Outside the tent Xoriyo hears churning, snuffling in the sand but out in the bright moonlight there is nothing there, just mole rat holes, dig scrapes, camel dung, she decides to walk home but where the compound was there is a little stumpy thorn bush creaking, and more scrapes and dung and a grey green pigeon comes out of the ground big as a dog, reaching a lumpy pink half claw over the dune

Xoriyo wakes and chucks away the hand she has been clutching, her brother Jamaal’s, terrified Jamaal will wake and if he wakes Muxsin will wake and if Muxsin wakes her mother and father will wake and the whole of Angel Lodge will scream at her. But Jamaal does not wake, Muxsin is fast asleep and Father and Mother are talking softly in the yellow light from the prison. Xoriyo closes her eyes, turns over and sighs. She is in Angel Lodge. She tries to remember the angel her father showed her on the wall in the big building yesterday where the drinking english men wore macawiis and there was an old soldier wearing a sword, she reaches up and holds the angel’s hand, happy to go wherever she is flying.

Xoriyo listens, learning English. Her Father has told her, listen for the words inside words.

cast ford new gate gran peter king cross

She asks her Mother, ‘Did you sleep at all in the night?’

‘Of course, when you were asleep.’

Xoriyo knows she is not telling the truth.

She asks her Father, ‘And you, have you been asleep at all?’

Her father smiles, but neither shakes or nods his head. She knows he would lie as well, if he could.

The words inside words.

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She loves the waiting sound, then the pitch rising, the pulling away. She is amazed her brother’s don’t wake, how much Jamaal and Muxsin sleep. How hard they will be to drag off the bed, the boys’ bed, Jamaal, Muxsin, Father, out of Angel Lodge, along Love Lane, up Back Lane.

into wake field

Ugh. Xoriyo shudders. Closes her eyes. In all the cajoling and pushing of her brothers no one will notice how she has to walk eyes closed, not looking up.

Today she will say No. There must be another path, a way round, or over, why can they not go over the Golden Bridge?

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Sitting with the map spread on the bed, her father shows Xoriyo the places, it is a map for trains and had been useless in the minibus up from the south, but fits now as his finger steps up the country then across in time with the tannoy.

The train gets loud then goes away.

Her father says the words in Somali. Noticing Muxsin has one eye open watching, he says the words again with hand actions … pointing at mother then him then Xoriyo, pulling a bad taste face, drawing high towers, pointing to his mouth, snuffing a candle, feeling his coat, waving, feeding an animal, giving money and putting something in a bag, pointing at mother, pulling up water, elbows walking quickly along and …

Her father looks lost for a moment then points to his middle, shakes his head, draws a circle and points to the middle of that. Shrugs. They are laughing, even her mother is laughing.

out wood fit william south elm all wick bent cast meadow hall field

Her Father suggests, ‘Why don’t you see which words might go together?’

She knows William is a name, she has seen photographs in the newspaper of a man named William, another English soldier with a helicopter and a sword. She knows south is not a thing but the direction she has come from and where half the trains head back towards.

Elm, she does not know, wick, she does not know, nor meadow.

Xoriyo has heard one word before, not just on the tannoy but her parents too, ‘Chef field.’

Xoriyo knows everyone is hungry and they have to take the vouchers to the big shop which means going under the dead pigeon bridge or past the door back to Somalia.

Her mother has gone looking for the boys, her father is putting on his coat.

There are only two ways to the big shop, one under the pigeons, the other past the door to Somalia.

It was the boys’ fault, they had asked, What’s that door?

It was her father’s fault, he had said, That is the door to Somalia, open that and you are there.

They laughed at him, knowing he was joking. But after the others had walked on Xoriyo put her hand flat and the old wood had been hotter than anything in England should be and if she closed her eyes she could hear shouting. No, she doesn’t want to go that way either.

Somewhere a child is yelping.

Xoriyo and her father sit on the bench outside the main door of Angel Lodge. She waits for him to make his joke about the palm trees planted to make them feel at home, waits for him to tell her to look up and imagine the ground is not damp grass but all red earth, make her smell the warmth coming up under her ears.

But he is doing that short breathing he does more often now, gulping air, holding a few seconds, pushing out, gulping more, holding. They watch the mini bus driver walk up and down the pavement smoking. The driver that shouted at mother when she wouldn’t get in until she was sure they had everything, he looks cross now, throws away his cigarette, peers through the railings but does not seem to recognise them.

The yelping and whining is coming from behind the big wall, Xoriyo is surprised that the English keep children inside their prisons.

‘No worries, no worries. Xoriyo. Xoriyo. No worries.’ Like rolling water in her mouth, fresh, no feathers, no pigeon shit. Smiling makes her warm. Looking up makes her cold. She keeps her head down. ‘No worries. Xoriyo.’

The man Muxsin ran into limps across the road, her family are waiting for her to follow them. The pigeon fills her head and taste and she can’t help but look and see if the bird is still alive in the same place as yesterday, on the spikes, maybe dead, the spikes through her, against the bricks near the green netting.

‘Xoriyo. Xoriyo. Xorioyo. No worries.’

Xoriyo knows what Mother and Father are doing. No one wants to go back to Angel Lodge so they follow the boys. The boys don’t know they are leading the family, they’re just following their noses, excited and full of cake, exploring Wakefield.

Wake Field, some land not sleeping.

Muxsin pulls Mrs Osman’s shawl, ‘Are we going to see that lady again?’

‘Not again.’

‘Tomorrow?’

‘We may be leaving tomorrow.’

Xoriyo laughs, ‘You say that every day.’

Xoriyo thinks Wake Field should be called Many High Buildings. Not high like Dubai but high compared with home. In Wake Field they even bother with the outsides of their buildings high up where no one can see; they paint bits of metal, make patterns in the stone, put up clocks and people her father tells her about, like the white Queen of Just Is and their Jesus hung with his arms out and their black Victory Queen.

Wake Field should be called Many Different Clothes, the guards from the prison all dark in two and threes, these black and gold school boys in a line, the old soldiers with shiny buttons and swords outside the big church yesterday and now these men with hats and, Xoriyo peers to see if they are swords or sticks. Toys really, not much good if a technical and a bunch of mooryan came round the corner.

Her mother and father are arguing quietly about the English lady, whether she wanted to meet them because she is kind or whether someone made her meet them and why that might be.

The boys are arguing about which way to go next. Jamaal wins and takes them down a backstreet.

Xoriyo sees it first. ‘Ssh!’ Whipsers, ‘Libax.’

Muxsin shusshes his parents, ‘Shh! Aar.’

They freeze.

Mother asks, ‘Is he looking at us?”

Xoriyo tries to make out the lion’s face, he reminds her of the cream she had on top of the hot chocolate the English lady bought her. ‘He has no eyes.’

Mother is crouching between Muxsin and Jamal. ‘Stone eyes. Stone ears. They are the best.’

Even Father is bending his knees a little, ‘Look, he is guarding another door to Somalia. They are trying to hide it behind all this junk.’

Xoriyo says, ‘No, he is a cold lion, and he has no teeth.’

Muxsin starts creeping away. Xoriyo is not sure if that was a shadow or a face at the window watching them, talking on a phone.

Her mother and the boys go to the shop with the vouchers they were given at Angel Lodge.

Xoriyo likes being with her father without the others, but today he is tight. Yesterday he taught her the queens, but today he is clenching his teeth and doing that rubbing with the back of his thumb where the hair stops on his neck.

She knows to not to ask questions, not to ask him to remind her of the names of things.

Xoriyo likes the Queen of Just Is.

The Victory Queen just looks cross.

They could both do with a clean.

When they see the English lady from the cafe again Xoriyo laughs, she thinks the lady should be called Gool Queen. A lioness. Xoriyo tries her English, ‘Hello. Hello …’ and then silently in her head … Gool Queen. Lioness. Majesty.

The English lady pretends she has not heard, then she pretends to be surprised, then she pretends to smile.

Definitely not Wake Field. Definitely Many Different Clothes.

A man and a woman wearing big metal necklaces.

A lady with blue hair and a red dress.

Balloon, she says aloud in English, a word she has just learnt, Pink. Green. Balloon.

A man with a white face.

Some trousers made out of map.

Map. Angel. Balloon.

Baby angel.

Girl angel.

Xoriyo runs round the fountain and then wishes she hadn’t.

She wobbles. Things are a bit blurry.

There is a man in a grey t-shirt and she feels sick, can’t remember which way father was, realises you can’t hide in a fountain.

The man in the grey t-shirt walks round the edge of the fountain, crosses the road and goes into Grind.

Xoriyo looks at the faces of the people sitting, the man on his bike. No one is looking at her.

The English lady and her father sit on a bench in the shade, like they know each other as well as all the other people sitting on benches in the sun.

She likes the English lady’s name, Clara.  Clarr a. Kla – rra.

She likes the way her father is leaning one hand on the bench, the other hand talking.

Lady Clar-rra uses her father’s name, Nur, but she says it too small sounding.

Her father is laughing. When her father laughs she knows Somalia and the mooryan in the technicals with their dark guns and starey qat eyes are not just the other side of the wooden door, the hot dust and sharp bushes she hid among with father and mother and Jamal and Muxsin are not just behind the lion.

No one is interested in her and that is wonderful.

She likes how if you walk under the arches of water you can feel them cold in the air.

Xoriyo sits down between her father and Lady Klarra, snuggles into him, Lady Klarra ruffles her hair and says to her father, ‘She’s a little angel.’

Her father is in a good mood.

He says, ‘At last we have met an intelligent English person.’ He walks fast. ‘We must get home before your mother starts preparing something.’

‘Not under the bird bridge.’

‘OK. Not under the bird bridge.’

And they go the long way.

Her father really is very happy, his hands are loose and flappy as he walks and he says, ‘I don’t know why, that shop reminds me of a truck.’

She knows what he means, although there is only one colour, red, not enough for a Somali truck. English trucks are dull or look like moving pictures. It would be funny if suddenly a Somali truck came down this road in Wake Field, smoke coming out and leaning over on one side with all the things on the back.

Xoriyo says, ‘Look Dad, a Somali truck! No really look!’

He stops and frowns, these again, looks round, then they are both laughing.

Mother Jamal Muxsin are standing outside the door of Angel House with all their bags. The driver of the black minibus who shouted at mother that time is there, smoking a cigarette, holding a piece of paper, talking on the phone. As soon as he sees her Father he is shouting questions.

Father talks, Xoriyo tries to pick out words as he gets louder, waving his arms not happy now, Chef Field. Burn Grief. Miss Take.

The driver says, No Miss Takes. Under Land. Now. Look.

Father points to the man’s phone, says Mohamed Osman, shows the man a card and holds his hand to his ear like a phone. Ring Im. Please. Ring Im. Miss Take. No. Not now. Chef Field. Burn Grief.

The man shouts back, Yes. Under Land. Fucking Now.

Xoriyo can see people behind the dark glass windows of the minibus.

The man stabs his cigarette fingers at the paper. See. Sez. Under Land. He starts to pick up their bags and Father grabs him by the shoulder but already men and women are running out from the entrance of Angel Lodge and two of the men have her father his arms behind his back and hold him still, breathing, breathing deeply and shaking his head, saying No. Miss Take. Family. Burn Grief.

And one of the women has her hand hard round Xoriyo’s arm only hurting a little but so she has to walk forward towards the minibus if she wants it not to hurt a lot and when she looks round for Jamal and Muxsin, the woman shoves her forward so her shins bang into the step and she falls up into the back of the minibus and she can smell the strong flowery smell on the bright clothes of the two smiley Zimbabwean men in the seat in front and Muxsin Jamal Mother Father are in and doors slam and they are moving, some people in the van are laughing, some people like Mother and Muxsin crying.

Xoriyo closes her eyes but can hear the lights, each one swishing air from her ears. She thought this moving had stopped, the truck, the coach, the airplane, the ship, the airplane, the minibus – then the quiet eyes open time in Wake Field – now another minibus, busy road, car lights, street lights, to Under Land not on a train to Chef Field, Burn Grieve, to stay with her jilib, even some of her qaraabo.

Lights. Lights. Lights no one ever seems to switch off. The light of the sky moving.

The minibus stops and the driver opens the back doors, the two smiling Zimbabweans get out, taking all the colour from the van but there is more space so Xoriyo sits next to her hunched up father, the window marked where he has rested his cheek.

Xoriyo peers past him to watch the Zimbabweans being shown into the doorway of a dark little house, shuffling in their bright shirts and white plastic flip flops.  She imagines how cold they must be and snuggles into her father’s coat.

For a while they are the only ones left in the minibus while the driver tries to work out where he is going from a screwed up piece of paper. They go up and down a street, up and down again, another time then stop in the middle. Outside Xoriyo smells cold sea but the long narrow hallway is hot, dry, stale. She turns back but is shoved along between the bags bouncing from her mother’s knees and the bags her father drags, leading them to the end of the hall then turning up the steep stairs. The walls brown. A child crying, a television booming. A door opens and a man glances up at them, Xoriyo is startled by piercing blue eyes in his black face.

Their room above the TV and the crying baby is so filled by the six single beds, they have to climb on the beds to enter, have to pull their bags up after them.  Across the beds is a cupboard for clothes with a broken door.

Father says, ‘Get changed, ready to sleep.’

‘No.’

Xoriyo hears her mother’s hiss of breath, feels Muxsin and Jamal, tense, still, she fights through the buzz in her head. This is the first time in her life that she has disobeyed her father. ‘No. I will not take off my clothes here.’

Her mother shushes, ‘Do as he said.’

Her father says to her mother, ‘Give them food’ and goes out into the corridor and runs downstairs. They can hear shouting from outside but no clear words, a door slam and the minibus driving away.

She floats on her raft of beds, heavy with heat, fighting sleep, the beat of the TV, waiting for the baby to start crying again, Muxsin whistling across his floppy tongue, Jamal’s wheezing chest, her mother is stroking her head, but Xoriyo will not sleep until her father comes back, the light still, not like today flapping past

Wether

Bridge

Bar

Cat

Darling

Fish

Red Lion

New Bottle

Angel Flowers

She will not sleep until her father comes back, but her mother is stroking her head.

Xoriyo surges for the light, must stay awake until her father returns, ’Mother have you slept tonight?’ But she falls back from the edge, plunges.

The smiley girl is waving her handkerchief and thousands of tiny birds fly out and rise above the golden bridge, Sheffield? thousands and thousands of tiny birds like specks of dust circling the golden light, Sheffield? no not Sheffield, the voice tries all the other names on the list: Burton on Derby? Birmingham Trent Street? Cheltenham Stir? Gloucester Parkway? then Sheffield? again, the voice keeps saying, Sheffield? and the thousand specks sing, they are not birds, her father sings, the lion lady sings, but the voice goes on Sheffield? the voice is coming from a lizard with a woman’s face, red lips and silver balls in her ears, Outfitz? William South? Elm Hall? Bent Wick? Cast Meadow? Xoriyo knows how where you are is the one word you can never say, unless you are wise, unless you carry all the rocks and sand and gateways and doors and ships and planes in your heart, unless you are Xoriyo or one of the tiny angels, it is the answer to everything, where you are is the one word you cannot say, Xoriyo knows that if only she could open her mouth she would be able to touch the ground and tell them: ‘Wake Field. West Gate.’

‘Mm?’