As I stroll home from my paper route the next morning I get a mega shock. In front of our house is a police car. Have they discovered the hut and found Mohammed? What’s Mum going to say? I’m about to be arrested, maybe even deported.
“Had a burglary?” It’s Mrs. Saddler, nosing around as usual. She’s leaning over her garden gate, Jeremy sniffing at her heels. “Lot of comings and goings at your house lately,” she goes on, eyeing me curiously.
I don’t even dare to speak; my voice would give everything away.
My legs are practically collapsing as I go into the house. Two huge policemen are standing in the living room in stab vests, their radios crackling.
Mum’s looking quite bright and cheerful with her bad leg up on the sofa.
“These two gentlemen are looking for smugglers. Your grandpa would have loved this,” she says with a laugh.
“You must be Alix?” says the biggest policeman. He has a rough voice and seems to shoot his words out as if from the barrel of a gun.
I stare warily at him through half-closed eyes. What if he can read my mind and he already knows everything about Mohammed and he’s just waiting for me to give myself away? At least we don’t do torture in this country. Or do we? Mohammed’s ruined back swims in front of my eyes. I feel sick.
“We’re going house-to-house. Want to know if you’ve seen anything suspicious on the beaches,” the big policeman barks out.
I stare at him for a couple of seconds and then bend down to unclip Trudy’s leash, playing for time. This is my chance to put things right, to tell the truth and then let them decide on the right thing to do.
But what is the right thing? If I give Mohammed away they could just shove him on a plane back to Iraq.
So I say in a bored voice, “Nothing ever happens down here, does it?”
That’s it, then, I think with a shiver. I’ve lied to the police. I bury my face in Trudy’s neck and wait for the handcuffs to descend.
“You must walk on the beach every day with your dog,” says the other policeman. His voice is friendly—they’re playing Good Cop, Bad Cop, like in the movies, I decide—but he actually makes me feel even more nervous. He’s definitely trying to trip me up and I keep my face hidden.
Good Cop goes on, “Now she’s a blue roan cocker spaniel, isn’t she? Lovely dogs. Had one myself once. What’s her name?”
I look up and see Mum giving me “don’t be so rude” looks from the sofa and now I’m scared of making her suspicious. It’s exhausting trying to juggle about ten different personalities in the air at once.
“Trudy,” I say in a steady sort of voice, hoping they might think I’m actually being friendly. Mum settles back on the sofa. Phew! One down, two to go.
“Well, have you and Trudy noticed anyone strange wandering around? We’ve seen evidence of someone sleeping on the beach by the yacht club.”
I shrug casually.
“Come on, Alix. Speak up, you should always help the police,” Mum chips in, and I glare at her. Does she have to treat me like a six-year-old, especially when I’m the adult around here most of the time now?
I don’t know what to say and look down at Trudy again as Bad Cop barks out, “Maybe you and your friends had a campfire over the weekend?”
The less I say the better, I decide, so I say, “I haven’t seen anything.”
Mum frowns at me.
“What about in the shops maybe, or the post office?” says Good Cop. He’s looking at me closely and I can see Mum’s about to speak. I don’t know if she’s seen Samir and his family in town but I can’t take any chances. If she mentions anything about them the police will be around there giving the whole family the third degree.
“Just the same old, same old. No one new.”
There’s a pause while we all stand looking at each other. Then Bad Cop says, “We’re looking for illegal immigrants. We’ve had information that a boat is due around here this week, smugglers, bringing people over from France. They tip them out in the sea, leave them to it.”
“They wouldn’t last long in this weather,” says Mum sympathetically, and I shoot her a grateful glance.
Then Good Cop says, “So you let us know if you see anything suspicious, Alix. We’re relying on local people like you,” and he gives me a big friendly smile.
I ask cautiously, “What would happen if you found one of these illegal immigrants?”
“You let us worry about that, love. We’ll see ourselves out. Thank you, Mrs. Miller,” and they’re gone.
“Well, you weren’t very helpful,” says Mum, giving me her most annoyed look.
“I haven’t seen anything,” I snap back, and run upstairs to my room. I have to get ready for school and the bus leaves in twenty minutes.
But I feel totally freaked by the police visit and I go over to the window and stare out across the Solent, trying to calm down. The sea is quite rough today. The wind has turned around and it’s tugging the surf onto the beach in great white rolls. It would be a terrific day to take a board out.
My hands are literally shaking. Am I completely insane or am I doing my bit? At Dunkirk, Grandpa just did what he was told and anyway it was pretty obvious who you were helping there. But how do I really know what sort of person Mohammed is? More to the point, how does Samir know?
When I turn back into the room my eye catches sight of the old scorecard from the last time I went bowling with Dad. It’s pinned to my notice board with a dart I threw after he left.
Suddenly I want to see Dad more than anything else in the world. Tell him about Samir and Mohammed and ask him what I should do. Even though he never scores much above zero in our family.
Mum calls him a “waste of space.” When I was little I thought she meant his job was packing boxes and he always left a bit of space in each box, so he got the sack for wasting space. But that wasn’t the problem.
“Johnnie never stuck at anything,” Mum would say. “He just wanted to change me from being a punk into a boring housewife.”
She always called Dad “Johnnie” when she was angry with him.
Then she’d give a sneery laugh and say, “That’s why he went off with Gorgeous Gloria. She’ll do anything he wants.”
“He didn’t need to change me,” I would reply grumpily. But he still never contacts me; he’s too busy enjoying himself with the Gremlin. And Mum doesn’t seem to care. She never tries to find him. Or at least that’s what she says. Is she better off without him? Am I?
Nine o’clock sounds on Radio 1 and now I’m seriously late for school and in a load of trouble with Spicer. But it’s hard to think about school when everyone seems to be closing in on us. First Lindy finds the hut and Samir is terrified she’ll tell Terrence and his gang about Mohammed. Then Mrs. Saddler questions me in the street and now the police turn up in our cottage. What will happen when they find out I’ve lied?
Let’s hope I get to school before I get arrested.