listened to the soft gulp of his breathing, the rattle of moisture in his throat. ‘What happened in your village, Ibrahim?’
‘Mutaire is high in the mountains,’ he said, ‘part of the Valley District. Two days walk from here.’
His knees trembled as he spoke, making their cotton tent judder. ‘They came some time ago and everything changed.’
‘Who came?’
‘Them,’ he said again. When he raised his eyes, they seemed angry. ‘The Taliban. Their commander, he is named Mohammed Bul Gourn.’
‘How did things change?’
He shook his head. ‘Every day, they were holding religious courts. Accusing some fellow with cut beard. Some fellow who was listening to music.’ He lowered his voice to a whisper, forcing her to lean in close to him. ‘All night we heard screams.’ He paused to remember. ‘In the morning we woke to find bodies. Our own people.’ His face contorted with horror. ‘Hanged, sometimes. Or beheaded. The stones all around red and sticky with blood.’
He sat in silence for a moment. Ellen prompted him softly, ‘And then what happened?’
‘All this we suffered and did nothing,’ he said. ‘But then they burnt down the school. My school.’ He looked her full in the face, outraged. ‘Fifteen years I am teaching there. Young men in our village who can read and write and do sums, I am the man who taught them.
‘Late in the night, I heard fire. I ran through the darkness of the village towards the school. The classroom was already blazing. I ran inside. The door was ringed in red with fire. The paint was burning on the wood, flames were curling through the air towards me. When I pulled at the handle, it was so hot, my skin stuck to the metal. The whole door fell on top of me. I couldn’t breathe. I just grabbed as many books as I could, carrying them outside, rushing, rushing.’
He put his burnt hand to his face. ‘The cleaner’s boy found me. Lying on the grass. The school was finished.’
She imagined the school blazing in the pitch darkness and the angry schoolteacher risking his life for books. ‘Is that why you left?’
‘I came to Peshawar to get help. To beg the army to come to the valley to save our families and our village.’
‘And you came here, to the camp?’
He tutted. ‘Not at first. I went to many places for many days, trying to get help. To the army cantonments. To the mosques. To the police stations. Finally I saw one police captain. He told me the soldiers are already going to fight. Bombs are dropping. Everyone is fleeing.’ His face crumpled again and he gave a shuddering breath, composing himself. ‘Everyone is leaving. That’s what they are saying. Carrying whatsoever they can. Every brother and uncle and cousin is there in the selfsame boat. Women and children also.’ He gestured around at the camp. His face was sorrowful. ‘But my daughters? My wives? They have not left the valley once in their lives. It is not our custom.’
Ellen calculated. ‘Where do you think they are?’
‘I don’t know.’ He gave a shrug of despair. ‘I heard about these new camps for affectees. Now I am searching, walking one to another. Searching everywhere in case they come.’
Ellen reached towards him, and put her hand on his shoulder. ‘Maybe I can help, Ibrahim. There must be registers at the camps. We’ll find your family.’
He opened his mouth to speak but his lips trembled and he clamped it shut and sat, his mouth in a rigid line, his hand clutching her arm with the grip of a falling man.
Chapter 9
Ellen gathered with the international staff at the entrance to the camp. It was early evening. The sunlight was rich and deep. A breeze was blowing unimpeded across the desolate mudflats, fingering the canvas tents and making the edges of plastic sheets flutter. It carried the smell of wood smoke and boiled rice. Families of refugees gathered around low fires and pots, taking their last chance to eat before night plunged the camp into darkness. Outside the entrance, a long desolate trail of families was still in the open, huddled together around bags and belongings, waiting for permission to enter the camp.
A convoy of jeeps arrived, trailing clouds of dust, and the workers piled inside. There was no sign of Frank. Ellen found herself squashed in the back with two Belgians and a Norwegian who spent the journey to the hotel arguing about where to dine that evening. The Chinese restaurant was not good, the Norwegian said; the soup was salty and the noodles were greasy. One of the Belgians had tried the Italian restaurant. He wouldn’t go there again. Pizza, he said, how can anyone go wrong with pizza? What do you need? Dough, tomatoes, a bit of cheese. What’s so difficult? Show him the kitchen, he’d make it himself. The others laughed.
Ellen let the conversation swirl around her. She was thinking about Ibrahim. He had a blanket now and a space inside a communal shelter, just until he found his family. A young aid worker had treated his hands with antiseptic cream and said the burns weren’t severe, they should soon heal.
The driver blasted the horn as he swerved past slower, lower cars and forced young men, perched on motorbikes, to bounce off the dirt track completely and loop out into the scrub.
If she managed to track down Ibrahim’s family, it might make a good piece. It was a human interest angle, a way of getting into the broader refugee crisis. She thought of his wire spectacles and sad eyes. His family could be anywhere. She gripped the roof strap as the car swung off the road.
They’d reached the entrance to The Swan. She’d stayed there before but not for years. Now it was so heavily fortified, she barely recognized it. She peered out at the rows of concrete blast blocks in front of the gates. A reminder of the threat of suicide bombers, she thought. A constant danger now. An armed guard in a badly fitting uniform rapped on the driver’s window, forced him to lower it, then peered round the inside of the jeep. The Belgian next to her stiffened. He muttered something to the Norwegian under his breath.
She looked ahead down the sweeping drive to the hotel itself, a faux French chateau. It was shabbier than she remembered. The stone fountain had run dry, its statues speckled with patches of black and green.
A younger guard, his cap pitched down over his eyes, walked round the jeep with a mirror attached to the bottom of a pole, angling it to check underneath the vehicle’s bodywork for bombs. She wondered how much training they’d had and if they’d recognize a bomb if they saw one. They looked like village boys.
When she finally managed to check in and find her room, she stood under a hot shower for a long time. The cascade of water streamed through her hair and splashed down her body. The tiny bar of hotel soap, the shape of a shell, worked up a good lather. The shampoo was fragrant with jasmine. She closed her eyes and tried not to think about Ibrahim and the others in the camp. The foaming water circled her feet in swirls, then ran off between her toes. She stepped out and groped through the steam for a towel. It was thick and warm.
Afterwards she took a piece of fruit from the complimentary bowl on the coffee table and boiled the kettle for tea. The guilt was familiar. I’m not here to be a refugee, she told herself as she rubbed herself dry and put on a hotel bathrobe. I’m here to report.
She lay on her stomach on one of the twin beds, reached for the television remote and started flicking through the channels. She wondered where Frank was and what time he’d be back. She wanted to talk to him about Ibrahim, to ask his help.
The
