Читать книгу A Brighter Fear - Kerry Drewery, Kerry Drewery - Страница 12

Within a couple of weeks, Papa had a new job.

When he told me what he’d be doing I felt sick to my stomach, my hands shaking in my lap, my head spinning. The shock of it, even though so much time has passed, still burns through my veins.

Papa stepped into the house with a stack of papers in his hands, put them away from my view and asked me to sit down.

He sighed. “I’m going to be interpreting for the Americans,” he said, “for the troops.”

In silence I stared at him, waiting, hoping for him to tell me it was a joke.

“Sometimes I’ll travel around with them, sometimes I’ll be with them when houses are raided, sometimes when people are questioned.”

My head was filled with such disbelief I couldn’t find the words to reply. Unbelievable wasn’t the word. Unthinkable, perhaps. I didn’t understand his decision. I didn’t understand why he would want to work for them. The air was thick with rumours of what the troops were doing to civilians. Why did Papa want to be a part of that?

I hoped they were just rumours, that there was no truth in them. But still, the danger he was putting himself in was... was... what? Appalling? Unbelievable? No, they are just words, and words didn’t do justice to what I was feeling inside. I was scared for him. And for myself. I didn’t want him to be hurt. I didn’t want him to see the things I had heard of. He shouldn’t be in situations where he would see death and suffering and pain. But then… wasn’t that what everyone in this country was seeing?

But I wanted to keep my papa safe. I wanted him home with me every evening. I wanted to cling to him and not let him out of my sight. Some days the fear in me was so great, the worry that I would come home and he wouldn’t be there any more, that I wanted to stay out, put off going home, unwilling to face what might have happened.

“It’s a good job, Lina, pays well, and we need the money,” he said.

I tried to keep the tears from my eyes, and stop them stinging my cheeks.

“I’ll see a lot of Baghdad. Probably visit the police stations and the prisons. See… see the people inside.”

And at that, there was nothing left for me to say.

Though I understood, I shook my head at him and left the room.

For Papa’s first few weeks of his new job, he would recount his day to me over the dinner table. He started off telling me how well he got on with the soldiers. Some had shown him photos of loved ones back home, and he had shared with one of them what had happened to Mama. He told me many were just young boys, scared of the situation they were in, jittery when nervous, a little trigger happy; desperate to prove their worth to their colleagues and superiors. Sometimes he came home with things they’d given him. Some cigarettes he could sell, some chocolate he’d give to me.

Perhaps I’ve been worrying too much, I thought. Perhaps this job will be fine for him.

But gradually he spoke less and less. His shoulders drooped lower and lower, and his face aged, the lines and contours deeper, a little greyer, dustier.

And I would ask him how work was, but he had no answers for me. And I saw blood on his shoes. I heard him crying in his room. I worried about him more than ever. I worried about our future.