The Beekeeper of Aleppo(25)

Diomande is up in his room. He went upstairs after Lucy Fisher left, closed the door and hasn’t come out since. When the Moroccan man and everyone else go up to bed, I head out into the courtyard. I go close to the sensor for the light so that it will come on and I watch the bee crawling over the dandelions, settling into her new home.

Then the flowers on the tree catch my eye. There are still thousands of blossoms on it. I turn around expecting to see Mohammed in one of the dark corners of the garden. I kneel down and look through the hole in the fence, trying to see the green of the leaves on the bushes and trees. Then I sit with my back against the tree and my legs straight out in front of me and close my eyes. It is quiet, apart from the sound of the cars. I squeeze my eyes shut, concentrating, and I can hear the waves. Loud they rise, a big long breath, and fall back again. I feel the water beside me, right here, a dark monster, lapping at my feet. I lie back and my body and mind are taken by





was dark and wild. Mohammed was standing by the shore, in his black clothes, almost invisible against the night sky and inky water. He stood back when the waves lapped at his feet and slipped his hand into mine. Afra was a short distance away, facing the land instead of the water. We were brought here by coach, a three-hour journey across mainland Turkey, all of us clutching onto our life jackets and our few belongings. Although there were only twenty people in the smuggler’s house, the number of travellers had increased to forty. The smuggler was standing with the man who had been appointed captain of the dinghy.

The boat that left last night had toppled over and the people were lost at sea. Only four survivors were pulled from the water, and eight bodies were found. These were the conversations I could hear around me.

‘At least this isn’t as bad as the crossing between Libya and Italy. That’s the deadliest sea crossing in the world!’ one woman standing nearby said to a man. ‘And some of the bodies washed up on the shore in Spain.’

Mohammed tightened his grip on my hand.

‘I told you,’ he said. ‘Didn’t I tell you this?’

‘Yes, you did, but—’

‘So it’s true. We might fall into the water?’

‘We won’t.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because Allah will protect us.’

‘Why didn’t he protect the other people? Are we special?’

The boy was sharp. I looked down at him.

‘Yes.’

He raised his eyebrows. There was a strong wind and the waves rose.

‘It’s like a monster,’ Mohammed said.

‘Stop thinking about it.’

‘How can I stop thinking about it when it’s right in front of me? It would be like if you held a cockroach right up to my face with all its legs wriggling and told me to stop thinking about it!’

‘Well then, go on thinking until you crap your pants.’

‘I’m not doing it on purpose.’

‘Pretend we’re getting on a ship.’

‘But we’re not. We’re getting on a rubber boat. If we fall in the water, maybe the fishermen will catch us in their net. They’ll think they’ve caught a big fish, but then they will get the biggest shock of their whole lives.’

Afra was listening to our conversation, but she didn’t join in and she kept her back to us.

We waited there for an hour at least. People were becoming restless.

‘This could be our last time on this earth,’ Mohammed said. ‘It would be good if we had some ice cream. Or maybe a cigarette.’

‘A cigarette? You’re seven.’

‘I know how old I am. My dad told me never to try one because it might kill me. I thought I would try one when I was seventy. But seeing as we might die tonight, now might also be a good time. What would you like to have if you were going to die tonight?’

‘We’re not going to die tonight. Stop thinking about it.’

‘But what would you like to have?’

‘I would like very much to have some camel’s wee.’

‘Why?!’

‘Because it’s good for the hair.’

The boy laughed and laughed.

I noticed that a woman standing nearby had been looking at me, her eyes flashing towards me then away, then back again to where Mohammed was standing. She was a young woman, probably in her early thirties, and her hair was long and black like Afra’s and sweeping across her face in the wind. She pushed it back with her hand and looked at me again.

‘Are you OK?’ I said.

‘Me?’ she said.

I nodded, and she glanced again at Mohammed and took a step closer to me. ‘It’s just that …’ She hesitated. ‘It’s just that I lost my son too. It’s just that … I know. I know what it’s like. The void. It’s black like the sea.’

Then she turned away from me and said nothing more, but the wind from the sea and the echo of her words got beneath my skin and froze my heart.

The appointed captain had climbed into the dinghy and the smuggler was showing him something on his phone and pointing out to sea; people were moving closer to the water, sensing that it would soon be time to go. Everyone had started to put on the orange life jackets, and I was busy adjusting the straps of Mohammed’s jacket and then helping Afra with hers.