The men come at night, in trucks along the beach highway, and over the Rakhine mountains in helicopters.
The first Hasina knows of it is her aunt’s voice, urgent, full of fear. ‘Up, up. Get up!’
The second thing is smoke. Fire! Hasina thinks. She half-falls, half-rolls from her bed and lands hard on the floor, her arm under her. Where is the fire? There is light outside her window. But inside, all is dark. Is it day or night?
‘Out, out. Get out of the house!’ Then Aunt Rukiah is gone from the room.
Hasina grabs her numal out of instinct, wrapping it around her neck. She hears a thud as Ghadiya’s feet hit the floor. They race down the hall together, Ghadiya limping and falling, Hasina’s arm around her, until they reach the madrassa. Her father is there at the door to the garden, clasping Araf by the forearm. Araf is crying. Or is it Araf? Hasina can hear wails, but perhaps it is from somewhere in the house. Then there is a scream. A voice snarling, angry, like an animal. Another. And another. Are they inside? Or outside? Is that her mother? Her grandmother?
Her father pushes Araf towards her. ‘Stay together. Hide. Stay alive. Take care of them, Hasina. I will come for you.’
And then he shoves her out into the yard.
‘Run,’ he shouts after them. ‘And don’t stop!’
Hasina runs, half-dragging her cousin and her brother behind her. Is their house on fire? Is there a storm? Why is her father crying?
Outside of the compound, in Third Mile Street, she halts. Which way to go? All around is the stench of smoke – not wood burning, but plastic, meat, something horrible. Now that they are standing in the road, Hasina realises that she is still in sleeping clothes. Should she go back inside and change?
Bewildered, she looks around her. Above, nothing but stars. To the left, nothing but the forest and paddy fields and the river running in the dark night. But behind her, down the highway end of Third Mile Street, nothing is as she knows it.
A man stands with a hose that breathes fire, which licks up the fences, along the walls of houses, and snakes through the vegetable gardens so that there are now huge flames where only this morning were her neighbours’ homes. And in the firelight, figures move. Firelight shines on the blades of their long suri. Firelight picks out the glitter of their eyes. Men or demons? She cannot say.
There is rain too. She feels it whizzing past her. But is it rain or something lethal? What to do? All she can think is run, we must run. But which way? She knows, only by instinct, that these men or demons have come from the open ground where she used to play soccer. Which means there is only one way to go.
‘The river. The Lower Forest,’ Hasina gasps. ‘Quickly.’
She swings Araf onto her back and hurls herself straight towards the river.
Her plan is simple. Run. Get Araf and Ghadiya to the forest. Hide there. Wait for her father and mother and grandmother to find them. But she, the fastest of the girls on the soccer pitch, feels like she is wading through mud. Ghadiya’s limp slows her down and Araf’s weight drags on her. Run, she tells herself. Don’t stop, she tells herself.
All around them, their neighbours are also running or wailing or standing holding each other. Old men, small children, mothers with babies. Mothers screaming for their babies. Hasina keeps moving, though her chest aches. Her father said don’t stop. So she does not stop, and she does not let Ghadiya stop either.
When they’re almost at the standpipe at the end of Third Mile Road, almost to where the little path leads left to the Lower Forest on their side of the river, Ghadiya tugs at Hasina’s arm, drags her to the side of the road into the long grass.
‘Shh! Look. Men.’
At the standpipe, shadowy figures merge in the flickering firelight. Men or demons? These men seem calm, murmuring to each other. Hasina slides Araf from her shoulder and pulls him into the clumps of grass beside the road.
That stone is in her belly again, heavier and harder than ever. How will she run, how will she keep moving, how will she get them all away and into a hiding place with this stone inside her? Maybe she should stop running. Maybe they should stay here. Hope that these are men and not demons. They cannot get past them anyway. Why not just give up?
The three men are speaking in Burmese. There’s a flare as they light their torches, and their faces glow orange. One of them gestures down Third Mile Street and then towards the Lower Forest, curving his arm around as if giving directions to Fourth Mile, the next street along.
The leader heads along the raised path towards the Lower Forest, while the other two turn back towards Third Mile Street. Hasina fuses herself to the ground, shrinking from the torchlight. And then all is dark around the water-pump.
Has her father run from their house? Has her mother hidden? Her grandmother? Her aunt? Hasina realises that these men are not using the torches for light alone – they mean to burn the houses at the top of Third Mile Street.
Should she run back home, warn them that the men are coming? If she does, can she be sure Ghadiya and Araf will be safe here without her? Ghadiya, whose chest is heaving with every breath. Araf, whose teeth chatter with terror. Run, her father said. Stay together. Hide.
Precious seconds pass.
Like the morning the helicopters came, the answer comes as an image. Pontoons, floating on the Farak River.
‘We need to cross the river,’ she whispers. ‘We need to cross the Children’s Bridge.’
But even as she says it, the thought of crossing the river fills her with dread. In the dark, it would be so easy to miss a step and slide into that deep, fast water. And these men, with their demon eyes, if they see her climbing down to the river, would they not follow?
‘I don’t want to,’ Araf cries. ‘I am tired.’
‘Araf, Baba and Mama said we must. We’re going to take baby steps. First, we’re going to the river. Then, we’re going to cross together. All right?’
‘All right,’ Ghadiya whispers.
‘Carry me,’ Araf demands.
‘I will carry you, but you must not make a sound.’
First Ghadiya moves onto the road. Keeping crouched and low, she hurries to the standpipe and then across the dirt path and down over the top of the riverbank to the water below. Hasina waits for a minute after she disappears. No one comes. It is safe to go.
‘All right, Araf, climb up.’
Together, Hasina and Araf scuttle along the side of the road. They reach the standpipe, cross the path and then drop down into the damp, cool darkness beside the river. Hasina lets Araf down from her back and half-scrambles, half-falls down the bank.
‘I am here,’ comes the reply.
‘Araf?’
Nothing. Fear stabs at Hasina’s ribs. Has he fallen into the river as she almost did? Wouldn’t she have heard the splash?
‘Araf?’ she whispers, this time a little louder.
‘Shh. You said we must not make a sound!’ Araf’s small voice comes from behind her. Hasina sighs her relief into the darkness. Safe. They are almost safe.
Now that her eyes have adjusted, she can just make out the posts of the pontoon. She leads them down to the water.
The river is black. The water is flowing fast; she can hear it. One small slip, and the current will sweep them away with no chance of rescue. Suddenly her plan seems foolish. They should wait until light. They should go back.
She thinks about the men, their faces, the bright flames of their torches, and knows they cannot go back. She steadies herself. Think about the goal. Think about that rectangle.
Hasina puts one hand on the railing and finds the guide rope, then puts a foot onto the pontoon. It sinks beneath her weight, water oozing up over the raft and gleaming silver in the night. She takes a deep breath and puts her second foot onto the bridge. Immediately, she can feel the river current beneath her feet, pushing back. The power of all that water, water leaking over her sandals, making the deck slippery. What if they fall in? What if Araf falls in? How will she face her mother? She grips the rope more firmly. ‘Okay, Araf,’ she whispers, ‘take my hand.’
But when Araf is on the pontoon, it is he who leads her. ‘Baby steps,’ he whispers and that is what they take, sliding their feet a little bit forward each time until they reach the end of the raft. Then, a step into the dark and onto the next raft. Again, it is Araf who leads her until they are safe on the other side.
‘Stay here, don’t move,’ she tells him.
‘Okay,’ he whispers.
Now she’s back at the opposite bank, reaching for her cousin’s trembling hand.
If it is too difficult for Ghadiya to balance in the light of day, how will it be in the dark? Ghadiya puts one foot onto the pontoon and it sinks beneath their combined weight. She pulls back from Hasina and nearly falls into the water, but lands on her bottom.
‘I can’t,’ Ghadiya whimpers, tears falling in silver tracks down her face. ‘I can’t do it.’
‘You can.’
‘I can’t. I will drop my bag.’ Hasina can just make out the orange Shan bag slung over Ghadiya’s shoulder.
‘Please, Ghadiya!’
‘Leave me here. I’ll be okay, Baba,’ her cousin sobs.
Baba? Hasina peers at her cousin. Is this what happened when Rashid left? Did he try to take them too? If Ghadiya is seeing ghosts, how will she get her across?
Then Hasina has a brainwave. ‘What if we crawl? Like this.’ She drops to her hands and knees. Water oozes around her wrists, but with her weight more evenly distributed, there is little motion on the pontoon. She slides one knee forward. The raft doesn’t budge.
‘Look, Ghadiya, can you do it this way?’
‘I have a better idea,’ her cousin cries. ‘Come, help me down.’
Hasina helps Ghadiya onto the pontoon. Instead of crawling on hands and knees, Ghadiya sits and shuffles like a crab. At the gap between the rafts, she drops onto her side and heaves herself across. Then it is back onto her bottom, and at last she’s on the other bank.
Finally, it is Hasina’s turn to cross on her hands and knees, and together they scramble to the top of the riverbank.
Hasina lies panting on the bank gathering herself. The stars above are cold and distant and very beautiful. Beyond a few paddy fields the darker patch of the High Forest rises into the night. If they can climb into the High Forest, they will be safe from the men like demons. Hasina looks across the water at the home she has lived in all her life. The street is alight. Even though the fires are far, Hasina can feel their heat on her face, see their glow on the faces of her brother and cousin.
‘What are we going to do?’ Ghadiya asks.
All Hasina has are her father’s words. ‘We are going to stay together. We are going to hide. We are going to wait for Baba to find us all.’
Is her father even safe? And her mother, her grandmother, her aunt? She can’t think about that now. All she can do is what she’s been asked to do. Run. Stay together. Hide.
‘Come on,’ she says. ‘We’re going to hide in the High Forest.’
‘I’m scared.’ Araf’s voice is trembling.
‘I’m scared too,’ Ghadiya admits.
‘Baba will come in the morning,’ Hasina comforts them. ‘He said he will, so he will.’
‘Carry me,’ Araf begs. His voice is tiny. Hasina feels tiny inside too. Aching and fearful.
‘Ready?’ She hoists Araf onto her back, takes Ghadiya by the hand, and the three of them walk quickly towards the darkness of the High Forest.