‘Why are you going to the mainland?’ said Mrs Blair suspiciously. She hadn’t been to the mainland since her daughter had married an Aviemore snowboarder, and, well, look how that had all turned out. It had confirmed to her absolutely that going off the island was pretty much a bad idea, and why would anybody have to, seeing as everything anyone could ever possibly want was here, in her opinion?
Saif hadn’t thought about people asking him this, although he had a brief moment of relief that she didn’t know already.
‘Um, bit of shopping?’ he tried vainly. It was a reason he’d heard from people before, which was specific enough to give a reason and vague enough to discourage speculation, so hopefully it would do. It would be all round the village by nightfall that he was some kind of crazed shopaholic, but there wasn’t very much he could do about that. Flora didn’t catch his eye.
Mrs Blair nodded. ‘Well, be careful on that mainland,’ she said. ‘It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.’
‘Thank you,’ said Saif.
By the time he reached the harbour and nodded to the other passengers – there were more than usual as the flight had been cancelled – the narwhal had, he assumed, moved on. There was no hold-up and soon the mate was unwinding the thick rope from the harbourside, and the pastel-coloured houses of Mure, jolly and sparkling in the windy sunlight, started to recede from view. The water grew choppier and the puttering noise of the boat tilted them up and down in a way that reminded Saif unpleasantly of another journey across the sea – memories of which faded into dimmer images in the daytime but were never terribly far from him in dreams that were filled with the weeping women and, somehow worse, the silent children who had learned how to stay very quiet and still as their world was torn apart around them. He remembered the rough shouting of the smugglers, who would send a swift kick to those they didn’t think were moving fast enough, and the freezing cold of the waves – he had never known such cold as they broke over the side – and the strong smell of cheap diesel infiltrating everything, even over the unwashed bodies and fear of the people crammed together inside. It had been a glimpse of hell.
Saif shut his eyes briefly and tried to dispel the memories and focus on the task ahead. His heart was glad, but still so fearful. He wished … Oh, how he wished Amena was there. He imagined – let himself imagine briefly as he stood with his hands gripping the railing far too hard – walking into a small windowless room, like the many he had passed through as he’d been singled out and processed into the new world of the British Isles. He imagined himself walking through the door, and Amena there, her long hair shining, smiling at him, as beautiful as she’d been on their wedding day, her face lighting up, the boys as beautiful and loving as ever, saying, ‘It’s okay! It’s okay! I took care of them! They’re fine! And now we shall all be happy!’
His eyes shot open. This was a ridiculous fantasy and it would not help him in the slightest to deal with the real world: to deal with things as they were. Spray splashed up against the side of the boat. And then … He squinted. Surely not. Surely … Was he still dreaming? Was that …?
He stood alone, most of the other passengers having decided the wind was just a little too bracing so they had taken happy refuge in the cafeteria or the bar below. He stared straight ahead, but his brain couldn’t make sense of what he was seeing. It was a whale – the whale he had seen, he was sure of it, the same deep belly, the white tinge to the skin, the same beautiful twist of curves, as if a child had drawn parabolas on the sky.
But there really was something different he could clearly make out now. This whale had … There was no denying it … It had a horn, like a unicorn’s. It was huge, twisted like barley sugar, and it protruded from the animal’s mouth. It was the single strangest thing that Saif had ever seen: stranger than the phosphorescence on the Greek shore, or the scarab beetle his brother had once kept in a matchbox, marvelling over its jewel-like brilliance.
But this … This must have beamed in from space, or from some other magical realm. It really was quite the most amazing thing Saif had ever seen, and it frolicked in the wake of the big ferry as the water churned up behind it. Saif was worried it would get sucked underneath the great propellers, but it seemed perfectly happy, swimming under and over the bouncing wake, curling itself up and down.
Was this a symbol? A message, even, from Amena? Saif was not the holiest of men: he was a scientist and had been trained to be rational. But surely it would take a harder heart than his not to think it possible, as the great, impossible beast tossed in the sunlight glinting off the waves … If wonderful, amazing things could happen … Well …
Meanwhile, five hundred miles south, in Liverpool, Colleen McNulty looked sadly at her packed lunch and wondered if there was any way to find out what was going on today. But she only sent out the letters after all. She was only a clerk. As soon as Ken was out of the room, disappearing for an overlong toilet break as he did every day at around 10 a.m. (it was, she sometimes mused, all the unpleasant bits of marriage without any of the nice parts), she reached down into her bag and double-checked the two little parcels – a stuffed bear and a fluffy dog she’d been unable to resist. She knew the boys were older, possibly too old for stuffed toys, but she couldn’t think of anything else children might like. They were simply addressed to the doctor’s office in Mure – no signature, just a little note saying, ‘From a well-wisher’. She’d be in big trouble in the office if she was suspected of interacting with any of the unit’s clientele in any way. She would slip out at lunchtime and go to the post office and hope that, in some tiny way, it might help, just a little.
Chapter Twenty-nine
The interview room was exactly as Saif had predicted. Two women were there waiting for him.
‘Now,’ said the obviously senior caseworker. She was slightly taller and thinner and better-dressed than other people, though not in a way you could necessarily put your finger on straightaway. She had high cheekbones and her hair was a short flat top, and Saif was impressed and a little intimidated all at once. ‘I’m Neda Okonjo. Would you like to speak in English or Arabic?’
‘English is fine,’ said Saif. He had got so used to living his life in English, it felt like speaking Arabic again would be a challenge. Arabic was his old life; English was his new. Here, in this anonymous bunker somewhere on the outskirts of the huge grey city of Glasgow … Here they were about to collide. ‘Can I see them please?’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Neda. ‘You understand we have to …’
She introduced the other woman, who was a doctor, and who took the swab. He obediently opened his mouth as she scraped around. He had sent a blood sample already; this was just to check that he was the same person the sample had come from.
‘You realise it’s just a formality.’
‘Of course. And then I can see them …’
The two women exchanged a glance.
‘We need to fully debrief you.’
‘Of course … Are they … are they all right?’
‘Be right back,’ said the doctor, and Saif and Neda sat in pained silence, Saif staring into space, Neda tapping on her phone. Presently the doctor returned, and nodded gently at Neda.
‘Good,’ said Neda, leaning forward.
‘Can I see them?’
Neda pushed the full notes across the table. Saif read them incredibly quickly, his heart racing. It was hard reading.
‘You should know. When we found them …’
‘My wife …?’
‘I am so sorry. We simply don’t know.’
‘She would never have abandoned them.’
‘I realise that. The area they were found in … It was basically shredded. A bombsite. Anyone who could have fled had fled.’
‘She would never have left them!’ He scanned all the papers again. She wasn’t mentioned at all.
‘Please, Dr Hassan. Sir. Please keep calm. I’m not insinuating that for a second.’ She frowned. ‘You didn’t have anyone you wanted to bring with you?’