“It’s complicated.”
She and I inherited my father’s eyes. Brown gold. A compelling, evasive color. For a second, I feel like I’m looking at him.
“Becky.”
“You’re not my babysitter. Let me handle this my own way.”
She snatches up our empty plates and leaves the room, taking her phone with her.
I tune in to the late edition of the local news and I’m pleased to see they’re rerunning the TV appeal that went out live at six. Fraser taped it from the steps of Kenneth Steele House while Woodley and I were at the school. It’s another echo of the Ben Finch case, though I was beside her that night.
She describes Abdi Mahal as “a fifteen-year-old schoolboy of Somali origin.”
“This behavior is very out of character for Abdi, and we’re very concerned about his well-being,” she adds, looking directly into the camera. “If you know where Abdi is, please contact us. We want to stress that Abdi is not in trouble.” The number to call scrolls along the bottom of the screen. Fraser’s done a good job: firm but friendly; concerned but not panicky.
Becky’s back, watching from the doorway. “Is that your case?”
“It is.”
She sits down beside me. She’s left her phone in the other room.
“How long’s he been missing?”
“Nearly twenty-four hours. His friend died last night.”
“Oh, god, that’s terrible. Is that why he’s run away?”
“We don’t think he knows.”
“You look tired.”
“Why are you being so nice all of a sudden?” I’m trying to lighten the mood. I don’t want to go over and over the case.
“You think that’s insulting? Rephrasing: You look like shit.”
“Not as bad as you.”
“You got me there.” She touches her eye gingerly with the tips of her fingers. “Can I ask a nosy question?”
“No.”
“Do you have a girlfriend? I wasn’t prying, but I noticed some stuff in the bathroom cupboard.”
“We broke up.”
“When?”
“A long time ago. I forgot her stuff was there.”
“Did you love her?”
“Get straight to the point, why don’t you?”
“Are you embarrassed?”
“No.”
“Then answer.”
“Yes, I loved her.”
“Then you know how it feels for me.”
So that’s what she’s playing at. She’s justifying herself.
“The big difference is that neither of us was abusing the other.”
“He can’t help himself,” she says, and I can’t believe my own clever, resourceful sister is spouting this clichéd stuff about a violent partner. “The things he’s been through, he never had a chance to grow up normally. He’s trying, but it’s what he knew.”
“That’s not an excuse.”
“I’m not excusing him, I’m trying to explain.”
I’m angry now.
“He’s an adult. He’s responsible for his own behavior. It’s a choice, Becky.”
“It’s not always a choice for him!”
“That’s the kind of attitude that starts by letting him off the hook if he says, ‘Pretty please, I’m sorry. Have a five-quid bunch of flowers to make up for your broken skin and—oops!—the broken bones,’ and ends with you in hospital! I’ve seen it happen. More than once!”
She stares at me. “I thought you’d understand.”
“I thought you were smarter than this. People have to be accountable for what they do, even if you love them.”
“I’m your sister, Jim, not some bugger you’ve just arrested who needs the riot act read. I told you, it’s complicated!”
“Becky . . .”
“I don’t need to listen to this. I’ll be out of your hair tomorrow night.”
“You don’t need to be.”
“Good night.”
She slams the door of my bedroom and shuts herself in there for the rest of the night.
When the clock tells me it’s time to sleep, I don’t even try.
I throw open the window again, longing to feel the outside air, wondering not for the first time if my insomnia is a form of claustrophobia: a fear of spending time with my own thoughts, a fear that they’ll box me in.
My bedroom door is still firmly shut, so I can’t get any stuff. I lie down on the sofa in my clothes.
Through the window I have a perfect view of the sky, which is clear tonight, and a smattering of stars is visible.
I think of the Sadlers rattling around that big house with only their grief for company. I think of Becky and her boyfriend and all the ways we can feel trapped by our circumstances. I think of the boy who is missing, and hope that he’s resourceful and safe, and say a prayer to a god I don’t believe in that Abdi Mahad doesn’t have blood on his hands.
DAY 4
Nur Mahad can’t sleep. He lies awake when he should be asleep and his mind roams through his past, searching for things that might help him to understand his present.
Just as Maryam does, Nur cherishes a store of warm memories of his childhood in Hargeisa. It was a chaotic and happy time of his life that revolved around his mother and father, his father’s second wife who lived next door, and his many siblings and half siblings.
Nur also remembers in detail the day his childhood ended.
When he woke that morning, the sky was a clear pale blue, and outside his bedroom window a flock of small birds filled the branches of a tree. They called to one another in a nonstop chatter that sounded sweet and sharp all at once. Nur was nine years old and a primary school pupil. He worshipped his big brother Farah, who was stirring in the bed next to his.
Nur opened his window to hear the birds better, but the sound of the latch startled them and they rose swiftly all at once, like a handful of sand thrown into the air.
On the way to school Farah told Nur they couldn’t walk together because Farah had to be somewhere. “Don’t follow me,” he said.
Nur kicked a stone as he walked, stuck with their half sister Fatima, who had a fear of stray dogs and peered cautiously around every corner in search of them.
They heard the chanting a few minutes later.
“We want to see our teachers, and we want to see them now!”
Bigger boys and girls were gathered outside June 26 School in a large crowd. Farah was among them.
The children formed a column and began to march from the school toward the center of town, fists pumping the air in time with their words. Some banged drums.
“What are they doing?” Fatima asked.
“The government put their teachers in prison,” Nur told her. “They want them to be set free.” He feels grand telling her this, because he’s heard the grown-ups talking about it. “The teachers have barristers from Mogadishu,” he added, even though he didn’t know what a barrister was.
Fatima took Nur’s hand as the children marched past, and they followed, sucked in by the strangeness and the energy of the sight. Children from other schools joined as the march continued through the city, all their different-colored uniforms mingling.