Chapters (75)
- Cover
- Praise
- About the Author
- Title Page
- Intoroduction
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EITHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- FORTY-EIGHT
- FORTY-NINE
- FIFTY
- FIFTY-ONE
- FIFTY-TWO
- FIFTY-THREE
- FIFTY-FOUR
- FIFTY-FIVE
- FIFTY-SIX
- FIFTY-SEVEN
- FIFTY-EIGHT
- FIFTY-NINE
- SIXTY
- SIXTY-ONE
- SIXTY-TWO
- SIXTY-THREE
- SIXTY-FOUR
- SIXTY-FIVE
- SIXTY-SIX
- SIXTY-SEVEN
- ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
- CLIMATE EMERGENCY
- Copyright
Ahmed casts his eyes around again, takes in the other trees of various sizes, their branches swaying almost imperceptibly in a light breeze. The sun has dipped below the horizon. There’s a last streak of crimson on the bottom of the furthest clouds. ‘But I like this idea. It’s a beautiful place. We didn’t get to bury him, my father. We never will. We left home before we even knew for sure that he was dead. We still don’t, not for certain. So every day it feels like we’re burying him again. Digging him up in the mornings and burying him each night. Sometimes it’s the other way around.’
‘Nothing to bury, nothing to mourn.’ I murmur the words.
‘What was that?’
‘Nothing. Something a friend said. Do you dream about him?’ I ask.
‘My father? Never. Well, not yet. You?’
‘No. Not yet. Do you know who … did it?’ It feels invasive, asking this.
‘It isn’t a person, or people. There isn’t really a Who, I think. Just a What. It was the same What that killed your dad, I think. Just … hatred. Nothing but a deep, ugly hate that takes away what other people have. What other people love. People attach reasons to it, try to make sense of it, but there is no sense. I can see why people get angry.’
Ahmed pauses. He bends down and brushes a hand against the grass. Satisfied it’s not too damp, he sits, facing out over the town, the sky almost dark now. ‘Being in the UK is hard. I don’t expect you to understand how. In the big cities it can feel better, I guess. Maybe we’re more invisible in a big crowd of people, easier to ignore. But here? How do you put it? In the arse end of nowhere? We stick out like sore thumbs. Everyone looks at us. And those that don’t look directly at you have this way of not looking at you that almost says “I’m not looking at you because if I look at you it will show that I’ve noticed you”.’
‘Why would they want to not notice you?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe, with things as they are, the way it’s always in the papers, we’re impossible to not notice. So maybe people are trying to be kind and not draw attention to it when they see me. But I feel them fizzing with it when they walk past me. Like they’re electricity. Like it takes so much energy not to notice.’