But apart from that, they were fine; there was no lasting damage, on the surface at least. Saif’s graver nightmares, of lost limbs and head injuries, were not coming true.
Psychologically, things were quite different. Ash had not left Saif alone. Neda had counselled that it might not be a good idea to let him sleep in the same bed, but he had howled so piteously – and in the hotel room too – that Saif had given in, and the hot restless figure had tossed and turned next to him all night. It was like carrying about a small koala bear. Ibrahim, on the other hand, was distant and cold; not overtly aggressive, but sullen and wary. He point-blank refused to look at the English storybooks or repeat basic words. He would not touch his father, and he endured the vaccinations and endless blood tests with a stoic look on his face and a refusal to be comforted. Ash started to go the other way. It was as if he’d learned, belatedly, that if he cried he’d be rewarded with some attention or a sweet, which Saif was also very unsure about. But it must have been so long since he’d had any attention at all.
At the end of the first week, Neda somehow sourced a DVD of Freej, let one of the other charity workers babysit and took Saif out for coffee in a little Lebanese restaurant she knew in Glasgow.
‘How are you doing?’ she asked.
Saif shook his head and answered honestly. ‘I haven’t slept. I’m … It’s … I mean … I thought it would be like getting my boys back. These … They’ve changed so much.’
Neda nodded. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said gently. ‘It will just take time. But it will take time. It won’t happen fast. But kids … they have a lot of resilience. They’ve been through a lot. Routine, good food, fresh air … Plenty of that, and they’ll start to heal. They need to be out of this centre, stop being poked and prodded by grown-ups. They need to be around other kids.’
‘But Ibrahim …’
‘It’s very common.’ She smiled. ‘If it helps, I’ve got a twelve-year-old, and he’s like that all the time.’
Saif smiled. ‘It does actually.’ He played with the sugar bowl. ‘I wish Amena were here.’
‘You’ve heard nothing your end?’
Saif shook his head. ‘Ibrahim must have been the last to see her … I mean, I haven’t heard from my cousins, or anyone …’
Neda looked at him, so full of pain. ‘You have no family left at all?’
Saif shrugged. Yes, he did, but they were fighters, and he never mentioned this to the authorities. ‘Not really,’ he said quietly.
Neda changed the subject. ‘So you’re going to be a single dad?’
He smiled. ‘Yes, I suppose … There’s a lady who helps out who said she’ll babysit while I’m at the surgery, and they’ll be at school and … It is a lot to take in.’
Neda glanced at her watch. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘Don’t forget to enjoy it.’
And Saif hadn’t the faintest idea what she meant.
Chapter Thirty-two
Tentatively Saif took the boys out, shops on Mure that didn’t sell bagpipes or whisky being rather thin on the ground. He kitted them out with big fleeces and waterproofs, which were comically large, and treated them to a burger, which turned out to be a terrible idea. Ibrahim remembered drinking cola with a group of soldiers and turned terrified, and Ash wouldn’t let Saif put him down even to pick up the order, and everyone looked at them and someone tutted, and Ash started screaming and in the end Saif just left everything behind and scurried back to the refugee centre, his heart beating wildly, convinced that he wasn’t up to it, that he couldn’t possibly deal with the two traumatised little lads.
But Neda was perfectly stark about it: either he took responsibility for his boys or they would have to go into care, or, even worse, back. (This wasn’t remotely true, but she was cross with Saif for being so scared of taking up his responsibilities and was trying to scare him straight.)
‘I’ll be up to visit very soon. Any questions, night or day, you ring me. Except for night, if you love me at all.’
And she smiled to show she forgave him for the disastrous outing.
‘Look,’ she said finally. ‘You’ll be fine. All over the world, mothers do this every day. Fathers do it every day. You’ll be fine.’
And Saif, with a finally sleeping Ash clinging onto his arms, hoped she was right.
Meanwhile, he’d called Jeannie, the receptionist at the surgery. And, realising it was ridiculous not admitting what he was coming back with, and how it would be, he explained the situation and confessed everything.
Jeannie’s shocked silence made him realise, with a start, that the news wasn’t around the entire village at all. He’d just assumed Lorna and Flora would have told the world between them. Realising they had not, humbled him.
‘Ah,’ he said. Then added, ‘Can you explain to everyone?’
‘Of course!’ said Jeannie, who would, Saif knew, be delighted to be the bearer of gossip, knowing, as she did, more about the health and medical history of every single person on Mure than anyone else and unable to breathe a word of it. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll tell them not to bother you. Hang on, does the school know?’
‘Of course,’ said Saif. ‘They’re enrolled, ready to go.’
‘And what about childcare?’
‘Well, I’m their father.’
‘Yes, but you’ll be working … You know school finishes before surgery, don’t you? And you’ll be on call still.’
Saif blinked. Why hadn’t he thought of all this before?
He knew why. Because until he’d held them in his arms, he couldn’t let himself believe that they were real.
‘Could you …?’
He could hear the smile in Jeannie’s voice.
‘Let me ask around. Mrs Laird will have some hours for you. She’s very fond of you, you know. There’ll be plenty of help. Oh, Saif, this is wonderful. Such wonderful news. Lorna must be delighted.’
‘Why?’ said Saif instantly.
‘Well, you know … to fill up the school, of course!’
‘Oh yes, of course.’
‘How are things?’ said Jeannie, changing the subject. ‘I can’t imagine. You must … Oh, you must be so happy.’
Saif glanced around their little room at the cheap hotel. Ibrahim was in the corner, furiously playing a war game on the iPad Saif had thought at the time would be a good thing to buy him and was already deeply regretting. Ash was sitting staring at nothing, his arm tight around Saif’s ankles, twisting a lock of his hair around his finger over and over again.
‘Oh, it’s, ahem, fine,’ he said.
‘Must be hard for them.’
Saif couldn’t say it was hard for all of them. So he simply thanked her profoundly and hung up the phone. Ibrahim was still refusing to speak English and said he didn’t have to go to school – school was for losers, for people who didn’t trust in God to see them through – and Saif had absolutely no idea how he was going to win this one. Ibrahim had always been a sensitive child: curious and questioning. How he used to make them laugh with his complex questions about how the world worked, and his desire to get things figured out.
Now as he sat, obsessed with the game on his lap, Saif wondered what answers he’d found out there on his own, tossed on the seas of a war.
He had thought the overnight ferry might be a fun treat for them. Once again, of course, he had thought wrong.