We stopped at a large exit door at the back of that building. I felt an ache in the knees but said nothing. I felt very lightheaded, Mister, and my breath was uneven.

  The officer opened a small drawer near the exit. I watched him bring out an old light coat and a pair of heavy shoes for me. Here, he said, it’s chapping outside…

  I thanked him, Mister. Pulled on the oversized coat and zippered it. It had a fleece lining which was snug at least. I slid my feet into them heavy shoes and muttered to myself: Like two pale fish inside a pair of pockets. The guard, who hadn’t heard me say a word, whistled as he turned the keys and opened the door in front of me. I walked outside, Mister. Out of habit, I glanced at the sky.

  That whiteness came spitting cold sleet. The low sky – my mother’s bad weather. This was definitely Britain. The guard was busy giving me instructions: Stay off the grass and keep to the kerb. I followed him along the muddied concrete and over to the other side of the courtyard. You know the one – it’s enclosed on all sides. Blue bars running along the walls in lattices, steel rails fixed to the ground, a short stone block at its centre, barbed wire along the perimeter. In my exhaustion, Mister, and near-blinded motion, the space resembled the court at the Ibn Rabah. It was a memory which, for the briefest moment, pinched a smile out of me.

  I drew into myself as I walked on. And as we approached the red door on the other side, I felt the pull to linger a little longer, stay outside in the cold. I wanted to breathe the proper air, Mister, but the officer went on, leading me into another darkness, another room.

  Once we were inside he switched on the lights. There was a short sound that startled me – some alarm that rang as we entered. In here, went the guard. And he touched my arm and led me through it. This is you now, yeah…he said, standing close as he flicked on a second light. It’s temporary obviously, he said, until…and he waved his hand like I knew what he meant.

  173. PRAYER MAT As I write now, Mister, the bed is still here in the corner. And here, the wooden desk is left by the wall. And my little window looks out to the court. There’s a toilet, a small sink. And a low ceiling with a caged lightbulb at it centre, which still flickers, now and then.

  This cell isn’t much bigger than the one before. The toilet is cleaner. And I’ve more space to do my rounds. And at the time, I thought your lot had actually seen fit to offer me proper sanctuary. And I was grateful for it, Mister. I even turned around to the guard who led me here, to thank him, but he’d closed the cell door on me.

  There was a prayer mat for me too. I saw that the thing was bound with elastic tape, it looked frayed. Proper worn out, I mean, and patterned with use. I went over and drew my fingers across the loose threads. There was a familiarity about it, Mister. Under that harsh light it looked like the one my Sisi Gamal used to pray over. It was like a memory to me, one I could touch and smell and hold on to. It was as though I was right back in our basement, kneeling and praying, feeling the presence of my Allah for the first time. I went to clean myself up. And when I did, washing my feet, my hands, the nape of my neck, I felt the stone in my throat lift again. I was compelled to kneel again, Mister.

  It was the first time I’d prayed properly since the desert. I hadn’t knelt at all in the Free City, not for this. But here, I spread the mat out, Mister, and let the words ring out of me, scented with surah and inventions as per, and allowed myself to feel the familiar burn again, that mixture of burning in the belly and a heavy tongue. The words arrived just as rich as in the desert crossing…and I was relieved, honestly, and felt calm afterward.

  I sat in silence for a few minutes after that. I lay down on that softer, cleaner mattress, and I might have even wept…

  But now, listen to me – I’m writing all this, Mister, as if you, yourself, hadn’t had a hand in these new liberties of mine. This new room, I mean. This new mattress. I know now that you were behind all of it. And yes, I am grateful. I don’t mind saying it – bad thoughts had been creeping in from inside the walls at the time, ugly visions were beginning to emerge, I was beginning to see shapes in the shadows…But after you’d left me that mat, Mister, after I’d started praying again, I knew my Allah had returned. I felt calm again. I had someone to talk to, and in the weeks since. It’s Him who’s given me my peace. It’s Him who sometimes whispers, incidentally, suggesting to me, hinting that proper liberty in a place like this, might cost a little more than a mop and a bucket.

  174. ‘ARE YOU DECENT?’ I was told of your arrival the morning after. The courtesy allowed me by the guard who’d come to collect me, Mister – since he didn’t barge in, but actually knocked – was enough to tell me something had changed.

  Are you decent? was his question.

  I could have answered the guard then and there, Mister. It could have saved you the trouble, I think. But the big officer came in and told me to put on my clothes, saying somebody had come to see me.

  I had no idea who.

  It was you, of course. You’d come, Mister. You were on your way to that room where we’d meet – with your folders, your photos, your maps, your plain white shirt, your thin white face. And all your many questions…

  175. SPECIAL CASE First thing you said to me after you shambled in the door was Forgive me…

  I remember you stooping as you came in, tucking in your shoulders. I’d been sat in the room for a little while, though nobody had told me what I was doing there. My first impressions, if I’m honest, didn’t amount to much.

  You looked taller under that low ceiling. And your thinning hair made you look older than you really are. That same black buttoned jacket, white shirt, them folders you carry under your arm. I noticed also the silver watch you wore. I remember how you slipped your watch off before saying a word to me, before you even sat down.

  – Good to finally meet, you went.

  You placed your watch next to them biros in a plastic cup. And then you sat down, Mister. You were all awkward elbows and shifted in your chair. You winced at the sound it made against the floor. I noticed the redness of your cheeks, and your slight, narrow eyes – which were blue, yet still somehow beady – but I’ve retained, honestly, nothing else. At the time, I remember thinking, Mister, that you looked like a hundred people at once.

  You said mine was a special case – a special concern, was what you said, which was why there’d been a special dispensation in how I’d been apprehended. I’d also been returned rather more quietly than the usual chartered flight.

  You also said you were a special case worker. And I remember thinking you were trying to tell me something then, as if there was some significance to our meeting.

  Can I also say, Mister, that your voice sounded odd the first time we met – too high, perhaps, and a little plummy. I didn’t know what to make of you. When you asked if the room was to my liking, I nodded. I didn’t mention my previous cell, my journey in, and the agony of my return. I waited for you to ask me.

  Except, you didn’t ask me anything that first day. Though I did feel you knew more than you let on. I remember at one point, in the middle of your speech, you knocked the table leg with your foot. You seemed irritated by it. You acted as if the table, the chair, the room itself were not up to your standard, and you were embarrassed. One of your pens rolled on the floor. You stopped to pick it up, and when you spoke again, I could see that you were flustered. You went on about our proceedings then, and when you were done with your little speech, you stuck out a limp little hand for me to shake.

  I stood, Mister. Confused, honestly. And then you told me you’d come back tomorrow.

  – Good. Good, you said. It’s important we get off to a good and proper start.

  I shook your hand, Mister – do you remember? You sort of half smiled at me. And I wonder, also, if you noticed my fingers – my scabs and badly healed scars, from the many months spent carving faces into wood. I wonder if this was the good and proper start you wanted. Because nothing else in these many months since has seemed to satisfy you.

  176. QUESTIONING That next day you started with your questions. All in that same prying method I’ve become accustomed to. Sort of kindly at first, informal yet direct, your sleeves rolled up, and your fingers laced and your pen down, your watch on the table. And then you’d wince at me, Mister, with that snappish half-smile.

  And then you began.

  First thing you asked, as I recall it, was about my name.

  – Unusual, you said, Bas…Peculiar. Tell me, where does it originate?

  You did an odd thing then. You brought your hands forward and cupped them, like a kind of priest. You seemed impatient with me, like you were suffering me. But I was curious.

  The way you acted, it seemed as if you felt I owed you. But what could I possibly owe, Mister, or offer in exchange? You must have understood, Mister, that asking anything of me in that state, shell-shocked and sunk as I was, wouldn’t have amounted to anything.

  I shrugged in response, and kept shrugging at everything you asked me.

  – All this must be difficult, you said, I can understand that, of course…

  You repeated that often. Kept saying you understood me, Mister, how difficult it was for me to speak. I wonder if you knew how strange and threatening it sounded to me at the time. Like you were playing, teasing and toying, until you could find the moment to say what you really wanted to say.

  You knew me, Mister. You knew my face, my name, knew everything about me but acted like you didn’t. And then, after a few more shrugs them questions of yours started to sound like statements.

  – You were raised in East London, you said. Attended primary school there, and remained close for the rest of your secondary. You spent your entire life, it seems, in the same little place. Is all this correct?

  You drew a circle with your fingers, as if all East Ham could fit inside it. I didn’t reply, Mister. And then you looked down at your notes, raising your voice as you went on.

  – You lived with your mother – Stevens, Estella. And uncle – Bas, Gamal.

  You weren’t looking up any more. You tapped lightly with your fingers whenever you found a note to read out to me. And after another hour of that, Mister, you let go the effort of waiting on my answers. I noticed all them lines around your eyes begin to disappear, and how you eased, dabbed at your mouth with your thumbs.

  – What I am wondering, you said, and here you leaned back into your chair, Mister, just as certain as I was that you were getting to your point – I’m wondering why someone like you, who is British, who has an English mother, who has lived all his life in this nation, this country, would turn his back and end up hating your home. Leaving the only place you’ve ever known. Never looking back – until, of course, you had to…

  Then you let out a little breath, like a little laugh. And you looked at me, offering another pause, waiting for me to say anything in response.

  But I said nothing. And then you tugged at your collar and started collecting your things.

  – I think you’ll find that speaking to me is, in fact, in your best interests, Yahya. I can help you. If you’ll allow me. I’m here to help, that’s the point. I can see you’ve sustained injuries. I can see you get the care you need. All we need from you is information – your story, in effect. I want to hear your story, Yahya. Hear for myself. Though, I can understand, if it’s difficult. Sadly, it is necessary.

  You said a bit more, Mister, but I can’t recall the rest – I’d expect you remember every word. Probably you’ve spoken them a hundred times or more, sat in that same chair opposite your other cases. Even the special cases you’ve kept. You did say there were others – other young men who’d fit my profile precisely. Men who’d returned home, you said. Just as sick. Just as busted as me, ragged out of the sound. Men and young women, Mister, who’d come crawling back from the desert…

  – Now, Yahya, you may choose not to talk. And you would be well within your rights to say nothing. Many of you choose to say nothing – at first. But then again, I have a feeling you’ll surprise me. I think you may well surprise us all.

  You wagged a finger. Then I watched you stand. Watched how you strapped your watch back onto your wrist. Brushed your knees with them folders. Drew your mouth down wide, turned and left with that uniformed guard holding the door for you. Holding the door, Mister, like you were a proper somebody, making an exit.

  I went to my cell after you’d gone. Pushed off them plimsolls they’d given me, drew the mat out and prayed again. I did my rounds again, Mister. Barefoot circles in my cell. I tried turning my shoulders, twisting them painfully backward and across, thinking, childishly, that maybe the next time we met, Mister, I’d be able to sit up straighter and face your questions properly.

  177. MISTER’S TERMS The thing about what you asked me, Mister – the part that really bothered me – you asked for my story, your pen poised, as if only a single page was needed.

  What made you think you had any right to it, anyway?

  Or expected me to tell it, Mister?

  I did speak up the next time we sat together. I was determined to talk. No doubt you felt you knew me. I’d suspected it, Mister, because of the way you’d flinch whenever I’d reach for anything – a cup of tepid water, say, or shifted in my seat. How you’d watch me. That little tell in the eyes, in your fingers. I’d see it whenever I’d make a sudden movement or raise my voice higher than a whimper.

  You made no bones about the fact you felt you had me figured out. Started telling me things about myself, Mister. Claiming you knew all there was to know about my botched budding as a boy, the people who’d pulled me up by the collar and into education. You even said you knew a bit about my father too, and about my – as you put it, the way you painted her…your poor, troubled mother…

  – I can read here, you said, your mother has been received at Hahn Routledge – a care home for…And your uncle…resides close to her. Lives alone. And your mother – here, it says your mother worked as a primary school teacher before she met your father – is that correct? It’s what our records hold. But perhaps you didn’t…perhaps this was before you…

  You went on like this. Picking apart names, places, and then hinting, tapping at all the names I’d left behind. You consulted your records, said it had been hard to piece together a childhood as muddled as mine. As if my life was no more than the sum of your notes, Mister.

  Your tone shifted after that. Your face soured. Dropping your head, you tried again:

  – It must have been very difficult for you, Yahya. I understand that completely…but we have records here – of your father…Bas, Marwan. Arrived in Britain from Iraq, 1984 – the entry is here. Then he seems to have disappeared. No records at all after 1991. The same year you were born – dear, dear…

  And then you opened one of them brown folders. You pushed a plastic wallet with your pen. Inside, there was a photocopy of a photograph.

  – But there is this…

  It was the same photograph of my father, Mister, the same picture I’d burned in a bucket in the desert. It felt as if the room had fallen in. It was my father: them big shoulders, thick hair, stood with that Abdallah by his house. And there: his eyes scratched and cut away. How was it possible?

  – Where did you get this? How?

  – I understand it must have been difficult. The circumstances of your father’s departure. I have records here, showing school administration fees, payments. All indicating a communal home in East London – no place for a boy your age, not at all. Especially with your disability. It must have been very difficult.

  I looked at you, Mister. Proper looked at last.

  – I want to know how you got this, I said.

  – Oh, it’s really of no consequence. What is important, Yahya, is that you give me precisely what I need from you – places, dates…and so on.

  – Why? What’s all this for? – You haven’t even told me. You make me come here and listen to you talk, and I’ve no idea…I don’t know you, I don’t know what all this is about.

  I clutched at the sides of the table, Mister. You saw me do it and leaned forward as if you had me exactly where you wanted. And then calmly, as if you were done teasing, you collected the papers you’d spread between us. I watched you, wanting desperately to cuss you, feeling my belly, twist and contract.

  – Things haven’t been easy for you, Yahya. And it’s important to say so. Establish the case, do you see? That way we can get a different picture of you.

  – Different…to what?

  I watched you pick up your watch. And you stood up, hunched, brushing your lap with your folders. You gave me a look then. A look of almost disappointment. You wanted me to fill these silences, I think. But I refused, knowing that was what you wanted. I only slouched in my chair in front of you. I think you figured you’d get nowhere with this method, Mister. And the fact you thought any different was your mistake. That you thought you might have understood anything about me, who I really was and where I’d come from was absurd.

  178. FACE IN A CROWD That was the last time I met your gentle manner. It was the bullying, cussing, Mister, I met at our next meeting. You came in with your box, Mister – do you remember? It looked hefty, full of folders and zip-locked bags. And can I say now, also – your voice, Mister, which had sounded so high and clear only days before, had somehow become coarser. You went on with your show-and-tell for me.

  – You might think, you said, with breath that smelled of morning coffee, that your silence keeps you safe. I can tell you now, it is quite the contrary. There is a great deal you will have to answer for, Yahya, if you intend to get back into ordinary life – as a citizen. And, clearly, as you may well have guessed, you were not unknown to the authorities. We were watching you. Listened to you speak, heard you sermonise and spread your message.

 

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