‘What are you doing?’ I said.
‘Where did you go?’
‘To get some things.’
‘There was noise. Too much. I told them to go away.’
‘Who?’ I said.
‘The children.’
‘Did the boy come back?’
‘What boy?’
‘Mohammed.’
‘Nobody came,’ she said.
I put the bag down and told her that I was heading out again to find some food for dinner, and this time I searched the streets for Mohammed. I followed the laughter of children around every corner, in the open fields, beneath the trees. I went back to the asylum, checked in every room, including the children’s centre and the mother-and-baby room and the prayer room. I took the road down to another shore, on a quiet beach with children’s footprints in the sand, but whoever was there had already left and the sun was setting. I stood there for a while, inhaling the fresh air, feeling the orange sunlight on my face.
When I opened my eyes I saw the strangest thing: about thirty or forty octopuses hanging on a line to dry, their silhouettes against the setting sun making them look like something from a dream. I rubbed my eyes, thinking I might have fallen asleep, but the octopuses still hung there, their arms pulled down by gravity, taking on an odd shape, like the faces of men with long beards. I touched the rubbery flesh, smelt them to see if they were fresh, and took one to cook on a fire. I held it in my arms as if I was holding a child and headed back to the cabins, buying a lighter from the sweet shop and collecting some twigs and branches along the way.
When I got back to the camp, Afra was sitting on the floor, twirling something in her fingers. I saw that it was Mohammed’s clear marble with the red vein.
I was about to ask about Mohammed, but I noticed that her face had suddenly dropped and her eyes were no longer blank; they were alive and full of sadness.
‘What’s wrong?’ I said. ‘You have sad eyes.’
‘I do?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘It’s because I just realised that I lost my platinum bracelet – you know, the one my mum gave me?’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I remember.’
‘The one with the little stars.’
‘I remember.’
‘I put it on before we left. I must have lost it on the boat. It’s in the sea now.’
Sitting down on the floor beside her, I wrapped my arms around her and she rested her head on my shoulder, just like she did in the hole in the garden before we left Aleppo. She didn’t cry this time; I could feel her breath on my neck and the flutter of her eyelashes on my skin, and we stayed like this for a long while, as the cabin darkened and only the glow of the gas fire could be seen. There was noise around us: people shouting, children running, a strong wind in the trees from the sea, coming to us in waves. I wondered if Mohammed was still playing, or if he was on his way back to the cabin.
Then I went outside to cook the octopus. I put the twigs and branches in a pile on the ground; I held the octopus on a branch above the fire. It took a lot longer than I thought, even though the octopus was already slightly cooked from hanging in the sun.
When it was soft enough and cool enough, I tore it into pieces and took it in to Afra. She devoured it, licking her fingers, thanking me for making it, asking me where I found such a thing.
‘Did you get it from the sea yourself?’
‘No!’ I laughed.
‘But you couldn’t have bought it – it’s far too expensive!’
‘I found it,’ I said.
‘What, you were walking along, minding your own business, and you just found an octopus?’
‘Yes,’ I said, and she laughed from her stomach, her eyes laughing too.
I looked through the doorway, anxious, waiting for Mohammed.
Afra lay her head on some of the blankets and closed her eyes without saying another word. I lay down beside her, and after a while I heard gates opening and closing, distant doors locking. On the other side of the partition the child was crying, her father muttering words of reassurance. ‘No, the men with the guns won’t kill us. Don’t worry at all! No, they won’t. I promise.’
‘But they might shoot us.’
The man laughed now. ‘No. They’re here to help us. Just close your eyes now. Close your eyes and think of all the things you love.’
‘Like my bicycle at home?’
‘Yes, that’s good. Keep thinking about your bicycle.’
There was silence for a long time and after a while I heard the girl speak again, but this time her voice was softer, calmer.