Page 45 of A Perfect Devon Christmas
‘Yes, but we both believe strongly that the Taliban are not the right people to be ruling our country.’ Ivy rose, fetched the bottle of wine and another glass, then poured one for Omar and topped up her own. She took a sip as she examined the man sitting across from her. Omar was only thirty, but his eyes carried the weight of an older man –someone who had seen too much. She tried to imagine how terrorizing it must be to feel the ground beneath you crumble, to watch trusted systems transform into a labyrinth of suspicion where every word, every gesture could be twisted against you. Where the world was not your friend, but an unblinking eye ready to devour your future with ruthless indifference.
But then, she didn’t have to imagine. On a much smaller scale, this had happened to her. She had blown the whistle, and the institution she loved had betrayed her. But where her punishment had been exile from the life she’d known, Omar’s had been exile from his beloved homeland. The Church had taken her future; his government had tried to take his life. Her burden, heavy as it had seemed, suddenly felt light. She didn’t want to push, but neither did she want him to stop. ‘Tell me,’ She asked gently, offering him the space he needed.
Omar exhaled sharply, as if he had been holding his breath. ‘The day I left Kabul,’ he began, his voice tight, ‘I knew I would not return. Working for the British Army, I was a traitor in the Taliban’s eyes. The night after I was accused of being involved in drug smuggling, a friend called. He told me to run.’
Ivy swallowed.
‘My sister, Laila ...’ He hesitated, his jaw tightening. ‘She wouldn’t come. Sami and Yasmin were only four and two then, and Laila’s mother-in-law was ill and couldn’t travel anyway, even if she was allowed to move here.’
He looked away, his breath hitching. ‘I went to Laila’s house that night, begged them all to come with me. But she took my hands and said, “You must go, Omar. You must live.”’ He shrugged, turning his wounded eyes to Ivy. ‘She and her husband hope the Taliban will leave them alone if they stay quiet. What choice did I have? I warned Farid to keep his head down, asked him to keep an eye out for Laila – which he promised he would do. He knew by my leaving I was protecting him too.’
Ivy bit her lip. ‘How did you get here?’
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, the firelight fragmenting across his features like stained glass. ‘I took nothing but my duffel bag. No passport, no phone – I couldn’t risk them tracking me. A friend in the old intelligencenetwork got me a ride out of Kabul in the boot of a car. We passed through checkpoints – Taliban with their rifles, peering into vehicles. My heart stopped every time the car slowed.’ He paused. ‘At one, they pulled us over. I thought it was the end. But the driver, he had cigarettes. American ones. He handed them over and they waved us through.’
He paused and Ivy breathed out, conscious of that sudden noise in the silence.
‘We reached Kandahar, but I couldn’t stay. Too dangerous. I kept moving south, finding transport where I could. I used my army training – moving at night, avoiding main roads. Sometimes, I walked for miles. One thing they teach you in the army is to look after your feet.’ He gestured to his boots. ‘I had started with the right shoes. I never imagined it would one day be useful, but you know the most important skill your army taught me?’
‘What?’ she prompted.
‘How to hide without being found. That’s what kept me alive close to the border. In Pakistan, I paid smugglers to take me west. I was crammed into a truck with thirty others, barely breathing. If we made a noise, they beat us.’ Ivy clutched at her cross, horrified, but Omar wasn’t looking at her. Lost in the story, his voice grew detached. ‘Crossing into Iran was the worst. We walked for hours. Across mountains, through freezing nights. People died on the way. The smugglers didn’t care. I saw an old man collapse – he couldn’t keep up. They left him.’ Omar’s knuckles whitened against the stem of his glass. ‘I kept moving through Iran, hiding, avoiding the police. If they caught me, I’d be sent back. I had no papers, no proof of who I was. Then, into Turkey – more mountains, more running. I stole food when I had to. I didn’t like doing that, but I had no choice, I knew I had to conserve every dollar I had.’
Ivy exhaled wondering what came next. ‘And then?’
‘I reached Istanbul. That was where I met others. We pooled what little money we had. A boat to Greece, that was the plan. A rubber dinghy, too many of us packed together. The sea was unforgiving.’ He rubbed his hands over his face. ‘One night, we pushed off. It was dark, the waves high. We seemed to drift for hours. Then, the boat began to sink.’
Ivy gasped. ‘Oh God.’
Omar gave a mirthless smile. ‘God wasn’t there. Only the cold. People screamed, grabbed at each other. I don’t know how long I was in the water before the Greek coastguard found us. Maybe half of us survived.’
Ivy reached across the table, squeezing his hand. He didn’t pull away, but his fingers were ice-cold in hers. ‘How did you get here from Greece?’ she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
‘Detention camps,’ he said simply. ‘Greece. Then Italy. Then France. Always running, always hiding. In Calais, I slept in the dirt for weeks, waiting for a chance to cross. I tried jumping onto lorries. One night, I struck lucky, I found a truck bound for Dover. I climbed in, hid beneath cargo, barely breathing. It was an eternity before we reached England.’
Ivy listened, enraptured, horrified, in awe. How had he endured all this? She thought of her own struggles, her own disappointments, feeling suddenlysmallin comparison.
Ivy felt tears prick her eyes. ‘And, when you reached England?’
He gave a small, weary smile. ‘I walked straight to the police. They put me in touch with the right people. I gave them the details of who I’d served with and where I’d worked.’ His eyes misted over. ‘They questioned me, checked everything. That’s when I started to believe I was safe. Finally, they let me stay. I had the right to be here, after all.’
Ivy gasped. ‘After everything you went through, you shouldn’t have had to fight.’
Omar sighed. ‘That’s how the world works. I found a job as ahandyman in a nursery, a flat. I was very happy in London ... for a while.’
Silence stretched between them. Ivy looked at the man before her – the friend she had made over cups of tea in the café, and spice-laden meals – and realized she had only ever seen a fraction of him before now. She got up, poured more wine and picked up a sausage roll, trying to imagine what it would be like not to eat for days. She squeezed his hand. ‘You’re safe here, with me and Fred,’ she said.
He met her gaze, his dark eyes unreadable. ‘I’m not so sure.’
Then it occurred to her – Omar was not an illegal refugee, so why had he left London and what was he doing in Brambleton posing as a roving handyman when he was a qualified teacher? She let go of his hand and he wiped his eyes discreetly. Then, in a low voice, he said, ‘Helen was one of my colleagues at FF. She’s been sent to track me down.’
Ivy stiffened. So that’s why Omar and Helen’s conversations had seemed so charged. Helen had only given her a part of her story – she hadn’t mentioned she was pursuing Omar. ‘Bywhom?’
‘Robby.’
A cold weight settled over Ivy. ‘Is he from the Taliban?’
He laughed, and the sound woke Jez. ‘No. He’s the London CEO of the Fowler Foundation.’
