Three Hours(79)

*

The door to Junior School has been shot off its hinges, lying on the ground covered in snow. Rafi goes inside but doesn’t call out Basi’s name, in case a gunman is in the building; in case Basi replies and gives his hiding place away.

He goes along the corridor, lined with shelves full of children’s books. His injured right leg is making him nauseous. He wants to try pulling the metal out again, to stop the burning pain, but then he’d bleed more and the man might see the blood; would find him, would find Basi.

He goes into Basi’s classroom and for a shocking, gut-wrenching moment thinks that there are children lying on the floor, but it’s scarecrows, just scarecrows in children’s clothing. Snow is being blown by the wind through the shattered windows on top of the mangled scarecrows and shards of glass. The rage of the gunman is a presence in the room.

He searches for Basi, looking in cupboards, under desks, going into every classroom and Mr Lorrimer’s office too. No sign of him.

There must’ve been a reason he’d thought Basi was inside Junior School, but he can’t remember the reason, his brain too unfocused with pain.

He goes back outside into the snow.

*

Thandie passes Rose a phone. ‘It’s Rafi Bukhari. Basi isn’t inside the Junior School building. And he’s been injured.’

As she’d thought, he hadn’t done as she’d told him and hidden and stayed safe.

‘Rafi, it’s Rose Polstein …’

To start with she can only hear the wind and then she makes out ragged breathing.

‘Rafi? Are you badly hurt?’

‘I don’t know where Basi is. There was a bomb meant for him.’

‘What kind of bomb?’

‘An IED in a book, there was a label with Basi’s name on it in the playground. Grimm’s Fairy Tales, I picked it up. Saw a wire and threw it. The book exploded. Fuck. Fuck. Sorry.’

‘It really hurts?’

‘I’ll be okay. It was there this morning on a swing, I saw it. He must have left it there this morning.’

And if a different child picked it up that was okay because collaborators will be punished.

She turns to Amaal. ‘Tell counterterrorism. And put out an alert to all officers that there could be IEDs; anything could be a booby-trapped bomb.’

She goes back to Rafi, hears the wind howling around him.

‘I thought there was someone following me earlier. He might be after Basi.’

He’s having to shout, but as if it’s hard, as if pain has taken strength from his voice.

‘Where did you see this man?’

‘I didn’t see him, just heard him, in the woods. And near Old School. But then I lost him. I might have imagined him.’

She doesn’t hear him the first time and he has to repeat it, and she thinks this conversation is exhausting him.

‘Can you tell me what you heard?’

‘Thought I was just being crazy. An anorak rustling and a couple of times I heard a twig snapping.’

He pauses and in between the strong gusts of wind she can hear the boy’s fast uneven breathing around his pain.

‘The thing you need to know,’ he says, ‘is that I have hypervigilant PTSD, with paranoia and psychosis. It was a real IED in a book for Basi, but the person behind me might not have been real. Most likely wasn’t, but I thought you should know, in case, for Basi. Even though I’m not reliable.’

‘You got all the children in Junior School to safety, hypervigilant PTSD or not. I think you’re pretty damn wonderful actually. When was the last time you thought this man was behind you?’

‘Not sure. Just after ten.’

At that time, Jamie was in position outside the pottery room, Victor inside Old School. So, if Rafi didn’t imagine him, this is evidence of a third terrorist here at the school.

The wind drops and there’s a moment of stillness at the other end of the phone.

‘Why would anyone want to hurt Basi?’ Rafi asks.

‘I’m so sorry, Rafi, the people attacking the school are white supremacist terrorists. They are wicked people, shameful people. Please hide. We’ll find Basi as soon as we can, I promise.’

*

Basi is hated. He is hated. They are why the school is under attack.

He limps towards the gate out of the playground, the shrapnel working its way deeper into his leg.

Hated.

He tries to run over the thick snow towards the gate but a hole opens up – their worst hole – and it’s snowing in Aleppo.

Five-year-old Basi is asleep on a beanbag and hasn’t seen it’s snowing, but Rafi’s watching out of the window, waiting for Baba and Karam to come home. They were taken by Assad’s men two days ago, to the airport, they think, but nobody knows; whispers that there are torture cells under the airport, whispers that burn his ears as he just stands and waits. Mama pacing and pacing and not sleeping, not for two nights.

A loud noise on the street wakes Basi. Rafi sees a truck pull up but Basi only sees that it’s snowing and is too excited about the snow to remember to stay inside and runs out.

Think of a face, quickly think of a face. The old man on the boat, his beard with salt in it, smelling of vomit and urine and excrement, as they all did. He’d been a judge and talked to Rafi about being a lawyer before that, and before that a student as Rafi would be one day. He’d talked to him about art and architecture and literature and philosophy, all through that first terrible night on the boat, as if Rafi was his equal, as if he wanted to have a proper conversation with him; and in the morning, he gave Basi his last lemon, because lemons help with seasickness.