about to get aggressive because their tone changes. It is a wonderful experience to stand among them exposed like that, and I am getting to know them. Their humming is beautiful – when you hear their song it will fill your heart to the brim with sweetness.
But sometimes this sound reminds me of everything we have lost and I think always of you and Afra. I hope to hear from you soon.
Mustafa
I type a reply and press send.
Dear Mustafa,
Afra and I have made it to the UK. We have been here for over two weeks now. I am sorry that I wasn’t in touch sooner. It was a very difficult journey. We are staying at a B&B in the far south of England by the sea. I must stay here until I have my interviews and until I find out whether we have been granted asylum. I am worried, Mustafa. I am worried that they will make us leave. I am so pleased to hear about your project. I wish I could be there with you.
Nuri
I think about the cold tone of my email, the fact that I have been here so long and had not contacted my cousin. I am here because of Mustafa, I escaped Athens because of the hope and the will he gave me, but somehow the darkness inside me has swallowed me up.
I send another message:
Mustafa, I believe I am unwell. Since I got here my mind is broken. I think I am lost in the darkness.
I am about to log out when an email comes through:
Nuri! I am so pleased to hear that you are in the UK at last. This is amazing news! Please send me the address of where you are.
I find the address on a letter in the bedroom and return to the computer, where I copy it out and press send. I say nothing else to Mustafa and there is no reply after this.
I fall asleep in the armchair and when I wake up it is dark and the living room is empty. But I can hear the marble rolling across the wooden floor. At first, I can’t see Mohammed but then I realise that he is sitting under the table in the same red T-shirt and blue shorts that he was wearing last time.
I crouch down to meet his eye. ‘What are you doing under there, Mohammed?’
‘This is my house,’ he says. ‘It’s a wooden one, like in The Three Little Pigs – do you remember when you told me that story?’
‘Did I tell you that story? There was only one story I ever told you – the one about the brass city. The only person I read that story to was Sami, because I found the book one day on a stall at the souq.’ He is not listening to me; he is busy pushing the marble along the cracks of the wood, then he tucks it under the rug.
‘Do you like my house? This house doesn’t break like the houses at home. Isn’t it nice, Uncle Nuri?’
There is a sharp pain in my head, so sudden and intense that I have to stand up and close my eyes and press my forehead hard with my fingers.
Mohammed tugs at my jumper. ‘Uncle Nuri, will you come with me?’
‘Where?’
He slips his hand into mine and takes me to the front door. As soon as I open it I realise something is wrong; ahead, beyond the buildings, the sky flashes white and red; from somewhere not too far away there is a wild screech, metal on metal, like a creature being dragged to death, and when the wind blows it brings with it the smell of fire and things burning and ash. I walk across the street, Mohammed’s hand in mine. The houses are bombed-out and they look like carcasses with the light of the flashing sky behind them. We continue along the road. Mohammed is dragging his feet in the dust. It is so thick, like we are walking through snow. There are burnt cars, lines of washing hanging from abandoned terraces, electrical wires dangling low over the street, trash piles on the pavements. It all stinks of death and burnt rubber. In the distance smoke rises, curling into the skyline. Mohammed pulls me by the hand, all the way down the hill, until we reach the Queiq. There are waves on the river and it is darker than usual.
‘This is where the boys were,’ Mohammed says, ‘but I