‘Do you like my house? This house doesn’t break like the houses at home. Isn’t it nice, Uncle Nuri?’
There is a sharp pain in my head, so sudden and intense that I have to stand up and close my eyes and press my forehead hard with my fingers.
Mohammed tugs at my jumper. ‘Uncle Nuri, will you come with me?’
‘Where?’
He slips his hand into mine and takes me to the front door. As soon as I open it I realise something is wrong; ahead, beyond the buildings, the sky flashes white and red; from somewhere not too far away there is a wild screech, metal on metal, like a creature being dragged to death, and when the wind blows it brings with it the smell of fire and things burning and ash. I walk across the street, Mohammed’s hand in mine. The houses are bombed-out and they look like carcasses with the light of the flashing sky behind them. We continue along the road. Mohammed is dragging his feet in the dust. It is so thick, like we are walking through snow. There are burnt cars, lines of washing hanging from abandoned terraces, electrical wires dangling low over the street, trash piles on the pavements. It all stinks of death and burnt rubber. In the distance smoke rises, curling into the skyline. Mohammed pulls me by the hand, all the way down the hill, until we reach the Queiq. There are waves on the river and it is darker than usual.
‘This is where the boys were,’ Mohammed says, ‘but I was dressed in black so they didn’t see me, they didn’t drown me in the river. Allah looked after me.’ He looks up at me with those wide black eyes.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘He must have.’
‘This is where all the children are,’ he says, ‘all the ones who died. They’re in the river and they can’t get out.’
When I look more closely I notice that there are limbs in the water, and faces. I can make out only blurred outlines in the darkness, but I know what they are. I take a step back.
‘No,’ Mohammed says. ‘Don’t be scared. You have to go in.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s the only way to find us.’
I take a step forward. The water is almost opaque and yet I can see those shadows slithering beneath the surface.
‘No, Mohammed, I’m not going to go in there.’
‘Why? Are you scared?’
‘Of course I’m scared!’
He laughs, ‘It’s usually me who is scared of the water! How have we swapped places?’
He kicks off his shoes and starts to wade in.
‘Mohammed, don’t!’ He ignores me, going further, the water rising above his knees and hips and to his chest.
‘Mohammed! If you don’t come back now I’m going to get very angry!’ But Mohammed keeps walking. I take a step forward, then another and another until the water is up to my thighs. Something slips past me like a fish or a snake. Just ahead, a small object glimmers on the water’s dark surface, I scoop it into my hands. It is
was placed in my open palm. ‘Make yourselves at home,’ the smuggler said, and grinned, and I saw that he had a silver tooth in the back of his mouth. His flat was a little way out of the centre of Athens, not too far from the sea. We walked up three flights of stairs because the lift was broken. It was a tiny place that smelt of stale spices.
At the end of a narrow corridor there was an odd-shaped asymmetrical living area with three rooms leading off it. Every single window faced the brick walls and ventilation systems of the surrounding buildings. The smuggler introduced himself properly as Constantinos Fotakis. I was surprised that his name was Greek as he spoke Arabic like a native, but as I looked at his features and the colour of his skin, it was difficult to know where he was from.
The key he’d given me was for the bedroom. The room had a double mattress on the floor and an old fur rug which was to be used as a blanket. There was a damp smell, and green mould lined the walls. We could hear the buzz and whir of the vents. The wall of the opposite building was an arm’s length away and the heat and steam from the other flats gathered in the space between the buildings and settled in the room.
It wasn’t a comfortable place to sleep, but it was better than the park. I wasn’t sure if it was safer though – something about Mr Fotakis made me uneasy; maybe it was his deep throaty laugh, the gold signet ring on his little finger. He was even more confident now than he had been at the café. But he was also friendly; he welcomed us into his flat as if we were family, even insisting on carrying our bags and taking them into the bedroom. He showed us where the shower was, how to use the taps because the hot water sometimes turned cold, he went through the contents of the fridge and told us to help ourselves to anything we wanted. We were treated like special guests. On a small green and bronze coffee table were the stubbed-out butts of cannabis cigarettes and rolled-up twenty-pound notes, which confirmed to me what kind of deliveries I’d be making.