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I sat chewing my fingernails at the back of the room while Courage scrawled on the chalkboard. Give dem dignity with an onrabull death. Her letters were large and unwieldy. Despite her diminutive stature and dimpled cheeks, when it came to fighting, she was the best there was, so her crimes against spelling could be forgiven.

In lime green flares and a marigold shirt that set off her conker-brown skin, she waved her arms as she described the kind of beasts into which our enemy could transform, and the best place to strike each one. If, in battle, we were faced with a mighty slate dragon, we were to gore it in the throat beneath its ear. Crocodiles and gators, straight through the eye. The battle, our ‘gift’ for turning sixteen, was a fight to the death between us and them at the burnt-out hospital that separates our land from theirs. The reward for victors was passage into adulthood. We couldn’t afford to lose. 

When Courage told us about the Minotaur, with the body of a man and head of a bull, I drifted into imagining an Onra Bull. It would be a wondrous creature as tall as two women and as wide as four with three ebony horns, sharp like shards of glass. It would stare out of dull, grey eyes, but if it laid its amber eye on you, you’d know you’d been judged and come up wanting. Your only option would be to run. The Onra Bull would paw the earth, head bowed low, blowing steam from its flared nostrils, then charge, its muscles rippling and the ground shaking as it galloped towards—

“Strength’s Daughter, you’re not daydreaming in my class again!” Courage patted her afro and glared at me.

I hung my head and put out my hands, the backs resting on the table. I bit into my lip, fighting the urge to let my fingers retreat into my palms as the click of her heels grew louder.

I heard the swish of the cane before it stung my hands over and over again. When she was done, she made me crouch on a chair in the window, so anyone walking by would know that I was being punished. It wasn’t long until I had terrible cramp and a grimace to match. The spectacle attracted passers-by; even children pointed and laughed. I wished I had an Onra Bull to defend me.

There was no one at home when I got back from my classes. Strength, my mother, was still at the salon, my father passed when I was a baby, and Grandma’s faded orange armchair had sat empty for a while. I curled up on the sofa, pulled the blanket over myself and counted my breaths to soothe myself, the way Grandma had taught me. I lost count somewhere around 100 and closed my eyes. 

The living room became the derelict hospital where the battles take place. My mother held up my arm and announced, “Ruthless was victorious,” and a crowd of women of different shapes and sizes, all with Courage’s face, clapped and cheered. I was drenched in blood that wasn’t mine. On the battle ground behind me lay the limp carcass of a boy. Suddenly, my father rode in on a giant Onra Bull. He clutched its fur as it bucked like a bronco. It reared its head back, then thrust it down so fast that my father flew over the top and smacked the ground. The Onra Bull snorted, fixed me with its amber eye, and was readying itself to strike me when I woke to Mum kissing me on my forehead. 

“Let me see your hands,” she said.

I didn’t ask how she knew. Around here, news spreads fast.

She winced when she saw them. Blew kisses at each palm. I looked down at her shiny lace-up platforms, the colour of cinnamon bark, and wondered whether I would live long enough to get a pair of my own and who I would have to kill to be deemed ‘worthy’ of them. I shuddered at the image of the bloodied boy from my dream and the Onra Bull’s amber eyes.

My mother sat down beside me and sighed. “Two weeks — that’s all the time you have until the battle for your life.” She couldn’t look at me. “You understand what that means?”

I nodded. 

“Give the enemy an honourable death.” She breathed in hard. “But if you can’t, let them kill you. That’s your only choice.”

My shoulders rose up and I squeezed my eyes shut.

 

In the morning, Wisdom’s Son came to knock for me. He was early and I was late, as always. As we picked our way through plastic bags oozing with filth and the dog mess that fouled our streets, I asked, “Do you think there’s honour in being killed by them?” 

“Not as much as if we were to give them an honourable death. But it’s better than the shame of…”

He couldn’t bring himself to utter the word: fleeing.

Before we even knew how to write we’d learnt that we were warriors and brave, even in the face of death. We knew we could never be cowards and bring shame on our families, our friends, our community. But as I got older, Grandma said some things that made me question what I’d been taught about us, them, and the battle. She’d promised to tell me more when I turned sixteen, but her heart had other ideas.

 

Our first class of the day was on the twelfth floor of the draughty high-rise our school shares with forgotten families, cockroaches and rodents. The lifts had been out for as long as I could remember, and the stairwell reeked of urine. I covered my face with my scarf as we climbed the relentless stairs. When we saw a furry brown rat with its long, smooth tail, Wisdom’s Son jumped behind me and clung onto my arm. Rats are among the many things he fears. I wiped the sheen off my brow as we caught our breath and waited to be admitted into the room. 

The good desks had already been taken, so we were left with the wobbly ones by the shattered windowpanes that let cold air blow down our necks. I pulled my scarf tighter around me. 

Bravery was at the front, surveying the room in washed out denim dungarees. She stood next to the blackboard on which she’d written ‘The Battle’ in large, neat, capitals. “When you see the enemy, you will feel emotion that’s so intense it will electrify you and set off your transformation.” She clapped her hands together loudly. “No one can tell you what creature you’ll become on the day.” She tossed her head so that the gold, silver and brown beads in her hair knocked together. “Maybe you’ll grow giant and squash the enemy beneath your feet. Perhaps you’ll shrink down to the size of a spider and strike with deadly venom.” She put her thumb and forefinger close together to indicate the size of a small insect. Her nails were long: red and green. “You could grow fangs and claws, spout flames, throw darts from your back like a porcupine. Whatever you become, it will be a reflection of who you truly are. And if you win, you’ll earn yourself a warrior name…Not everyone will win.” She looked at each of us. “But no one can flee.”

There was a collective shudder around the room.

“Why do we fight them?” Bravery said.

Wisdom’s Son stood; his shoulders rounded a little. 

“Because they’re the enemy.”

“Yes, but why?” Bravery pointed at Courage’s Daughter, who’d thrust her hand in the air.

“Because they want to destroy us, because of who we are.” Courage’s Daughter stood, her voice strong and confident. “Because they see us as different, less than.”

“Why?” Bravery addressed Courage’s Daughter again. “Because they’re ignorant.”

There were titters around the room and Bravery glowered at us. “Continue.”

“Because we were brought here against our will way back when. They say this land is theirs and they want rid of us.”

I sat on my hands to try and stop my fingers going numb and looked at the words of hatred about them that had been gouged into my desk.

“Strength’s Daughter, what do we think of them?”

I stared at the white chalk markings on the blackboard until they ceased to resemble words. I should have been responding to Bravery, but instead I thought back to the day I’d dared Courage’s Daughter to go across the disused railway tracks to where they lived. She’d stared me in the eye, twirled a plait around her middle finger, and said defiantly, “I’ll go, if you will.”

I gritted my teeth as we climbed the steep hill that led up to the tracks and ran through the waist-high nettles; each refusing to complain about the stings on our hands and legs. Ahead of us was a high, barbed wire-topped brick wall and to the right, the burnt-out hospital; our only route to the other side.

“We don’t have to do this,” Courage’s Daughter said. 

I closed my eyes, thought about what Grandma had said, then clenched my fists and strode towards the building. Courage’s Daughter rushed to catch up. We ran through the emergency department and forced open the doors to the atrium, where our battles would take place. It was a blackened, twisted mess, with cables hanging down from the ceiling, holes knocked into the walls and debris everywhere, except for a path leading to and from the wide, but shallow blood-stained crater that formed the battleground. We hurried through and out the other side.

I’d imagined where they lived thousands of times: their large houses with gleaming glazed windows, fragrant flower gardens and fridges filled with food; the wide, clean streets with no rubbish or dog mess in sight; the big, flashy cars. When we emerged into the sunlight and slid down the hill, we were there; only the houses, clean streets and cars were not. Before us were tower blocks with broken windows like missing teeth, just as in our blocks, the smell of sewage filled our noses and the biggest rats I’d ever seen ran along a river consisting of rotting God-knows-what. A skinny, little boy in a filthy t-shirt and shorts asked if we had any food. He had large, pleading eyes and streaks of dirt across his face. Courage and I glanced at each other and ran back the way we’d come. 

 

 I blinked the blackboard into focus. Bravery was staring at me, her arms folded. Slowly, I stood up, cleared my throat. “We think…We think they’re…” The Onra Bull snorted loudly. I couldn’t bring myself to say what she wanted to hear. All I could think of was that small, hungry boy.

“Put out your hands,” she said. The Onra Bull turned its amber eye to her.

I closed my eyes and waited for the sting of her cane.

“You should have been able to answer like that.” She clicked her fingers.

Courage’s Daughter was waving her arm in the air again and leaning forward in her seat.

“Yes,” Bravery said, turning to her.

She stood up. “They’re dead to us.” She glanced down at me, then continued. “Their ignorance, hatred and violence mean they don’t deserve to live.” The Onra Bull tensed its muscles and horned the ground. 

“Tell us about their hatred.”

“Since we came here all those generations ago, they’ve despised us. They hate that we were ‘weak’ enough to be forced to come but are too strong to be exiled.” “Well done.” Bravery turned to me. “You bring shame to your father’s memory.” The Onra Bull started to bellow. 

I could see the little boy with large eyes sunken into his dirty face. There had been hope, not hatred, when he had asked if we had any food. 

“What happened?” Wisdom’s Son whispered. 

I shrugged. “I have a headache.”

 

Mum baked me a sponge cake for my birthday, even though she couldn’t eat any. I blew out my candles and wished the Battle would be cancelled even though I knew that would never happen. It felt strange without Grandma. 

“Your father would have loved to be here, to see you turn into a woman,” Mum said, her eyes misty.

I nodded. 

“But they had to take him from us,” she said.

“They didn’t have to,” I said.

“I didn’t mean…No, they didn’t have to, and yet they did.”

I was only a baby at the time, but I knew the story. Back then there were monthly battles at the burnt-out hospital. My father was fearless and would always volunteer to fight. In his last battle he was delayed entering the atrium, trying to comfort the wife of his best friend who’d just been killed. His opponent had already turned into a beast when he stepped onto the battleground, but rather than wait for my father to transform, he lunged at my father, floored him and crushed his skull. Despite the honour with which my father always fought, he was denied an honourable death.

Tears welled in my mother’s eyes. “They’re wicked, scheming beasts. Just think, if not for them, your grandfather might have been here today too.”

I hugged my mother. When she was little she was walking home with my grandfather when a group of them seized him and started yelling that he didn’t belong there. Before her eyes they transformed into beasts and tore him apart like dogs on a rag doll. They left him strewn about the street. At first our elders managed to calm things with promises of security and patrols, but it happened again and again, until the anger was insuppressible. That’s when the first of us felt that surge of electricity that caused them to transform. It was tit for tat after that. They killed us, we killed them. No one was safe. After years of killings, families on both sides had had enough. They demanded a solution to the daily violence and that’s how the coming-of-age battles came to be.

“Do you think Granddad would have wanted me to fight in the Battle?” I said.

“If he was still here there’d be no need for the Battle,” Mum said.

“According to Grandma, he always said violence wasn’t the answer,” I said.

“And look where that got him? Come, eat your cake.”

I tried to eat it, but it was cloying, so I said I was full. Mum snatched up the cake and took it to the kitchen. I heard her clattering about in there and banging cupboard doors, so I shut myself in our room and tried to draw the Onra Bull.

 

On the day of the Battle my mother told me to strip and wrapped me in nothing more than our family’s patterned cloth; aqua, navy, and white to represent the sea and skies for my mother’s strength and father’s fearlessness. She wrapped another length of the heavy fabric around her shoulders. All of us who’d turned sixteen since the last battle made a procession through the streets to our battleground, our families, neighbours and friends following behind. We gathered in what used to be the emergency department, they congregated in the former children’s wing. As I stood there shivering, I watched Courage’s daughter force her way through the buckled emergency department doors into the atrium, wrapped in a heavy red, fabric patterned with alternating rows of orange and golden-yellow ‘v’s, representing flames of courage. I had no idea whether I’d ever see her again. 

I’d paced up and down more than fifty times when she limped back into the room, cut and bleeding. She staggered a few steps and then collapsed against her mother, who held her daughter’s arm up in the air and announced, “Fierce was victorious.” The rest of us awaiting our trials clapped and cheered for Fierce. I wondered what beast she’d turned into. I felt, somehow, that she must have become a monstrous cat with razor claws and a killer jaw. My legs were fading so I leant against the wall. 

When it was the turn of Wisdom’s Son, I reached out and touched the blossom tree prints on the fabric wrapped around his slight form. “Be brave,” I said. I thought of the way he jumped at the sight of rodents and hoped he’d be turned into something mighty to give him a fighting chance. It felt like there was a stone in my throat.

A few of the others were peering through holes in the double doors where glass used to be. I went to join them. Wisdom’s Son was mid-transformation. Fur covered half of his body, his feet became hooves and two small, curled horns sprouted from his head. Instead of a ferocious beast, he was becoming a faun – a symbol of peace and fertility. I rubbed at my eyes, hard. He’d just finished changing when his opponent turned into a wolf with a snow-coloured coat. Wisdom’s Son just cowered on the spot. I wanted to bang on the door and scream ‘fight or flee,’ but I just bit into my lip and watched as the beast leapt into the air, landed on Wisdom’s son’s back and ripped his neck open with a clap of its jaws. I staggered back and started panting as the room swirled around me. I couldn’t see for tears.

“Snap out of it. He died an onrabull death,” Courage said.

I wiped my eyes on my mother’s cloth. His death wasn’t honourable, it was nonsensical. It meant nothing. 

“It’s your turn, my only one,” my mother said. She guided me to the doors and my classmates stood back so she could push them open and propel me into the hospital’s charred atrium. “Give him an honourable death and come back to me,” she said, her voice cracking. 

Quietly, Wisdom said, “Think of my son.”.

In the centre of the atrium his body lay in a pool of blood next to the torso of one of them. I ran, gathered up his family’s cloth and covered him in it. Their families and friends and ours stared down from the balcony on the level above, as if into a great amphitheatre.

My opponent was a skinny boy wrapped in a grey blanket. It looked like his legs were shaking. I caught his eye and the look he gave me was filled with terror. As I held his gaze, I remembered what they’d done to my father, and grandfather, but sadness, not rage, surged inside me. It coursed through my body until it felt like I was being electrocuted. This was what Bravery meant by electrifying emotion. The room swirled and I was sure I was going to fall. Before I could hit the ground, I was filled with a heat that emanated from my core. I felt strength like I’d never known and smelt the scent of burning fabric. I tried to move and noticed that instead of arms I had wings the colour of autumn leaves with sunlight streaming through. I was on fire, my family cloth was ablaze. 

I heard a roar and saw a giant polar bear rising up before me. It pawed at the air, its hungry mouth wide, revealing sharp, pointy teeth. 

“Kill him, kill him,” chanted the crowds of us lining the hospital balcony.

Somewhere behind me Courage yelled, “Give him an onrabull death.”

The polar bear circled me, unsure how to negotiate my flames. I flew up into the air and hovered above the great beast. Bright embers fell like fireworks, which made his huge body flinch.

“Kill him, kill him,” my people shouted.

As I flapped my wings, flames encircled me and the polar bear retreated to escape the heat. 

“Kill him, kill him,” my people roared, stamping their feet.

I hovered where I was. I knew if I swooped down, I would kill him, but in my mind I saw the Onra Bull’s amber eye judging me. I shook my head, which caused more embers to rain down and he backed away. Behind the ferocious exterior I saw the skinny boy in the grey blanket. He’d reminded me of the hungry child who’d asked Fierce and me for food. Like Wisdom’s Son, he was just a boy. I didn’t want to kill him, but I couldn’t let myself be killed like my father and grandfather. The Onra Bull lowered its head, but kept its amber eye on me. It began to paw the earth.

The crowds on both sides worked themselves into a frenzy of shrieking and stamping. Ignoring the din and commotion I landed opposite the polar bear. My flames grew wilder as they began to devour the ground around me and a thick smoke began to spread. The polar bear backed away from the smoke and intense heat and I stood there watching him, the atrium burning around me. 

The screams began a few moments later as crowds of them and us fell over each other as they surged towards the exit. I kept my eye on the polar bear, who continued to retreat, then turned and fled. Something in the pit of my stomach told me I couldn’t follow him. I flew up and set the walls and ceiling alight and then I landed again and watched as everything around me was engulfed in flames. The Onra Bull appeared through the smoke, stared at me with its dull grey eyes and seemed to nod, then it turned and walked away. As the ceiling began to collapse I was certain of one thing, the hospital would never again be used as a battleground.

 

Aisha Phoenix is completing a speculative novel. Her collection, Bat Monkey and Other Stories, was shortlisted for the SI Leeds Literary Prize and she has been longlisted for the Guardian/4th Estate BAME Short Story Prize, the Bath Short Story Award and the Fish Flash Fiction Prize. Her work has appeared, or is appearing, in: Inkandescent’s MAINSTREAM, Peepal Tree Press’s Filigree, the National Flash Fiction Day anthology, the Bath Flash Fiction anthology, Strange Horizons and Litro USA Online.

We knew they would come; it was only a matter of when, so we responded quickly to the alarm. I took my position at the upstairs double-glazed window – the guest bedroom at the front of the house affords a panoramic view to the west. That was one of the selling points when we bought the house five years ago, the views. Not that we’ve seen any equity growth since the troubles started.  Last year, prices fell by six percent in Galway – because of the Mohicans. 

It was early, but everyone was at their jobs. There was a lot of shouting. I wished we had spent more time putting away ornaments and pictures. With six of us I was confident we’d have enough fire power. I checked both rifles; fully loaded. I was still angry at how much we had been charged for them. The remote cameras on the gate posts aren’t very reliable, owing to the weak internet connection (it’s a semi-rural address, so the fibre broadband hasn’t reached us yet). They would usually smash them anyway. 

Danny had the machine gun downstairs. I had doubts at first about giving him the responsibility, but he does a lot of sport at university and his reactions and strength far outweigh mine. His tuition fees are a constant headache, especially with what’s going on with property prices. Susan, his girlfriend, was with him. She’s been over here for two years. Her parents keep telling her to go home to Dublin where there’s no trouble, (her father’s a barrister – you need to be, the price of houses) but she’s enjoying NUI and wants to stay with Danny. She would help protect the downstairs windows. She is also sound on communication – her degree is in Media Studies – so she would inform the authorities.

It took a while for my eyes to adjust to the dawn light, but I could see movement in the trees. The house is in an excellent defensive position, being on an elevated plot. The challenge is the extent of the perimeter. It must be eighty yards, and the fence is inadequate in places. That’s another investment for next year. My job was to cover the border on both sides in front of the house and the gate, which could easily be opened if one of them got inside, but offered an excellent target, being directly ahead of me. The BMW was in an exposed position on the drive. If they damage that, I thought, they deserve everything they get! It’s impossible to get an exact colour match for the metallic paint.

My other responsibility was to listen for the roof. If they got inside, we were in trouble. Maureen had two pistols in our bedroom at the back. Of all of us, Maureen is the clearest thinker. ‘If we don’t kill them, they’ll kill us,’ she says. She is calm about property prices. ‘The secret is time, not timing.’ 

The one blind spot is the corner of the master bedroom. That’s where my sister comes in. Nuala couldn’t stay alone after she’d left that English eejit, and we had the space. My other sister and her family are in Cork, which hasn’t been under attack as much. Prices are growing steadily down there. With Nuala’s faith I doubted her ability to plant a bullet right between someone’s eyes, but like Maureen she is calm and intelligent and, armed with the shotgun, would soon dispatch any invaders that get into the roof space. I had a furious argument with Hooper Dolan about whether that kind of damage is covered on the insurance. Nuala also covered the back door. In hindsight, Maureen was right – we should have invested in security windows before the costs went crazy.

That leaves Brendan. He was always a friendly neighbour, if a bit of a busybody, and an extra pair of hands is useful. He had the advantage of having seen combat in the battle of the Spanish Arch back when there were hundreds of Mohicans. He claimed to have killed three himself, one face to face, but he might have been exaggerating. He was planning to go home after the last few have been rooted out and things go back to normal. His job was to patrol downstairs and watch the front door. The semi-automatic rifle is ideal for that task.

Brendan marshalled everyone when the alarm went off. There are trip wires thanks to Danny’s electrical engineering skills, but a good old-fashioned look-out is still the best defence, and the fact that they refuse to attack at night helped. He strode round the house yelling ‘Attack, Attack!’ We had all mobilised within about thirty seconds.

Six guns, six alert, focused adults. By now, Susan would have phoned the Gardaí and posted on social media, so the vigilantes knew where we were. The official response time is ten minutes, but if there is another attack elsewhere, we might need to hold out for longer. Often vigilante groups and neighbours arrive first. When Finbar Boyle’s bungalow next door was attacked at Easter, we armed ourselves and marched onto his front lawn. They scattered. Finbar and his two sons are tough old birds. They were lining up at their dormer window to lend extra firepower. They won’t come outside.

The shooting began at 6.30am, first light. I jumped when I heard the first shots from downstairs. Brendan and Danny were both shouting. Several Mohicans came swarming across the front lawn. From where my rifle was resting on the sill of the half-open window, it was an easy shot. Pop! One of them yelped and span. I shot him again as he lay wriggling. A second was heading across the lawn to try and get around the back. Two shots hit him simultaneously, one of them mine. I aimed for his head but hit him in the back. Someone downstairs shot his left thigh. He turned defiantly and got a third bullet in his belly.

Maureen and Nuala were busy at the back, too. There was one in the sycamore next to the garage, whooping and waving. His decorated face was about twenty feet away when I shot him in the eye. He fell to the ground, and as we had practiced, I gave him another for good measure. Crimson seeped out of his shapeless face. That’s going to take ages to get out of the granite flags. We only had the patio laid last year – less maintenance than decking. It would have been savage jet-washing a wooden surface.

Now, they were coming thick and fast. Danny was waiting in the dining room and let loose with the machine gun through the open window. It was worth every penny. They were torn to pieces. A group of four disintegrated in front of him. Bold lad, Danny!

I heard scuffling on the roof. I should have someone cut back those silver birches. These crafty beggars could easily remove a few tiles, and once inside, could lift the floorboards and drop into any room. I’m glad we decided against putting a Velux roof light in. You never get the value back. I yelled ‘Roof!’ Nuala appeared immediately in the doorway. Nuala followed the footsteps and calmly fired two shots through the ceiling. There was a high-pitched scream – she had caught one. The plaster went everywhere. That won’t do the carpet any good – it’s real Axminster. The insurance companies were clear; they won’t pay for damage resulting from defending property, which I think is quite unjust. The premiums have gone through the roof. 

My biggest fear was coming face-to-face with one. Okay, I’d have a pistol, and he would have a tomahawk, but it’s that moment when you see the whites of their eyes, they seem fearless. It’s a good job they refuse to use guns like the Mohawks, but these are completely different to Mohawks; everyone knows that. 

Nuala was patrolling the bedrooms listening for noise. I shouted down to find out how things were downstairs.

‘Got ’em all, I think.’ Danny shouted coolly. 

There was a volley from next door; Finbar made a couple of holes in the timber of the gate, and I was about to complain about damage (oak is so dear these days) when I saw the distinctive hair of one peep over. I picked him off easily enough, right through the skull. They won’t like that – they are superstitious creatures. By now I was wondering where the Gardaí were.

My careful aim soon stopped one more. I was quite pleased with my shooting. We had practised with hand-drawn targets. My nephews had a giggle drawing Mohican heads. They would take their time with the hair and war paint, but the faces always had goofy teeth or crossed eyes, and they exaggerated the noses. They’re becoming good shots with the air rifles I bought them last Christmas. Teach them young, I say.

I shouted to Maureen. 

‘Hit two,’ she shouted. ‘Can’t see any more.’ Nothing gets her flustered.

Normally they come in hunting parties of twenty or thirty. There are only a couple of hundred left in County Galway, so tonight’s success would be significant. By my count, we had killed a dozen.

They like a river, and Galway has been a regular haunt since the troubles started. ‘People of the flowing waters’ that’s what their name means; muh-heka-neew. There’s none flows faster than the Corrib. There was an interesting article in the Tribune. At one time there was a major encampment only a couple of miles upstream from here. They were so brazen. When they took over Menlo castle last year, you could see them across the river from the university. It took a full-blown military engagement to oust them; even then the braves almost all escaped.

Often, they send an initial attack to gauge resistance then follow up with a main assault. Brendan was moving from room to room shouting instructions about reloading. Susan appeared at the bedroom door. She was giving details on her iPhone. Surely the Army would mobilise soon. 

‘Apparently, there’s been a raid on the new flats by the docks,’ she said. ‘They got in and killed an elderly couple.’

‘Was it the same tribe?’

‘They think so. Happened about an hour ago.’ 

‘What about us?’ 

‘Lower priority, it’s only the one house. The woman said they’d send a unit as soon as they can.’

‘Marvellous! Looks like we’re on our own.’ 

The phone chirped; Finbar.

‘Are you coming round?’ I asked.

‘We’re grand here, if it’s all the same. Letting you know that was a first wave. Noel Fitzmaurice on O’Flaherty’s farm reckons he saw more than thirty.’

‘Did you hear about the docks?’

‘Aye, it’s on the telly. That should get the vigilantes out.’

The worst part was the pause. I had only been involved in one battle before. When I say involved, I was only a witness. We were in an all-inclusive five-star resort in Lisbon last summer. They suddenly started working their way up the path beside the cascading pools, attacking anyone they could reach. Fair play, the hotel staff were fearless. They came swarming out, armed to the teeth, and waded in. The Mohicans quickly dispersed, but not before half a dozen had been mown down. I wondered what we would do if they reached the restaurant. Were we meant to defend ourselves with cutlery? A couple of German tourists had their own pistols, and there were armed security guards at the front. Only fair, considering what we paid for the resort. They collected the bodies into a heap while we ate dessert. Back then, there were tribes popping up all over Europe. 

If they were going to come again today, they wouldn’t have the element of surprise. They would work out our positions and look for a weak spot. Support would get here unless they came immediately. I’m glad their superstitions prevented a night attack. It’s hard enough hitting a moving target.

I thought about disposing of the bodies. At first people let them collect their dead, but when it became more frequent, it was accepted that they could be thrown into the river. The Corrib flows so quickly it carries them out to sea. A pile of moccasins was left on the riverbank.

Whatever happens, it can’t carry on much longer. If they keep attacking this recklessly, there will be none left. And there are always recriminations. It’s hard to imagine what goes on in their minds – if they have minds at all. 

Suddenly there was more shooting. Next door! I dashed to the back bedroom. Maureen was aiming out of the window. They were clambering all over the back of Finbar’s bungalow.

‘Are we going to go and help?’ she asked.

‘Not if we can avoid it,’ I said. You don’t want to go hand to hand with these barbarians.

‘They’ve been helping us,’ she said.

‘Yes, but only from inside.’

She aimed and fired, missed. The bullet took a bite out of Finbar’s render.

‘I could take Danny and Brendan out back and come up on them from behind, I suppose.’

Danny had had the same idea and came bursting in.

‘They’re not going to be able to hold them off. We’ve got to help!’

He shows no fear, that boy.

‘Okay, you, me and Brendan,’ I said. ‘Stick close together.’

Right on cue, Brendan arrived and repeated what we’d already agreed. My heart pounded as I tied the laces on my gardening boots. I’d never actually been face to face with one before.

Danny had the machine gun poised. It’s an Uzi or something. I didn’t get involved in specifications. I do know it cost two thousand Euros; we had to postpone getting a conservatory. The Uzi has 32 rounds which allows several short bursts. I took a pistol off Maureen. Brendan took the shotgun and gave Nuala his rifle.

Susan opened the back door for us and pointed her rifle out as cover while we all rushed out. As we turned the corner, to my horror I saw the whole tribe swarming towards the back of next door, dozens of them! They weren’t even attempting to be quiet.

Before I could think about going back inside, Brendan was howling and firing, a bit carried away. 

‘Yippe-ki-yay, motherfuckers!’ he yelled and let loose with both barrels; a whole bunch of them seemed to fall back. It makes a hell of a noise, that shotgun. Danny calmly stepped forward and let a few short bursts go, rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat-tat. They were collapsing in a pile. I picked off a couple, one with a raised arm about to charge forward. 

It was an uneven battle on Finbar’s back wall. Three guns were firing constantly out of the bathroom window above and Mohicans were dropping to the floor. A couple were hammering at the patio doors beneath, but the Pilkington glass was holding out against the axes. Danny showed the foresight to get alongside before letting rip so that he didn’t shoot the glass. They make an awful yelp when they are hit. 

That’s when we took our one loss of the battle. Brendan was reloading, when one was suddenly upon him. He smashed into Brendan’s head three times with his tomahawk before he was shot from above. Two more ran towards Brendan’s wriggling body, and we all fired at once. They crumpled on top of him. Too late for poor old Brendan. By now the numbers were under control. To my delight, Maureen picked one-off halfway up the wall, and the rest turned and fled. 

Right on cue, the vigilantes appeared from the footpath; a group of five, well-armed, all wearing wide-brimmed hats. They mopped up five or six that had survived the raid. When we were shifting the Mohicans’ bodies afterwards, I noticed that their moccasins had been decorated with flowers. I wondered why they would do that. A couple of vigilantes went to check on Brendan, but it was obvious he was gone. He had been brave, but foolhardy. Perhaps it was because he was alone that he was so fearless. He lost his wife to cancer the year after we moved in. I promised myself there and then I’d make sure he had a proper Christian burial. 

Sirens sounded soon after that, and there were military and Gardaí everywhere. They’d made a hames of Finbar’s garden; it wasn’t going to be helped by dozens of people trampling all over it. We’d all join in relaying the lawn. We have a real sense of community round here. I’m afraid his roses are ruined for this year.

The leader of the vigilantes, who was wearing a Clint Eastwood style poncho, wanted a debrief. I invited everyone back for drinks even though it was breakfast time; it’s only polite. I told the leader, who called himself Earp, that he couldn’t bring his cheroot inside. The usual pattern is that everyone would congregate to discuss what had happened, and that would disintegrate into a serious drinking and boasting session. With all those muddy feet it’s a good job we had the hall tiled. Maureen was keen on that Karndean wooden flooring. Thankfully, I got my way for once! She took charge of drinks; it was a good opportunity to test out the new coffee machine. Nuala led everyone in a short prayer.

There will be an enormous clean-up project; the gate, the lawn and the patio for starters, and they’ve trampled all over my dahlias. That blasted ceiling will need re-plastering. At least they didn’t damage the BMW. Property prices aren’t going to recover anytime soon. Hopefully, this will be the last of the Mohicans, and we can all get on with our lives in peace.

The last event of the morning was when Susan drew everyone’s attention to a news story on RTE. Apparently, there has been an outbreak of Sioux in Sligo.

 

John D. Rutter completed an MA in Creative Writing at Lancaster University and a PhD at Edge Hill University where he has taught part-time for several years. His stories have been published as chapbooks by Nightjar Press and In Short Publishing, in anthologies by Unthank Books Quinn Publication, in the Lancashire Post, and online by Holland Park Press, 1,000 Word Story, The Short Story and Synaesthesia Magazine. His first novel, Approval, will be published in 2021 by Saraband Books.

Passing over the Ouse and through the town square, Lana reaches the heavy church door and pulls the iron handle towards her. Not knowing what she is looking for, she meanders through the church – its innards now a vintage store. The altar houses a collection of pottery from the 60s, whereas the nave, pews uprooted, contains furniture and kitchenware so out of date it has reinvented itself. Eclectic as her taste is, the 70s kitsch from Lana’s childhood lacks the style and timelessness of previous eras, so despite this impressive display, she cannot believe anyone will want orange and brown Tupperware in their kitchens again. She continues to browse the used items, even though she never buys anything. Instead, she imagines what her house will look like if she can ever afford any of these cultural leftovers.  

From across the room, the plastic phone draws her in; the bold curved shape gleaming despite its age. The yellow cradle holds a black receiver aloft. She walks over to it and admires the circular dial, also rimmed with black, its bold numbers peeking out of each hole. Her fingers reach into the gaps. Solid and real compared to the screen of her smartphone. She remembers the whirr of her mother’s less stylish beige model as the dial returned to its original place. She drags the number seven round with her delicate finger, watching and listening as it recoils. The cord, a tight black spiral, winds around the base of the old-fashioned telephone and disappears under the table.  

Lana steps deeper into the back of the store, where the lack of light drops the temperature by a couple of degrees. Angels stare down at her from the vaulted ceiling. The store, always quiet on a Monday lunchtime, is her private refuge. She avoids the weekend crowds, as sharing confined spaces with others makes her uncomfortable and somehow even lonelier. Never mind the fact he banned weekend shopping: Saturdays are for housework and Sundays for rest.

On Mondays, the owner minds his own business at the till, usually shuffling paperwork. He used to smile and offer a polite greeting. However, since she became a regular visitor, he barely looks up before catching her eye and returning to his work. He knows she won’t buy anything. The seclusion of the church makes Lana feel like Aladdin in his cave of wonders. Alone she indulges in fantasy lives. She contemplates the previous owners: imagining lonely widows. Relieved widows. Orphaned children, now adults, but always children when sorting through the remnants of their parent’s life, making unexpected discoveries, just like she had done. Her fingers drift to her mother’s eternity ring, loose on her index finger. Amongst the silence, she creates her own people to populate the displays. She gazes at the matching crockery set, evoking images of a happy family sharing a Christmas dinner; a Formica kitchen table laid for breakfast with the ugly Tupperware conjures up the bustle of children getting ready for school. The noise of families bickering fills her head. A noise she always envied as an only child. She places an elderly relative snoozing in an armchair built to last. She fills elaborate display cabinets, now empty and dusty, with family heirlooms, chipped and faded from the sun.  

The stone interior keeps the air cool. A refreshing change after the stifling heat of her office; with no windows or air-conditioning the summers drag by in a fog of sweat and body spray. The breeze picks moisture up off the Ouse and brings it in through the side door to caress her ankles. Its silty smell reaches her nostrils. Her circuit of the church complete, Lana drifts back towards the telephone.  

She leans forward, stroking the cradle with her fingertips, contemplating a purchase. It would create a focus in her hallway, a talking point, and a stark contrast to all the technology her husband has at home. Making it both more and less appealing at the same time. She lifts the handset to her ear. She expects the burr of the ring tone, but instead, the silence of the church whispers down the line. A hum reminding her of the shells she held to her ear as a child: the conch with the sound of the tide inside. How its soft sounds soothed her when she felt anxious. This telephone makes her feel the same. Comforted. She imagines it carries the sound of the Ouse inside it, the ripples of water sploshing as they lap the riverbank. Gently, Lana replaces the receiver and lets her eyes admire the chromatic design. Time feels as if it is standing still today. Her fingertips rest on the receiver, and she feels the vibration before she hears it ring.

A moment passes. Lana stares in disbelief at the ringing telephone. The tone shrill, reminiscent of a time when everyone answered the phone, not knowing who the caller would be. It feels strange to pick up a call and not know who will be on the other end of the line. She looks around for the owner. The ring of the bell continues to echo in the empty church. With no clue what else to do but with a desire for the silence of the church to be restored, she picks up the receiver.

‘Hello,’ Lana remembers the formal greeting her mother recited every time she answered the telephone and wonders if she should utter the store’s name as well, but before she can formulate the words in her mouth, a desperate voice reaches down the line.

‘Help. Help me. Please, is there someone there? Help me. I need help.’

Before her lips have chance to part, she hears the droning tone of a lost line and the sloshing of the ebbing river outside. There is nothing but the silence she longs for. Replacing the receiver slowly, Lana wonders what just happened. 

The interruption of the call unbalances her. She looks around. Nothing around her explains what she heard. She checks the phone again by holding the receiver to her ear.  The hush, hollow sound of the conch shell fills her head. The shop remains empty. Lana relishes the restfulness of this store; the halcyon atmosphere allows her to indulge in her daydreams. Pure escapism. Her husband – her overbearing husband – who began their marriage as caring and protective, soon morphed into a bully who hides behind his marital duties. Lunchtimes are her only freedom from his critical eye.  

Here, by herself, she doesn’t have to believe his snide comments. His verbal assaults, so carefully worded that any retort from her would seem petty and trite. He outwits her daily in a lexical war that she can never hope to win. But his daily victories are never enough. She gave up competing long ago and now only looks for respite, however short-lived. Her words dried up.

Lana’s thoughts drift back to the strange call. Who was asking for help? Why did they call this number? The silty smell of the river drifts through the door. Still alone, staring at the telephone, she questions her sanity first. She remembers the goosebumps. Each individual hair on the back of her neck lifting. The shudder that travelled down her spine. The call seemed as real as the telephone in front of her. 

Lana sways left, then right. The blood drains from her face. Her husband’s control paralyses her with fear so innate she cannot fight it. She doesn’t trust herself to help. She is trapped. No matter how much she hates her husband, Lana envies his power. His ability to disguise his marriage as a happy one to all who know him. Neighbours in their cul-de-sac call him the ‘nicest man in the village’: always offering them friendly advice or the loan of his latest power tools. They do not seem to mind his constant supervision. Sometimes, in public, he even manages to convince Lana with his elaborate game of charades. His talent for secret looks of menace and harm; his words like swords, each blow delivered smooth and concise, under the guise of innocent conversations. She winces, remembering vice-like grips under the table, pinching on the fleshy strip of her inner thigh, the squeeze of her sandaled toe under the heel of his boot. The whispered insults masquerading as sweet nothings.

When alone, the voice in her head is clear. Get out. Leave. Run away. But her courage always falters when she sees him. Who will believe her when she holds it all inside? She should have shared her pain sooner. Every bruise and every outburst hidden. After their wedding, she let her friends go and threw herself into marital bliss. But the honeymoon period withered, and his capacity for pleasure diminished with it. Nothing pleases him anymore. Not even sex.  

‘We’ll have sex when we want children, Lana.’

If her mother were still alive, she would only tell her marriages are tough. They need work, Lana. Not everything is a bed of roses.

How can she ask for help when other women suffer so much worse? Black eyes. Broken bones. Rape. She placates herself with his virtues: he provides for her, they own their own home, they have all the latest gadgets. No virtues ever erase the terror he fills her with. Her complaints like shallow puddles in comparison.  

She chose to marry him.  

So she keeps quiet.  

How can she help this woman if she can’t help herself?

As her lunch hour passes, Lana remains rooted to the spot, she admires the telephone again and the delicate tea set next to it. Trailing her fingers over the counter, she turns to leave the store. As always, purchasing nothing, but this time she takes with her an additional burden: the voice of the mysterious caller echoing in her head. Pleading with her for help.

The next day, the call and its anonymous voice dominate her thoughts. Like a worm, the words ‘help me’ writhe through her ear canal. Weakening her resolve. Lana resists returning to the store the next day: Tuesday means market day, and the store will be too busy. Feeling guilty, she blames her uncharitableness on self-preservation. Trapped within her marriage. Her husband’s criticisms mingle with the voice on the phone.

‘You’re useless. You’re pathetic. Your life is meaningless.’

‘Help me.’

‘You only have me. Without me, you’re nothing.’

His words ricochet around her skull, even when the distance between them extends to miles.

By the third day, she makes a decision. She may not be capable of leaving a loveless marriage and a tyrannical husband, but equally, she cannot resist the draw to help this woman. Would her will ever be her own? As lunchtime approaches, Lana grabs her handbag and leaves the office. Striding with purpose over the bridge, she stops for a moment to watch as the rowers power down the Ouse. The coach calls out from his bicycle on the river bank. The coxswain shouts orders to the rowers.

‘Spin, spin, spin, draw, length.’

Mesmerised, Lana’s eyes track the oars as they cut through the river’s glassy surface, causing a stir as the ripples slap at the bank. Each stroke of their arms propels the boat forward: forging ahead despite the pull of the current. The rowers disappear under the bridge, and Lana continues towards the church and the treasure trove of vintage homeware, which brings her such comfort.

In the passing days, the owner had moved his collection of goods around and for a split second Lana’s stomach sinks. The telephone has been sold. Frantically she scans each display, dismissing a new collection of kitchenalia she would normally be drawn to, without a second glance. Suddenly, she spots it. Set deeper into the church’s insides, right up at the altar, now displayed under an imposing gothic arch and mounted on a stylish Danish plant stand.

It sits, atop its pedestal, the iconic design resonating around the room. A ray of light breaks through the stained glass and ripples across its surface. She stares at the crucifix above it. A force pulls Lana across the church floor to stand in front of Christ. In front of this telephone.

The arrival of an Indian summer afternoon ensures the store remains deprived of custom, as locals walk the embankment instead. Lana spotted the owner sorting a box of books when she arrived, but now he is nowhere to be seen. The telephone lacks its label; with no description of its design pedigree or any details of its provenance, it seems worthless amongst the rest of the unwanted items. Everything else in the store is stamped with a price, a value – decreed by whom, Lana often wonders. She knows one man’s rubbish is another man’s treasure, but somehow she feels some items must be worth more to the original owner than the meagre sum on the tag. The history, the whys and wheres of a piece, always more interesting to Lana then its design lineage. The cord, now wound up and secured with a disintegrating rubber band, sits next to the phone. A pang of disappointment hits Lana when she sees the telephone is not connected. She realises now that she hoped it would ring again. Lana seeks out the store’s new arrivals; an interesting collection of tin plate advertisements now hang on the church wall.  

Taking a deep breath, she exhales loudly. The sigh’s echo magnifying the emptiness of the room. 

Once again, just as the silence seems too intense to bear, the phone rings.  Lana watches the receiver vibrate with the trill of the bell. It emanates from the telephone right up to the rafters. Lana’s eyes immediately fall on the cord. Laid next to the phone, neatly bound into a tight coil, still trapped by the yellowing rubber band.

Lana breathes deeply and slowly, reaching the count of five before she allows herself to react. Alone, she longs for the owner to make an appearance and answer his ringing phone. Lana tries pinching her arm. The sound stills cuts through the air.

Tentatively, she raises the receiver to her ear.

This time the voice splutters down the line first, ‘Hello.’ 

‘Help,’ gurgling as if stuck underwater, the voice calls out again.

‘Save me.’

The sound of a river rushes, like rapids tumbling over rocks with the force of an ocean behind them. The cacophonous noise bursts down the telephone and into Lana’s mind.

This time she manages to formulate a response.

‘Where are you?’

Lana grips the receiver so tightly her knuckles push upwards, the bone white under her translucent skin. The desperate voice tries to sound out a word but chokes out a breathless croak. The click of a terminated call follows. Lana finds no comfort in this silence.

Calmly, placing the receiver back in its cradle, she looks around for someone to share her story with. There is no one there. The empty store makes her swallow deeply. Relief swiftly replaces disappointment. Lana knew that she would sound crazy if she tried to tell anyone. Better to keep it a secret.

Heavy footsteps resonate on the flagstone floor. The owner crosses her path.  Words sit in Lana’s mouth. Trapped. He nods a silent greeting at his regular customer and wishes that one day she would buy something.

Once back at her desk, Lana browses her screen, considering the impossible phenomenon of the calls. She vows to herself that tomorrow she will buy the telephone. How else can she help the woman on the other end? If she raids her stash of spare change that she keeps in an old bottle hidden at the back of her wardrobe, her rainy day fund, or if she was ever brave enough, a runaway fund, she’ll have enough to buy the telephone.

The following day Lana’s workload does not allow her a break. Her distracted mind, mired by decisions she does not know how to make, slows her progress through her job list.

By the fifth day, Lana can no longer ignore the voice. She breaks for lunch and starts the walk over the bridge. The bipolar weather had abruptly changed the day before. The late blast of sunshine replaced by torrential rain that washed away the last dust of summer. The river swells with its new bounty. Edges of leaves curl and colour. A few scatter her path. The autumn arriving means winter will soon follow, and Lana feels unprepared for the return of long, dark evenings alone with her husband. She pushes the fear of more time at home aside and focuses on the voice. Today she will deal with the voice. She stops on the apex of the bridge to admire the view. There are no rowers, just the sunlight illuminating the surface between each passing cloud. Lana catches sight of her reflection and sees the sadness in her face. Ruined. Resigned.

As she crosses the church’s threshold, the phone rings. Rushing with anticipation, Lana’s shoes clack loudly, announcing her arrival in the vintage store as they reverberate off the ancient flagstones and damp stone walls. Lana no longer cares who watches as her hand flies to the receiver, grabbing the telephone with an urgency she does not understand.

This time the sound of water gushes around her head, its powerful music suppressing the screams of the woman underneath it. Lana hears her anguish. Lana feels her pain.

‘I’m here,’ Lana calls down the receiver.

‘Hold on for a bit longer,’ Lana begs.

Her nails dig deep into the palm of her hand, and the receiver is pressed so hard to her ear, the sound of the swirling water makes her dizzy.

The dampness of the church begins to penetrate Lana’s skin. Cold numbs her fingers and toes first, then creeps up her limbs. The deadline still transmits the sound of rushing water. Lana’s hands drop the telephone and hang limply by her side.  

The woman’s screams subside, but a deeper cry now bellows from beyond the water. A muffled shout for help.

Lana’s chest caves in.  

Her lungs gasp for air.  

Silt clings to her lips.

 

 

Kate Packman is a creative writing MA student at Birkbeck, London. When not writing or reading, she is the head of English in a middle school and for the last three years has chaired the annual Ampthill Literary Festival.

You stand transfixed, hugging the cork bark of the Baobab tree as warm liquid drips down your legs, staining your white socks yellow. You want to bend down and scratch because it’s itchy, but you are frozen to the playground. You watch them form a circle around you. The revulsion in their frowns and screwed up faces does not match the excitement in their flicking wrists.

     ‘She’s wet herself again, Ewwwww,’ shouts one of the girls, pinching her nose shut with her thumb and index finger, disgusted by a smell that has yet to arrive. The children become more animated now. They run in circles around you chanting, ‘Gross’ and ‘Disgusting.’ You have gone. Only your body is left behind. You have this ability to remove yourself from places you want to escape from; a kind of magic trick you have become very good at. When the options are fight or flight, you choose to freeze. You walk through the long corridor of your mind and find a library stocked with all the stories your grandmother told you. You reach for a book and blow the dust off, watching it fly around the dimly-lit room. It’s the story of the Baobab Tree.

     Long ago, when the gods were busy crafting shapes out of clay to make the animals, plants and people to fill up the world, they decided it would be fun to add a giant talking tree. At first, everyone in the heavens was delighted with the new tree, nurturing it with gentle rain and warms rays of sunlight. They decided to call it the Baobab tree. Now the Baobab tree talked all day and night, using each of its words to complain. When it whined about the sweltering heat, the gods sent down a cool breeze. But it soon became dissatisfied with the breeze too, saying it was much too cold. When the Baobab tree finally stopped complaining about its surroundings, it then began to moan about its own appearance. It wanted to be taller than the giraffes and prettier than the most beautiful flowers. Soon the gods were so fed up with the talking tree that they came down to earth to try and reason with it. But there was no pleasing the talking tree and so the gods were left with little choice. They pulled it out of the ground, turned it upside down and pushed it back into the ground head first. The tree could no longer say a word with its mouth filled with moist earth. 

     You feel sorry for the Baobab tree, who had to swallow all of its words, just like you have swallowed yours. Maybe that’s why you hug the tree to your chest. The sound of the school bell, ‘kong go lo lo lo, kongo lolo lolo,’ cuts through the air, bringing you back to the playground. You watch the circles of children turn and run towards the sound. They line up like soldiers outside their respective classrooms, leaving you behind. You feel the muscles in your body thaw and you wiggle your toes in wet socks. You unwrap your hands from the Baobab and squelch back in your black leather buckled shoes. You go to the bathroom to squeeze out the urine from your clothes. You splash some water onto your bottle green skirt and lift it as high as you can up to the hand dryer.

     When you get to class, everyone else is already in their seats and you avoid the eyes that follow. The teacher asks why you are late as giggles are muffled by palms throughout the room. The strong stench of urine rises up from your damp clothes and you imagine it snaking around the room, diving into the noses of your classmates and teacher.

     Your words stopped and the bedwetting started at the end of Ramadan. That was when your father’s sister, her husband and your two cousins visited from London. They stayed at your grandmother’s house for three weeks. During that time, there were many parties and dinners organised for the extended family to meet your aunt. It was the first time she’d travelled back to Africa since her arranged marriage. With so many bodies in the house, it was easy to lose count of all the running children and chattering adults. Your uncle from London was magnanimous with his gifts and compliments. He fooled them all. But you saw the hardness in his stone eyes before any of them did. Your stomach curdled when he looked in your direction and you tried to make yourself as small as you could. 

     It happened on the 27th night, the holiest day in the holiest month of the Islamic calendar. It’s called the Night of Power because it’s the very night that people believe the Quran was revealed. If you happen to be praying at the right time on this night, all your sins will be forgiven. All the adults went to the mosque for the special prayers, hoping for redemption. Your uncle said he had a migraine, pressing his temples down with his knuckles to prove how bad it was. He offered to look after the children since he wasn’t well enough to go to the mosque. The adults agreed with sympathetic eyes for the man who bought suitcases full of glossy gifts. You cried to go to the mosque, but your mother said you would get too tired and would be more comfortable at your grandmother’s house with all of your cousins.

     You remember the sound of the car tyres leaving the gravel driveway, filling your stomach with black butterflies. You were sleeping on a thin mattress on the floor of the living room when your uncle’s cold hands slid under the blanket. That was the first time you froze. You only remember it felt like there were a thousand tonnes of bricks on you and that you smelt the sourness of his heavy breath. You floated above your body on the thin mattress and saw all the other sleeping children scattered around the living room on their own mattresses. You watched their eyelashes flickering and you remembered your grandmother telling you that the angels kiss the eyelashes of sleeping children. You wondered if the angels noticed that your uncle was there with the sleeping children. You noticed the cream curtain wasn’t closed all the way and you looked out through the window to the dark outside, hoping that someone would see and come in. Nobody came and the darkness crept inside, leaving you feeling lonely and lost.

     ‘Fahima, are you listening to anything in this class,’ asks your geography teacher. You hadn’t noticed her standing over you, looking down through her glasses with round, magnified eyes.

‘Can’t understand what’s got into you these days. Your body is here, but you are clearly not! What a silly daydreamer you are becoming,’ she says disapprovingly. The class starts to laugh but her icy stare keeps them quiet. You look up at her, wanting to say something, but like the Baobab tree, your mouth is filled with black earth and no sound comes out.

 

 

Zahirra is an English language teacher with a Masters in Education. She teaches international students from all over the world and has lived in Zimbabwe, South Africa, The United Arab Emirates and the UK. She has worked at ChildLine as a volunteer counsellor. She has studied Creative Writing at the Open University and is currently editing the first draft of her first novel. Her favourite writers are Arundhati Roy, Tsitsi Dangaremba, Elif Shafak, Zadie Smith and Bernadine Evaristo.

The first time the man arrives at the ballet studio, the girls ignore him. An embarrassing father come to watch a class, probably, or a friend of Miss Maisie. In the cramped corridor of a changing room, the girls are more interested in staying warm, twisting their hair into tight knots at the base of their neck or searching for hairpins that escape silently across the concrete floor. 

 

Miss Maisie always lets the girls use the first few barre exercises to warm up – pliés, tendus, petit jeté, rond de jambe – before she nods sternly. This is the cue to remove their layers of woollen leg warmers and sweatshirts. She needs to see their legs, their hips, their shoulder blades that slide down their backs as their arms move like swans. 

 

Now the man is there too, watching, legs crossed on the stool by the piano, his foot tapping the air to the minuet. Rosie lets her eyes inch towards him, her gaze falling on his long, thin ankles that stretch out of black trousers. 

 

‘Eyes, Rosie’, Miss Maisie snaps as she walks along the row of dancers. ‘This is epaulment.’ 

 

Rosie lifts her gaze and returns her neck to the correct position. She can tell the man is watching her. His flat cap shadows his face, a high roll-neck jumper enclosing the edge of his jaw. Hands resting on his lap, his fingers dance lightly, mimicking the girls’ port de bras reaching down and up as their legs fondu.  Rosie used to do the same thing, those many years ago when her mother would bundle her into the corner of the studio, out of the way while she cleaned. Rosie’s mother arrived every day at four o’clock, dragging Rosie behind her, just as the school performed its nightly transition from a primary school into ballet studio. She would move swiftly in and out of the lavatories, classrooms and corridors while the assembly room shone with the light sweat of the dancers and the hard, familiar notes of the piano. When five-year-old Rosie had been unceremoniously dumped into the corner by the dusty box of rosin that left cream stains across her bottom, she hadn’t been able to sit still. This was magic, every dream come alive in front of her big green eyes. Miss Maisie had taken pity on her, and gradually, every week, Rosie had crept closer to the girls, until her little hand reached up to the lower barre, and she’d performed her first ever plié. 

 

In those early years, Rosie’s thoughts would drift longingly back to the ballet studio when they got home each evening. Her mother slopped baked beans onto Rosie’s plate, before turning away to curl up in front of the television, bottles lining up on the beer-stained coffee table. Rosie was left alone to read every story she could find about ballerinas: Paulina, Petrova and Posy were her sisters too as she put her ballet shoes away each evening into the pink cloth bag. She knew they listened to her through the pages of the book, her own story locked inside theirs. And every day, without fail, she turned up at the studio, Miss Maisie letting her join as many classes as she wished, until she became the studio mascot, an eternal sylph, swan, snowflake, entering the kingdom of the shades, prepared to dance to the end. Miss Maisie still terrified her, but the teacher’s severity was a solid beam that would never ignore her. 

 

The man is there again the next day, and the next, his face still hidden amongst grey, blue, black and charcoal wool that creeps up over his neck and chin. A few whispered words to Miss Maisie, and then he settles, watching the girls as they dance patterns on the floor with their feet. 

 

‘Get those heels down,’ Miss Maisie calls out to Rosie as she sautés and jetés and assemblés across the diagonal of the hall, the man’s eyes following her. On the Friday pas de deux class, the boys join them, five young men of different shapes and sizes, shared out amongst the girls. Rosie pirouettes, the boy catching her waist as she turns, and she sees a flash of his curls, then the man, then the boy, then the man as she whips her head around. Her body settles in front of the mirror, arms in first position, one leg bent up in retiré. The mirror is a new addition to the hall and it still surprises Rosie, catching her off balance. Her mind jumps, an uncontrollable jolt, to another vision in another mirror, an early memory perhaps, or something else she can’t understand. She is on the bathroom floor, cold water puddled around her thighs, and there is someone standing at the mirror, a long stream of red pooling down his face, neck, and into the sink. His torso is bare: red and brown streaks pattern his back, bruises blooming out of his ribs. 

 

The boy releases her and she ends the turn in a tight fifth position plié. 

 

Rosie is old enough to walk home alone now. She has been doing so for years, but now she is sixteen no one finds it strange anymore. Packing her pink pointe shoes into her bag and letting her hair fall around her shoulders, the kink from her bun lined across her neck, she waves goodbye to the others. The walk isn’t far, just a few minutes along the main road up to Summertown; she always takes the short cut through the alleyway to the flat where she lives alone with her mother. Her father left them before she can remember, a traitor her mother repeatedly hisses, giving them up to seek dirty money in the big city. Rosie vaguely remembers a train journey with her mother to find him, but they had returned home alone, no father collected from the shining lights of London. 

 

It is very dark on the road tonight and Rosie’s muscles ache from the cold. She walks quickly because she knows the man is following her. She doesn’t need to turn to look. She can sense him there, speeding up when she does, slowing to match her steps. He walks lightly, his head perfectly level, his shoulders held back above his proud, straight spine. When Rosie gets to the flat, she has her keys ready. But when she pauses at the door and turns back towards the black air, there is no one there. He has gone, vanishing into the night. 

 

Every evening now, Rosie plans her escape from this place. She has a list of dance schools that could save her. She wants to fly to them, a pink swan ready to take her place amongst the others. Tonight, she tries again to ask her mother. In all previous attempts, she has been ignored, her mother locked in a hazy-eyed trance that gives no space to her daughter’s needs. Her mother stopped cleaning the school several years ago, now only vaguely aware that Rosie still spends her hours at the studio, dancing, her talent spreading wide wings every day, ready to fly. Anything to get Rosie out of the way while she drinks and smokes out sweet cloud-rings from a pipe. 

 

This evening she is listening but will have nothing to do with it.

‘If you want to ruin your life with some disgusting queens prancing around in their underwear, don’t expect me to help you.’

And then something else, a new slice of knowledge, a whisper of the past that makes Rosie’s heart beat a little faster. 

‘If you want to end up like your father, don’t come crying to me.’ 

 

‘Like your father’, Rosie repeats to herself as she brushes her teeth. Behind her, in the mirror, she can see the face again, a red rip from his hair line to his eyebrow. She closes her eyes: when she opens them, he has gone. 

 

Saturday classes are in the morning which always gives the studio a fresh, clean look, light pooling in around the shadow of the oak tree that watches outside the window. The man is there again. There is something different this time. They all notice a change in the room, Miss Maisie laughing by the piano, the man smiling. The girls have started gossiping about him now: he is Miss Maisie’s lover; he is an MI6 spy come to recruit new agents; he is a casting agent for a London show; he wants to make them all famous. But then the class starts as normal, the pianist pressing the notes of the waltz with firm joviality. 

 

Rosie is aware of him watching her, making no attempt to hide the direction of his interest. The others start to notice, and they prod and poke her teasingly as they line up in the corner for grand allegro. Rosie steps out into the room: grand jeté, pas de bourée, assemblé en tournant. A spot of light meets her halfway. He is smiling today, an open smile no longer hidden by the rolls of his jumper. He wears a tight white t-shirt, his long arms strong and tanned, his wash-board flat stomach clearly visible. He taps his foot to the rhythm of the dance. In the bright light of the morning, he cannot sit still. 

 

The class ends and Rosie starts to leave with the others, but Miss Maisie calls her back. She turns and walks over to her teacher, little beads of sweat running down the back of her pink leotard. 

 

‘There is someone I want you to meet, Rosie,’ Miss Maisie says softly, drawing her towards the stool where the man waits, still watching. Her teacher looks a little nervous, uncertain, anxiously turning her long thin neck from Rosie to the man. 

 

He nods at Miss Maisie and she smiles a small smile, stage fright over. ‘Mr Croft is director of a ballet school in London. He would like to invite you to join the school, from September.’ 

 

Rosie blinks at them both. Something else is lurking behind Miss Maisie’s words.

 

‘Why?’ Rosie finds herself asking, before she can think of something else to say.

 

He stands up and raises his hand a little. He is going to speak. Before he does so, he reaches up and removes his cap. A scar line, mottled dark pink, runs from his hair line across his forehead to his left eyebrow.

 

He twists his cap in his hands, his long thin fingers winding the fabric.

 

Rosie sees through him into the wide mirror; the shattering of glass opens her memory. Her mother holding a kitchen knife. The blood is fast, a dancing firebird.

 

 

Lucy Ashe is an English teacher. She writes reviews for Playstosee.com and currently has a dystopian novel out on submission to agents. Her poetry and prose are published in Truffle Literary Magazine, 192 Poets’ Directory, One Hand Clapping, and Ink Sweat and Tears. She was a semi-finalist in the London Independent Short Story Prize.Twitter: @LSAshe1

My father left Damascus like a lover creeping from his mistress’ bed in the dark of night. He didn’t even look back towards her as she slept unawares. He left her, but she had her revenge, as she would haunt him throughout the years.

“I arrived in London amidst the smog of the 60s,” he would say.

“In the beginning, I found it very difficult that there was one day I remember just sitting on a curb in Bermondsey and crying.”

He was 18 years old.

“Why did you leave Baba?”

“The ambition of youth, plus your grandmother having died, there was nothing keeping me there. My waters had dried up as the Syrian saying goes.”

Baba watered my childhood with his reminisces that eventually flowered through the yearly vacations and trips to Syria. I gradually learnt to understand his love for Damascus. He would often tell me that once you drink from the springs of Barada, you are overcome by an eternal love for the place.

“Baba I’ve heard people say that about the Thames!”

“Rubbish…there is no water like that of Barada!”

***

“Ladies and gentlemen this is your pilot speaking. We have just been cleared to land at Beirut International Airport. We will be landing at 0030 hrs local time; the temperature is 10 degrees and the skies are clear—”

I look out of the window at the boisterous lights of Beirut breaking the boundaries of the Mediterranean Sea, trying not to spill over. The plane tilting sideways to give me a panoramic view of the Levant’s approaching majesty. 2017, and it has been 6 years since my last visit to Syria. No longer able to fly direct, you have to take a detour via Lebanon. I look at the empty adjacent seat that reminded me that I had gone against everyone in my determination to make this trip. My companion backing out last minute. My life also on detour, to where I don’t quite know.

At passport control, I fumble around for my documents, handing over my Syrian ID card.

“Do you have a visa to stay in Lebanon?”

I’m still rummaging.

“If not, you will need to be across the border within 24 hours or risk deportation.”

“Sorry, here it is.” I hand over my British passport.

His face contorts into a plastic smile.

“Welcome to Lebanon,” he says.

“Don’t worry I have a taxi waiting for me, I will be in Damascus in less than three hours.”

Asshole… under my breath.

Thud, stamp, passport.

I exit the airport into the thick of night and the gnawing January air. Solitary in my apprehension and wondering where my taxi driver is and all but eager to reach Syria safely. A car approaches and he rolls down the window.

“Bayan?”

“Yes, are you Abu Ahmad?”

“Yes!” He jumps out to help me with my luggage.

Grateful to get into the gaudy taxi, I look over at him, barely able to move his limbs from being so over-dressed.

“Are you cold, akhti?”

“No, no, I’m fine thank you.” I stifle a smirk. I can’t help but smile, remembering how averse Syrians are to the cold. The engine starts and I feel apprehension crushing my chest as we begin to snake our way towards the mountain ranges, through Zahle and eventually the border. I watch Lebanon disappear behind us and the cedar tree flag gradually flutter out of view as we drive along a no man’s land.

“Can you see? Not a light in sight! The war has drained the coffers,” he says.

He hasn’t drawn breath from the moment we left the airport. It’s been one monotonous small- talk-heavy exchange. I am trying to be polite, but all I can concentrate on is the desolation. I am watching the car curve along into a new unknown. The headlights seem useless barely making a dent upon the night. I strain my eyes in an attempt to see the terrain that I remember, to see the country that I love, to recognise some semblance of the past. Impenetrable.

This is not the Beirut-Damascus exchange…normally bustling with commuters. Cedars in the rear, jasmine on the approach. The closer we seem the heavier my heart begins to feel. My only fear on having made my way to Heathrow a few hours earlier, was that I want to remember Syria as it was. I don’t want my memories stolen along with the souls that I have lost. I want to retrace some footsteps as if walking backwards in the snow, savour them one last time I suppose. I don’t know, it all sounds like a bad idea now.

The taxi, a migraine in itself, the chandelier is jingling and really jarring on me. The worry beads swaying above the mirror at every bend in the road, not to mention the incessant intrusive questions. He means well, but I’m just tired.

“What brings you back?”

“How much do you earn?”

“How old are you?”

“Are you married?”

God! Will he not stop? I think. Next, he will want to know what contraception I’m on!

Ya Allah, please make him stop! Maybe if I tilt my head against the window and pretend to sleep, maybe then he will allow me a moment with my thoughts. He taps me on the shoulder. Lord!

We roll into the first checkpoint.

“Don’t say anything, let me do the talking, don’t say you have any foreign currency, just don’t say anything at all!”

“Ahlan Abu Ahmad!”

Huge soldier slaps him on the back.

“Look at you, looking well, this taxi driving must be a prosperous number for you?”

“Allah wakeel Abu Tarek, I barely make enough to feed my four children. This is my second job as you know.”

I watch him hand over packs of cigarettes and rolls of cash to the hyenas sitting around on cheap plastic chairs. I can see their AK47’s propped up and ready. One of them is tending to a coffee pot on a gas canister as he looks up and stares at me. I hold his gaze as I wonder how much money he has made from the desperation of people crossing this very border.  How many free cigarettes has he lined his tarred lungs with? How many people has he detained and stopped metres short from freedom? Blood money.

Abu Ahmad breaks my thoughts.

 Yala akhti, come out we need to go into customs.”

Empty. Gone is the chaos of people trying to obtain their stamps. There are two men sat at the desk beneath the mandatory portrait of Bashar and his beady blue eyes that seem to follow me around. I hand over my passport and ID card. He looks up at me with contempt at having seen the foreign passport, stamping it and all but throwing it back. One violent entry stamp and I am given the permission to continue down towards the Damascus basin. We speed off.

The view as we reach the monument of the Unknown Soldier, the lights…a raven mane studded with diamonds.

 “At least this is the same,” I say.

Tears begin to pool in the corners of my eyes.

 “You are lucky the electricity is back on, they cut it every three hours. Where are you staying?”

“Muhajarrin, district 10.”

 “That’s very high up, akhti! Only thing being is that to get into Muhajarrin, checkpoints, and more checkpoints. You are literally perched right up Bashar’s arse, so they will check every in and out!”

“Funny how he chose to remain in a house amidst the civilian population!” I retort.

Electricity suddenly cuts. Black. A veil envelopes Damascus obscuring her gemmed hair.

Checkpoint.

We stop and I am blinded by the torchlight that is being thrust in my face.

“Where are you going?”

“Muhajarrin, district 10, I am visiting my cousins, my name is Bayan Al Turki, this is my ID.”

…and all I want to do is get to my cousins shitty flat.

“What happened to our country?” I whisper to Abu Ahmad.

The soldier takes out what looks like an improvised bomb detector and shoves it under the car while the other illuminates his view. Cursively they shine the light throughout the back of the taxi, glaring at us before beckoning us through.

“Stop the car please I need to vomit!”

I heave my nerves out onto the sidewalk. He passes me a bottle of water, and I try to wash the fear from my face. Nothing could have prepared me for this.

“Use the water sparingly,” he says.

I’m not quite sure why he is saying this.

The streets are quiet, empty, bar the filthy street cat that looks up at me, as I drink out of the Bukein water bottle. I pour some out as it dashes towards me and starts lapping it up.

“Even the cats are thirsty,” he says.

Still, I don’t understand.

The taxi struggles up the mountainside, screeches to a halt and I am jostling to grab my belongings as there is a soldier telling us to move on. I am barely on the pavement and I watch the car disappear like water down a plug hole. I fill my lungs with relief, I am here in one piece at least. My cousins – abandoned by time – in a decaying flat they inherited from a dilapidated great aunt. It clings to Mount Qasyun like a baby to its mother’s breast. I haul my suitcase up the staircase and knock on the door and I’m almost immediately engulfed by hungry limbs. Oh god, the familiarity of their smell, the incense and jasmine that transports me to the stalls outside the Umayyad mosque. It smells like childhood memories. Layers of moth-eaten cardigans, scarves and shawls, and Hana’s thick-rimmed glasses, she is kissing me and pulling at my luggage entreating me to sit, while offering me a blanket. The only source of heat coming from an old diesel stove in the back room. I’m sure to die of carbon monoxide poisoning before any bullet can get at me. She insists on swaddling me. I examine their faces through the dim candlelight, they have aged, seem shorter and somewhat concave. Their complexions sallow as they examine me intently, hurling questions right and left. Their faces…war-beaten.

“How is khalo and mart khalo?” They ask in unison like Siamese twins.

“How are your children? Mashallah, we see their pictures on your mother’s Facebook! So beautiful!”

I look around, taking in the old family photos. The sofa that my aunt would always occupy all the way up until death claimed her in her sleep. I imagine her having dissolved into the cushions. They are rushing around to make me some tea, yet I am numb from my journey, everything seems familiar but unfamiliar. I am trying to process. It’s clear that they are in full blown ‘war mode’, yet are treating my impromptu visit no different than any other. Suddenly the electricity switches back on, they dash over to make sure the phones are in the chargers, and to recharge the battery-powered lamp. The lights, without mercy, reveal the decay of the flat and its inhabitants. I always knew deep down the journey back was going to be hard, but the more I see, the more I wish that the lights would stay out, that the sun not rise.

 

By morning I have succumbed to the several layers to keep out the cold. Lama is snoring gently as I wake to the call to prayer. I tiptoe past to get to the bathroom. Twisting the tap, the pipes groan in agony from behind the tiles giving forth little more than a spurt. I twist again, both ways, nothing but the remnants of a rusty tanker. Hana pops her head round the corner.

“Habibti we should have warned you…there is no water, the rebels cut off the supply from Ain al-Fija. What you used last night was our last of the tanker.”

“So, what do you do?”

She hands me a massive Jerry can.

“Get dressed,” she says.

With two Jerry cans in tow, I come out into the piercing blue momentary bliss. The view, there it is, the birds compassing above and beneath the morning canopy. Then I see the people coming from all avenues, with their buckets, containers, wheelbarrows and buggies. The old, the young, all heading in one direction. I join the pilgrimage as I look around me at the stories etched on their faces.

I ask a woman next to me.

“Where are we going exactly?”

“Just to the next street, there are three taps, we will have to queue for a while.”

A camera crew appears from nowhere.

“Why are they filming?” I ask her.

It’s the Syrian National TV.

“Yes, but what are they doing?”

I spoke too soon as they stick the camera in my face.

“Tell us miss, what do you think of the water facilities here that thanks to our benevolent president, has been opened up to counteract the rebel’s act of aggression in cutting off water supplies to the city?”

My Camden girl element heats up…

“Are you being serious? Is that…is that a serious question? Can you not see for yourselves? I’ll tell you what I think of the fucking taps!”

Camera cuts and they hurry off.

“You should be careful miss, you can’t speak like that. They are all Mukhabarat. Get your water and go home, I can see that you have come from outside, please be careful.” Fear in her eyes.

Eventually, I hurl the Jerry cans back up, as I watch a small child not much taller than her can drag hers. Damascus has been somewhat spared the worst of the conflict, but seeing this is just too much to take in.

In the bathroom I crouch my nakedness over a bucket, my body angry with cold. Jealously safeguarding every drop, making sure that they fall meticulously back in so that I can use them over and over and over, as Lama brings me in a boiled saucepan full and pours it in to warm me up. Today I cherish every atom of H2O. I wash my face, my body, my hair, brush my teeth, and finally flush the toilet with my one bucket of well-used water.

 

I needed to get home, or rather I wanted to go home. Before setting off from London I had asked my parents for the keys to our flat. Two days later I got a call telling me they had been misplaced.

“What do you mean misplaced, Mum?”

“It’s been six years. We haven’t been back in six years. You will have to take a locksmith up,” she said.

“He will think I’m a squatter trying to illegally occupy!”

“Don’t be dramatic, the caretaker will be there to confirm your identity.”

 

A bucket full cleaner, I set off down the mountainside to the street they call the Line.  I always thought that it was called this in reference to the old tram lines that used to run through Muhajirin. Today there is a line, a line of humanity queuing as far down the road as I can see. Queuing behind two enormous Red Crescent water tankers. The air smells thick of acquiescent defeat; the people are tired. Tired of a government that is willing to kill every last one of us in order to cling to power. Oh god, why did I come? What was I running from or to? What questions did I need answering? I need a locksmith to open the door so that I may rummage through my memories for answers.

I peer through his frontage into a quagmire of bolts, locks and keys piled in organised chaos.

“Marahaba akh.”

He looks up at me from his newspaper.

“How can I help you, akhti?”

“I lost my keys, I need you to open my front door. It’s been six years.”

“Hmm this is not a simple request, the police could get involved, and do you have any relevant documents?”

“Well, only my ID, plus the caretaker will be able to vouch for me.”

He hesitates but only momentarily, and then starts looking through his locks. He places a selection before me.

“Which one would you like?”

“I’d not thought that far ahead! The most secure, I suppose.”

“This one is made in China, the cheapest. This one is German, but the best are the Yales…hard to come by now, they are smuggled in, and that’s why they are the dearest. But the German locks are still reasonably priced and a sturdy choice.”

“Ok, well I will take the German one.”

He grabs his toolbox and locks the store up.

“Where is your car?” he asks.

“Sorry, but I don’t have one.”

Squeezed into a microbus tight with far too many commuters, we wind our way up and over towards my front door that I had locked years ago, under entirely different circumstances. There are stickers on the window, prohibiting the use of mobiles at the checkpoints: I take a picture of it. In the daylight, it is clearer as to how many there are. My thoughts are often disturbed by the echo of gunfire when suddenly I hear the thud of a mortar hitting the ground in the not so far distance. I spin around nervously for eye contact, for assurance, but everyone is oblivious. I look out at the green spaces that are no longer green, but rather parched nakedness. Damascus is dishevelled, ravaged like a woman brought to her knees. I can hear her weeping upon the breeze. People would say they didn’t want to go back and see her, they wanted to remember her in her glory. I understand now.

There it is, my front door, as he takes out a drill and begins disfiguring the lock. I push open on the vault to my past. Six years of dust particles prancing upon the beams of light streaming through into the tomb.

I collapse into a chair surrendering to the tears that have been slowly welling up from the moment I embarked at Heathrow.

The locksmith, his face, he also understands.

“Akti, have faith in God, place your blessings upon the prophet. Stop crying.”

“I’m sorry.”

He stands there out of some sort of brotherly duty. He doesn’t have to, his job is done, but he stands there in silence like a sentry to my mourning. I stop. He places the new set of keys in my hand. Non-descript German set of keys, keys to an empty carcass of a flat. Keys to a graveyard of memories. The life I had known was lost to the past, lost to the war, along with the keys. He leaves.

I close the door and open the balcony shutters to let in a bit of light.

 

That’s the balcony where that summer, my sister got me wasted on cokes and vodka.

“Bayan look what I have!” she said, with a mischievous glint in her eye.

That night on the balcony amidst the stars and the August heat, along with all the neighbours on their balconies. Those who were smoking their hubble bubbles, the animated backgammon player that kept swearing at his khara luck and the lovers exchanging clandestine glances. Sit there long enough and you had a Rear Window into their lives. You would hear the conversations, arguments, jokes…even lovemaking, a curtain twitchers heaven. I remembered my mother telling me to grow up that night.

“Come inside before the neighbours see you, Bayan!”

As I rugby tackled my sister to the floor.

“The scandal! You girls are out of control…you’re a mother, Bayan you should have more sense, you will wake the baby up!”

Fits of giggles, Mum gives up.

“I seek forgiveness from Allah, I wash my hands of you both!” As her hand went to her mouth to hide the smile invading her face.

 

Every corner of this flat retells a story, every piece of furniture a witness to my life as it was. Pulling back the dust sheet from on the side cabinet, I open its door, and there it is, the vodka bottle still in the place that we had hidden it. Waiting for someone to pick up from where we had left off and be merry all over again. Most of the balcony shutters are closed now.

I need to pee, thankfully the cistern has the contents of its last refill. I open the tap…not so lucky. I look at myself in the mottled mirror, at the tear-stained countenance staring back at me. All I want to do is wash my face. I rub furiously at the sadness streaking my cheeks. Maybe I should wash it with the vodka.

 

I was drunk that night, bent over a bucket for an entirely different reason, as I pleaded with the elephants to refrain from jumping on my head. My sister laughing uncontrollably as she held my hair up, while I filled it.

“All I gave you was two glasses you’re such a lightweight!”

It was all so vivid, yet so distant as well. My baby girl waking up for her feed the next morning.

“Your mummy has had a night off and has been super bad.” As I guiltily fed her a substitute bottle of formula.

That mottled mirror witnessed me cupping my breast and gently squeezing on the nipple in a downward motion to encourage the flow of milk. Milk washing away with the water pouring from the tap unrationed. My sister walking in conveniently at that very moment.

“What are you doing?!”

“I’m trying to get the vodka laced milk out of my tits you idiot!”

“I should get social services onto you when we get home!” As she ran out laughing.

 

The reflection I see now is so far removed from that hung over carefree summer morning. I wish I can express the melancholy out of my body. I wish there were a contraption to expel the empty misery that has replaced the abundant milk. I can’t stand being in here much longer, there are too many ghosts tugging at my sleeves asking me where I have been. I close the shutters, slam the door and with that awful bunch of keys, I lock the memories back into their tomb.  I step out onto the street. Thirsty. The flat has dehydrated my senses and spat me out without a trickle of water, nor a single answer.

A bygone traveller to the city once wrote, ‘begirt with gardens and orchards and watered in and out by waters, rivers, brooks and fountains cunningly arranged to minister to men’s luxury.’

“Can I have a bottle of water please?” As I enter the local grocery store.

I catch the microbus back to Muhajirin. I greet my cousins and with no time to lose, I make ready the jerricans to go and fetch our evening’s supply of H2O.

 

 

Farrah Akbik is a British-Syrian based writer that writes to raise awareness of the hardships of Syria and Syrian refugees, particularly women. Born to a Syrian father and Moroccan mother, she resided in Syria over two periods during her childhood and later as a young adult, where she studied English Literature and Language at Damascus University. She is currently doing her Masters in Creative Writing in London.