Читать книгу Shadow - Michael Morpurgo, Michael Morpurgo - Страница 10

We Want You Back

Grandpa

I left Matt and Dog in the car, and walked up towards the gates. I wasn’t looking forward to this at all. I had that same sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that I remember from my first day at school.

An unsmiling security guard was opening the gate. He suited the place. If Matt hadn’t been there watching me from the car as I knew he must be, I’d have turned round at that point, got back in the car and gone home. But I couldn’t shame myself, I couldn’t let him down.

I turned round, and saw that Matt was already out of the car and taking Dog for a walk, as he’d said he would. We gave each other a wave, and then I was inside the gates. There was no going back now.

As I walked down the road towards the detention centre building, I tried to keep my courage up by thinking about Matt. Ever since I’ve been on my own these last two years, Matt has been to stay a lot. I love to watch him playing with Dog.

Dog is getting on these days, like me, but he is like a puppy when Matt comes. Matt keeps him young, keeps me young too. I only have to think of them both together, and they make me smile. They cheer me up. And that’s good for me. I’ve been rather down in the dumps just recently. Matt and I, we’re not just grandfather and grandson any more, we’ve become the best of friends.

But as I joined some other visitors making their way in, I was wondering what was the point of visiting Aman. After all, weren’t these asylum seekers about to be deported and sent back to where they’d come from? So what was the point? I mean, what could I do? What could I say that could make any difference?

But Matt wanted me to do it for Aman. So there I was, inside the place now, doors locking behind me, the Monopoly set under my arm. I could hear the sound of children crying.

Like all the other visitors, I was being processed. The Monopoly set had to be handed over to be checked by Security, and I got a stern ticking-off for bringing it with me in the first place. It was against the rules, but they might let me have it later, they said grudgingly.

Everywhere there were more of those unsmiling security guards. The pat-down search was done brusquely, and in hostile silence. Everything about the place seemed to me to be hateful: the bleak locker room where visitors had to leave their coats and bags, the institutional smell, the sound of keys turning in locks, the sad plastic flowers in the visitors’ meeting room, and always the sound of some child crying.

Then I saw them, the only ones still without a visitor. I recognised Aman at once, and I could tell he knew me too, as Matt had said he would. Aman and his mother were sitting there at the table, waiting for me, looking up at me, vacantly. There were no smiles. Neither of them seemed that pleased to see me. It was all too set up, too formal, too stiff. Like everyone else in the room, we had to sit facing one another on either side of a table. And there were officers everywhere, in their black and white uniforms, keys dangling from their belts, watching us.

Aman’s mother sat there, shoulders slumped, stony-faced, sad and silent. She had deep, dark rings under her eyes, and seemed locked inside herself. As for Aman, he was even smaller than I remembered, and pinched and thin like a whippet. His eyes were pools of loneliness and despair.

I kept trying to tell myself, don’t pity them. They don’t want that, they don’t need that, and they’ll know it at once if you do. They’re not victims, they’re people. Try to find something in common. Do what Matt said in the car. Just go for it. And pray the Monopoly arrives.

“How is Matt?” Aman said.

“He’s outside,” I told him. “They won’t let him in.”

Aman smiled wanly at that. “Strange,” he said. “We want to get out, and they won’t let us. And he wants to get in, but they won’t let him.”

I tried, again and again, to make some small talk with his mother. The trouble was that she spoke very little English, so Aman always had to translate for her. Aman only became animated at all, I noticed, when we talked about Matt, and even then I found myself asking all the questions. I think we’d have all sat there in silence if I hadn’t. Any question not about Matt, he’d just divert to his mother, and translate her replies, which were mostly ‘yes’ or ‘no’. However hard I tried, I just could not seem to get a proper conversation going between the three of us.

So when Aman spoke up for himself suddenly, I was taken a little by surprise. “My mother is not well,” he said. “She had one of her panic attacks this morning. The doctor gave her some medicine, and this makes her quite sleepy.” He spoke very correctly, and with hardly a trace of an accent.

“Why did she have a panic attack?” I asked, regretting my question at once. It seemed too intrusive, too personal.

“It is this place. It is being shut in here,” he replied. “She was in prison once in Afghanistan. She does not talk about it much. But I know they beat her. The police. She hates the police. She hates to be locked in. She has bad dreams of the prison in Afghanistan, you understand? So sometimes when she wakes up in here, and she sees she is in prison again, and she sees the guards, she has a panic attack.”

That was when the security guard suddenly arrived with the Monopoly game.

“You’re lucky,” he said. “Just this once, right?” And he walked away.

Miserable git, I thought. But I knew it was best to keep my feelings to myself. Now I’d got it, I didn’t want him to take it away.

“Monopoly,” I said. “Matt says you like it, that you play quite well.”

His whole face lit up. “Monopoly! Look, Mother, you remember where we played it first?” Then he turned to me. “I used to play it a lot with Matt. I never lose,” he said. “Never.”

He opened the board at once, and set it all up, rubbing his hands with delight when it was done. Then he started to laugh, and couldn’t seem to stop. “You see what it says here?” he cried, his finger stabbing at the board. “It says, ‘Go to Jail’. Go to jail! That is very funny, isn’t it? If I land here I will go to jail, in a jail. And so will you!”

His laughter was infectious, and very soon the two of us were almost hysterical.

That was when I saw another officer coming over towards us, a woman this time, but no less officious. “You’re disturbing people. Keep it down,” she said. “I won’t tell you again. Any more of that and I’ll end the visit, understand?”

She was being unnecessarily offensive, and I did not like it one bit. This time, I did not try to hide my feelings. “So we’re not allowed to laugh in here, is that right?” I protested. “People can cry, but they can’t laugh, is that it?”

The officer gave me a long, hard look, but in the end she just turned round and walked away. It was a little victory, but I could see from the smile on Aman’s face that he thought it was a lot more than that.

“Nice one,” he whispered, giving me a secretive thumbs up.