Mohammed’s sitting up in his sleeping bag, shivering, and when he sees Kim he starts to shake his head and mutter. The look on his face is almost menacing, his dark eyebrows knitted in an angry frown and his mouth jabbering away in Arabic. I can understand the tone at least and he’s really not happy.
“Kim’s my friend,” I say, but he just carries on in a low, almost threatening tone. I look at Kim and she shakes her head warily.
“Tell him, Samir,” I say.
But Samir’s kneeling down looking through the stuff, his face hidden, and I’m beginning to wish me and Kim were a million miles away. All that stuff about terrorists and plots streams back into my mind.
Then Samir hands Mohammed the hot-water bottle and suddenly Mohammed says, “Zank you, Aleex.”
For a moment I’m a bit stunned. His voice is quite soft and there’s a smile on his face.
“He does know a bit of English,” says Samir, guessing my thoughts as he bends down to unscrew the flask.
“Oh,” I say, wondering how much Mohammed can understand when we speak. I look over at Kim. She has a little frown on her face that appears when she’s really concentrating or just worried about something.
Mohammed reaches out for the coffee and he lets out a little yelp of pain. Samir helps him to change position but he’s giving out low yelps of pain all the time. I feel quite scared and I can’t help thinking, What if he dies? It would be all my fault for not getting a doctor. I’d have to explain to the police where the body came from and why we didn’t call them on Saturday when we found him. Shouldn’t he be in the hospital? I mean, what would they do, lock him up? Not in Britain, surely, they’d operate on him or something. There’s a deep cut on his forehead, which I can see through his straggling hair, and it doesn’t look very healthy.
Samir says something quietly to Mohammed—I really need to learn some Arabic, seems to me a lot more useful than French right now—and it sounds as though he’s trying to reassure Mohammed. Kim is watching them very carefully. Maybe she’s planning what she’s going to say to the police.
But then she says in her clear, ringing voice, “The best way to get warm, my mum always says, is a hot bath.”
In this decrepit hut? I begin to imagine how on earth we’d heat the water, let alone where we’d put it.
But Samir’s wonderful smile is spreading over his face and he says, “Great idea, but how?”
“Well, I suppose the only way is to go to Alix’s,” murmurs Kim as though she’s really only thinking aloud, and then I realize she’s serious.
“You what?” I explode.
Trouble is once Kim gets an idea into her head, it’s practically impossible to shake it off. She might be worried about guns and passports and stuff, but now she’s decided Mohammed needs a hot bath, nothing’s going to budge her.
“I’ll keep Sheila busy and you run him a bath. She won’t notice a thing.”
I’m speechless and meanwhile Mohammed is saying something in English, “Outside?” he keeps asking, and Samir is nodding and then he says something in Arabic.
Kim rocks back on her heels with a little smile on her face, more relaxed now.
“And you thought he was a terrorist,” I mutter to her.
“Whatever, right now he needs to get completely warm. It’s the only way, Ali,” and she’s staring at me, with her eyes unblinking like she does when she sort of wants to mesmerize me.
Then she scrambles to her feet, dusting down her jeans, and says cheerily, “Shall we go?” and Samir starts pulling Mohammed up and then everyone’s piling out of the window before I have a chance to say no.
“Hey, gang!” I yell once everyone’s standing outside the hut, Mohammed blinking in the morning sunlight. “What are we going to say to my mum? He’s a bit old to be in Year 10 in case no one’s noticed.”
Out here in the clear winter light I can see Mohammed properly for the first time. He’s so much older than us, maybe thirty, maybe older, it’s hard to tell because he’s such a mess and he stoops as if his back hurts.
But I can see he’s a bit taller than Samir, with the same dark hair and skin. Maybe that’s what everyone in Iraq looks like. His head is slightly bent, so that I can’t see into his eyes. Can you trust someone who won’t make eye contact, even if one eye is shut tight? Terrorist or frightened refugee; how on earth am I supposed to know?
Then Mohammed says, “No trouble, I go police, okay?”
“No way!” I say, a bit surprised at myself I must admit. Samir looks relieved. I glance nervously at Kim and she nods a bit more cautiously but she’s still up for it.
“It’ll be okay but you’ve all got to be dead quiet. And no smoking.” I glare around at everyone and Kim looks surprised, but Samir gives me a grin.
We walk off, Mohammed leaning on us. Please don’t let Mrs. Saddler come by with Jeremy, I pray fervently. What would I say? She’d hardly believe I have an uncle who’s the spitting image of Osama Bin Laden. Which makes me as bad as everyone else, doesn’t it, and I get annoyed with myself for even having these thoughts. I’m just terrified someone will see us.
It takes us ages to get to the house, but Kim goes straight into the living room where Mum’s watching her quiz program.
“Hi, Sheila, I know that one, Beethoven’s Fifth,” Kim calls out, and Mum’s face lights up.
I stand in the doorway while Samir and Mohammed sneak upstairs. Somehow Kim has managed to turn up the sound on the remote control so Mum doesn’t hear the eighth and eleventh steps, which crack like a gun when you tread on them.
“Alexandra,” says Mum, eyes still on the TV, “why don’t you make us all some nice bacon sandwiches?” She’s enjoying all the attention from Kim.
“Good idea, er, just one thing, does bacon come from cows?” I say cautiously.
“Good grief, don’t they teach you anything at school? Why on earth do you want to know that?” Mum laughs.
I mutter something about geography and farming next term and she says, “Bacon comes from pigs, always has and always will.”
Right, I think as I retreat to the kitchen, cheese on toast for the boys, bacon sandwiches for the rest of us. At least I won’t make that mistake again. It’s not easy hiding an illegal immigrant, especially one with special dietary needs.
While I’m in the kitchen making the snacks, I can hear Samir and Mohammed lumbering around in the little bathroom overhead. Our cottage is so small and the ceilings are quite low. There’s gurgling from all the pipes as the bath begins to fill up. I’m terrified Mum’s going to suddenly decide to stomp into the kitchen on her crutches and get suspicious.
Once all the food’s ready, I take in sandwiches and tea to Mum and Kim and gobble mine down really quickly. Then I mutter something about checking that the gas is off. Mum is glued to the telly and Kim gives me a thumbs-up so I nip out the door. Back in the kitchen I pile the food onto a tray with two steaming mugs of coffee laced with spoonfuls of sugar, and I sneak out past the living room. I manage to get upstairs with the tray and knock on the bathroom door. There’s a pause and some whispering. Then the door opens a crack and Samir’s face appears. He looks relieved when he sees me and opens the door wide, holding out his hands for the tray.
But I get such a shock I nearly drop it.
Mohammed’s standing stripped to the waist, his back to me, shaving in the mirror. But my eyes are riveted to three great ragged stripes slashed deep across his back, yellow pus oozing from the ends and beneath them a big burn, blistered and going black. And I realize that’s why he can’t stand properly upright.
A great spear of fear and pain and anger stabs into me. I must have made a sound because he stops shaving and glances over his shoulder. His good eye catches mine and then his head dips quickly away.
My eyes fill up with hot stinging tears and I thrust the tray into Samir’s hands and rush into my bedroom, kicking shut the door. I’m scared and angry and confused all at the same time and those horrible wounds are dancing in front of my eyes.
Why isn’t Grandpa here? I need him to explain all this to me. And where’s Dad when I need him? I pick up my cell phone and start to call the police, but I stop after the second 9. I can’t betray Mohammed, and Samir would look at me with those pleading eyes if the police turned up and I’d feel like such a louse.
I have to make the right decision and as usual there isn’t any time.