‘The United Kingdom,’ she said.
‘Ha!’
‘We have friends there,’ I said, trying to ignore his mocking laugh.
‘Most people are more realistic,’ the man said, handing me the passports and my phone, explaining that we would have to wait on the island until the authorities gave us clearance to leave for Athens.
We were led away from there, with two or three other families, to a gated camp near the port. Mohammed held onto my hand, asking me where we were going.
We found ourselves enclosed in barbed wire, and before us was a grim village with immaculate concrete walkways, wire mesh fences and white gravel. There were rows and rows of square boxes for people to stay in until they got their papers. An empire of identification.
The pebbles were meant to soak up water, but the ground was saturated, probably from rain earlier. In the alleys between the cabins there were clothes hanging on lines and, at the entrance of every cabin, a gas heater, and on top of these heaters people had placed shoes and socks and hats to dry. In the distance, beyond the cabins and across the sea, I could see the faint outline of Turkey and, on the other side, the dark hills of the island.
As I stood there with Afra and Mohammed and the other families, I felt lost, as if I was out alone in a dark cold sea with nothing to hold on to. This was the first time in a long time that I had felt any safety, any security, and yet in this moment the sky felt too big, the rising dusk held an unknown darkness. I stared at the orange glow of the gas heaters, felt the certainty of my feet on the pebbles. But somewhere nearby there was shouting in a language I didn’t understand, followed by a long cry – the voice was desperate and came from a deep and hollow place and it sent the birds flying into an orange sky.
Each cabin was already divided, partitioned with blankets and sheets to make room for more families. We were given a section of one of these cabins and told that there was food in the old asylum next to the registration centre, and that the gates would be locked at 9 p.m., so if we wanted to eat we should go soon. But Mohammed was rocking from foot to foot, as if he was on a boat, and as soon as he got the chance, he lay down. I covered him with a blanket.
‘Uncle Nuri,’ he said, opening his eyes a little bit, ‘can I have chocolate tomorrow?’
‘If I can find some.’
‘The type you can spread. I want to spread it on bread.’
‘I’ll try to find some for you.’
It was evening and cold. Afra and I lay down too, and I rested my palm on her chest and felt the beating of her heart and the rhythm of her breathing. ‘Nuri,’ she said as we lay there.
‘Yes?’
‘Are you OK?’
‘Why?’
‘I think you’re not all right.’
She was close to me and I could feel the tension in her body.
‘None of us are OK,’ I said.
‘It’s …’ She hesitated.
‘What is it?’
She sighed. ‘It’s the boy …’
‘We’re all so tired,’ I said. ‘Let’s sleep now, talk tomorrow.’
She sighed again and closed her eyes.
She fell asleep quickly and I tried to mirror her breath, slow and steady, so that I could shut off my mind, but her tone had been so dark, as if she knew something that I didn’t, and I couldn’t sleep. Her unspoken words had opened a chasm, and from that place images came and went like dreams – Mohammed’s black eyes, Sami’s eyes the colour of Afra’s. Even as I drifted off, my body jolted from a sudden noise in my head, like a door creaking open, and there, on the other side, the shadow of a boy. ‘Will we fall into the water?’ I heard. ‘Will the waves take us? The houses won’t break like these do.’ Sami’s voice. Mohammed’s voice.
Then my mind plunged into darkness and silence. I turned away from Afra and focused on patterns on the bedsheet partition. I was kept awake by the mutterings and whisperings on the other side, a young girl talking to her father. As she became more distressed their voices rose.
‘But when will she come?’ the little girl was saying.
‘When you’re asleep she will stroke your hair. Just like she used to, remember?’
‘But I want to see her.’
‘You won’t see her, but you’ll feel her. You’ll feel that she is near you, I promise.’ I could hear a crack in the man’s voice.
‘But when those men took her …’
‘Let’s not talk about that.’
The little girl let out a sob. ‘But when they took her she was crying. Why did those men take her? Where did they take her? Why was she crying?’