If You Were Me Read online

  They drove me to a big ugly police station and put me in a room without windows. Half of one wall was made of darkened mirror. The rest of it was empty except for a camera on a metal stand, four plastic chairs and a metal table with a tape recorder on it. Another woman came in. She wore a creased blue suit; her hair was short and brown with ragged orange tips. She said her name was Detective Constable Audrey Callhoun. She unlocked my handcuffs and asked me very slowly if I wanted an ‘in-ter-pret-er’.

  ‘I . . . I don’t need one.’ I struggled to breathe. I was used to fear: the dull ache that had always been with me when Behrouz was on patrol with the British soldiers, the fierce panic I’d felt when we were escaping from the Taliban, and the shuddering sweats I get when I’m up high or in the dark. But the fear I was feeling then was thick and paralysing like the terror in a dream. I pushed out the words, trying to keep my voice steady. ‘Please. Why am I here?’

  She was watching me closely and her voice was firm but low. ‘You’re not under arrest. We’ve brought you here as a witness. We think you can help us.’

  I didn’t believe her. ‘A witness? I can’t help you. I haven’t seen anything.’

  ‘Can you tell me your name?’

  ‘Aliya Sahar.’

  ‘How old are you, Aliya?’

  ‘Fourteen. Where is my sister?’

  ‘She’s all right. She’s upstairs with a social worker.’

  ‘She doesn’t like strangers. She needs to be with me.’

  ‘She’ll be fine. The social workers are specially trained to deal with distress. We just want to talk to you. But first, I have to search you.’

  I backed away, pulling the blanket tighter. ‘Why? What are you looking for?’

  ‘Please, Aliya. This is important for you as well as us.’

  I let go of the blanket and slowly lifted my arms, burning with shame as she patted me and prodded me through my thin nightdress. When she’d finished, she handed me a bundle of clothes. ‘Here, we brought these from your flat. You can put them on in the ladies.’

  She led me across the corridor to a cold bare cloakroom that had green and black tiles on the walls, a lock on the window and a chipped mirror nailed above the sink. She waited outside. I could see the shape of her body darkening the glass in the door. I went into a cubicle and pulled on the salwar-kameez I’d been wearing the night we left Kabul. It was clean. I’d washed it many times since then but to me it would always smell of fear and diesel and Mina’s vomit.

  A young policeman with a freckled face and hair the colour of sand followed us back, carrying a tray with tea in a paper cup and a cheese sandwich wrapped in plastic. When I caught him staring at me, he looked away.

  ‘Thanks, Mark.’ The woman detective took the tray.

  ‘That’s OK. Give us a shout if you need anything else.’

  Her voice was sharp and easy to understand, whereas his was soft and he drew out the sounds in a way that made words sound strange. I didn’t want the sandwich and I only took the tea because I thought that holding something would help me keep my hands still. As we sat down at the table a tall, angry-looking man came in, pulling a jacket over his crumpled shirt. There was stubble on his chin and he smelt of sweat. He switched on the tape recorder, then leant back, pushing his fingers through his dark greasy hair.

  ‘I’m Detective Inspector Terry McGill. I need to ask you some questions.’

  ‘I’ll try to answer anything you ask,’ I said, respectfully. ‘But first, please take my sister home. My mother too. She’s sick. She takes tablets. She shouldn’t be here.’

  ‘I’ve just spoken to your mother, Miss Sahar. My colleagues will be finished with her soon.’ His eyes were accusing, as if my mother had told him something bad about me.

  ‘Why are we here? Please, you have to tell me.’

  ‘We’ll get to that.’ He tilted his head to one side. ‘Where did you learn such good English? I understand you only arrived here three weeks ago.’ He said this as if speaking English was a crime.

  ‘My parents taught me. My mother used to teach languages at the University of Kabul. English and French.’

  He frowned. I think he was surprised that my mother hadn’t always been the blank, staring creature she was now.

  ‘And your father?’

  ‘He studied to be a doctor in London.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘In the 1970s.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘He died. A year ago.’

  ‘How?’

  Tears burnt my eyes. ‘Why do you want to know this?’

  Detective Callhoun leant forward. ‘Please don’t get upset, Aliya, we just need to establish—’

  He silenced her with flick of his hand. ‘Answer my question, Miss Sahar.’

  ‘There was an explosion near the hospital. A Talib suicide bomber . . . my mother has been sick since that day. She has to go home. She’s not strong. She’s –’ I searched for the right English word – ‘depressed.’

  ‘I’ve told you. Your mother will be released as soon as we’ve finished questioning her. So your father wasn’t killed by Allied action?’

  ‘No. It was a Talib. I told you.’

  ‘What about the rest of your family? Any of them killed or injured by British forces?’

  ‘No. Everyone we have lost was killed by Talib fighters . . . or Russians. My grandfather was killed by the Russians, but that was before I was born.’

  ‘You have a nineteen-year-old brother, Behrouz.’

  The dark coldness crept up my throat. I swallowed hard to make it go back. ‘Yes’

  ‘Are you close?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘Yesterday. In the morning.’

  ‘Where did he go?’

  ‘To work. He drives a minicab.’

  ‘Did he come back to the flat that day?’

  I knew he was testing me to see if I would tell him lies.

  ‘Yes.’ I fixed my eyes on his. ‘He came back in the morning when I was at the shop.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He gave my mother his new telephone number.’

  Something passed across his face. ‘Do you have that number?’

  ‘It’s on a paper in my purse.’

  He glanced at Detective Callhoun. She nodded and made a note.

  ‘Why did he change it?’

  ‘I . . . I don’t know.’ Please don’t ask about his old phone. Please don’t make me lie.

  ‘Is that the truth?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where did he go after work last night?’

  ‘I don’t know. He didn’t come home to eat and he didn’t answer his phone. I called the cab company where he works and they said that he –’ I felt his eyes boring into me – ‘that he brought his car back early in the morning and didn’t work that day.’

  ‘Did that surprise you?’

  ‘Yes. He tries to earn as much as he can. He is proud. He hates taking benefit money.’

  ‘Do you have any idea where he went?’

  ‘No. I was worried in case he’d had an accident.’ The policeman’s face was like stone. The darkness filled my mouth and made my words into a muddle. ‘Why? I don’t . . . Where is he? What’s happened . . .?’

  His voice didn’t change. His eyes didn’t blink. ‘At four a.m. this morning there was an explosion in a lock-up garage in Kilburn. When the fire brigade arrived, they found your brother inside.’

  ‘No!’ I jumped up. The room swam around me. I reached for the table.

  ‘Is he . . . dead?’

  ‘No.’ Detective Callhoun reached over to touch my hand. I pulled away from her. ‘He’s concussed and badly burnt. He’s in intensive care.’

  ‘I have to go to him.’

  Inspector McGill was still staring at me, hard. ‘Sit down, Miss Sahar. He won’t be having visitors until he’s been questioned and that can’t happen until he’s conscious.’

  The r
oom was still spinning. I could hear my breath coming very fast. ‘Questioned? What about?’

  He leant forward, his face so close I could see the broken veins on his nose. ‘His terrrorist activities, Miss Sahar.’

  Shock shook my body, making my voice quiver and jump. ‘I . . . I . . . don’t understand.’

  He leant back, folding his arms. ‘Then let me spell it out for you. That lock-up was where your brother made his bombs. And he’s in hospital because one of his devices went off while he was working on it.’

  ‘No . . .’ Darkness closed over me. For a few seconds I sat there gasping, my hands opening and closing as if I might catch the right words to explain the terrible mistake this hard-faced policeman had made. But all I could whisper was, ‘He is not a terrorist. Please. You must believe me.’

  His eyes were drilling into mine, searching for something I hoped wasn’t there. ‘He studied engineering,’ he said.

  This was madness. He was taking something good and turning it into evil. ‘That doesn’t make him a bomb-maker. He wanted to rebuild our country, to make roads and bridges. Me too.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I also want to be an engineer.’ I said it defiantly, proud of my ambition. He made a note and from the way he glanced at the woman I knew that somehow I had made things worse.

  ‘In addition to the chemicals in the garage, we found a number of electronic detonators with his fingerprints on them. Can you explain how they got there?’

  I felt weightless, as if my mind had left my body. I didn’t understand what was happening. All I knew for certain was that Behrouz was innocent. ‘I . . . I . . . it’s a mistake.’

  ‘Did he resent the presence of foreign troops in Afghanistan?’

  Anger snapped me back into my body. ‘No! He worked for the British army. He was an interpreter. They gave him a medal for saving three soldiers. If we hadn’t come to England the Taliban would have killed him. Like they killed my father!’

  ‘I told you to sit down, Miss Sahar. Calm yourself.’ I sank back on to the grey plastic chair. ‘There have been countless incidents of Afghan nationals turning on their foreign employers.’

  ‘Not Behrouz. He would never hurt anyone. Someone else put those chemicals in that garage. When Behrouz can speak, he’ll tell you what happened.’

  Detective Callhoun cut in quickly. ‘You need to prepare yourself, Aliya. Your brother’s injuries are very bad. He may never regain consciousness.’

  She was just pretending to be kind. She didn’t care that he was injured, maybe dying. I closed my eyes to shut out her face. All I saw in the darkness was fear and danger and confusion.

  ‘Have you heard of a terror group called Al Shaab?’ the man said.

  I looked at him, bewildered. ‘I think maybe on the news. Last year. They planted some bombs in Helmand, I think, and . . . and maybe Lahore . . . I . . . I don’t know.’ Why was he asking me this?

  ‘They contacted us. They told us that your brother was working for them.’

  His words slipped into my brain like a thin sharp blade. ‘No! They’re lying!’

  ‘They identified him by name at least half an hour before we’d established his identity.’ The blade slid deeper, probing for doubt.

  ‘Anyone could pretend they’re from Al Shaab. Anyone could tell you these lies.’

  ‘The caller gave us details of a foiled bombing attempt carried out by Al Shaab earlier this year.’ He kept his eyes on mine.

  ‘I don’t understand . . .’

  ‘Those details were known only to the bombers and the security services.’

  ‘No . . . somebody is doing this to him.’

  ‘Why would they do that, Miss Sahar? Does he have enemies?’

  ‘Only the Taliban. He got away from them in Afghanistan. Maybe they came after him here.’

  He waved his hand dismissively. ‘They couldn’t stage something like this. It’s not how they operate. Now, we need you to tell us about your brother’s associates.’

  ‘Associates?’ I glanced at Detective Callhoun.

  ‘Friends, acquaintances, work mates,’ she said.

  I searched my head for names. ‘There’s his boss, Mr Khan, and he’s mentioned a dispatcher called Corella, and some other drivers – Steve, I think . . . and Liam and Arif, and someone called Geoff, and he talks to Mrs Garcia from the refugee drop-in centre. He used to talk to some men who live in our block, but he doesn’t like them and he told me to keep away from them, and sometimes he says hello to Mr Brody downstairs, but he only shouts at us.’

  ‘Has Behrouz visited a mosque since you’ve been in the UK?’

  ‘No. He’s not very religious.’

  He stared at me hard. ‘Have you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you religious?’

  I hung my head, ashamed. ‘No. Not really.’

  ‘Did you notice any change in your brother’s behaviour recently, anything unusual?’

  ‘He seemed unhappy, afraid . . . I . . . don’t know.’

  The look that passed between the two detectives made me feel like a traitor and I knew I was right not to tell them about the gun. They wouldn’t understand. They would think it was proof he was a killer.

  ‘What do you think was making him unhappy?’

  ‘He’s been through a lot. I told you, the Taliban tried to kill him, he wants to finish his studies but he can’t because we have no money, he’s worried about my mother and my sister. It’s not strange that he’s unhappy. It’s normal.’ My words sounded hollow, even to me.

  ‘Did he spend time at any other properties?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. He works and he sleeps. He doesn’t have time to go anywhere.’

  ‘When you lived in Afghanistan did he go away for long periods?’

  ‘A few days sometimes, with the army. You can check with Colonel Clarke.’

  Inspector McGill dropped forward on his chair. ‘Ah, yes, Colonel Clarke. How does Behrouz feel about him?’

  ‘The colonel was his boss. He respects him. He’s grateful that he’s sponsoring our asylum application. We all are.’ I was floundering, unsure what he wanted me to say. ‘He is kind, he came to our flat to welcome us to the UK and he brought us a television.’

  ‘Do you know why Behrouz wanted to see the colonel?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The day before yesterday he called his office at the Houses of Parliament. Clarke’s secretary said he was pushing to see the colonel urgently and that he got very agitated when she told him he was in New York. Then yesterday morning he called the colonel’s home and spoke to his wife, demanding to see the colonel as soon as he got back from the States. Do you have any idea why he was so anxious to see him?’

  ‘No . . . I don’t know, maybe . . . maybe there’s a problem with our papers.’ I was pleased that I’d thought of something sensible and ordinary.

  ‘Or,’ he said, and his voice grew slow, ‘perhaps Colonel Clarke was the planned target for Behrouz’s bomb.’

  I couldn’t speak. The walls were closing in, trying to crush me.

  ‘The colonel’s an extremely high-value target. We think Behrouz was trying to exploit their relationship so he could gain access to his home and plant a device.’

  ‘That is not possible.’

  ‘We checked with the colonel. He gave Behrouz the numbers of his parliamentary and constituency offices but not his home. So how did your brother get hold of it?’

  ‘I . . . I don’t know.’

  ‘I think you’re lying, Miss Sahar. I think you know a lot more about your brother’s activities than you’re letting on.’

  ‘My brother goes to work and he looks after us. That’s all he does!’

  ‘Did he leave you instructions? A list of things to do or people to contact if he was killed or injured?’

  ‘No. Why would he?’

  He ran his thumb down his stubbly cheek. ‘We’re going to let you take a rest now, Miss Sahar. While we’re gone
, I’d like you to think about everything I’ve told you. When I come back, we’ll talk again.’

  They left me then. With nothing to look at but my own reflection.

  DAN

  I was wrecked. Not surprising considering it was nearly two-thirty by the time I got home. I’d cycled like a maniac but I only just made it up to my room before I heard Dad tiptoe downstairs and slip out the front door. After that I’d stayed awake half the night, worrying about him getting sent back to prison, wondering what Cement Face had done with the man he’d kidnapped, and wishing I’d never set foot in Meadowview. You walk in there thinking you’re a normal person with a normal life and you come out smeared in filth, with the stink of fear and garbage in your nose and your head full stuff off the TV you never thought you’d see in real life. It was as if that whole building was rotten, not just the pipes, and if you lifted up any floorboard or opened any door, you’d find some festering filth reaching out to suck you in. Every time I managed to drop off to sleep, I’d see that bloke’s bloody, petrified face, the gun under the bath, packets of drugs stuffed in boxes of washing powder, then I’d hear that weasel saying Dad’s name and I’d wake up yelling, imagining him going back to prison and me and Mum ending up in a place like Meadowview. She’d never cope.

  Around four in the morning I heard the front door click shut: Dad coming back. I pulled the pillow over my head, trying to block out the sound of his footsteps padding past my room, and when he’d gone, I hurled it across the room and lay there in the darkness, asking myself over and over if keeping quiet about someone else’s crimes makes you as guilty as they are. When he came in a couple of hours later to wake me up, I fixed my eyes on the wall and told him I felt sick and couldn’t face going to work with him.

  ‘No problem,’ he said, ‘Jez is back.’ He put his hand on my forehead, like when I was kid. ‘You are a bit hot, son. I’ll get you an aspirin.’

  For a second the comforting weight of his big rough palm made me certain I’d got it all wrong, that there was a simple explanation for what I’d seen in the loading bay and that I’d dreamt I’d heard him coming and going in the small hours.