Читать книгу A Place of Safety - Helen Black, Black Helen Cecelia - Страница 12

Lilly pushed open the door of Luton East Police Station. The reception was bare except for three metal chairs bolted to the tiled floor.

She turned to Milo. ‘Not very comfy, I’m afraid.’

‘Have you ever been arrested in Sarajevo?’ he asked.

‘That’s a pleasure that has so far eluded me.’

‘Trust me,’ he said, ‘this is palatial.’

A WPC in her early twenties ushered them through to the custody suite. Her skin was clear, her hair sleek, pulled back into a neat ponytail. Lilly’s hand instinctively went to her own messy bird’s nest.

‘It’s chaos in here,’ said the WPC. And she was right. The benches were full of prisoners waiting to be processed. Coppers milled around waiting for interview rooms to become free. Two men pushed against the sergeant’s desk and clamoured to be heard. One had a gash across his forehead, blood running down the bridge of his nose.

‘Luton Town at home,’ said the WPC by way of explanation.

The desk sergeant was trying to note down their details but the injured man was waving his hand in front of his face. A few fat drops of blood splashed onto his friend and he howled in protest at the red stains on his cream jumper.

‘Fucking Stone Island, this is,’ he shouted.

‘River Island, more like,’ said the injured prisoner.

The sergeant shifted in his seat. He was trying to keep his patience but Lilly could see it was wearing thin.

‘How long are you going to keep us here, mate?’ The man pulled on the sleeve of his jumper. ‘I need to get this in the wash.’

The sergeant didn’t even look up. ‘As long as it takes.’

‘I’ll sue you if it don’t come out,’ said the man.

The sergeant sighed. ‘I’m sure you will.’

‘And I need to get up the hospital,’ said the injured man, sending another arc of blood across the desk.

‘The FME will be here in five minutes,’ the sergeant said.

‘I ain’t seeing no fucking police doctor.’

The sergeant shrugged. ‘Then you’ll bleed to death, mate.’

The man turned towards Lilly and she could see that half his face was ferrous with blood. ‘Did you hear that?’ he shouted at her. ‘You’re a witness. He threatened to kill me.’

Lilly smiled. ‘He didn’t actually say that.’

‘He fucking did.’ He turned to his friend. ‘Didn’t he just say that?’

‘Call yourself a brief,’ he shouted at Lilly. ‘Whose fucking side are you on?’

Milo placed a protective arm in front of Lilly. ‘Leave her alone.’

The injured man leered at him, his face grotesque. ‘You want some, do you?’

If Milo didn’t understand the term, he certainly appreciated the tone and stood firm, keeping direct eye contact.

‘Don’t abuse this lady. None of this…’ Milo spread his arm towards the man’s wound, ‘is her fault,’ he said calmly but firmly, threatening them with his eyes.

The man with the stained sweater patted his friend on the shoulder.

‘Leave it,’ he said. ‘It ain’t worth the bother.’

The injured man shrugged off the hand, his shoulders still square, his neck pulsing.

‘He’s only a fucking Polack,’ said his friend.

This did the trick and the man turned back to the desk, bleeding once more over the sergeant’s paperwork.

When at last the men were bailed, Lilly stepped up. She looked at the blood still in gelatinous pools and tried not to think about hepatitis and HIV.

‘Get a cleaner in here,’ shouted the sergeant to no one in particular. ‘What can I do for you, Miss?’

‘Anna Duraku,’ she said.

The sergeant pointed to the whiteboard. ‘That her?’

Lilly saw the girl’s name had been misspelled.

‘There’s a mistake,’ she said.

‘Oh, yeah?’

‘Her name is incorrect.’

The sergeant shrugged. ‘They’re hard ones, aren’t they?’

The sloppiness annoyed Lilly. ‘Not really.’

‘Does it matter?’ asked the sergeant. ‘We all know who we mean.’

Lilly sighed. There wasn’t much point arguing.

‘Can we at least talk about bail?’ she asked.

‘Not a chance,’ said the sergeant.

‘I’m glad we talked about it,’ said Lilly.

The sergeant smiled and leaned forward on his elbows. ‘Well, I’m interested in what you’ve got to say, considering she’s in here for conspiracy to murder.’

‘Can I speak to the DI?’

‘This is bullshit and you know it is.’

Lilly and the policeman were only inches apart. She could smell his aftershave. Pine, lemon and grass.

‘She was at the scene with a gun,’ he said. ‘Someone got killed, end of story.’

Lilly took a step back and appraised DI Moodie with a cool eye. Double-breasted chalk-stripe suit and starched shirt. A silk striped tie, not the splattered horror from BHS that most of the coppers favoured.

‘Look, Officer, I understand that what happened was a terrible thing and that the world and his wife will be baying for blood. I can see the headlines now. “Children gunned down in Columbine-style massacre.”’

‘I don’t give a monkey’s about the press,’ said DI Moodie.

The hell you don’t, thought Lilly.

‘As I said, I get it, my own son goes to that school.’ Lilly ignored the raised eyebrows and pressed on. ‘But the person responsible is dead. You got him. The girl you have was dragged along for the ride and gave it up before anything got serious.’

DI Moodie nodded and she thought he might be convinced.

‘They went together. They had guns together. They pretended to be staff together. They were in on it together.’ He opened his arms. ‘In my book that’s the best description of conspiracy to murder I’ve ever heard.’

Lilly turned to leave, but at the door shot him a glance. ‘You’ll never make it stick, and when it unravels you’ll be left explaining why you wasted so much time and money.’

DI Moodie laughed.

‘Something funny?’

‘DI Bradbury told me all about you.’

Lilly put her hands on her hips. ‘And what did he say?’

‘That you were difficult, intransigent and bloody-minded.’

Lilly was smarting but refused to show it. ‘Did he also mention that the last time we crossed swords I won?’

Lilly slammed the door behind her, leaving DI Moodie staring after her.

‘Sadly, he did.’

The cell was cold.

Lilly stepped over the tray of fish fingers and beans and made her way to the bench at the far end. She patted the girl’s arm. Her clothes had been taken for examination and her police-issue white paper suit rustled like dry leaves.

‘Can’t blame you for leaving it. I wouldn’t feed it to a dog.’

Lilly looked into the girl’s face. So very beautiful and so very sad. Her full lips were already set with lines. Where nature had been generous, life had not been kind.

‘I’m Lilly Valentine.’

‘I’m Tirana Duraku,’ she said. ‘Everyone calls me Anna.’

Lilly nodded. ‘Milo asked me to come today. To help you.’

‘To help me.’ Anna rolled the words around her mouth as if trying them out for the first time.

‘I can get you an interpreter,’ said Lilly, ‘if English is a problem.’

‘No.’ The girl’s tone was sharp. ‘Sorry I do fine with English.’

Lilly wasn’t sure—but the girl’s English was pretty good.

‘The police intend to charge you with conspiracy to murder.’

‘I didn’t kill no one.’

Lilly held up her hand. ‘I know that, but they’re saying you and Artan had a plan together, and that plan was to kill those boys.’

Anna shook her head and wisps of glossy hair whipped her translucent cheeks. The contrast in colours was unnerving.

‘There was no plan,’ she said.

‘Artan didn’t tell you what he was going to do?’ asked Lilly.

‘He don’t tell me anything.’

‘And you didn’t wonder,’ Lilly asked, ‘why you both needed a gun?’

Anna shrugged and Lilly felt her impatience begin to rise. ‘Not good enough, Anna. People don’t find themselves with guns for no reason. Where did you get it?’

‘Artan give it to me.’

‘Where did he get it?’

Anna shrugged again.

‘Why did he need a gun?’

‘Protection.’

‘From what?’

Anna’s eyes filled with tears. ‘From everything.’

‘Why on earth did you take it, Anna?’ asked Lilly. ‘Why didn’t you refuse?’

Without warning, Anna fell forward, clutching at the neck of her suit.

‘Anna?’ Lilly fell to her knees. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Pains,’ the girl barked like a seal. ‘Pains in chest.’

Lilly leapt to her feet and banged her fist against the cell door. ‘We need a doctor here, now.’

The automatic gates of the station car park began their slow arc. Normally Jack would be tapping his finger against the steering wheel, revving the accelerator, but today he idled in neutral.

There was no prisoner awaiting interview, no custody sergeant breathing down his neck to get on with it and free up a cell. No urgent statements to be tweaked and mailed out. No impatient colleagues needing access to his notes. For the first time, for as long as he could remember, Jack had nothing to do. He’d only come in this evening to collect his photos of Lilly and Sam and to clear his desk of anything that could decompose.

He pulled into his usual spot and contemplated how to spend his free time. His flat could do with a clean. He hadn’t been able to take the jam out the fridge this morning, so firmly set was the jar to the now-opaque shelf.

And there was the paper. When had he last read more than the headlines?

He had to look on this suspension positively. He could double his running and lose more weight. Maybe get a body like your man Milo.

Then he saw the Mini Cooper.

Lilly cringed when she saw Jack lumbering towards her. She felt like a naughty schoolgirl caught smoking by her dad. ‘I was just holding it for my friend, honest.’

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.

She hedged her bets. ‘A case.’

He stood, arms crossed, his face giving nothing away.

‘A client in custody,’ she said.

‘I’m a copper, Lilly, I’d worked that much out for myself.’

Lilly put up her hands in surrender. ‘I just came down to give her some advice. I’m not taking on her case.’

‘Mary Mother of God,’ Jack yelled. ‘I thought we’d been through this.’

They stood looking at one another for a moment. Lilly reached out and stroked the leather of his jacket. It was warm and creased from years of wear.

‘She’s in a terrible state, Jack. The doc says she’s having horrendous panic attacks.’

‘You can’t take on the case.’

Lilly nodded. ‘I’m not taking on the case.’

Steve’s car smelled as bad as the man himself, and Alexia wound down the window. She shifted in her seat, her skirt sticking to the plastic. And who the hell still owned a manual?

She supposed it was better than the bus. The salary of a junior reporter on a local rag didn’t stretch to her own transport, so she grudgingly accepted the use of her boss’s and tried to ignore the ash that clung to her black wool suits.

‘I bet Kate Adie doesn’t have to put up with this.’

As she crunched into third, she banished from her mind the Alfa that Daddy had bought for her twenty-first. A gorgeous little red number with tan upholstery and a walnut dash. It had broken her heart to give it back.

She pulled in front of the gates of Manor Park and admired the floodlit countryside that flanked it on all sides. It reminded her of Benenden, her own alma mater, with its tennis courts and clock towers.

Until seconds ago she had remained sceptical that the report was true but the multitude of press vans and cars stationed at the foot of the sweeping drive made her heart pound. A shooting—in a place like this? Fantastic…

She parked the battered Honda and entered the throng. All the nationals were here and the main TV stations.

Alexia smiled at a man fiddling with the boom on his camera.

‘What’s the story?’ She tried to sound as casual as she could.

‘Police won’t let us in,’ he said. ‘No one’s saying anything.’

‘So we don’t even know if it’s true?’

He shook his head and went back to his boom.

Alexia squeezed past the mighty power of the media until she stood in front of three policemen who were blocking the gate.

‘Can you confirm whether a pupil has been shot?’ she said.

‘Nope,’ said the nearest. The others simply looked over her head.

‘So you’re prepared to say nothing about a terrible crime which presumably happened on your patch?’

‘Yep.’

Alexia sidestepped them and craned her neck up to the school. She held out her hand to lean on the wrought iron gates and peer through.

‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Miss,’ said the policeman.

‘What?’

The policeman nodded at the gate. ‘They’ve taken out an injunction preventing anyone so much as touching their property.’

Alexia laughed. ‘They can’t do that.’

‘They can and they have.’ He pulled out a piece of paper. ‘And you’ll see that we’re empowered to arrest anyone who fails to comply.’

Alexia skim read the document and flicked it with contempt.

‘So much for freedom of speech.’

She headed back to her car where the cameraman was still adjusting his sound equipment. ‘Like I said. No one’s saying anything.’

Alexia’s phone rang.

‘Well?’ barked Steve.

‘The world and his wife are here but we can’t get in,’ she said. ‘And the police refuse to give a statement.’

‘Some bloody story that’ll make.’ She could hear him dragging on his cigarette. ‘May as well get your arse back here.’

But Alexia was not ready to give up. ‘I’ll have a scout around first.’

‘You’ve got half an hour,’ said Steve and hung up.

She pocketed her phone and jumped back in the Honda. The main entrance might be guarded, probably as well as any other official routes into the school—but her years in boarding school had taught her that there was always a way for the pupils to sneak out. And when she found it she would sneak her way in.

She drove along the entire flank of the school grounds shielded by a high wooden fence with nettles growing to waist height. Nothing. Maybe she was out of touch and kids these days finished their prep and were tucked up by nine.

She turned the car around to head back when she saw it. A small patch of nettles well trodden down. She parked close by and inspected the trampled weeds. Then she checked she wasn’t being watched and pushed the plank of wood nearest to the ground. It fell with ease, as did the one above and the one above that. Alexia smiled at the small opening to the Magic Kingdom and ducked inside. She found herself within two hundred yards of the main building.

The sound of a cello floated from a window but apart from that all was quiet. She sneaked around but still nothing. No police tape, no sign whatsoever that anyone had been killed. Maybe it was a hoax.

Alexia was about to go home when she saw a white tent flapping in the wind on the far edge of a football pitch. It might just have been a marquee left over from Speech Day, but it was very small.

Her pulse quickened as she got closer and she pulled out her phone.

‘How are things in the country?’ asked Steve, phlegm rattling in his throat.

Alexia pulled a clod of earth from her heel. ‘Wet.’

Steve let out a laugh that soon gave way to a barking cough.

‘Those fags will kill you,’ she said.

‘Not before you do, Posh,’ he replied. ‘Got anything for me?’

‘I’m inside the school.’

‘Ain’t it closed at this time of night?’

‘It’s a boarding school.’

‘Poor little rich kids whose parents don’t want ’em,’ he said.

‘Do you want to know what I’ve found?’ she asked.

‘Go on then.’

She tried to keep the excitement from her voice. ‘From where I’m standing I can see something that looks distinctly like a forensic tent.’

Steve let out a low whistle. ‘So it’s true.’

‘Can we help you?’

Alexia looked up. Three women were striding across the field, their breath white in the dark air. The leader had a fierce look in her eyes, frizzy hair and a wax jacket. The other two looked like they’d fallen out of a Boden catalogue.

‘I said “Can we help you?”’, Frizzy stomped towards Alexia. The accent was cut-glass and Alexia followed suit. She usually took the edge off for Steve.

‘I thought I might lay flowers.’ She rhymed ‘flowers’ with ‘vase’.

Frizzy raised a bushy eyebrow.

‘My niece, Emily, said we simply must do something,’ Alexia continued.

‘Emily?’ asked Frizzy.

‘Royston-Jones,’ Alexia was banking on Frizzy not knowing everyone in the school. ‘She’s been very upset and her parents are in the Maldives.’

Frizzy gave nothing away, her shins solid in their tan tights.

‘I came straight here when she called.’ Alexia turned to the other two. ‘What do you think? Is the school organising a tribute?’

‘I think they’re waiting to see what the Stantons want to do,’ said the first.

‘Of course,’ said Alexia. ‘They must be devastated.’

The second pursed her lightly glossed lips. ‘They’re beside themselves. Charlie was such a treasure.’

‘Appalling, isn’t it?’ said Alexia, careful not to push too much and risk giving her game away.

Glossy Lips threw up her hands. ‘Those people have to be stopped.’

Frizzy glared at her. ‘We’re under strict instructions not to discuss this with anyone, particularly outsiders.’

‘She has a niece at the school.’

‘Loose lips sink ships,’ said Frizzy.

‘I’m sorry if I caused any offence. I fully understand your position.’ Alexia tucked her hair behind her ears. ‘I deliberately came out of hours. I mean, one doesn’t want to be showy.’

Frizzy gave a curt nod and turned to leave. ‘I think we’ve all said enough on the subject.’

Too late, love. Charlie Stanton. Bingo.

The air was redolent with the smell of rubber and chalk dust as forty feet beat out their muffled rhythm on the mats.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ said Lilly, and squeezed onto the bench beside her friend. ‘Had to drop off the boy wonder at his dad’s.’

‘Good day at the office, darling?’ said Penny. Lilly stuck out her tongue and they waited for their turn to warm-up.

After Lilly had been attacked by a maniac and had managed to save herself only by the fortuitous use of a vase, she had decided to take up self-defence. Penny had suggested Tae Kwon Do, and the pair came to practise each Tuesday evening.

Penny crossed her legs, toned calves peeping out from her karate suit: smooth brown skin against white cotton. Each toenail was round and pink, a shimmering shell. Lilly looked down at her own legs. Red indentations from her socks made perfect circles around each hairy shin. A plaster peeled away from her ankle.

Lilly wondered if she could ever look like her friend.

‘Fine feathers make fine birds,’ her mum used to say but Lilly never seemed to have enough time to keep up with the preening.

‘How’s life on the domestic front line?’ asked Lilly.

‘Bonkers,’ said Penny. ‘We’ve got a new boy coming at the weekend.’

‘How many’s that now?’

‘Four. Two come for respite care one weekend a month, and Rachel comes every Thursday.’

‘Is she still traumatised?’

Penny see-sawed her hands. ‘It has got better, but I’m still stripping and washing the beds till Saturday.’

‘Have I ever told you how much I admire you?’ asked Lilly.

‘Only twice a week.’

The sensei called them to the dojo and they began their stretching.

‘I should do something like you,’ said Lilly.

Penny stamped hard with her left foot and punched with her right. ‘You don’t have time.’

‘But all I do now is commercial stuff. I don’t make a difference to anyone’s life.’

‘Oh, Lilly, stop beating yourself up. Everyone has to make a living.’

Lilly kicked out and grunted hard.

‘I just wish I could do something to help those that need it most.’

‘We can’t help everyone,’ said Penny. ‘And frankly there are a lot of people who should jolly well help themselves.’

The sensei clapped his hands. ‘Ladies, you may spar.’

The two friends turned to one another and bowed deeply in respect. Then they proceeded to kick the shit out of each other.

Lilly plotted the rest of her evening with precision and relish. Sam was at his dad’s, torturing the new baby, so she would bathe at length and make the most of the unopened basket of Jo Malone oils that Jack had bought for her birthday. At the time she’d thought it a ludicrous extravagance, but she had to admit they were so much better than the cheap crap she usually picked up in the supermarket. She would paint her toes a glamorous shade of crimson and then cook herself a feast. Steak Béarnaise. Blood oozing from the meat into the eggy sauce, the tang of tarragon vinegar piercing its unctuous blandness.

She would not give a moment’s thought to Anna Duraku.

When the bath was run, she lit a candle and sank into the oily heat until only her nostrils cleared the surface. Bliss.

Ring ring. The phone. She’d ignore it.

Ring ring. Worse than the phone, it was the bloody doorbell. Who the hell could it be? Jack was still mad at her for going down to the station and had gone out for a drink with an old mate who’d quit the force to open a dry-cleaners’.

Lilly pulled a towel around herself and padded downstairs.

Ring ring.

‘Keep your hair on, will you,’ she shouted, and yanked at the door handle. After three firm tugs the door opened a few inches.

‘You need a new frame.’

It was Milo, his breath white against the cold.

Lilly dripped and blinked. ‘How do you know where I live?’

‘Everyone knows everything in this village.’

Milo looked her up and down. From her ragged toenails to the towel barely covering her arse and back down to the pool of water gathering on the floor below her.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I needed to speak to you about Anna.’

Lilly cringed with embarrassment and ran for the stairs.

In her bedroom she threw open her wardrobe doors in search of her good jeans. They were snug at her hips but not at her thighs, and the style magazine Penny passed on each week had declared them the hottest jeans of the season. Lilly had found a bargain pair in TK Maxx and they looked great with a black V-neck jumper. She scraped her wet hair into a knot at the base of her skull. No time for makeup, maybe just a slick of mascara. At least she smelled good.

Lilly stopped in her tracks. What the hell was she doing? Why was she in a tailspin because an attractive man had turned up at her house? She reminded herself that she had Jack. A good, kind and decent man. A man her son adored. A man who thought oral sex was part of the deal and not just for anniversaries and birthdays. A man who had stood between her and a bullet.

Deliberately, she put her jeans back in the wardrobe and pulled on the lumpy jogging bottoms that lived on a wicker chair in the corner of her room. She zipped a beige fleece over a thermal vest and pulled on slipper socks.

The message was clear.

She found Milo in the kitchen, tinkering with the buttons on her dishwasher.

‘It’s broken,’ she said.

He laughed in the direction of the sink, where a mountain of crockery tottered. ‘I can see that. Do you have a screwdriver?’

Lilly opened a kitchen drawer and rummaged. She pulled out a knife, a hammer and a can of Mace.

‘My safety kit,’ she said, in answer to Milo’s puzzled look. She handed him a screwdriver. ‘I had some trouble on one of my cases.’

He simply nodded and went to work.

‘You’ve come to ask me to take on Anna’s case,’ she said.

‘Of course.’

No flannel, no spin. Lilly smiled. ‘I really can’t, you know.’

Milo twisted a screw. ‘There.’

‘It’s fixed?’

He shrugged a shy confirmation.

Lilly couldn’t hide her delight. ‘I could kiss you.’ She had spoken without thinking and needed to backtrack. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t.’

‘I’m not worried.’

They looked at each other, their connection a fraction too long.

Lilly was the first to break away ‘I’ll make you some dinner.’

Milo sank back in his chair. ‘So much food.’

Lilly cleared the plates. ‘There’s lemon tart if you want some. I made it at the weekend but it should still be good.’

Milo shook his head and rubbed his stomach. ‘Are you trying to kill me?’

‘Oh, you know—lawyer, cook, murderer.’

‘A person of many talents.’

Lilly stroked her dishwasher and felt its soft rumble. ‘As are you.’

‘My father taught me many things.’

The sadness was unmistakable.

‘Where is he now?’ Lilly asked.

‘Gone,’ he said.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.’

‘You English people are so funny Everything is private business, you don’t care about anybody else.’

‘That’s not true,’ she said. ‘We just don’t like talking about painful things.’

He fixed her with the jewelled glint of his eyes. ‘If you don’t talk, how are you going learn?’

Lilly closed her eyes, willing herself to pull away.

‘I can’t take on Anna’s case.’

Milo stood to leave with a half-smile. ‘You are a very strange woman, Lilly Valentine.’

When he had left, Lilly noticed a package on the work surface. She opened it up and began to read Anna’s statement from her application to remain in the UK.

TIRANA DURAKU

My name is Tirana Duraku and I was born in Glogovac, some 25 kilometres from Pristina, the capital of Kosovo.

I lived with my parents, and my three sisters and one brother. We stayed in a small apartment in the Albanian section of Glogovac.

When I was a young child I was happy I went to school and was commended for my studies. I wanted to be a teacher when I grew up.

I recall that there would be trouble sometimes from the police. They would round up the menfolk and take them away. When they came back they would have black eyes or bloody mouths.

My mother told me she paid them, which was why they didn’t come for my father or brothers.

In January 1999 our neighbours were arrested. This time it was not the police who took them but the paramilitaries. There were about six of them, each with an automatic rifle. When our neighbours came back they packed up their apartment and left. I never saw them again.

My mother said they didn’t have enough money to pay the police.

A few weeks later they came to us. They wore green uniforms with red bandanas. I was very frightened. My mother tried to pay them the usual amount but they laughed in her face. In the end they took all the money we had in the apartment.

The next day they forced my mother to take off her rings. She couldn’t get one of them off and had to put soap round her knuckle and force it.

That night my oldest brother, Brahim, and my father decided to stand up to the soldiers. My mother cried and begged them not to make a stand but my father said Allah would provide.

The next morning they came at six. We were all still in bed but no one was sleeping. My father told them calmly that he would pay them nothing more. The captain nodded and I thought he was agreeing to leave us alone, but he snatched my little sister and put his gun to her head.

‘Give me the keys to your car,’ he said.

My father did not want to give in, but tears were pouring down the face of my sister and my mother.

Two days later we went to stay with my father’s brother and his family. There was not enough room in the house but the menfolk said there would be safety in numbers.

Throughout March and early April we girls hardly left the house. We would take it in turns to sleep. There was almost no food available and we lived on boiled corn and wheat.

My uncle’s neighbour had forty people staying in his house, and his wife called to my mother through the window saying that their houses had been burned by the paramilitaries.

On 22 April they came early in the morning. They pointed their guns in our faces and forced us outside. The men were ordered to step forward with their hands on their heads, then they were led away. We thought for sure they’d be shot and we cried all day. That afternoon they returned, but we could not throw our arms around my father because he had been beaten with the handle of a shovel and his collar bone was broken.

That night a local Serb policeman came to the house and told us the paramilitaries were out of control. He told us to leave.

‘There is no safety for you here,’ he said.

As soon as it was light we were once again forced into the street. This time the men were ordered to sing the Serbian national anthem. I saw my brother’s jaw jut out in refusal. The soldier poked him in the back with his gun but still Brahim refused.

My mother screamed at him to sing but he would not.

‘We’ll make you do what we say,’ they said, but Brahim would not even answer.

The captain walked back to his car and pulled out a can. He shook it so we could all hear the petrol inside. Then he poured it over my mother’s head. He pushed her and my sisters back in the house, threw the can in after them and locked the door.

In terror my brother began to sing, but the captain would not listen. He lit a cigarette and smoked it.

Brahim sang for all he was worth.

When the captain’s cigarette was finished he tossed the butt into the house.

The noise was unbearable. The whoosh of the flames, my brother’s singing and the screams of my mother and little sisters as they were burned alive.

That night my father paid a man to take my brother Brahim and me away from Kosovo. To take us to a place of safety.