‘Come on,’ you say firmly. ‘We have to go now.’
Jamilah’s eyes are huge. ‘Go where?’ she asks.
She has a point. You don’t know. ‘Anywhere safe,’ you say. ‘We need to pack – quickly. And then I need to find a phone.’
You hear the roar of an approaching engine, which stops right outside your home, then a sliding door opening and closing. You freeze, and Jamilah wraps her arms around you.
‘Quick, go!’ you hiss and push her off you.
There is a metallic rattle as someone tries to lift the locked roller door at the front of the grocery shop.
Grabbing Jamilah’s hand, you escape through the back door into the alleyway. You hear footsteps approaching.
‘We’ll kill them if we have to,’ a voice mutters. ‘But the main thing is to bring back that golden pen.’
You sprint in the other direction, pulling Jamilah with you so hard that she runs with stumbling, flying feet. You squeeze between two houses, jump a ditch, and then you’re out on the road. You keep running until you’re halfway to Lido Beach.
You stop running, gasping for breath, and wonder if it would be safe to go and hide in the ruin with the lime lady for the rest of the night.
And then the bottom seems to fall out of your stomach, like fruit through a wet paper bag.
‘The letter!’ you cry to Jamilah. You see it in your mind’s eye, falling to the floor as Jamilah cried in your arms. You left it – and Aadan Williams’ phone number – behind. That number was a lifeline to Australia. You try desperately to remember it, but it’s no good – you only glanced at it, you didn’t memorise it.
‘I need that number!’ you hiss. You feel like screaming. Your fists are clenched into balls. How could you have been so dumb? Maybe Rahama was wrong to believe that you could do this.
Steady on, says a voice in your ear. You know it’s just your imagination, but it feels like Rahama is talking to you. You and Jamilah got out of there alive – you’re doing so well. You’ll find a way through this.
You reach into your pocket to touch the pen and the money, and try to calm your mind down. Think.
Al-Shabaab will search the house and take anything valuable or interesting to them. They might even set fire to what’s left.
You could spend the night in the ruins, and go back to look for the letter in the morning, but you’ll be lucky if it isn’t gone by then. Or you could run back now, without Jamilah, and take your chances trying to steal the letter from under al-Shabaab’s noses.
The clouds shift and the moonlight silvers the tears in Jamilah’s eyes. ‘What now?’ she whispers.
If you run back to the house for the letter now, go to scene 11.
If you decide to spend the night in the ruins and look for the letter in the morning, go to scene 12.
‘I have to go back and get that letter,’ you tell Jamilah. ‘It included the phone number of a man in Australia who can help us. If I don’t go back now, it won’t be there in the morning.’
You pray you’re not already too late.
You’d like to take Jamilah to the lime lady, but there’s no time. Instead, you leave her hiding behind a pile of rubbish by a building, telling her not to move. Then you run for home.
You stop in the alleyway, metres from your doorway. You can hear voices inside.
‘There’s nothing here of use,’ curses one voice. ‘We’ve searched everything. Torch the place.’
‘Wait!’ says another voice. ‘What’s that piece of paper under the bed there? See – there?’
There’s a brief pause, and a rustle. ‘A letter!’ says the first voice. He lets out a brief, sarcastic laugh. ‘Aunty was saying goodbye to her darlings …’
Your heart sinks. Now you will have to steal the letter from their very hands. How can you possibly achieve that? You hear a sloshing sound and smell petrol. Oh, no. They’re preparing to burn your home to the ground.
‘Careful, you idiot! You nearly got it on me,’ snaps the first voice.
‘Get out of the way then,’ replies the second in a surly tone, ‘and let’s go and find the kids.’
Now’s your chance – while they’re distracted arguing with each other.
You charge into the room, towards the man with the petrol can. You shove him, and he is doused in petrol. Some splashes onto you too, feeling oily against your skin. The fumes make your head spin.
As the man with the petrol can fumbles and swears, you leap at the other man and snatch at the letter.
‘Oh, so this is important, is it?’ he sneers, holding it up high like a meaty bone in front of a dog. ‘So important you came back and risked your life— Ow!’
He stops mid-sentence as you give him a hefty kick in the crotch and make another snatch for the letter while he’s doubled over.
The letter is now in your hands, but the petrol man crash-tackles you from behind. You roll together on the fuel-soaked floor. Some gets in your mouth; it tastes bitter and awful. The other man leans down and snatches the letter from your fingertips. At the same moment, you see a cigarette lighter tumble from the petrol man’s pocket onto the floor beside you.
You grab the lighter and brandish it wildly. ‘Stop!’ you shout. ‘Give me that letter and let me go, or we’ll all burn!’
The man you were fighting – who is even more petrol-soaked than you are – looks worried, but the other man, standing over you both, merely smiles. He folds up the letter and slips it into his pocket. When his hand comes out of his pocket, you see that
