When We Get to the Island E-Book

Alex Nye

• Herausgeber: Fledgling Press
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Seitenzahl: 262

Beschreibung

Hani is 12 and invisible, and yet everyone wants to capture him. After escaping from Syria with his sister, he finds himself working in atrocious conditions somewhere in Scotland. When his sister disappears, he begins a perilous journey to find her, across some of the wildest terrain in Scotland. Mia is also on the run, and sometimes it feels as if she will never stop running. When she helps Hani escape from his captors, the two become inseparable. Her dream is to reach the island where she was last happy, when her parents were alive, and find the little house she believes they still own. Once we reach the island, she tells Hani, everything will be okay. But their journey takes them into dangerous landscapes, hunted by dangerous men, chased through a system of underground flooded caverns while a great storm sweeps the coast. Whatever happens, Mia knows that she must help Hani to find his sister. What they will really find at the end of their journey may come as a surprise to both of them. Alex Nye is the award-winning author of Chill and Darker Ends.

Leseprobe

This book is dedicated to all those who are far from home.

It was early morning and a freezing cold dawn stretched across the fields. Twelve-year-old Hani stood in the semi-dark of an immense shed, miserable, cold, tired. He was always tired, couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t felt exhausted.

The gang-master’s voice invaded his dreams. “Hey! You!”

He pointed at Hani and gestured at the place where Hani was to stand. He knew the routine.

“Come on,” his sister Reena whispered at his side.

Reena always made sure that Hani stayed close. It was their one security; they had each other. They would always have each other.

The interior of the shed was like a cathedral or mosque: echoing, dim, full of shadows. But what went on here was neither holy nor religious.

Reena tried to engineer it so that they were near the opening of the shed, which was shaped like an airplane hangar. “If we’re near the front at least we can see daylight,” she said.

The other option was to head for the shadows at the back, where you could remain hidden, unseen. There was an advantage in that, but Reena and Hani opted always for the light. Not that there was much of it this early in the morning. Hani was almost sleeping on his feet.

They took their places side by side at a great long bench which stretched the entire length of the structure, along with the other workers: hundreds of them, anonymous and sad, robbed of hope, barely speaking.

Looming above Hani, behind wooden slats, was an enormous mountain of carrots reaching as high as the ceiling. He pulled a few of them towards him and there was a faint rumble as more filled their place, “a bit like us really,” Hani thought.

He took a carrot in each fist and slid it over the blade set in the bench before him.

One, Two.

But it was cold this morning and the carrots were frozen to the core, so it was hard to top them properly.

He tried again, roughly, and – once he was satisfied – threw the two topped carrots into the carton at his feet. Hani knew that in the past, agricultural workers here were paid by quantity, so it was important to keep up the speed. The faster you worked, the more you were paid. One of the old timers had told him that. But Hani and his sister and the other refugees were fast at their work for other reasons. They were not paid at all – except in food and shelter, and knowing they were ‘protected’. A strange bargain of sorts.

When Uncle Giorgio first turned up at the camp, smiling, strolling between the tents, Hani and Reena thought he was their guardian angel. He promised to help them and the other young people he selected. “You are fit and strong,” he said. “You will be able to work.”

He was their passport out of the Calais jungle, away from the mud and the sad rows of tents sagging in the November gloom. Winter was upon them and Reena and Hani knew that it was only going to get worse, much colder, wetter, muddier, without proper food or shelter.

He promised he would help them and they believed him because they had no choice. There was no one else they could trust.

Uncle Giorgio was not his real name, but he liked the paternal touch, the hint of Italian grandeur. He thought it made him sound interesting, and he didn’t really want people to know his real name. There was in fact nothing Italian about him at all – in spite of his name. He was suave-looking, polished, gleaming, as if he had benefited from all the advantages of a good education and a healthy diet. He was an ‘entrepreneur’, he told the children.

“That is a good word. You will learn about it one day.”

“What does it mean?” Hani whispered.

“It means he is a businessman, I think,” Reena whispered back.

“Why are we whispering?” Hani asked.

Reena shrugged. She did not know why, but it seemed like a good idea.

“You will have no worries,” he told them. “You will be looked after, fed, and as long as you work, you will be happy.”

Hani nodded, but he recognized a certain doubtful look in Reena’s eyes. His sister wasn’t completely sure, he could tell, but it was easier to believe than to question. It was simpler and no one else was offering them any help out of their nightmare.

Hani fumbled for two more carrots from the pile and dragged them across the blade. They jagged and caught again. He lifted his eyes and gazed along the line. Hundreds of workers just like him, stretching to left and right, and if he glanced over his shoulder, the other side of the aircraft hangar showed the same thing – another line of people opposite, silently working, subdued, making no light conversation at all. Obedient because they had to be; they had no choice.

He became aware of shouts in the middle of the shed, voices ricocheting against the corrugated metal walls. Yusuf, the gang-master, was angry.

Reena nudged him.

“Keep your head down,” she whispered. “Keep working.”

Hani turned back to his mountain of carrots, yawning with fatigue, his hands icy and chilblained in the darkness.

He did not even know where they were. Somewhere in Scotland, a place called Dundee – he had heard that word mentioned – with lots of flat fields and glinting polytunnels. Uncle Giorgio had told them in an oily voice that he would look after them, even though they were illegal.

“Illegal?” Reena asked.

“You have no papers. No passport. You do not exist. Technically.”

He said it as a kind of warning and they knew it.

After that, he stopped being so paternal with them; he changed. His voice hardened and they stopped believing that he was kind. Uncle Giorgio had left them here, at this agricultural centre, and they rarely saw him after that. Once or twice he would turn up in a gleaming black car and stand talking to Yusuf and some of the other men, then he would drive away again. They never knew where to.

After two hours Hani had filled a carton and carried it to the middle of the shed where the foreman and gang-master were sorting the topped carrots.

No one even acknowledged him and he slipped back to his place at the bench and began work again.

A cry and a shout from the gang-master. “You!”

Hani turned and pointed at himself.

Yusuf nodded.

“Yes. You!” he shouted.

Hani could feel his sister Reena tensing beside him, watching anxiously for what would happen next.

Yusuf showed Hani the contents of the box. “These are no good.”

He selected one and showed it to Hani. It was not properly topped.

“The carrots have ice in them…” Hani began, but Yusuf cuffed him across the back of the head.

Reena, watching this, flinched, and Hani went silent.

Yusuf hurled the carrots back onto the bench in front of him, with the instruction “Do them again!”

An hour later as he was still working, the gang-master stepped forward and checked the blade in front of Hani. It was embedded in the bench itself so that the workers could take one carrot in each fist and drag it across, before dropping the topped carrots in the crate at their feet.

The gang-master pushed Hani aside, and made to sharpen the blade.

When that was done, he pushed Hani back into place.

Reena watched all of this, her heart aching for her little brother whom she had promised to protect.

Hani glanced sideways at her and she smiled encouragingly. “Things will get better, Hani,” she whispered. “This won’t always be our life, I promise you.”

Hani smiled back to make her feel better, but he knew she could not promise that. No one could. At the same time, he wanted to protect her, his sister, and felt helpless because he couldn’t.

They could try to run, but there were dangerous men who would stop them, and anyway, where would they run to? Who else would give them shelter, food, warmth, such as it was?

They had no choice but to endure.

Hani gazed out of the hangar at the morning light as it began to steam on the distant fields. A sudden pain assaulted him, like a bee sting. He should have been concentrating. The sharpened blade had sliced the flesh of his right hand.

Blood spurted and to his shame he began to feel faint. Reena leapt to help him, but even as he fought the dizziness his legs collapsed from under him, and all he could see was a mountain of carrots growing ever taller and higher.

They made him sit in a corner on the concrete floor and the gang-master stepped towards them.

“You!” Yusuf said, looking at Reena. “Back to work.”

Then Yusuf bent down and inspected twelve-year-old Hani. He seemed to speak gently when he said “What will I do with you?” and for a hopeful moment Hani thought he had detected a touch of compassion in the man.

“If you cannot work?”

Yusuf lifted one long finger to his own temple and gestured, as if holding a pistol there. He fired the imaginary pistol then shrugged and laughed.

Hani was terrified.

“Hani in Arabic means ‘happy, joyful, delighted,’” Reena had told her little brother, on their journey over here. Hani did not feel like that right now. It was a long time since life had lived up to the expectations of his name.

He had memories of fleeing the bombed-out ruins in Syria, of war-torn streets reduced to rubble, the crump of bombs and missiles, the terrifying balls of red flame, the laser-show of military might sweeping across the city skyline with deadly precision while they sheltered and hid in the ruins like rats, with no electricity or running water. He also had memories of a time before, when they had lived in a beautiful apartment, when he had friends and schoolbooks, and a leafy rooftop garden, when fountains would trickle against ornamental tiles and catch the sunlight, but these memories were becoming harder and harder to retrieve.

Instead, what replaced them were nightmarish visions of crossing the water, the terror of that crossing, seeing others drown. Then arriving in Calais and waiting in interminable queues behind wire, living in mud in the tent city, the Calais jungle, without parents to protect them.

And then Uncle Giorgio, with his smile.

And now this…

Reena and Hani’s parents had stayed behind in war-torn Syria. It was hard to imagine they might still be alive. They had paid a great deal of money, all their life’s savings, in order to pay a trafficker to take their children across Europe to safety.

They could only afford to pay for Reena and Hani – not for themselves. It was a sad parting and the children tried not to think of it. If their parents had known, would they have parted with their money and their children so readily? They had had no choice.

Once they were loaded onto the inflatable raft which was to transport them through high seas, squashed in with a hundred other people, they never saw the trafficker or their passports again.

Hani closed his eyes. He had a terror of the sea. He could still hear the persistent wailing of a small child, young men clutching the side of the raft, the terror in their eyes as the waves rose and splashed their faces. Grey waves bearing down on them and no land in sight. No food or water and no hope. Reena had clung to him, holding him close. If we drown, we drown together…

The terror of that crossing is something that will never leave him; it will never fade, and he will never forget it until his dying day.

When one child fell in the sea, no one could save him – not even his mother’s desperate screams. He was left to drown.

They saw another craft, several hundred yards away take on board water, flip and sink. Everyone on board sank and drowned. Hani turned his head and watched the small coloured specks on the surface of the sea that were people, crying, waving their arms. Who could save them? They were quickly swallowed by the height of the waves.

Hani and Reena still do not know how they survived that journey.

And when they got to Europe?

No one was waiting for them there. No one wanted them.

Except Uncle Giorgio.

They were a plague on the face of the planet.

“One day we will write to Mama and Baba,” Reena whispered at night, when they lay on their dirty mattress. “We will tell them we are safe. Ask them to join us.”

“I’d rather go back to Syria,” Hani said, thinking of home.

But when he thought of home he thought of a place that no longer existed, that had been bombed out of existence, flattened, scoured, reduced to rubble. They did not really believe their parents had survived in all of that.

Their mother had been an English teacher in Aleppo, their father a doctor who cared for people, worked to heal the sick. The hospital he worked in and the school building their mother taught in had both been destroyed in the fighting. Children wanting to learn, and sick patients unable to move, were seen as easy prey and were deliberately targeted. They had moved from their modern apartment with its beautiful views and balconies to a derelict room in a ruin with no electricity and no running water other than that which ran down the inside of the walls when it rained. They had once led lives like the people in Europe, with modern conveniences and luxuries, surrounded by the chattering of TVs and radios, laptops, the internet, washing machines… but once the war happened they lived in darkness, sitting in the circle of one candle, which hid the filthy broken walls from view.

Hani’s mother had cried a lot. He remembered that… but he did not want to think of it because she had always been so strong before the war.

Reena suddenly appeared next to him in the shadows, smiling, and handed him something.

A chocolate biscuit in a gleaming silver wrapper. A bright treasure.

“Where did you get it?” he gasped.

She winked and nudged him. “Come on, stand next to me and work. We don’t want the ogre noticing us, or he’ll think you’re lazy.”

“I’m not lazy,” Hani said immediately.

“I know you’re not,” she smiled.

How did Reena always manage to have the most reassuring smile, even in the blackest of times? She would be a teacher one day, like their mother. She could tell stories, and loved reading books.

There were no books here, though.

Reena had thought about teaching the other children, setting up her own school here – wherever ‘here’ was – but there were not enough hours in the day. They were worked from dawn till darkness fell, and by the end of their shift they were too exhausted to do anything other than collapse on their mattresses.

“Eat it,” Reena said, “it will make you feel better. Keep up your blood sugar.”

Hani shook his head.

“Share it with me!” But she refused.

“It is for you. I had one earlier,” she lied.

He couldn’t bear to eat it in front of his sister. “I’ll save it for later,” he said, slipping the silver-wrapped biscuit in his pocket. “We’ll share it then.”

Reena held out her hand and pulled him upwards.

Yusuf was watching them from a few yards away, even though he was pretending not to. Reena could feel his eyes on them, so she kept her head down and told Hani to do the same.

They stood at their work-bench, the only place they now knew, and dragged the frozen carrots across the blade, for hour after tedious hour.

Carrot-topping was not the only labour they were given. It changed with the seasons. In summer, they would pick berries and leeks in vast polytunnels.

But for now it was carrot-topping, mountains and mountains of frozen carrots, still rock-hard from last night’s frost.

When Hani woke up he knew something was wrong. Reena was not beside him on the mattress, that’s why he felt colder, an icy breeze creeping under his filthy blanket.

He sat up, looked around.

Darkness.

The other workers were still sleeping.

“Reena?” He whispered her name, but there was no reply.

He stumbled to the door and looked out into the yard. He could hear a dog barking, and two men standing at the back of a lorry. They were talking; their voices low and murmuring.

“How many, then?”

“Just the one this time.”

“Where…”

“Balnakeil Bay. North coast of Scotland…”

“Balfour House?”

“That’s the one!”

Hani listened, committed the words to memory. Balnakeil Bay. Balfour House.

He stared across the yard, and in a blinding moment of realisation felt sure that his sister Reena was inside the back of that truck. He then did what he knew she would not want him to do – he ran out into the darkness, screaming, crying out.

Yusuf caught him in his arms, and flung him back with a slap to his face.

He lay winded on the ground. “My sister,” he wept. “Reena!”

Then there was darkness.

In the midst of that darkness he was vaguely aware of an engine starting up and the truck driving away out of the yard. Without him. And his sister Reena was in the back of that truck, heading for the most northern part of mainland Britain. For what purpose, he did not know. But he clung to those four words he had heard, repeating them over and over so he would not forget.

Balnakeil Bay. Balfour House.

The day was supposed to carry on as normal even though his sister had vanished.

He tried to talk to one of the other workers, but no one wanted to know. They had their own miseries to bear.

“They took her in the night, and I don’t know where. Balfour House? Have you heard of it?”

No one answered him.

No one replied.

The gang-master Yusuf took him aside, and looked calmly at Hani through his hooded eyes. “Hey,” he gestured with his head. It was as if he could anticipate what Hani’s next move might be. “You run away from here? You try to escape? Your sister, then… she suffer,” he drew a fingertip across his own throat to emphasize the point.

Hani said nothing. He had said too much already, and he knew it.

He spent the long day standing at the carrot-topping bench in the giant hangar along with everyone else, taking the carrots in his fists, dragging them across the blade and dropping them into the crate at his feet, wiping away the tears with the back of his sleeve. He stared along the line. The place next to him was empty and at the entrance he could see the morning light creeping steadily over the fields.

Was it really possible that his parents had sacrificed their life savings for this? And was he now condemned to a life of slavery, standing forever in this shed, topping carrots, or in another sweltering hot polytunnel somewhere, picking berries, for fear of any harm coming to his sister? Was that the way it worked?

What would his parents think if they knew? They thought they had sent Reena and Hani off to a life where they might be welcomed and helped, away from the hell-hole that had become Aleppo, where big super powers like Russia and America fought their bitter wars on territory that was not their own, ripping apart Hani’s country and his home. His parents had used up all their life savings, in the hope that their children would be rescued from war.

And now here he was, afraid to make a move to rescue his sister in case they inflicted some harm on her. But he could not stay here and continue to live – if it could be called living – without knowing what had happened to Reena.

By mid-afternoon he had come to a decision. If I am so insignificant to them, then it will not matter if I run away. They will forget me. He had made up his mind.

He had to find Reena.

Mia sat at the back of the classroom, trying to be invisible as usual – the new girl who didn’t quite fit in. She was small and quiet and shy – on first appearance, that is, but appearances can be deceptive.

Halfway through the history lesson she felt a sharp rap on the side of her head. She pretended not to notice, even though it stung. Someone had fired a missile across the classroom at her.

She sensed rather than heard a ripple of amusement at her expense.

Jamie – a notorious trouble-maker – let out a deliberately protracted yawn as he slouched back in his chair.

Mrs Mackenzie ploughed on, regardless. “However… interestingly enough… something the British have always been very proud of is the fact that they were the very first nation to deplore the slave trade.”

“Deplore?” Jamie sneered.

“It means object to, Jamie,” Mrs Mackenzie said patiently.

“Didn’t know this was an English lesson as well, Miss.”

An icy silence fell across the classroom as Mrs Mackenzie fixed him with a bayonet stare. Jamie leaned back in his chair and stared right back at her.

“A word with you. Outside!” she said quietly.

“What? I haven’t done anything, Miss.”

“Out! Now!”

One or two of the girls sitting near the front sniggered as he slouched past them between the rows of desks. He winked at them and flashed a thumbs-up.

Mia didn’t snigger. She felt sorry for Mrs Mackenzie, trying to teach a bunch of kids who clearly didn’t want to be taught.

Jamie pushed the back of Mia’s chair on passing, just a subtle reminder that he still had her in his sights. “Later,” he whispered beneath his breath, so that no one but Mia heard.

Mia was sure Mrs Mackenzie had noticed the shoving, if not the whispering, but would she do anything? Probably not. The teachers never did.

She had been bullied since the day she arrived at this school six months earlier, and in spite of everything they told her, it was not getting any better.

She bent her head over the page, aware of Mrs Mackenzie moving towards the door. She knew what was coming next: they all knew. The teacher stepped outside to ‘have a word’ with Jamie.

As soon as she left the classroom the girls at the front turned and whispered, nudging each other. It was the moment Mia always dreaded – an empty classroom with no one in charge.

“Look at little Princess Mia,” one of them laughed. “Getting on with her work, as usual.”

“Yeah, look at what she’s wearing,” another sniggered.

“Is that – actually – school uniform?”

Mia said nothing and no one leapt to her defence. She was still the new girl.

She stared at the page in front of her, the words dancing before her eyes. If she ignored them, it would all go away. ‘It was not until 1833 that an act was passed giving freedom to all slaves in the British Empire.’

Mrs Mackenzie returned, followed by a smug-looking Jamie who did not look in the least bit chastened.

The teacher’s gaze swept the classroom, the rows of desks, lingering the longest on the girls at the front.

“Now, where were we?” she murmured.

“You were saying, Miss,” said Chloe sweetly, batting her spider lashes, “that Britain was the first country to abolish slavery.”

Mrs Mackenzie brightened. “Excellent, Chloe. So you were listening, after all.”

Fifteen minutes later, Mia listened to Mrs Mackenzie’s final summing-up before the bell. “It’s worth noting at this point,” she finished, “that hopefully we live in a much fairer society today and here in Scotland we can be proud of our track record. Slavery is a thing of the past… but why is it still worth studying the topic today?”

She threw the question back at the class, and waited.

No one said anything. They were desperate for the bell to go, so they could exit fast. Eventually Jamie put up his hand.

“Yes?” Mrs Mackenzie sighed.

He waited till he had the attention of the entire class before speaking, then slurred his words very slowly, for maximum effect. “It’s not worth studying, miss, but we haven’t got a choice, have we?”

Mrs Mackenzie went slightly pink and the girls at the front collapsed into a fit of the giggles.

As the bell rang the whole school exploded, pupils pouring from the exits.

Mia hoisted her bag onto her shoulder and waited for the crush to die down. She was pushed from behind, and laughed at. Jamie, Chloe and their pals threw back their heads and burst out laughing. Then the others went on home, out into the streets.

Mia walked slowly down the long white corridor, slipped inside the disabled toilet on her left and waited. She did this on purpose, so she could avoid walking home through the streets at the same time as everyone else.

She waited until it was quiet then let herself out again.

Stillness, at last.

This was a new building and the teachers said they were lucky to have it. Mia hated it. To her it was like a prison. One side of the corridor was composed of rough white breezeblocks; on the other were long glass windows from floor to ceiling, overlooking a pebbled forecourt which the pupils were not allowed to enter.

She stared at this sad little courtyard now, which boasted a few fake plants, with white and grey pebbles that had been transported from some distant beach and plonked here as a way of trying to ‘pretty’ the place up a bit. It hadn’t worked.

The one or two striplings planted behind wire mesh were dying. A crisp packet blew in the wind. That’s why the pupils weren’t allowed in there. It was ‘to look at’ only. Look, but don’t touch.

She stopped when she got to the big glass doors at the entrance. The secretary and receptionists were still behind their desks. They glanced up, wondering who was still hanging about. Then they saw Mia… ah, no-one of any importance. They glanced down again and began tidying up for the day, clipping bits of paper together, opening and closing files.

She put her head down, pushed through the heavy swing doors and began her own walk home.

‘Home’ for Mia was a small semi-detached house in the grid of interlocking streets which made up the town of Grangefield. She hadn’t always lived here and she could not force herself to like it.

It was a relatively new town on the banks of the Forth. Across the bay was the Kingdom of Fife, which sounded very grand. Mia caught glimpses of it sometimes when she walked near the estuary on lonely Sunday afternoons when there was nothing else to do.

She was fostered by Angie and Clifford, a well-meaning couple who had been fostering young people for years. Mia was just one more in a long string of ‘cases’ which had passed through their doors, no more or less remarkable and no more cherished than the rest.

She unlocked the front door into the tiny narrow hallway, where a radiator was hanging off the wall. The builders were in, and Angie ‘was up to high doh’ with it. She was having an extension done, with a view to taking in extra young people.

Angie greeted her with her usual display of professional cheer. Mia smiled and went up the stairs to her own room – except it was not really her own. It wouldn’t be long before another young person replaced her and the same books and posters would be there to greet them and make them feel artificially ‘at home’, unless Angie and Clifford decided to update the posters and books a little by then.

Mia had never felt at home here. She didn’t blame anyone and it was no one’s fault, just the way things were.

She flung her bag into the corner of the room, and collapsed on the bed. From her pocket, she drew out three small pebbles, a reminder of the family holidays they used to take in the Hebrides when her parents were still alive. One was pure white, like snow or ice, the other a deep green with rich layers of meridian in it, the other was deep red. She twisted them in her palm.

The island…

She often thought about the island as a way of comforting herself. Coll, with its pure white beaches, glistening skies, and trembling fields of machair or wildflowers.

How had she got from there to here? A place she did not want to be, watched and monitored by social workers, swallowed up by the care system, simply because her parents had died and she had no other living relatives to support her?

She lived with her gran in Linlithgow for a couple of years, but when she died the authorities stepped in and took over. They placed Mia in a children’s home, but in view of the circumstances were quick to find a place for her with a good foster family – in Grangefield – a place she had never lived before.

“You’ll have to adjust,” she was told by the social worker, Margaret. “It’s in your best interests to try.”

Then Margaret smiled, got into her car, and drove back home to her own husband and children, and house and dog, and goldfish too, probably, leaving Mia to face an uncertain future.

Grangefield was not the most attractive town. It sat on the banks of the estuary, dominated by a petrochemical plant which blinked and spat fumes into the sky. It never snowed in Grangefield. The sleet that fell in winter was sodium-yellow, like the streetlights.

“Mia? You up there?” she could hear Angie calling her from downstairs. “Your tea’s ready.”

She swung her feet off the bed, and made her way downstairs to the chaos and confusion below.

“It makes sense,” Clifford was saying, as he spooned beans onto Mia’s plate. “You can watch television afterwards if you like,” he added as an afterthought.

“It makes sense, Ange,” he went on, once he thought Mia was well out of earshot. “We can take in another three at this rate. Might as well. Pays the bills.”

Hani ran breathlessly across the empty fields, afraid of the torchlight and the barking dogs. He had done it. He had run away from the network of sheds they were made to sleep in.