Alghali steps into the dark room. Mr Dishman shuffles along behind him.
‘Sit over there.’
Alghali sits where he has sat on each of his visits. From the worn-out rocking chair, which can’t rock because Mr Dishman’s old encyclopedia volumes are in the way, he can see a little bit of the small garden. The curtains are drawn but not fully open.
‘Did you do the homework?’
Alghali takes the exercise book out of his bag and hands it over. Mr Dishman needs a while to make it to the other armchair. He sits and takes the book.
‘Oh, my glasses.’
Alghali looks around, rises and picks them up from the dining-room table.
‘Thanks.’
Mr Dishman’s hands are shaking and the glasses won’t stay on his nose, slipping off again and again. Alghali leans back and clasps his hands in his lap.
The old man’s eyes study the lines in the book closely. The exercises were set in his own neat handwriting, spidery and tidy, the gaps that needed filling in underlined.
‘You asked someone?’
‘No.’
‘Internet?’
‘Just the dictionary.’
Mr Dishman ticks off each line and hands the book back, pleased.
‘Now tell me about your week.’
It is like this every time. Alghali has to talk about his life to practise his English. He has to do it in complete sentences, then Mr Dishman will review overall accomplishment and leave dated remarks in the exercise book. He is not a man fond of giving praise. Alghali has learned to take his time. It is not the telling; it is the accuracy of his expression Mr Dishman values. He is strict but he is not unreasonable, he helps along when necessary.
‘Last week you said you were expecting a visitor?’
‘Yes. My friend who is in Birmingham called me last week. He arranged to come and visit me here.’
‘How long have you known each other?’
‘I have known him for six months. We met when we first arrived in Italy. It was a coincidence.’
‘How so?’
‘He ran into me. I was standing with two friends at a street corner.’
‘Did he have any news from your other friends?’
There is nothing new to add, but Alghali explains it again. Only two of their group have made it to England, he and Nabil, or Obama as he liked to call himself before they arrived. Here they are nameless; it doesn’t matter what they call themselves, they disappear and dissolve. Here it is muteness. It doesn’t have a name. Alghali wonders what Mr Dishman has made of his, whether he can say Alghali, or if he is just the Sudanese, the refugee. He only ever calls him ‘young chap’ or says, ‘Well done, son.’ It is clear that he is not Mr Dishman’s son, which in itself is a good thing, for both of them.
The rest of Alghali’s former group, the young men he travelled with through Europe, are still in Calais, attempting the journey across the Channel night after night.
Mr Dishman’s hand reaches back up for the glasses and pulls them off with great effort.
‘It is illegal. The way you are entering the country.’
He says it as if Alghali is responsible for everyone, as if he knows each person who’s trying to get here. They have had this conversation before.
‘There is no other way.’
It always ends the same; Alghali has nothing to add. Mr Dishman will talk about how Europe is being overrun and eventually he will pour Alghali a glass of water.
Alghali comes twice a week. Once with his English homework, the second time with his library books on accounting standards and UK policies. He wants to be ready for when the papers come through – they have to – for when he can resume his life. He was the top of his class and entered straight into a prestigious job. Financial manager. It was unheard of. He had impressed them all during the interview.
Mr Dishman makes him work through the accounting books paragraph by paragraph. With the dictionary he helps Alghali to understand the different laws in this country. But today it’s grammar and conversational English. And since Alghali’s exercises were flawless there is nothing else to do but talk.
‘How are your flatmates?’
‘They are all fine, thank you.’
Alghali wants to ask things but there is no time for this in their arrangement. Their schedule is usually packed tight, like the flat Mr Dishman lives in. There is another room, but Mr Dishman has taken to sleeping in the lounge. It’s closer to the kitchen and bathroom. At ninety-four he is still agile but he is not young.
‘They enjoyed the visit from my friend Nabil. He stayed overnight.’
Mr Dishman pushes the saucer with biscuits across the little table. He has insisted, since Alghali’s first visit, that he should bring nothing but his classwork. As always, Alghali declines the biscuits. He does not want to be a bother.
‘You are quiet today.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Alghali takes the exercise book and hands it over.
‘What is next week’s homework? Perhaps I don’t stay too long today.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t want to disturb you.’
When they talk about their week, it is apparent how similar the surfaces of their lives have become. Nothing happens other than in the past. Or in the future, for Alghali. The distant future that could come tomorrow, that could come months down the line.
Or never.
The emptiness waiting produces is best filled with structure and discipline. This is Mr Dishman’s belief. Alghali does not disagree.
At the weekend, Nabil teased him about his time with the pensioner. The old man wasn’t the problem, but his attitude.
‘Why put yourself through it?’
‘I want to learn.’
‘From him?’
‘From who else?’
Alghali thinks about the present that stretches as endlessly as the plains at home. Although at home it is pleasant, broken by mountains and hills, by village life, by living in the bustling city, by family.
Here the present stretches over trips to the library, free online courses to keep the mind engaged. Mr Dishman’s strictness is somewhat absurd, but it is an exchange. However little, something is kept alive.
‘You cannot disturb me when we have agreed for you to come.’
Alghali doesn’t respond. Mr Dishman tries again.
‘What else happened?’
‘I went to the library.’
‘Today or yesterday?’
They aren’t always this fragmented, Alghali’s answers. He often takes his time, but only to think about syntax and grammar. He comes prepared with things to talk about, anecdotes from his flatmates, other Sudanese men he hadn’t known before his arrival in Bolton.
Alghali often tells Mr Dishman about Bolton, the streets he is discovering. Mr Dishman was born and raised here, but it is different, seeing your city through a stranger’s eyes. Sometimes Mr Dishman allows questions about his own life, after a successful class, and their conversation takes a different turn. On those rare occasions they acknowledge silently how confined their lives are. The few things that break the routine of nothingness. For Mr Dishman there is bridge, always on a Wednesday, always at Mrs Gray’s house. There are the carers, the food deliveries for the heavier groceries, the odd stroll to the park. Alghali attends English lessons, his real English lessons, also twice a week but shorter; there are his walks, talking with his flatmates and friends, and the occasional trip to the lawyer to enquire about his pending case.
It was at one of his English lessons that they met. The teacher had distributed leaflets in the neighbourhood calling for people willing to help with conversational English classes.
It has been months, the same routine. Never in Alghali’s life has he been this static.
They don’t call it visits, although most of the time is spent talking about the now of Alghali’s life. Admittedly, his life is still more active than Mr Dishman’s. It does have friendships and laughter. It does have a connection to the future, whether here or not.
‘Are you unwell?’ Mr Dishman asks.
Alghali looks at him. Mr Dishman has asked for details of his real life, the one underneath, the details that belong to the journey here, to the before. But Mr Dishman is never quite ready to really hear them.
‘I found out that a young friend died.’
‘Back home? In Sudan?’
‘No, in Calais. He was trying to make it over here.’
Mr Dishman’s hands smooth over his wispy hair.
‘A glass of water?’
Alghali nods. ‘I’ll get it?’
Mr Dishman agrees. Alghali goes into the kitchen, which has not been changed since the house was built. It is small but everything is to hand, laid out by the carers who come to support Mr Dishman twice a day. He returns with both their glasses.
‘How old was he?’
‘Fourteen.’
Why he has come today he doesn’t know. They have each other’s numbers, so they can call if anything in their arrangement needs changing. They have never done so. It was the wrong day to break the habit that has become what holds them both in place these days.
‘He said he was nineteen when I met him but I knew it couldn’t be true. Still, I didn’t know he was that young. He was about to come here, lawfully. To be with his brother.’
Mr Dishman is quiet and puts the glass back on the side table. His eyes follow a squirrel in the garden.
‘Perhaps you could open the curtains for me after all.’
Alghali walks to the doors that open into the garden. The light changes the room; it immediately feels more spacious.
‘The law is changing. He would have been able to enter the country once his papers were confirmed.’ He sits back down. ‘Five months in the Jungle. Adnan couldn’t wait any longer, he climbed on top of a train.’
Mr Dishman’s reply is sudden, quicker than usual. ‘That boy? It was in the papers yesterday, a young man was electrocuted.’
‘Yes.’ Alghali puts his exercise book in his bag and rises. ‘It is the same boy.’
He thinks about the teenager’s nervous confidence. He had wondered why he was travelling by himself, at his age, without family. It wouldn’t have surprised him to learn he wanted to pioneer the journey for the rest of his family.
‘Would you excuse me, please?’
Mr Dishman walks Alghali to the door, a hand on his shoulder.
At the open door they hurry to get away, to leave the awkward moment between them: Alghali towards the street, Mr Dishman back inside the flat.
‘Thursday, as usual?’
‘I will see you then, thank you.’
The sun has no strength at this time of the year but it is still pleasing. The colours return after the muted lounge. Alghali shoulders his bag and walks in the opposite direction to his flat, which is at the other end of the road. He takes the short cut under the bridge and enters the park. A pool of rainwater that has collected in an unused fountain by his favourite bench reflects the setting sun. There are a few people scattered around, mostly dog owners taking their pets for an evening stroll. A couple of young men walk along the path. They look tired but happy to leave the working week behind.
‘As-salaam ‘alaykum.’ Alghali picks up after the first ring. ‘I have heard. From Nabil.’
They are silent, on both ends of the phone. Suleyman, his friend, is still in Calais. For five months there has been no luck, no making it through. Alghali thinks of Mr Dishman. He would be content about the lack of success of what he calls illegal activity. Yet he would be equally firm and reliable with Suleyman should he come and desire to learn the language, ‘but properly’.
Alghali gets up again and walks to the other exit, which leads out on to a small residential street. There are no people there until he gets to a little roundabout with an off-licence and a launderette.
‘Nabil found his brother. The number you gave him was right.’
The next street is a little bigger, with a pub at the next corner. The street lights have come on and with it the Friday evening activities have started.
Nabil told Alghali that Adnan had travelled with his whole family – five of them. The parents and three siblings. All drowned off the coast of Lampedusa; only the teenager made it ashore. They had teased him, Nabil, Suleyman and the others, because Adnan had always talked about his older brother in England. The strange obsession had annoyed them at times. ‘My brother this’, ‘my brother that’.
‘We will visit Adnan’s brother, Nabil and I,’ Alghali says.
It is completely dark now. Alghali promises to call again later.
He enjoys it most when he gets lost in the maze of residential streets, when he forgets how he got here, where he is supposed to go next. This type of nothingness is one of discovery, not impotence.
There is a bottle of water in his bag and an apple. He sits next to a woman watching a group of teenage girls.
‘They shouldn’t be out this late. Especially now.’
He agrees. It is dark. People are getting drunk. It is Friday, at the end of a long week.
‘I better be off myself.’ She disappears into the alley a few houses further down.
Alghali moves on as well. Back in his neighbourhood the supermarket is still busy and the two betting shops are just closing. The men from the park earlier are standing by the local pub but they are not drinking. Alghali half nods. There is no response. They look as if they haven’t seen him. His phone rings again. Nabil is calling more often than usual. Adnan was like his little brother. It isn’t easy for any of them, but Nabil will take it the hardest.
‘As-salaam ‘alaykum.’
A couple comes out of the pub to smoke. The man shields the flame, the woman bends and twists for the cigarette to catch.
Alghali stops and listens to Nabil’s rapid words.
‘I’ll call you tomorrow. Don’t worry, we will make it there, inshallah. Try and sleep.’
He moves on and passes the pub. One of the young men walks into him. Alghali has not yet returned the phone to his jacket pocket and he finds himself face to face with this unfamiliar person. It is close, he can see the details of the man’s face, the clear eyes, the supple skin. The breath smells of chewing gum. Mint.
‘What do you have to say for yourself?’
Alghali stumbles, surprised. ‘I don’t understand.’
The couple have finished their cigarette and return to the bar inside.
‘What have your people done this time?’
The other two are closing in on his back. The one speaking comes even closer. Alghali shields his genitals in reflex. It is quick and sudden, without any flourish.
The one in front punches him in the stomach.
‘For Paris.’
They stroll away as quiet as before in the park. Alghali coughs, his knees give way and he hits the paving. There is no noise outside except for the occasional wisp of music, the occasional laughter or drunken cheer from the pub. The thin legs enter his view first; they stop, towering over his face. Alghali’s hands are flat on the ground, helping him to steady his breath.
‘It is too late for you to be walking in this neighbourhood.’
Mr Dishman leans his stick against the wall and extends a hand. Alghali shakes his head and pulls himself up.
‘Nothing happened.’
He doesn’t want another lecture. He doesn’t need to hear more about the dangers of Islam to British society. Or Mr Dishman’s forceful opinions. How people are rightfully scared, and how some, inevitably, will take matters into their own hands. Not tonight.
‘I was on my way to you.’
‘Why?’
They are now standing by Alghali’s door. He is unsure what to do. The old man has never come up here; they always meet at Mr Dishman’s house, at arranged times.
‘A terrorist attack in Paris.’
‘When?’
‘An hour ago. It seems a man coming through the refugee route was involved.’
He still doesn’t understand. Why is Mr Dishman here? What does he want? He is right, after all, now he has proof. He has always told him, ‘You can’t trust everyone. Not all are decent men like you, young chap. Many that are on their way don’t have good intentions.’
‘That’s very bad news. Thanks for letting me know. I will watch the news later. You should go back home. It’s cold.’
‘It was a Syrian man.’
Alghali looks at him. Mr Dishman’s unsteadiness has given way to determination.
‘I’m not from Syria.’
‘People don’t make that distinction.’ Mr Dishman’s milky eyes look right at him. He is repeating what Alghali has told him. How he is mistaken, when need be, for anyone, to fit a description. ‘Be careful.’ He fetches his stick. ‘I will see you on Thursday?’
The old man is already moving towards the other end of the street. He is slow and deliberate.
*
It is dark in his room. He lies on the bed without switching the light on, his eyes seeking out the ceiling. After a while he can make out the contours of the narrow wardrobe on the other side.
Everything has changed.
Suleyman is waiting for his call but Alghali doesn’t have the words to talk. He sends another text.
Our lives are this now. Never really home.
Suleyman’s reply comes in an instant.
Expect me. One way or another.
