BooksBarbecue
Back The Dead Line
Chapters (87)
  1. Cover
  2. By the Same Author
  3. Dedication Page
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. 38
  42. 39
  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. 42
  46. 43
  47. 44
  48. 45
  49. 46
  50. 47
  51. 48
  52. 49
  53. 50
  54. 51
  55. 52
  56. 53
  57. 54
  58. 55
  59. 56
  60. 57
  61. 58
  62. 59
  63. 60
  64. 61
  65. 62
  66. 63
  67. 64
  68. 65
  69. 66
  70. 67
  71. 68
  72. 69
  73. 70
  74. 71
  75. 72
  76. 73
  77. 74
  78. 75
  79. 76
  80. 77
  81. 78
  82. 79
  83. 80
  84. 81
  85. Acknowledgements
  86. Also Available by Holly Watt
  87. The Hunt and the Kill

‘Jeetu, he was the friendly one. Jeetu.’

Jamalida was crying again. Hessa was adapting to the Rohingya dialect now, understanding more of the words, the cadences. Romida was my friend. We did everything together. We wanted to be tailors, together, when we were grown up. In a shop. A proper shop. She was my friend. And now I will never see her again.

‘Have you seen them in the camps again?’ asked Savannah. ‘Either of these men?’

‘No,’ Layla translated for Jamalida. ‘If I see them, I will tell the mahji. And he will have them killed.’

The blunt hatred filled the tent.

Casey saw Shamshun staring at Jamalida. You survived. You survived, by a twist of nothing, and it is my daughter who is lost for ever.

Shamshun clenched her fists. She rocked to and fro, mouth tight, and then all at once the words poured out of her, Layla racing to keep up.

‘I was glad when my house burned,’ said Shamshun, and it was as if she were speaking to herself. ‘Back in our old village, I heard them come. The army, in the middle of the morning. I was out in a field, a few hundred yards away from the houses. I could hear the screams. They were setting fire to the houses, one by one. And I knew Romida was in our house, all alone. So I ran. You never know how you can run, until you run for your daughter. I got to our house, and the soldiers were there. Crowding around, a dozen of them. And Romida, there in the middle of them all. But she was struggling, screaming, begging. She fought, my daughter. She fought so hard. But I could see their hands on her. Their hands and their eyes. They do it to ruin the women. They do it to break us.’

Shamshun stared across the tent, eyes blank, plaiting her fingers together until they twisted. ‘My house caught fire. The soldiers in the street had fired a rocket to make it burn. The soldiers turned and ran, and they were laughing as they ran. Laughing. And only because my house was on fire, I could grab Romida. And we ran the other way, away from the soldiers, through the smoke and the flames. Because I would rather burn than . . .’

Shamshun was running her thumbnail back and forth over her wrist, hurting herself deliberately. ‘We ran through the flames, Romida and I, and we ran and we ran . . . It took days to get here. I thought we would die. We had no food. All I had, I gave to Romida. But then we were here, in this camp, in our little tent. It was just me and Romida. And I thought we were safe, here, at last. Maybe. And we were happy here, for a while. My daughter . . .’