This Is Where I Am (43 page)

‘That’s fine.’

‘Back in a minute.’ She lays her folder on my bed. ‘Drink plenty water too – did you bring some bottles?’

I nod and scuttle off. Five minutes later, with my face and underarms washed too, I feel almost human. A shower would have been good, but my en suite doesn’t run to that. Rose is waiting with my coffee.

‘Oh, cheers.’

As she leans forward to pass me the mug, the neckline of her shirt gaps and I see spidery scar lines running up her breastbone.

‘Sip it slowly.’

I do. Rose has an air of calm implacability about her: she smiles with a firm assurance, moves efficiently. Kind of woman you would cleave to in a crisis. But she has said nothing yet about her news.

‘So. Azira? Where do we start?’

‘Would you not like some breakfast first?’

‘Not really. We don’t have a lot of time. Did you manage to speak to that keeper guy?’

‘Ah.’ Rose reaches for her folder. Her very blue eyes flick to her feet. She’s wearing gold pumps.

‘Not so good, I’m afraid. I think his powers may have peaked some time ago.
Yes, yes, very bad bandits. All the time, there are many killings. Very bad bandits, all the time
. Which could indeed be your “men on horses”. In Dadaab, though, they use the term “bandits” to describe pretty much any bunch of wandering heidbangers. They can thieve, rape, rustle with apparent impunity. You’ve got your fundamentalists too, of course, and there’s also your clan warfare. You thought Rangers v Celtic was bad? Christ, it’s got nothing on this lot. Problem is, the Kenyan authorities blame every single crime on the refugees, the refugees blame it on the Kenyans and we all do a merry dance of denial. And I’ll tell you this – in the midst of it all, the fecking “bandits” have carte blanche to take – and do – whatever they want.’

‘This isn’t hugely helpful.’

‘Agreed. But that was the sum total of what the old boy could tell me. That and that all the birds here are the “demons of the dead”.’

‘Shit.’

‘I know. Guess it happens, though. If you cram every horror that takes place here into your head, you’re bound to overload. Eventually it all becomes one homogeneous mass. Just makes you go ga-ga.’

‘How do
you
do it then?’

‘I can’t not.’

Rose pushes neat hair behind her ear, crosses her legs so one shiny foot rests of top of the other. ‘Once you’ve . . .’ Sighs. ‘I’m not being noble or anything, trust me. I like a good time as much as the next person. Give me a party and a blast of Rod Stewart –’

‘Rod Stewart? Sorry, don’t think me rude, Rose. But what age are you?’

I mean this as a joke, but draw back immediately I say it. Who am I, quipping with the familiarity of a BFF, when I’ve known her for ten minutes, two phone calls and a handful of emails and texts? I can’t help it, though, Rose oozes approachability.

‘Put it this way: I’ve been married forty years.’

‘Away!’

I had her down for being late forties. Early fifties at most.

‘Och, I was a child bride, me. But, honestly – see when you’ve seen all of this fecking awful misery, you can’t just walk away. I mean, you’re never going to make a massive difference, but . . . one thing, you know? One family, one person even. If you can hold out your hand and –’ Her foot jiggles, ‘Well. You know, don’t you? Otherwise you’d not be here.
Anyway
. I do have some news for you. Very positive news, in fact.’

‘Yes?’

‘Yes. I’ve been doing some checking with Médecins Sans Frontières.’ Rose smiles, but it is a spasm of a smile. I balance on the thin rim of my metal bed; she takes a pair of reading glasses from her shirt pocket. Once more, I glimpse the silvered scars on her breast.

‘OK. So. They have a record of a female with Azira’s name presenting at the clinic here in Dadaab on the tenth of January 2009.’

No smile, so the quiet enormity of this fact takes a moment to impact; it hovers like a massive wave, then crashes, warm salt flowing. ‘Oh my God!’ All my dreams come true this easy, this easy. We’ll return in triumph, charging through the sky, powered only by my mighty fist, my steadfast resolution.

‘That’s two days after Abdi arrived in the UK! Oh my God, Rebecca was right. She’s alive!’ I feel dizzy, delirious as it beats and bursts anew. I can see Rebecca’s little face and –

‘OK, OK. Don’t get too excited. Bear in mind this was almost two years ago. Michel at the clinic was good enough to let me see the medical report.’

Kind and brilliant Rose offers me a sheet of paper but everything is blurred. ‘You read it.’ I listen through Rose-coloured glasses. Hugging myself. Will I phone Abdi, or just bring Azira directly to him?

‘OK. It says the woman presented with multiple lacerations on head, back and thighs.’ Rose coughs, adjusts her glasses. ‘Severe trauma indicated to genital area . . .’

Little vicious bite I always knew was there, like when you touch your breast and feel a lump and pretend there is no shooting pain. Then you return to it in the night-time on your own, and prod and wince and remove yourself from its malevolent possibility. But you know it all the same.

‘She was raped?’

Say it aloud. Let delicate folds of language bleed.

‘I reckon so. I’m so sorry, Deborah.’

‘But she’s
alive
.’

‘Possibly. Problem is, they never treated her.’

‘Why?’

‘She disappeared. In the cubicle one minute, gone the next. It’s not that unusual, Michel says. Often, women will be brought in by well-meaning friends or neighbours. But the shame’s too much for them. That or the thought of another person touching them.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘I’m not saying anything other than that we know, in January last year, a woman by the name of Azira Samatar Guleed Hassan was injured, but alive. Thereafter, the hospital has no more information.’

‘What about other clinics?’

‘I’ve checked them all.’

‘Do we know who brought her in?’

‘Nope.’

‘What about the police?’

Rose slips her glasses back into her pocket. ‘Look. Security here is shite. Even for us. We’re confined to our compounds from dusk to dawn – no exceptions, by the way. They have approximately three hundred police to cover all three camps. In reality, that translates to ten or fifteen on duty at any one time. And, since coming here’s seen as a punishment duty, they’re usually young, inexperienced – and seriously pissed off.’ She’s flicking through her sheaf of papers. ‘Notwithstanding the numerous allegations of police taking bribes and being involved in rapes and violence themselves. Here. Take a wee look at this report on security. That’ll give you a flavour of life in sunny Dadaab.’

The brief shine of my optimism is rubbed away. I glance at the top paragraph. Can’t bear to read the rest.

The security situation in and around Dadaab has been deteriorating . . . Despite additional live fencing being installed, banditry attacks within the camps (including looting, shooting and sexual assault) have become almost daily occurrences. One or two bullets being fired is now considered a minor incident and violence is often not reported to police. In any case, the investigative skills of local security are very limited. Investigations rarely lead to arrests and convictions, while those suspects who are handed over to police are often released shortly afterwards.

‘OK? So, I definitely think we should leave off going to the police until the very last resort. They do have a station here, and they keep “records” of a sort. But their records rarely correspond with what we hear on the ground. Plus, once we start going all official, we’re casting aspersions on their professionalism. Which will very much limit our other options. You with me?’

I nod. From a distance, bells peel. Tiny tinkly bells. I feel the press of Rose’s hand on my arm.

‘To me, the best thing would be to gather as many facts as possible. We need eye witnesses to tell us exactly what happened, who survived, who helped who. So, I’d say our first avenue would be to speak to the transfer agents. They’ve an outpost in the camp. Oxfam don’t use them – and, if I have my way, no bugger will ever use them again. Our main problem is we’re meant to have a security escort whenever we travel outwith the compound. Which is also . . . limiting. So you’ll have to bear with me – act daft and say very little, yeah?’

‘OK.’

‘And you might want to turn your rings inwards.’

My engagement ring – a modest twist of diamonds, and the eternity ring of sapphire and diamonds Callum got me when . . . he called it my maternity ring.

‘Nice. I’m an emerald girl myself,’ says Rose. ‘Emeralds and diamonds – the more bling the better. But not here.’

‘Of course. Will I – should I just take them off?’

‘No! No, God. I know we’re in the compound, but . . . no. Just keep them with you, but hidden. You could put them inside your bra, I suppose . . .’

I consider my meagre cleavage with its shaved-off edge. ‘Nah. You’re all right. Think they might slip out.’

‘Nice shirt, by the way,’ says Rose.

It was, two days ago when I set out. I’ll need to ask about showers sometime, but to wash seems a very dirty thing when there are standpipes and tankers and huddles queueing for water. On the way in, we had passed one of the water stations: hundreds of bowed heads waiting; their canisters laid in the dust. Great snakes of yellow, orange, cream containers segmented and twisting in patient coils. I brush the worst of the red stour from my chest.

‘Thanks. And I love your shoes.’

‘Yeah?’ Rose twinkles her upturned foot. Pinpoint bursts of golden light flit from wall to wall. ‘They weren’t cheap, you know.’

The transfer agents are worse than useless. We crowd on to a stepped verandah, people jostling in and out as Rose makes herself heard. A plump and sweaty man with a plastic visor to hide his eyes chews his pen. Shakes his head. Scratches his arse.

‘We’re talking tenth of January 2009. You had a convoy then, leaving for resettlement to the UK.’

‘No remember, no.’

‘Well, can I see your records, please? You’re required to keep a log of all journeys – it says so in your contract.’

‘All gone. Records gone in fire. Big fire.’

‘Bullshit. Right, let me see your boss.
Boss
man.’

‘Me the boss man, lady.’

‘Indeed you are not. I’ve done business with your company many times. Now you get me Mr Obama. Right now.’

‘He not boss. I am boss.’

‘Don’t contradict me!’

Our armed escort – I’m not clear if he’s a policeman or a soldier – comes closer at this sound of raised voices. He adds his own to the mix, which has slipped into Swahili. Luckily, the irrepressible Rose can handle this challenge too; her quick-fire questioning is menacing. Or maybe it’s just the unfamiliar tongue and the threat implicit in our escort’s rifle, and the raging sun which is utterly cruel: all are menacing. I stand dumb. A sheep.

‘C’mon, Debs.’ Rose takes me by the arm. ‘We’re wasting our time here.’

‘Did you try him with a bribe?’ I say in a stage-whisper.

‘Shut up,’ she hisses, dragging me on. Outside, she whispers: ‘Never acknowledge that money’s changed hands, OK?’

‘OK. Sorry.’

‘But yes –’ She stops as our escort emerges from the shack. ‘All right, Mo?’

He clicks his tongue. ‘Man is right. Obama gone now.’

‘Did you not hear – he got elected president?’

Neither of them crack a light. I think I’m hilarious, manic with the skitters and lack of sleep. Gibbering, I’m gibbering. The volume of humanity pressing on me is terrifying. To find one person in
this
? Worse, to find the memory of one person? We’re in a kind of marketplace, people on cycles, or dragging carts by hand. Archetypes of Africans with swan-necked élan carrying unfeasible loads on their heads. What strikes me most is how bright and clean everyone’s clothes are. That and the men with their bright-red beards, the children with aqualine noses and bleached-gold hair. If you saw this on television, you’d think it looked . . . pretty. There are even stalls with some fruit and veg. But then you notice the slowness of the people’s gait. The harsh and sickly stench that pervades, the brutal thorns and chainwire. The sitting. Interminable sitting in non-existent shade. The huge black-winged storks that flurry and stand on bony legs, and peck and preen and peck. The fact that no one’s actually buying anything. Our escort mimes smoking a cigarette. ‘Two minutes, OK? I need get more.’

‘Sure, Mo, take your time.’

I tug Rose’s shirt sleeve. ‘Will we be all right?’

‘We’ll be fine. Just stay with me, and walk slowly. Fancy a –’ she picks up a gnarled purple plum. Smiles at the stallholder. ‘
Je ni
?’

‘
Passion matunda
.’

‘Ah. Passion fruit. Hey.
Kubwa!
They’re big!’

The girl giggles, hides her face. Rose gives her money without asking the price.