The people smuggler, who has a horrible puffed-up purple eyelid from his encounter with the police, is relieved to see you, and he actually congratulates you for hiding so well. He doesn’t get his share of the money until you reach Australia, so lost refugees mean lost income for him.
As he helps you into his car, he tells you his name is Budi. It’s a long drive to Cisarua, the village south of Jakarta where you’ll be staying. For three days you eat and sleep in the car, until you finally reach a large white house on the side of a hill on a ramshackle, leafy street in Cisarua. Budi doesn’t lock you in a basement room like Piggy did – you are free to come and go as you wish, but he warns you against drawing attention to yourself on the streets.
The house is full of about twenty other asylum seekers, who so far all seem to be men. Mattresses line the hallways. Everybody shares the one kitchen and toilet. When you and Jamilah go to the kitchen for some water, some pale men with thick eyebrows and dark hair sitting at the kitchen table eye you morosely. You say hello in English, but they simply shrug then go back to their card game. You wonder where they’ve come from.
You and Jamilah return to the bedroom Budi allocated to you and sit uneasily on the one thin mattress that’s on the floor. About six more mattresses have been pulled to one side and stacked against the wall. You take out your pen and twirl it between your fingertips.
Just then, there’s a knock at the door. You whip the pen away just before the door opens a fraction and a woman appears. She has similar features to the men who were sitting around the table, wears a navy-blue hijab, and rests one hand on her pregnant belly. In the other hand she holds a bowl of noodles with two forks. She doesn’t speak, just holds the bowl out and smiles.
‘Thank you!’ cries Jamilah, and the woman nods happily as Jamilah takes the bowl.
‘What’s your name? And what country do you come from?’ you ask her.
She thinks for a second, working through the English. Then she whispers softly: ‘I am Maryam. My husband, Majid. We from Iran. We stay … Indonesia … two years now.’
She looks at her belly sadly. Then one of the men from the kitchen calls something in her language, and she turns to go.
‘Wait!’ you cry. ‘Did you say two years?’
‘Yes,’ Maryam replies, turning back to you. ‘Two years, three months. We … no more money to pay smuggler. First try no good.’ Her voice is resigned, but gentle.
You share some of the noodles with Jamilah. She’s too tired to finish eating, and her forehead still feels hot to touch. So you go out, with a few of the American dollars from your stash in your pocket, to see if you can buy more food, medicine, and a local simcard.
Abshir will be relieved to hear that you made it this far, and maybe it’s time to call Aadan too, and tell him you’ll be seeing him soon.
You walk down the steep street, looking at some pigs snuffling through rubbish piles, happy children running off to school, trees with unripe bananas beginning to fruit.
You wonder how long you could survive, treading water, in a place like this before you ran out of money or met with some bad luck. Budi’s bruised eye has hinted at a violent and corrupt world lying beneath this seemingly pleasant scene.
There’s a money-changing machine just at the bottom of the street, and a place that sells you an Indonesian simcard. It’s a relief to hear Abshir’s voice at last.
‘Walaal!’ he shouts. ‘Man, you’d better call your Uncle Aadan right now, before he flies over here and personally chops my head off!’
‘Why, what’s wrong?’
‘I couldn’t keep it from him – he called for you, and I told him what’s happened. But he doesn’t get it! He says I shouldn’t have sent you alone – it’s too dangerous, you know, all of that. I said, “Walaal, these kids are fighters, they’ll make it!” And let’s face it, you’d be dead by now if you’d stayed. There just wasn’t another way. I tried to tell him! But he might forgive me, at least a little bit, if you call him straight away. He’s worried sick!’
You call Aadan, and he shouts in relief, then immediately starts firing advice and warnings at you like a bossy grandma. You have to interrupt him so you can tell him about Rahama.
‘Jamilah’s certain she saw her,’ you tell him. ‘In Italy, being pulled out of the sea. Jamilah had a fever and I didn’t believe her at first, but then I saw Zayd, in the very same clip.’
There is a stunned silence at the end of the phone.
You go on: ‘I know she wouldn’t leave us without letting us know. If Jamilah’s right – if she’s alive – there has to be more about this on the password-protected “My Story” file on the pen. But I couldn’t guess the password. Can you think of anything?’
There’s more stunned silence. Just as you’re about to ask if he’s still there, Aadan’s voice croaks: ‘Freedom. The ruby in the pen, it’s one of the seven Freedom Gems. That might be the password.’
In your hurry to end the call and try this as the password, you almost forget to thank him. It’s only after you’ve hung up that you wonder what he meant by one of the seven Freedom Gems. It’s yet another question for you to find an answer to when you reach Australia.
You pay to use a computer and unscrew the pen. Thank goodness the desert sand, bilge water in the boat hull, and everything else it’s been through haven’t damaged the little memory stick at all – it hums and opens.
Your breath quickens as you click on ‘My Story’.
‘This
