33 West Page 18

  CROYDON

  How Lucky You Are

  Debi Alper

  If it wasn’t for the photo on his mobile, Max would have no proof that he’d met Ishraqi in real life. It would be easy to believe that she was just a dream. A figment of his twisted imagination.

  Max’s mum was always telling him his imagination was twisted. His teachers said that was a good thing. Max was creative, they said. The Brit School in Croydon was the ideal setting to nurture his strengths and guide him onto constructive paths. Or some such crap.

  Max didn’t buy it. Okay, the Brit was a vast improvement on his old school and it was great not to have to wear a uniform. But along with the music and performing arts you still had to do the same old boring stuff like Maths and English.

  This time last year, he’d been full of enthusiasm for his new school. Until the day he came home to find a bulging rucksack sitting in the hallway. His dad had sat him down, explained how he felt stifled and needed to get away. He was going off travelling, to ‘find himself’, he said. Max was old enough to understand.

  ‘Look after your mum for me,’ his dad had said. ‘She’ll be fine – probably better off without me.’

  Yeah right, Dad. That’s why I heard her crying every night for weeks after you left. Fuck off then and if you do manage to find yourself in Thailand or wherever you are, give yourself a kick in the bollocks from me.

  Burrowing deeper under his duvet, Max squinted at the grainy image on his mobile screen. Two teenagers, sitting side by side on a concrete wall on the concourse outside the UK Borders Agency building in Croydon Town Centre.

  Their arms were linked. Ishraqi was wearing the beanie he’d nicked for her and they were both grinning into the camera.

  You would think they’d known each other for ages.

  You would think they had a future ahead of them.

  You wouldn’t think that a moment after the photo was taken, Ishraqi would walk away and Max would never see her again.

  Closing his eyes, Max drifted back.

  Dan stood at the door of the bus, glaring at Max.

  ‘You can’t bunk off,’ he objected. ‘We’ve got a Maths assessment today.’

  Max shrugged.

  ‘Which, you twat, is the exact reason why I’m bunking off.’

  Dan shook his head in disgust.

  ‘You’re mad, y’know? You’re lucky to have a place at the Brit – and you’re just wasting it.’

  He jumped off the bus and walked away up the road.

  Max sat back in his seat and planned his day. IKEA or one of those big warehouse places out of town? Nah. Boring even if he did have money to spend, which of course he didn’t. He could always hang out at the recreation ground at Duppas Hill … Maybe hook up with some other cool kids, kick a ball about, smoke and chill. He might even strike lucky and get to share a spliff.

  Peering through the grime on the bus window, Max checked the sky. Uniformly grey with some darker clouds that looked to be heading their way. Were they rain clouds? If he’d concentrated harder in geography lessons, he’d probably know that. Ah well. Best not to risk it.

  He decided to stay in the town centre where he could always duck into the Whitgift Centre if it did rain. Jumping off the bus, he pulled his hood down low over his eyes. Just a week ago he’d been bunking and bumped into a teacher who had scooped him up and insisted he return to school.

  No sign of the rain, so he headed over to the flat expanse of concrete near the bus stop to have a fag. There was the usual bunch of people milling round outside the vast concrete and glass block looming up into the sky. The sign said the building was the UK Borders Agency and there was a Union Jack fluttering above it, but Max had no idea what went on in there. There was always a diverse group of people hanging out on the concourse, but that didn’t mean anything. London’s a diverse city. Croydon’s a diverse borough.

  Besides, Max was sixteen and was focused inwards, unaware of anyone else unless they made a direct impact on him.

  Extracting a crumpled packet containing tobacco and Rizlas from the pocket of his skinny jeans, he sat down on a low wall and began the ritual of rolling the thinnest possible fag. The task was engrossing so he was only subliminally aware of the two women hovering in front of him, the older one talking on her mobile.

  It was at that moment The Wanker came onto the scene. Everyone knows the type. Shaved head, tattoos, vicious dog, hatred of anyone they think is different … The dog was on a long lead and his leering bullet-headed owner was letting it run among the crowd, snarling and snapping at legs. Animal and man shared a physical resemblance that obviously extended to a mutual sense of what constitutes fun.

  While Max was hunched oblivious, licking the adhesive strip on his rollup, the dog ran straight for the two women in front of him, circling the older woman’s leg. As she struggled to keep balance, she grabbed hold of her companion who in turn staggered, tottered and fell.

  Onto Max’s lap.

  ‘Oi! Watch it!’ Max yelped, holding his fag up out of harm’s way.

  ‘Sorry. Sorry,’ the girl gasped.

  It was obvious she was embarrassed as she scrambled to extricate herself. Dog and owner moved on in search of new victims. The older woman was still on the phone and the girl had gone redder than Max thought possible. He peered up at her and decided she was fit in a shy sort of way. Not the usual goth type he went for – her black hair looked natural for a start – but she had really nice dark eyes.

  ‘’S’all right,’ Max said with what he hoped was a winning smile.

  He wriggled along the wall to make some space. The girl had allowed curtains of dark curly hair to fall forward to cover her blushes. After a moment’s hesitation, she perched on the edge of the wall next to him.

  ‘You bunking?’ Max asked, patting his pockets for his lighter.

  The girl looked shocked.

  ‘No,’ she replied. ‘I am here for an appointment. To this place.’

  She indicated the concrete hulk behind them. Her English was good – better than many of Max’s London-born friends – and she had an accent he thought only added to her cuteness factor.

  ‘So what happens in this place?’ he asked, not because he was particularly interested in the building, but it was as good a conversation opener as anything else he could think of.

  He’d tracked down his lighter but it was thwarting his efforts to look cool by refusing to spark. At that point, the other woman ended her call, leaned over and lit his rollup for him.

  ‘It’s part of the Home Office,’ she said, sheltering the flame with a cupped hand. ‘It’s where they deal with immigration – refugees and asylum seekers.’

  It wasn’t long before the three had exchanged stories. Max thought his was really boring compared to both of theirs. The older woman was called Alexsa and she had a job in a refugee centre as a support worker. She’d originally come to England from Kosovo, as a refugee herself. The blushing girl was Ishraqi. She had left Iran a year and a half ago, after both her parents were arrested at an anti-government demonstration.

  ‘You came here alone?’ Max asked trying to wrap his head round what it must feel like to be a kid and leave everything that’s familiar and everyone you know to go to a strange country where you don’t even understand the language.

  ‘I came here as an un-accom-panied minor,’ Ishraqi said, pronouncing the words with care and checking with Alexsa that she’d got it right. ‘But Alexsa found me a place to live with an Iranian family and a school too. I learn English and next week I take my GCSEs.’

  Max could see she was trying to look modest but was proud of her achievements. To be honest, he was pretty impressed himself and, somewhat to his own surprise, felt no desire to tease her for being a neek.

  ‘So where are your parents now?’ he asked.

  Ishraqi shuffled her feet and it was Alexsa who replied, though not to the question he had asked.

  ‘Look, guys,’ she said. ‘I’ve just been told Ishraqi
won’t be seen for another few hours.’ She turned to the girl. ‘We can wait inside. I’ve got case notes to work on. Have you got a book to read? Or some revision to do?’ She gave an apologetic grimace. ‘I’m sorry. It’s going to be boring but there’s nothing we can do about it. We need to stay close in case they call us.’

  Seeing his potential diversion about to disappear inside the concrete block, Max felt a lurch of disappointment swiftly followed by a spark of creative genius.

  ‘Hey! I’ve got an idea,’ he said. ‘How about Ishraqi and I hang out together?’

  He looked into the girl’s eyes. They were very brown and very deep.

  ‘I can show you round Croydon,’ he added, hoping that sounded a more attractive prospect than he knew it to be.

  Alexsa looked dubious.

  ‘I don’t think…’ she began.

  To Max’s delight, Ishraqi cut in.

  ‘Oh, please, Alexsa. We would be careful. What could go wrong? If I stay here with you I will just be bored and worry about the appointment …’

  Alexsa gave the pair a long hard look, scrutinising Max through narrowed eyes.

  ‘You don’t have a mobile, Ishraqi. I wouldn’t be able to contact you …’

  ‘No worries,’ Max said. ‘You can take my number.’

  They both made puppy dog eyes at Alexsa and watched her resolve crumble.

  ‘Okay,’ she said, though she still sounded doubtful. ‘But you stay in public where you can be seen at all times, you understand? As soon as I hear her appointment’s coming up, I’ll give you a ring.’

  Max quite liked the idea of acting as a tour guide. An empty day filled with something unexpected and different. Why not? It helped that the person he would be guiding was fit. Ishraqi was suitably grateful and he gave Alexsa his mobile number. Alexsa gave Ishraqi a fiver and told her to get a sandwich or something for lunch before walking into the building and leaving them to face the day together.

  They stood in the middle of the pavement while Max tried to decide their first destination. Ishraqi gazed round. Blocks of shops, offices and multi-storey car parks towered over them and traffic whooshed past on the dual carriageway. Buses, trucks and cars jostled for space while in the middle of the road trams trundled on humming wires and rails on their own designated track.

  ‘I think we’ll start with an overview,’ Max said to show how seriously he was taking his role.

  He looked at Ishraqi but she appeared frozen. Time for him to take charge.

  ‘C’mon,’ he said grabbing her hand.

  She allowed him to tow her in his wake as they ran to the tram stop and leapt on board. Finding two seats at the back, they settled in to watch south London roll past their window.

  ‘We’ll just take the loop round the town centre,’ Max reassured her when she reminded him they mustn’t go too far.

  ‘It’s so… grey,’ she murmured peering out the window. ‘No trees and not even much sky with all these buildings.’

  ‘Oi! You dissing my country?’ Max teased.

  To his dismay, Ishraqi turned round, her eyes wide with horror.

  ‘Oh no!’ she protested. ‘That would be rude. I would never …’

  ‘Hey, lighten up,’ he said nudging her in the ribs. ‘I was only joking.’

  Seeing she still looked agitated he decided to change the subject.

  ‘So what’s your country like then?’

  Ishraqi turned back to the window with a sigh.

  ‘There is no future for me in my country,’ she said, her voice so quiet he had to lean over to hear her. ‘I do not even know where my parents are or if they are still alive.’

  Max felt his stomach turn. Just that morning he’d had a huge row with his mum. She drove him crazy with her nagging about homework and taking responsibility and all that crap. But what if she disappeared and he didn’t know if he would ever see her again? The thought was too awful to contemplate. Time for another change of subject.

  ‘So what GCSEs are you taking?’

  Blimey. Was that ever a wrong move …? Or maybe a right one because at least it got Ishraqi animated and talking. She listed twelve subjects and then asked what he was taking.

  ‘As few as I can get away with,’ he confessed. ‘I love music though.’

  He told her about his new guitar and amp and an idea occurred to him.

  ‘I’ve got a gig next weekend,’ he said. ‘Performing with my band at a club in Purley. Why don’t you come? Bring a friend if you like. Or I could meet you and take you there if you’re nervous about going on your own.’

  ‘You are in a band?’ Ishraqi said, clearly impressed.

  ‘Yep. Death Rat Millennium.’

  Ishraqi looked blank.

  ‘The band’s name,’ he explained. ‘You know – rats?’

  He stuck his teeth over his lower lip and wiggled his fingers like ears. Ishraqi hesitated for a moment and then began to giggle. At first, Max wasn’t sure whether or not to be offended, but her giggles were infectious and before they knew it they were both holding each other up, helpless with laughter, while all around them pensioners and harassed mums with buggies gave secret smiles, remembering how it felt to be young.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Ishraqi gasped when she’d managed to regain control. ‘I would love to come. But my GCSEs …’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ he replied. ‘You’ve got to have a break from revision every now and then. You can meet the other members of the band. They’re cool.’

  He was already imagining introducing Ishraqi to his friends.

  ‘Yes,’ he would say. ‘She’s an Iranian asylum seeker,’ her exotic status upping his street cred no end.

  ‘But they might think that I am a gropie …’ she said.

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A gropie. Is that not the right word for a girl who follows a band around?’

  ‘Oh!’ Max exclaimed as the penny dropped. ‘You mean a groupie!’ And then there they were, collapsing in giggles all over again until Max noticed they had completed the loop of the town centre. He grabbed her hand and they jumped off the tram and headed for the underpass into the Whitgift Centre. As they walked into the temple of the gods of retail, Ishraqi said she had never been in such a large shopping centre before. She stood on the chequered floor in the middle of the towering structure and circled slowly, staring up at the soaring white columns, the ranks of escalators, layer upon layer of shops…

  They had lunch in Subway, using Alexsa’s fiver and then Max told her he’d show her where to find the coolest gear. Ishraqi was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt which were okay but nothing special.

  ‘You’re gonna need something for the gig,’ he told her.

  When she said she didn’t have any money, he flashed her a knowing smile but didn’t reply.

  Max had thought showing Ishraqi round for the day would be no more than an interesting diversion, but as the time passed he found he was having more fun then he’d anticipated. Once her initial shyness had worn off, she was good company, laughing at his jokes and not moaning when he spent ages admiring the latest mobiles. Other girls would have flounced off ages ago. Ishraqi said she had never owned a mobile and laughed at Max’s horrified expression when he said he didn’t think he could live without his.

  They wandered in and out of stores until they found themselves in H&M, where he persuaded her to try on hats.

  ‘A hat can make all the difference,’ he said, feeling like a TV style guru.

  After several attempts, he declared a red and black beanie suited her best. Her dark hair tumbled from beneath the wool, framing her face and emphasising her delicate features. With a wistful smile, Ishraqi replaced the hat on the display and turned away. She didn’t think anything of it when Max grabbed her hand a moment later and hauled her from the shop.

  ‘Time to go,’ he muttered, his eyes darting left and right.

  They emerged into the open air and Max stopped to roll a fag. Ishraqi watched as he licked the gum and sparked th
e lighter, which worked this time.

  ‘Could I have a try, please?’ she asked.

  Max raised his eyebrows, surprised.

  ‘I feel like I want to try new things today,’ she said, looking at him sideways through her lashes. ‘Things I’ve never done before.’

  Max passed her the rollup. She sucked and sputtered, handing it back with an expression of disgust.

  ‘We’ll just have to come up with something else new for you to try,’ he said with a suggestive smirk she couldn’t fail to interpret.

  Ishraqi blushed but met his gaze full on. They wandered off into the subway, holding hands. In the middle of the underpass, Max stopped, turned Ishraqi towards him and told her to close her eyes. She did as she was told and felt him doing something to the top of her head.

  ‘Open your eyes,’ he said.

  Obeying instructions, she reached up to feel her head. She lowered her hands and looked at what she held.

  ‘Max! You stole this?’ She looked like she was wrestling with her emotions. ‘You did this for me?’ she whispered.

  He nodded, swallowing. Was she going to have a go at him for shoplifting? Maybe even insist he take the hat back? If she did, that would be the end of it. He’d take her back to that Borders Agency place and leave her there. He’d achieved what he wanted and got through most of the day anyway. He looked at her, bracing himself for rejection.

  ‘Max,’ she said, her eyes swimming with tears. ‘That’s so kind. You took a big risk for me. Thank you.’

  Max resisted the urge to pump the air in triumph and instead pulled her towards him.

  ‘So why are you crying then?’ he asked.

  Ishraqi looked away for a moment, her face screwed up like a much younger kid. Yet, at the same time, Max had the weird thought that she looked older and wiser than he would ever be.

  ‘When I first come here to this country,’ she said, ‘it felt so strange to be able to wear whatever I like. I could choose if I wear a hat or not. Or jeans. Or a short skirt.’

  Max looked blank so Ishraqi explained that in Iran she could never leave her home without being covered up from head to foot.