris and overcoats, trailing close enough behind them for a casual observer to mistake them for a group of three. She follows them for a while till one woman calmly looks back at Dalila and whispers something to her friend. Before the other woman turns around, Dalila steps off the pavement, weaves between standing traffic and heads off down a different street. Three African women get off a bus, all talking at the same time. One of them opens a pushchair and places her child in the seat. Dalila hurries behind them, trying to disguise herself as one of their group. Using women as cover, she weaves her way deeper into the maze of London, her arms crossed over her handbag, fingers tucked under her armpits, her feet bloodless and numb in her open-toe shoes.

  The sun rises without warmth. Its mute grey light illuminates objects, while also drawing colours from them. In the distance, taller towers and a crane mark the horizon. Assuming the biggest towers mark London’s heart, she heads towards them, moving only to keep warm, knowing there is no way back.

  People walk by with a hungry focus, their eyes set on the middle distance. Lots of them wear headphones. Many queue at bus stops, staring into their phones. Hundreds flow into and out of Underground stations. All nationalities mix together but it’s the white people who fascinate her. She tries not to stare but she has never seen so many whites before. Thousands of them. The streets of London aren’t as crowded as the avenues of Nairobi, but, for Dalila, these white people embody more space. Their bodies press out against the seams of their clothes, many of them stout as African businessmen. Even the thin ones seem big, as if the space around them is packed with prominence.

  With so many similar white faces, only the extremes stand out to Dalila. A man with plump pink cheeks. The charcoal tattoos crawling up a teenager’s neck. The ash-grey of a man’s unshaven chin. A woman’s bronze face and her shocking-pink lips. Here and there, she sees some of the whitest faces she has ever seen. Pale fragile complexions with fine blue veins visible through their opaque skin.

  But no face is actually white and Dalila becomes fascinated with each person’s subtle shading. She is surrounded by people the colour of eggshell and bread, of yams and potatoes, of cashews and oats. Hair the colour of melon flesh and peeled pears, of aubergines and roasted coffee beans. Most beautiful are the eyes. Sparkling irises of topaz and opal, tiger’s eye and lapis lazuli.

  All these colours and black clothes. Almost everyone wears dark overcoats, black jackets, deep blue jeans and charcoal suits. Only Dalila weaves through the crowds in her sunflower dress and red, oversized anorak.

  London itself feels like it leans towards her. Glorious buildings of cold stone. Gift shops covered in Union Jacks. Portraits of the Queen and mugs shaped to look like Prince William. Black taxis look exactly like the ones she’s seen in the movies. Mr Bean. Four Weddings and a Funeral. An ambulance rushes by with an unfamiliar sing-song to its siren. She sees performing statues, long buses that bend in the middle, three-year-olds in pushchairs and grown men wearing backpacks like schoolchildren. She remembers walking to school and a feeling descends on her, a loneliness, a memory of when the world was vast and she felt tiny and fragile before it.

  She enters a large clothing store and walks the aisles, stopping under a ceiling vent blowing warm air. She fingers through blouses to disguise herself among the purposeful. An African woman stands behind a small desk at the dressing rooms, counting a customer’s items and handing them a numbered tag. Dalila watches from behind a rack of pyjamas. Perhaps she could talk to her. She’s a sister. She could ask if she knows of a place to stay, or where to get help. But how do you phrase that? Hello, I want to start a new life in the UK. Can you help me? She has to be more delicate, maybe pretending to only need one night’s accommodation till her family . . . her people arrive the next day. She watches the sales assistant helping two customers. Dalila unhooks a set of yellow flannel pyjamas and commits to going over there. She’ll smile and ask to try these on and hopefully push the conversation round to Africa or some other common ground and then, once they are talking like sisters, she will ask. There will be less shame in it this way. She carries the pyjamas over, but as she approaches another sales assistant comes across and talks to the African girl.

  Dalila stands still, holding the pyjamas, waiting to be served.

  But the African girl gathers up an armful of clothes on coat hangers and disappears through a set of grey doors.

  Would you like to try those on? asks the new sales assistant.

  No, thank you, says Dalila. She hangs up the pyjamas and slips out of the shop.

  The afternoon draws on and hunger pulls at her core. She notices people eating, chewing chocolate bars as they walk, fingers dipping into crisp packets. People
sitting on benches with paper cups of coffee and sandwiches, others stand outside takeaways eating chips from paper wrappings. She takes out the bread roll from her handbag. In the cold air her lip doesn’t throb as much as she chews and after a while the gnawing in her stomach releases.

  The city opens to a great brown river. A large white Ferris wheel sits on the bank further upstream. In front of her, a single barge chugs under the bridge. She crosses with hundreds of other pedestrians. Most hold their collars closed against the bitter wind while Dalila cups her hands over her ears.

  She walks till her heels ache and her bare toes go numb again. Up one street, along another, looking for something, a sign, a plan.

  The afternoon passes into a foggy evening. She stands at busy junctions without crossing, simply watching the green man flash, watching a street-cleaning truck with rotary brushes sweep rubbish from the gutters. She avoids eye contact and keeps to well-lit areas. Instead of hunger, a deep weariness takes hold of her legs. This worries her. She keeps going, feeling the weariness move up through her body and settle into her shoulders. Her world begins to shrink into a succession of lights and faces and noises as she shuffles along in a limbo of indecision, her limbs too numb to feel the cold. In the brightly lit entrance of an office building she sits down and unzips the red anorak, pulls her knees right up close to her chest and zips up the anorak over her shins up to her neck. She perches on the steps like a stuffed sack of yams and rests her head against the marble wall. It feels good to sit. Her breathing deepens. She thinks she can smell fire, woodsmoke, like the cooking fire her mother used to squat in front of to prepare ugali. As a tiny girl it had always been her job to collect sticks for the fire and then water for boiling. She would squat next to her mother and stoke the flames, the two of them speaking softly while they shifted pots from the centre of the flames to a cooler section on the grill. Her mother comes to her, standing with her hands by her sides. A deep sadness opens up, but her mother smiles at her, and sits down on the step while her father stands further off and looks out. They don’t say anything. Dalila feels too ashamed to look up. They deserve a better daughter than her. Her mother places a hand on Dalila’s shoulder.

  Hello. Hello, miss? You need to wake up, miss.

  Dalila stares at the woman touching her shoulder.

  Do you speak English? Can you understand me?

  Yes, says Dalila, still heavy with sleepiness.

  Have you got anywhere to sleep tonight?

  I’m sorry, I was resting.

  Have you eaten anything today?

  No. I am okay, I must go.

  It’s alright. I’m here to help, okay? My name is Melissa and I’m here with Shelter For All. Would you like a sandwich?

  No.

  It’s alright, look, those are my co-workers over there and we help people who are homeless. We can give you a safe place to stay for the night. Get you out of this cold. Would you like that?

  No. I will go.

  What is your name, miss? No white woman had ever called Dalila miss.

  Irene, my name is Irene.

  Irene. You are safe with us. We won’t hurt you. Why don’t you come with me and you can have some soup? You like soup, don’t you?

  Yes.

  Melissa smiles. Me too, she says, I just love soup. Come, it’s alright. She slips off her woollen glove and reaches out. Dalila looks at the soft pale hand and when she takes it, it’s warm.

  Shivering, her teeth rattling, Dalila stares at the spire. Right up at the top, at the narrowest point, against the peach mist of London’s night sky, stands a cockerel on one leg. The iron bird tilts into the wind. Melissa is talking and most of it swims by Dalila, but her tone is soothing.

  The shelter is a church, with enormous wooden doors. Cut into one of the doors is a regular-sized entryway, through which they step.

  Inside, an older man behind a desk greets them good evening. His whiskers and eyebrows curl about his wide face, his moustache twirls into tusks. He slides an open ledger towards them and Dalila pulls back, wary of this warthog man. Melissa takes her hand.

  You’re alright, she says. You’ll be safe here. Everyone needs to put their name on the list.

  Dalila struggles to write in the ledger, battling against the cold quivering through her bones.

  Here, let me help you, says Melissa.

  She signs Dalila into the ledger and writes the word Irene on a sticker, which she attaches to Dalila’s chest.

  You just keep that on, she says, with an easy smile. Come on, let’s get you warmed up.

  In the basement canteen at a table by herself, with a blanket wrapped around her, she listens to the wooden floor creak as Melissa moves and prepares the soup.

  In the corner sit two men, both unshaven. One has matted, shoulder-length hair, the other has no teeth, his lips shrinking around his gums. They hunker over bowls of soup, dipping their bread, chewing slowly. Their trousers are soiled and worn through at the knees. A whiff of urine comes from their end of the hall. She has never seen white men like this. Never thought it possible. The toothless one catches her staring, but he turns back to his meal.

  The soup is hot and salty but the tea is dreadful, needing more milk and more sugar. Dalila sips it anyway, warming her fingers on the mug. Melissa takes the seat opposite her and chats as if they are friends. Her face is open and earnest and Dalila hears none of what’s being said, but she appreciates having this woman nearby.

  It’s late when Dalila is shown to the women’s dormitory, which, Melissa explains, doubles as a Sunday school. Two women are already asleep, so she doesn’t turn on the light. Each bed is a mattress on the floor with a sleeping bag. Dalila claims the nearest one. She takes off her anorak and lies down. The sleeping bag smells of detergent whereas the mattress holds a deeper scent of sweat from other bodies. When her vision adjusts to the dark she becomes aware of children’s drawings on the walls. A box of limp, unblinking soft toys unnerves her. She rolls away from it, onto her side, and tucks her handbag into the bottom of the sleeping bag. She slips her wrists between her knees, and focuses on a hand-sewn banner of a satin dove soaring above a cross. For a long time, she lies there staring at the dove. Thoughts chop through her mind, fragmenting her. She was in college not so long ago and now she’s sleeping on the floor on the other side of the world. How quickly it all changed. How deeply it all became ruined. Is she being punished? She wonders where she will sleep tomorrow and if Markus might be out looking for her. Where will she get more clothes? The breathing of the other women asleep in the room is deep and slow and Dalila wonders who they are and where they come from. Her thoughts evade conclusions and her stomach has that empty feeling she used to get before exams.

  In her dream she’s riding in a matatu. It’s full of people and she is sitting at the back. It’s hot. Traffic is heavy and the windows are darkened by amber dust. There’s a jolt and a scraping along the side of the van and suddenly everyone is trying to get out. She, too, is climbing, over seats, over people. Someone is kicking a window, cracking it, breaking it. And then, somehow, she is out, running. The streets are empty but she isn’t safe. She ducks into a mobile phone shop and goes to a rack of glittering phone covers. A man approaches and asks if she needs assistance. As she turns she recognises his face. It is her uncle. He and she are the only ones in the shop.

  Dalila opens her eyes and sits upright, sweating, her sleeping bag kicked down around her ankles. She has no idea where she is. Her nose is blocked, her tongue dry. She listens for men’s voices. A weak dawn has come. The patter of light rain thrums the window. She remembers being brought to this room, remembers the soup she had. Next to her is a sleeping woman with her arm across her face. The other woman has already left. Her rolled sleeping bag marks where she had been. Dalila gets up, puts on her anorak, rolls her sleeping bag, and leaves.

  In the hallway, a heavy-hipped woman smiles and says, Good morning. The woman hobbles towards her, using a crutch to keep balance. Everything alright
? she asks.

  Dalila is unsure of exactly what kind of place she is in or how to act in this place.

  The woman staggers closer and glances at the sticker on Dalila’s anorak. Irene, is it? she asks.

  Dalila nods.

  Well, I’m Judith, says the woman, pointing at her own name badge. You’re up bright and early, she says. Would you like a cuppa?

  No, says Dalila, not quite understanding the woman’s accent. Me, I’m looking for the toilet.

  Right, well, it’s just down there and on your left. And when you’re done, why don’t you join me in the canteen?

  Downstairs, Dalila sits in the same seat she used last night. The clarity of this room in the morning light doesn’t match her memories from the night before. A hint of damp hangs in the air and it’s a little too cool to be comfortable. Dalila does, however, remember last night’s tea, and when Judith offers her some she declines. Instead, she accepts toast, breaking bits off and trying not to eat it too quickly.

  Melissa is here? Dalila asks.

  No, her shift only starts at four.

  Judith waddles over, crutch in one hand, tea in the other, and lowers herself into a seat next to Dalila. You’re not long here, are you, love?

  Dalila stops chewing, trying to decipher Judith’s question.

  Judith tries again. How long have you lived here, Irene?

  Dalila puts down the toast and says, I came to this place, to this country, two days ago.

  And do you have family here?

  She glances at Judith and looks away.

  What about friends? Perhaps some people you’d like us to call?

  Dalila wants to look at Judith but she can’t. I have no people, she whispers.

  Saying these words releases something. It pushes its way up and tears flood her vision. She wipes her palm stiffly across each eye as if to push this thing back inside.

  It’s alright, says Judith. It’s alright. So, you only just got here, then?