“I don’t want to meet one of them.”
I think she had visions of lobsters crawling over one another in the same density as in the tank.
“This must be like science fiction to you.”
“Science? Fiction?”
“It means like a fantasy. Unreal.”
“Yes, unreal.”
Seeing London through Samira’s eyes has given me a different perspective on the city. Even the most mundane scene takes on a new life. When I took her underground to catch the Tube, she clutched my hand as an approaching train roared through the tunnel, sounding like a “monster in a cave” she said.
The casual wealth on display is embarrassing. There are more vets in the East End than there were doctors in Kabul. And the animals are better fed than the orphans.
The breast pump has stopped. She had turned on Hari’s TV and is flicking between channels. Slipping out of bed, I tiptoe along the hall and knock on her door. She’s wearing my old dressing gown, the one with an owl sewn onto the pocket.
“Can’t you sleep?”
“No.”
“I’ll make us a sleeping potion.”
Her eyes widen.
She follows me down the stairs, along the hall into the kitchen. I close the door and take a bottle of milk from the fridge, pouring it into mugs. Two minutes in the microwave and they’re steaming. Breaking up pieces of dark chocolate, I drop them in the liquid, watching them melt. Samira uses a spoon to catch the melting shards, licking it clean.
“Tell me about your family.”
“Most of them are dead.”
She licks the spoon. I break off more pieces of chocolate and add them to her mug.
“Did you have a big family?”
“Not so big. In Afghanistan people exaggerate what their family has done. Mine is no different. One of my ancestors traveled to China with Marco Polo they say, but I don’t believe it. I think he was a smuggler, who brought the black powder from India to Afghanistan. The king heard of the magic and asked to see a demonstration. According to my father, a thousand rockets streamed back and forth across the sky. Bamboo castles dripped with fire. Fireworks became our family business. The formulas were passed down from father to son—and to me.”
I remember the photograph among Hassan’s possessions showing a factory with workers lined up outside, most of them missing limbs or eyes, or incomplete in other ways. Hassan had burn scars on his arms.
“It must have been dangerous work.”
Samira holds up her hands, showing her fingers. “I am one of the lucky ones.” She sounds almost disappointed. “My father lost both his thumbs when a shell exploded. Uncle Yousuf lost his right arm and his wife lost her left arm. They helped each other to cook and sew and drive a car. My aunt changed gears and my uncle steered. My father’s other brother, Fahad, lost his fingers during a display. He was a very good gambler but he began to lose when he couldn’t shuffle the cards.
“I didn’t meet my grandfather. He was killed in a factory explosion before I was born. Twelve others died in the same fire, including two of his brothers. My father said it was a sacrifice that only our family could make. One hand is enough to sin, he said. One hand is enough to save.”
She glances at the dark square of the window. “It was our calling—to paint the sky. My father believed that one day our family would make a rocket that would light the way to Heaven. In the meantime, we would make rockets that drew the gaze of Allah in the hope that he would bless our family and bring us happiness and good health.” She pauses and considers the irony of such a statement. Perfectly still, she is canted forward over the table, firm yet fragile. Her stare seems to originate at the back of her eyes.
“What happened to the factory?”
“The Talibs closed it down. Fireworks were sinful, they said. People celebrated when they arrived. They were going to stop the warlords and end the corruption. Things changed but not in a good way. Girls could not go to school. Windows were painted over so women could not be seen. There was no music or TV or videos, no card games or kites. I was ten years old and they made me wear a burka. I could not buy things from male shopkeepers. I could not talk to men. I could not laugh in public. Women had to be ordinary. Invisible. Ignorant. My mother educated us in secret. Books were hidden each night and homework had to be destroyed.
“Men with beards and black turbans patrolled the streets, listening for music and videos. They beat people with whips soaked in water and with chains. Some were taken away and didn’t come back.
“My father took us to Pakistan. We lived in a camp. My mother died there and my father blamed himself. One day he announced that we were going home. He said he would rather starve in Kabul than live like a beggar.”
She falls silent, shifting in her chair. The motor of the refrigerator rattles to life and I feel the same shudder pass through me.
“The Americans dropped leaflets from the sky saying they were coming to liberate us but there was nothing left to free us from. Still we cheered because the Talibs were gone, running, like frightened dogs. But the Northern Alliance was not so different. We had learned not to expect too much. In Afghanistan we sleep with the thorns and not the flowers.”
The effort of remembering has made her sleepy. I wash the mugs and follow her upstairs. She pauses at my door, wanting to ask me something.
“I am not used to the quiet.”
“You think London is quiet?”
She hesitates. “Would it be all right if I slept in your room?”
“Is there something wrong? Is it the bed?”
“No.”
“Are you frightened?”
“No.”
“What is it then?”
“At the orphanage we slept on the floor in the same room. I am not used to being alone.”
My heart twists. “You should have said something earlier. Of course you can sleep with me.”
She collects a blanket and spreads it on the floor beside my wardrobe.
“My bed is big enough. We can share.”
“No, this is better.”
She curls up on the floor and breathes so quietly that I want to make sure she’s still there.
“Good night,” I whisper. “May you sleep amid the flowers, not the thorns.”
DI Forbes arrives in the morning, early as usual. Dressed in a charcoal suit and yellow tie, he is ready to front a news conference. The media blackout is being lifted. He needs help to find the twins.
I show him to the kitchen. “Your cold sounds better.”
“I can’t stomach another bloody banana.”
Hari is with Samira in the sitting room. He is showing her his old Xbox and trying to explain what it does.
“You can shoot people.”
“Why?”
“For fun.”
“Why would you shoot people for
I can almost hear Hari’s heart sinking. Poor boy. The two of them have something in common. Hari is studying chemical engineering and Samira knows more about chemical reactions than any of his lecturers, he says.
“She’s an odd little thing,” says Forbes, whispering.
“How do you mean?”
“She doesn’t say much.”
“Most people talk too much and have nothing to say.”
“What is she going to do?” he asks.
