The next morning, Abdul woke up early, and lay in bed, still feeling dazed, for what felt like several hours. He struggled to adjust to the fact that he now had no job, he would never see Sam or any of his colleagues again. He shook his head, hoping that he would soon awake from his bad dream . . . but no, this wasn't a dream, this was real. Eventually, he forced himself to sit up on the bed, his face buried in his hands. What was he to do?
Abdul dragged himself from his bed and slowly made his way to the kitchen in his pyjamas. He had no idea what time it was. He made himself some toast and sat on the living room sofa, barely noticing the crumbs spreading over the furniture. He then got up, went to the bathroom, and got himself washed and dressed. He then left his house and set off for a walk on the banks of the Thames. It was a warm, sunny day, but Abdul did not feel warm or sunny. He dragged his feet, and spent nearly all his time staring at the ground. He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he was shocked when he realised that dark was drawing in. He made his way to a McDonalds, where he ate a quick beef burger and chips, and returned to his flat.
Another three days passed. Abdul spent nearly all his days cooped up in his home or walking by the river. As he wandered rather aimlessly around the house, he heard a letter being pushed through the doorway. Filled with idle curiosity, Abdul picked the letter up: it was a deep brown envelope, so it must be from someone important. He took the letter to the living room, sat down on the sofa and opened it: his heart skipped a beat when he saw it was from the Home Office. The letter read:
"Dear Mr. Harbi,
We have been informed that you entered the UK illegally and obtained British citizenship by deception. The Home Office is committed to removing British citizenship from those not entitled to it, and to remove from the UK those with no entitlement to remain, and, as such, we have taken the decision to take away your British citizenship and expect you to report for deportation to your country of origin immediately.
We intend to make the deportation process as swift and as humane as possible. If you want some advice about this, the number to call is below."
Abdul began to panic. He was in serious danger of being sent away from his home, from this country. He dropped the letter on to the floor and began breathing heavily. He was not going to be deported, he thought, he was not going to be, not when he had lived here for so long. And what exactly did the Home Office expect? Where would he live in Somalia? Who would he know there? How would he be able to find a job in a country he barely knew? He hadn't been there for 15 years, finding his family would not be easy, and would they even recognise him after so long? But he needed to speak to someone, someone who would give him advice. And then, in a flash, an idea came to him . . .
"Abdul Harbi?"
"Here, Mr. Bourne."
The man at the head of the classroom, short and stout with dark hair and a thin moustache, finished taking the register. He smiled at the class.
"Welcome back, I hope you all had a great weekend."
Most of the class murmured their assent. Abdul usually did this too, but this time was different. He did know why, but there just seemed to be something inside him urging him to stop living a lie.
"Didn't", he said loudly.
Mr. Bourne and all the other students stared at him. Abdul felt as if he had been caught naked.
"Why, what went wrong?", asked Mr. Bourne.
Abdul didn't answer. Mr. Bourne very slowly approached the table where Abdul was sitting, and bent down so that his face was level with Abdul's.
"Do you want to talk about it?", he asked kindly.
Abdul looked around the classroom.
"Not . . ." he said pleadingly, pointing to the rest of the class.
Mr. Bourne stood up and raised his voice, "Right then, everybody else, off to your first lesson."
There were a few murmurs of dissent, but nothing very much, and in a couple of minutes Mr. Bourne and Abdul were the only two people left in the classroom.
Mr. Bourne carefully closed the door and walked back to Abdul's table, sitting himself next to his pupil.
"So, Abdul", he said encouragingly, "what was it you wanted to say?"
Abdul blurted out everything that had happened to him: how Amina had visited his house in Mogadishu promising to give him a better life in London, how she had given him a false identity, how she had forced him to work in her house, and how she beat him when his work was not to her satisfaction. Mr. Bourne frequently had to stop him: it was difficult for him to understand Abdul's halting English.
Abdul looked desperately at his form teacher. He felt as though he had just leaped into a dark pit, not knowing what would happen to him.
Mr. Bourne looked very troubled.
"I'm sorry to hear this, Abdul", he said. "She seems like a horrible woman."
"She is", said Abdul straight away. "I no want live there more."
A strange expression was etched across the teacher's face, as though a great realisation was dawning on him.
"So now it all makes sense", he remarked, half to himself and half to Abdul. "I've always had a feeling something wasn't right: your clothes (Abdul looked down at the tattered and dirty clothes Amina had given him), the fact that you've always seemed to be afraid of this woman, the unexplained injuries, avoidance of eye contact . . ." He tailed off. "It's shocking to hear it, but I can't say I'm surprised."
"You do thing?", Abdul asked, not daring to hope.
"Do you mean, will I do something to help you?", asked Mr. Bourne.
Abdul nodded.
"Certainly I will", said Mr. Bourne. "You can't go back to that lady's home."
"Where go, then?", asked Abdul.
"I will take you home with me", Mr. Bourne replied. "I'll phone Social Services and we'll see what they can do for you."
Abdul could scarcely believe it.
"Thanks, Mr. Bourne."
"Andy", insisted the teacher.
After that things had happened very quickly: Andy had contacted Social Services, as he had said, and fostered Abdul. For the first time since leaving Mogadishu, Abdul had a place he could truly call home. He had never forgotten Andy's generosity, and the two had remained in touch ever since.
That evening Abdul travelled to Andy's house and rang the doorbell.
"Abdul! What a pleasant surprise!", smiled Andy when he answered the door. "Do come in."
Abdul stepped over the threshold. Andy led him into the living room: a large, spacious place with comfy chairs, a large television in the corner, and bay windows. Abdul recalled many happy times here.
"Oh, it's you", said a voice. Abdul looked round. A short, brown haired woman was sitting in one of the chairs, her eyes narrowed.
"What trouble are you causing this time?", she asked.
Abdul sighed. Andy had divorced three years earlier, and then remarried: Susan was far less friendly to Abdul than his first wife had been. Abdul did his best to explain his situation to her.
"So you've finally been caught", she said remorselessly. "You thought you could get away with it, did you? But in the end . . ."
Andy hurriedly cut her off.
"So, Abdul, you're worried about being deported?"
"Yes", Abdul replied.
"Not before time", added Susan. Abdul did his best to pretend she wasn't there.
"You've nothing to worry about", Andy assured him. "They can't deport a trafficking victim. You should apply for asylum, tell them that you were trafficked, and they'll let you stay."
"Like heck they will", grunted Susan.
"But", said Abdul, "that letter they sent me, it wasn't very nice . . ."
"It may have seemed that way", said Andy, "but that's because they don't know the whole story. If you tell them you were trafficked, they'll accept it, just like Social Services did."
"Such a cock and bull story", muttered Susan.
Abdul felt happy and grateful. Once again, Andy had shown him the way out of a situation. Andy was surely right, Abdul thought, there was no way the Home Office could turn him down.
