Read Online The Inbetween People by Emma McEvoy - Free Book Online Page B

shoulder, gazing up through the branches at the stars in the summer sky? The smell of the Sinai desert was still upon me then, the faces of my comrades and enemies return to me in my dreams; that time has never really gone away, and, perhaps for this reason, neither have you.
    None of this matters anymore, I shall go to sleep.
    Daniel

C HAPTER 12

    I t must have been dawn on the beach. I remember a vague light on the horizon, the smell of coffee, the taste of cigarettes, and a coldness—for the fire had gone down and the dawn air was cool. I remember your face as you weaved your story, your voice as it stumbled over these events.
    There was no sense of victory that day, you said. There was nothing.
    You are eighteen now, a man, the second man of the family after Father. The letter has arrived, your grandmother has placed it unopened on your bed. You stare at it for a long time, you sit on your bed and you stare at it, for you recognise the words stamped across the front of it, you know what is inside without opening it: inside will be a date, a time, there will be words, an appointment, exactly as you expected. You note the objects in your room: Karim’s bed, your own bed, your clothes folded on the shelves, your books, arranged in alphabetical order, the picture of the veiled woman that has always hung in this room.
    You open it in one swift movement, you note the date, the time, and afterwards you move towards this date, making the appropriate arrangements, packing your most suitable clothing. Three days before you are due to go you tell Grandmother.
    I am beginning my army service in three days, you say.
    She is scrubbing pots, she doesn’t turn. You wait, you stand there, her back is stiff and you know she will speak. You watch her shadow on the wall, the sharp beak-like nose, she speaks without turning.
    Where are you going, she asks.
    I don’t know, you say. They didn’t say, I have to report to a base but after that I will be moved. I don’t even know what I will be doing. She continues to scrub the pots. I will receive training for whatever I am doing, you say. That is standard.
    Packing bags, she said, preparing someone else’s parachute, placing it in a pack for them. Cooking their food, cleaning their toilets, that’s what you’ll be doing. They won’t give someone like you any responsibility. She lifts a pot into the sink, grimaces at its weight, and begins to scrub.
    Grandmother, you say, you don’t know what you are talking about.
    I know what I’m talking about, she says. I know what they think about our people. They will never give you any responsibility, never trust you, why would they? You are wasting your time and your youth. On them. You know nothing, every time you speak you reveal your ignorance.
    I won’t be back for a while, you say. It will be a few weeks, maybe months. I will phone.
    She scrubs the pot, bent double over the sink, her once dark hair has gone grey, you note that now and you wonder that you didn’t notice it happening, you didn’t see the streaks of grey, the gradual lightening. Don’t phone here, she says, we don’t want tales of your heroics.
    You turn to leave the kitchen, she stays where she is, bent over the sink, a weak streak of light across her face, shining through the herbs she has growing on the windowsill of her kitchen: basil, parsley and always rosemary. You pack your clothes, alone, you’ve never packed for such a long period of time, you are sure you will forget something. The days pass, hot days, cloudless skies, and all the time you wait, nobody speaks to you about your army service, nobody asks you where you are going, or when you will be back, and the bright hot days are endless for the waiting.
    The day comes, and when you awake, early, you close your eyes, and you will the sleep to come for another moment. You think of your mother, you remember her touch, the light way she moved, her bare feet on the cold floor, you remember how she used to say