#10. JUMILIA SQUARE, RUSAFA, BAGHDAD, IRAQ
Tuesday May 19, 21:47
IT WAS dark when Ali crossed Al-Quds Street into his own district. He had changed his clothes in a toilet in the mall, dumping the blood-stained vest and pants in a dustbin and dressing in his own jeans, green sweater, denim jacket, socks and black shoes, thanking God they had let him take his rucksack. Now he looked like any teenager as he wove through the crowds of shoppers still staring at the destruction caused by the runaway trolley. A guy was sweeping up glass whilst the manager had yelled at two policemen: ''Of course there was someone on it! He rode it down the escalator and into the window!''
''Really?'' The policeman sounded sceptical.
''Look on the CCTV!'' bawled the manager. ''You'll see him on the tape!''
The paramedic and Mr Mohamed were protesting loudly to the second policeman who just kept saying ''But it's your trolley, from your ambulance.''
''It was stolen!'' said the paramedic, ''Hijacked!''
''Hijacked,'' said the second policeman flatly. ''A hijacked hospital bed. Stolen from inside your ambulance.'' He wrote something in his notebook. Ali laughed and left.
It took three or four hours to get his bearings, work out where he was and plan a route home without encountering police, military checkpoints or any of the militia groups that roamed Baghdad at night but, finally, at last, he turned a corner into his street and burst into tears.
It was not the most elegant street in the world. In fact it was downright scruffy, a series of beige low-rise concrete blocks, slowly rusting metal-shuttered shop-fronts and rainwater-stain scars on the pot-holed road surface but it was where Ali had grown up, where he had played football with his brothers and hopscotch with his sister and walked to school in the next street.
''I'm back,'' he said quietly, ''I'm home.''
A tide of mixed emotions, of joy, sorrow, relief, apprehension, swept through him – what would he find? He dug in his pocket for the key and entered the three-storey building that housed the apartment. There was no lift so he walked up the two flights of stairs, revelling in each step until at last he was standing in front of the brown door labelled 211 weighing the small silver key in his hand. Entering the empty flat would be weird. Last time, when he'd gone in with Uncle Wagdy, he had felt detached and depressed. This time he felt elated. He had survived The Sisters of Mercy and could finally get the hot bath he dreamed of, fix a feast from whatever was left in the cupboards, watch some TV, sleep in his own bed. Finally. It was good to be home.
Relishing the moment, he slipped the key in the lock and opened the door.
''Who the hell are you?'' A cry from the sofa made him freeze in the doorway.
A fat, Pringle-chomping old woman dressed in a black polyester sack was sitting in his father's armchair. A skinny young woman in a beige sweater and slacks was perched on the end of the sofa hoovering up peanuts. A plump, snotty-nosed kid slumped on the carpet, back against the sofa, shovelling crisps into his face. The television was blaring out a Nancy Ajram song.
''I'm Ali Hassan,'' Ali countered, shocked. ''Who the hell are you?''
The young woman yelped and bolted for a bedroom, trying desperately to scrape her long mousy hair into a headscarf.
''Shakbat shakhabit,'' sang Nancy Ajram.
A young man in a vest and jeans emerged from the kitchen. He was wiping his hands on Ali's mother's apron and had a smoking cigarette between his lips.
''We live here, you little punk,'' he said. ''What are you doing here?''
''I live here,'' gasped Ali. ''This is MY flat. I'm Hassan Al-Amin's son.''
''Go get your uncle,'' the fat old woman ordered the snotty-nosed kid.
''That's my Mum's apron you're wiping your filthy hands on,'' Ali said.
The young man blew cigarette smoke towards him. ''Figured she wouldn't need it no more, seeing as she's dead an' all.''
Before Ali could react, the owner, Suleyman, appeared in the doorway accompanied by the snotty-nosed kid. He was ill-at-ease and even more obsequious than before.
''Ali, my dear boy,'' he oiled, rubbing his palms together, ''Welcome back. You obviously haven't spoken to your uncle. I had to let the flat go. I have bills to pay and a family to support.''
''But two weeks,'' said Ali. ''It took two weeks.''
''You were in the orphanage and your sister is in the Medical City,'' explained Suleyman. ''I figured you weren't coming back.''
''But I am back!''
''Can you pay the rent?'' asked Suleyman softly. Ali looked at the lino. ''I thought not. Look, let me call Wagdy.'' He took out a mobile. ''He'll explain.''
''What about our things?'' said Ali, ''Our clothes, the TV, the furniture?''
''Wagdy sold everything to me,'' said Suleyman. ''Wagdy? Hello. Mr Suleyman here. There's a problem.'' He handed the phone to Ali.
''Oh.'' Uncle Wagdy sounded surprised. ''Ali. It's you. We weren't expecting you.''
''So I gather,'' said Ali. ''He says you sold him everything.''
Uncle Wagdy sounded tired. ''I had to, Ali.''
''It wasn't yours to sell! It was mine!'' Ali yelled. ''And what about the flat? It's my home!''
''Listen,'' said his uncle, ''I had to pay to get you into the orphanage. I have to pay for Fatima's medical treatment and...''
''Is that Ali?'' Aunty Nour barked in the background. ''Give me the phone.'' He got a torrent of abuse. ''You ungrateful little wretch!'' she stormed. ''Do you know what the state orphanages are like? You get tied to your bed for the day covered in shit, living on bread and water which you get once a day but because you're family, we found you a good place. They say you caused nothing but trouble and your cripple of a sister's going to bankrupt us. She needs a prosthetic leg. She needs physiotherapy. She needs medication...''
''She'll need somewhere to live!'' Ali retorted.
''She'll go to an orphanage too,'' snapped Aunty Nour, ''And some American charity can support her. They caused it, after all.''
''They didn't,'' said Ali. ''It was a suicide-bomber.''
''And who's going to pay for that shop window you broke? That's what I want to know. You know we had the police here. All the neighbours are talking about us...''
Uncle Wagdy came back on the line.
''Ali, stay where you are. I'll come to fetch you. Sister Gihan will take you back. She's already phoned to say there's a special place for you in the basement.''
Ali closed the phone. ''Family,'' he said bitterly.
''Bummer,'' said the young man sympathetically.
''You'd better give me the key,'' said Suleyman. ''I'm sorry, Ali. Life sucks sometimes.''
''You'd have been better off dying like your brothers,'' chimed in the fat old woman, ''Then you wouldn't be a burden to anyone.''
''Thanks for that.'' Ali handed over the key. ''I'll wait in the street,'' he said.
Nancy sang ''Shakbat shakhabit'' and a chorus of children happily echoed her.