Dalila Read online

  The driver is young, with a ponytail. He drives with a hand slung through the bottom of the steering wheel. He doesn’t talk and doesn’t glance at them in the rear-view mirror.

  The motorway is perfect. No potholes. No stretches of dirt track where the tar is still to be laid. Nobody walking along the side of the motorway. No vendors selling food. No boys herding cattle. No children waving at the passing cars.

  Roads – different.

  After an hour the Congolese woman is still wiping away tears with the back of her hand. Her baby whimpers in its sleep.

  Fields pass by, very green fields. Square patches of earth ploughed into neat rows. Every corner of the countryside is used and cultivated, even the trees are planted in straight lines, mist shifting through their upper branches. They pass green motorway signs, a grey river and a primary-coloured petrol station. They pass a scrapyard, a town built of concrete and a crumbling stone castle. Black-and-white cows stand on cold hillsides, their udders splattered with mud.

  Cows – different.

  She watches her reflection in the window gliding across this wet and confusing land.

  After many miles, the rain comes. Droplets streak across the windscreen. She places her head against the cool glass. Vibrations rumble through her skull and grant her a dreamless sleep.

  The van arrives in Glasgow after sunset. When the engine shuts off, the only sound is rain drumming on the roof. The Congolese woman’s baby starts whining. The driver jumps out, slides open the side door and takes the woman’s suitcase while she carries her baby. Dalila grabs her handbag and the bundle of second-hand clothes she had gathered at the hostel. Hunched over against the wind-blown rain, the group hurries across the car park towards an old stone building. Inside, Dalila wipes water from her forehead.

  The baby starts openly wailing. The mother bounces her child, whispering to it, but the crying only gets more hysterical. The room is a cross between an open-plan office and a carpeted lobby with a reception desk. An older woman and a thin man sit at one desk, two mugs and an open packet of biscuits rest on the table between them. The woman stands up and goes to help the Congolese woman. She coos and fusses over the baby, but none of this stops the screaming.

  The thin man approaches Dalila and the driver. He is taller than she suspected.

  What time do you call this? says the thin man to the driver.

  Don’t start, alright? says the driver.

  It’s after nine.

  Dalila stands back, unsure if this conversation involves her or not. Her eyes are still adjusting to the light and she needs to use the toilet. The baby’s howling cuts right into her head, overwhelming any thoughts as soon as they form.

  The driver hands a folder to the thin man and says, Just sign these, so I can clock off and get a pint.

  A pint?

  Aye, a pint, says the driver, maybe even two.

  The thin man sighs. He scans the documents and says, Right, so we got two new arrivals?

  Well, three, counting the baby.

  Miss. Miss, says the thin man. What’s your name?

  My name is Irene, says Dalila.

  Can I see your ARC card?

  She shows it to him and he says, Could you sign here and here, please?

  The baby lets out a piercing scream, causing everyone in the room to pause. The Congolese woman is now in tears herself as she tries to shove a soother into the infant’s mouth.

  Dalila looks at the papers, at the words, yet can’t focus enough to understand their meaning. She signs the papers.

  The thin man calls to his colleague. Maggie, I’m going to take this one over to Govan.

  Right you are, says Maggie. I’ll see you the morra.

  Right, Irene, come with me, says the thin man. I’ll take you to your accommodation.

  He holds the door open and Dalila walks out into the quiet night. The rain is pouring less heavily. Across the dark car park she makes out three vans. Her body tightens and she can feel her heartbeat speed up. A powerful urge to just start running battles an even stronger urge to simply sit down and refuse to move. She quickly turns to go back inside and walks straight into the thin man, who drops the van keys.

  Sorry, says the thin man.

  He bends down, fishes the keys from a puddle and wipes them on his jeans. Sorry about all that in there, he says. I’m Paul, by the way.

  Dalila looks at his offered hand. Without removing her gloves, she shakes his hand.

  We’re just five minutes away, says Paul. Then we’ll have you out of this rain and in your warm flat. Come on.

  She follows him, at a safe distance, across the dark car park to one of the vans. He gets in behind the wheel. The van is just like the matatus her father used to drive. She slides open the side door and takes a seat in the back.

  Vans – same.

  You can sit up front if you like?

  It’s okay, she replies.

  His long fingers wrap around the steering wheel and they move off, driving along wet streets, between heavy stone buildings. Paul smokes as he drives. He winds the window open an inch and taps off the cigarette ash through the gap. A phone-in debate is taking place on the radio. The opinions are passionate, aggressive even, but the accents are too dense for Dalila to follow. She thinks it’s about football.

  The van pulls into a car park. Shattered glass sprinkled across the tarmac twinkles under the headlights. Paul turns off the engine. The wipers pause halfway across the windscreen.

  Right, here we are, he says.

  Dalila climbs out, cradling her handbag under her arm and the roll of second-hand clothes. Not a single person is out on the street. At intervals, lights illuminate a long empty road. As droplets pass under the orange bulbs it looks like a row of shower heads soaking the neighbourhood. Even through her puffer coat the cold closes in. She lifts her face to the rain. Three pale tower blocks, concrete and angular, disappear above the street lights, up into the dark. In a few windows, light presses against the curtains.

  Dead streets – different.

  Icy cold rain – different.

  Paul tugs his hood over his head, grabs a folder from the passenger seat and trots towards the closest building, remotely locking the van.

  Come on, he calls, let’s get you inside before we get drenched.

  She glances up at the closest tower. In Nairobi, her college was in the first four floors of a building like this.

  Tower blocks – same.

  The lobby stinks of bleach and urine. Graffiti is scrawled across the lift’s metallic doors. The most legible words being IBROX YF.

  Right, says Paul, I should explain how the lifts work. See the numbers above the door? This lift only goes to even-numbered floors and that lift only goes to the odd floors. You’re on the seventeenth floor, so we’ll take this one.

  The doors open and they step inside the metallic-panelled lift. From the corner of the ceiling, a security camera records them. Paul presses number 17. Dalila’s bladder sinks then rebounds as she is hauled up through the centre of the tower.

  At the seventeenth floor the lift opens. Directly opposite them is a heavy door with the words EMERGENCY EXIT written in red. On the wall above it, the light fitting is caged in protective wire casing. They step out on to the small landing. Four green doors suggest four separate flats. Bleach still dominates the air and also, a stale suggestion of cigarette smoke. The space feels tight and Dalila can’t shake the sense that she is, somehow, trespassing.

  Paul fiddles with his bunch of keys, and opens a door. It only opens a few inches before the security chain pulls tight and prevents them from entering.

  Yes? calls a voice from behind the door.

  Hello. It’s Paul, from the Housing Association. Remember I said we were coming?

  The eye of an African woman peers at them from behind the chain.

  You don’t knock? You just come in? What is your problem? says the woman.

  Who put this chain on the door? asks Paul.

&nb
sp; Me. I put it.

  Well, I’m not sure you’re allowed to deface private property in this way.

  You don’t knock. Every time, you people just come in.

  Paul sighs. Dalila can tell he’s wrestling with how to handle this but all he says is, I’m sorry we’re late.

  The door closes, the chain is unhooked. As the door opens the African woman turns her back and walks deeper into the flat. Dalila follows Paul inside, noticing how he rolls his shoulders forwards as he walks, as if his stoop will hide his height, or apologise for his presence.

  Three sets of women’s shoes have been kicked off and abandoned just inside the front door. A coat hangs on the wall with an umbrella looped over the same hook.

  Dalila slips off her gold basketball boots and places them neatly against the wall.

  Paul opens his folder and says, Right, Maza, this is the girl I was telling you about.

  She turns to face him. My name is Ma’aza. Ma’aza!

  Right, Maza, that’s what I said. He checks his folder, running his finger down a list. And this is, uh, Irene, he says. She’s actually from Kenya, which is next to Ethiopia, right? So you’re neighbours. You’ll have a lot to talk about, I’m sure.

  Ma’aza folds her arms and stands loose-hipped and tight-lipped. Her neck is long and lithe as a gecko’s torso. Her eyes reach out and jab at what they see.

  Maza has kindly agreed to share this unit with you, explains Paul, just on a short-term basis, you understand, till a more suitable place becomes available. I thought you’d be a lot more comfortable here than in a hostel.

  Dalila offers her hand. Ma’aza glances at the socks on Dalila’s feet. She turns her head away and concedes to a limp handshake.

  We don’t always get people to share but it’s just for a short while, says Paul. Besides, I’m sure Maza won’t mind showing you around the neighbourhood.

  Ma’aza clicks her tongue and points at a door behind Dalila and says, She sleeps there.

  The three of them turn to face the door then Paul pushes it open. Oh, I see you’ve moved all your things out. Are you sure about this?

  I sleep in the living room, says Ma’aza.

  Well, okay. Irene, it looks like you have the whole room to yourself. That’s very thoughtful of you, Maza. Thank you.

  A bare light bulb dangles from the centre of the ceiling. There is a single bed. Floral curtains. The carpet is green, the wardrobe is white. In the corner, a loose flap of wallpaper droops down like a banana leaf. Dalila lowers her handbag. She isn’t sure what she expected but knows this place will never feel like home. Yet the blankness of this room is oddly encouraging. It reminds her that this arrangement is only temporary, till she gets her papers sorted. For now, it’s all she needs.

  Why don’t I show you the rest of the flat? says Paul.

  There is no window in the compact bathroom and the shower curtain above the bath holds a medical smell of plastic. The walls are cream-coloured, the same as her new bedroom, with identical textured wallpaper. The toilet seat is wooden. Tiles are missing from the bath surround. Black mildew is growing from the corner, spreading up the sealant between the tiles.

  Now, this is the shower, says Paul. It works by pushing this button for ‘on’ and this one for ‘off’, and you can adjust the temperature with this dial here. Do you understand?

  Dalila nods.

  Have you seen a shower like this before?

  She hasn’t, but she nods again.

  Always pull the curtain closed so the water doesn’t splash on the floor and remember to pull this cord. Paul tugs the cord and a fan starts whirring. This is the extractor fan, he says. It’ll suck all the steam out of the room when you’re having a shower. And this is the heater.

  He pulls the cord of the appliance bolted above the towel rack, but nothing happens. He yanks the cord a couple of times to no effect.

  That one is broke, says Ma’aza. I told them before, but they do nothing.

  Oh, says Paul, and did you fill out one of these? He holds open the folder and Ma’aza examines the form.

  Yes, she says. I fill this out two times. And also for this.

  Ma’aza holds back the shower curtain and points at the mildew and missing tiles. The water goes in there, she says. It’s not healthy. They have to fix this.

  Right, well, says Paul, we could fill out another maintenance request form if you like?

  No more letters, says Ma’aza. They must fix everything.

  Paul slips the form out of its polythene pocket and begins filling it out as Ma’aza steps closer to see what, precisely, he is writing down.

  Dalila sneaks a look at Ma’aza, whose hair is combed back and plaited into a spike that juts out from the base of her skull. Standing directly under the bathroom light, Ma’aza’s scars are more obvious. She has three neat little nicks through each eyebrow and a very tiny cross cut into the centre of her forehead. Beauty scars. While at college, Dalila noticed that some of the foreign girls, the Ethiopian ones, had similar markings but she never became friends with any of them. Her brother didn’t like all these migrants and refugees from the north. The Sudanese, the Somalis, the Ethiopians. He said they only came to Kenya to make trouble. During her first week at college, he introduced her to all his friends, all Kenyans and mostly Kikuyu, and they became her friends and that’s how it stayed.

  Paul closes the folder. Ma’aza and Dalila follow him down the hall. He opens the door to the living room, into which Ma’aza has moved all her things.

  Against one wall slumps a grey sofa with a green tartan blanket hanging off the armrest. Opposite is a pine chest of drawers and a glass coffee table pushed against the wall. A TV stands on the coffee table with a DVD player balanced on top of it. Discs are scattered across the table, also a mug, empty crisp packets, chocolate-bar wrappers, a hairbrush and magazines. At the far wall, tucked under the window, is a bed with a pile of unfolded clothes on it. Above the bedside table are photographs taped to the wall, which Dalila assumes are pictures of Ma’aza’s family.

  This is Ma’aza’s space, and to enter the adjoining kitchen Dalila has to intrude across her territory. Paul walks straight across into the kitchen. Ma’aza moves about her room, hiding the clothes under the duvet, straightening the DVDs into a pile. When Ma’aza’s back is turned, Dalila skips into the kitchen.

  With an almost natural cheeriness Paul explains how the toaster works, how to fill the kettle, which one is the hot tap. Everything is machines. She watches as he switches appliances on and off, opens every cupboard and peeks through the oven door. This room feels even more uncomfortable than her bedroom. It reminds her of the kitchen in her uncle’s house where she was forced to cook and often sleep. When Dalila senses a question is being directed at her from Paul, she nods. Otherwise she can’t keep her eyes from flitting across to Ma’aza, who is now sitting on the sofa, flicking through TV channels.

  Paul takes a wooden spoon from the drawer and jabs at the smoke detector on the ceiling. Satisfied, he turns to Dalila and says, Right, that’s about everything. Do you have any questions?

  Dalila shakes her head.

  There’s lots more information in this pack, says Paul, handing Dalila a poly-pocket full of leaflets and booklets. If you read through that, he says, it’ll tell you where to get the bus and what services are available and, you know, stuff like that.

  Thank you, says Dalila.

  Before I go, is there anything else I can get for you?

  Dalila lowers her head.

  Well then, I need you to sign here and here.

  As Dalila writes her name, Paul says to Ma’aza, Thanks for agreeing to this. Let’s just try this arrangement for a few weeks. I think it could work out well for everyone.

  Ma’aza’s eyes prod Dalila.

  Now, if you need anything, says Paul, just ask Maza, I’m sure she’ll be glad to help. I’ll be back in a couple of days and you can always call the Housing Association at the number on your copy of the form. Oh, and here is you
r key. Make sure you lock the door as soon as I leave.

  Thank you, sir.

  They shake hands as if a grand agreement has been settled. Paul leaves and Dalila locks the door. She looks at the key and closes her fingers around it.

  The door to the living room slams shut.

  Dalila goes to her bedroom and closes her own door, but the key in her palm, polished and shiny as a new coin, doesn’t lock her bedroom door. She places it in her purse and then sits on the bed.

  Near the carpet, under the window, freckles of mould are growing through the wallpaper. If her father were here, he’d know what to do about that mould.

  Standing up, she pulls back the curtain. Her blurry reflection stares back from the double glazing. Behind the glass is a deep, ongoing gloom. She switches off the light and returns to the window. Heavy fog blocks out the view. She presses her forehead against the cold pane and tries to look straight down but all she sees is an orange haze from the street lights.

  Laughter comes through the wall from the neighbouring flat, faint girls’ laughter. To Dalila’s ears it sounds like little girls giggling together. As she listens she hears the other voices of a whole family who are living right next door. There must be people directly underneath her too. Sixteen floors down, in bedrooms much like hers. Above her, too. People. In fact, all around her, people are watching TV, talking to their families.

  Or sitting alone, like she is.

  She lies down on the bed, stroking the duvet cover, twisting the linen into tight knots around each index finger. She takes a deep breath and lies absolutely still.

  You are here, she whispers in the dark. You are here.

  Dalila wakes. She sits up and rubs a knuckle against her eye.

  The flat is silent.

  She showers, wipes the bath, brushes her teeth and rinses the sink clean. Wrapped in a towel, she tiptoes back to her bedroom. The air is cooler here, her breath faintly visible. She pulls her clothes on and hangs the damp towel over the wardrobe door.

  She sits on the bed and listens. Wind against the window. No movement inside the flat.

  She picks up the information booklet given to her last night. The title reads, Welcome to Glasgow: An Information Guide for New Arrivals and Refugees. The cover photograph shows a statue of a man on a horse. On the man’s head is a bright orange traffic cone. Inside are photographs of people sitting in classrooms, of children staring into computer screens and of a smiling policewoman in a fluorescent yellow jacket. There are maps and bus routes, addresses of shops selling halal food and African hairdressers. Helplines for legal support, domestic abuse, emergency medical treatment and the National Asylum Support Service.