Ayamin hugged me when I’d stumbled back to our raggedy, bloody group. Her head fitted into my shoulder and I can’t remember exactly what she said but it was something about my anger, and how she loved it and how she loved me.  

I hugged her tighter even though my chest hurt like hell, and then the two of us limped over to Grandpa who was being righted on his wheelchair by his two sons. 

Mahdi looked up. He had the same anger in his eyes that I felt in my stomach. It was the anger of the powerless.  We dropped our eyes as Mahdi’s wife wiped the blood from Grandpa’s face. 

The kids were quiet.

Two of them held their mothers’ hands, while the youngest stared in the direction the train had left.

‘I don’t like the conductors,’ he sobbed. 

We might have stayed there for hours, but a piercing whistle from another train came from the opposite direction. I looked at Ayamin, then I looked at Grandma. It seemed we all had the same idea. 

We climbed the fence into a field of raggedy grass and large weeds and began to walk north, the way we’d been heading. The next field over was filled with pumpkins. 

Wheezing. I stooped and picked one. Grandma was watching me. She picked one. Mahdi and Jamal picked a pumpkin each and Grandpa swore and swore and swore until Mahdi picked a small pumpkin for him to hold on his lap. 

‘Those pieces of shit,’ he yelled as he bounced over the stems.

****

By the third day of our wandering, we weren’t doing too well. One of the young boys and I were struggling to walk. My lungs felt hot and scratched as they moved against my ribs. The boy had a limp and a lemon sized lump on the side of his head.

But worst of all was Grandpa, he’d taken the fall from the train badly, and didn’t have youth to aid his recovery. He’d bled from his nose and mouth four times, and moaned in his wheelchair as we moved. We had no pain relief, no access to a hospital, and didn’t dare go too close to the railway line. 

At around midday on the third day, we sat around eating slices of pumpkin we’d cooked over a fire and apples the kids and Aya had scavenged from a tree beside the railway line. Above us, thick concrete storm clouds crashed together and rain began to fall. 

The drops were fat, fast, and increased in number rapidly. 

At first, the cool water was welcoming. We could clean wounds properly and it numbed our bruises. But the torrent grew and grew until it was like standing under a fire hose. 

With a flash of yellow, Ayamin pulled out our jacket and the two of us sheltered under it as we walked. Grandma and Mahdi’s wife held a tarpaulin over Grandpa as he was wheeled along. 

We passed through a waist-high stream that five minutes earlier would’ve been a trickle and when we reached the fields our feet began to sink into the mud. 

We passed through a cow paddock, all the cows were cowering under two large trees and I thought about how much I’d like to do the same. 

‘We need shelter,’ I shouted to the group. A moment later I slipped and landed hard on my chest. I felt my ribs bend and I let out a scream of pain. The rain was deafening as it beat against the earth.

 Ayamin eased her hands around my back. Trying to help as I squirmed to my feet. With a solid heave that left me breathless, I was standing. Ayamin’s face came right up close to mine. Her hair was dripping and her eyes were dripping and her nose brushed mine.

‘I was looking at that barn up ahead.’ she shouted over the rain. 

‘Yeah. Barn good,’ I shouted back. 

We took two steps towards it, then I looked back, the rest of the family was with us apart from Grandma and Mahdi who were struggling to wheel and lift Grandpa through the mud. 

Grandpa was moaning again, and his face had gone white with the pain of it. I felt something building in my chest. It felt like rage. 

I handed our jacket to Ayamin, ‘I’m just going to help wheel him over,’ I said and began marching towards the old man. 

My ribs gave little white-hot stabs of pain as I moved, but I think that only added to my rage. I reached the old man, yelled at Mahdi to pick up his side and together we lifted Grandpa off the ground. 

The pain was out of this world. But the adrenaline it brought on was like a shot of morphine. 

‘Let’s go,’ I yelled at Mahdi and set off at a run.  

My ribs hurt – they hurt like someone was twisting a screwdriver into them. But I just yelled all the harder. Ayamin watched me as I passed her, a big grin on her beautiful rain-streaked face. 

‘Go Danny, Go!’ she yelled.

Grandpa was screaming, delirious with pain. But he had this wild grimace on his face. He could feel the same madness that had taken a hold of me. 

‘Go you animals! Run boys!’

Lightning flashed; thunder struck. I screamed into the rain all the swear words I’d ever learnt and when I ran out I just screamed like a wild lion. Everything was on fire and I could taste blood on my tongue.

We reached the barn – it had a gate in front but I made Mahdi jump over then half-threw Grandpa to him. 

I stood in the rain panting with this wild smile on my face for about two seconds before my knees gave way and I was kneeling like a praying believer in the mud.  I couldn’t breathe. My lungs didn’t seem to work.

Then I felt a hand on my back, a painful glance told me it was Grandma, ‘That is good anger of yours boy,’ she said.

Ayamin fell to her knees beside me. She was kissing me, all over my face. Over and over, the rain dripped down her hair.

‘That was impressive,’ she whispered.

I kissed her again and put my arms around her back, ‘I think I got a little carried away.’  

She laughed. 

There were droplets of water on her face and I kissed them slowly. The two of us climbed over the gate and into the haybarn. It was musty-dry inside but the hay smelt good and we all stripped out of our wet clothes. 

As I moved my shoulder to take my t-shirt off my ribs screamed out in pain and I dropped my arm. 

‘Oh man,’ I said, ‘I’m starting to think the last five minutes were a bad idea.’ 

Ayamin laughed, and put her hands on my arm, ‘You have the same look my Dad did, when he got angry there was nothing in this world that could stop him.’ 

She inched my arm upwards, ‘Tell me when it hurts.’ 

I waited until the pain was getting close to unbearable. I liked the feel of her hands on my arm. 

‘There. It hurts there.’

She sucked in air between her teeth and winced, ‘It looks like you finished what those guards started.’ 

Inch by inch Ayamin helped me ease my shirt off. I grinned at Mahdi who was receiving the same treatment from his wife.

‘You’d make a good nurse,’ I said as Ayamin tied my shirt into a sling. 

‘I hope you’re not just saying that because I took your shirt off.’

‘Well…’ I grinned, ‘No seriously, back in Turkey with the poppies for your grandmother and the other patients – you care.’

She tried to hide it but I could tell she was pleased, her hand dropped to my waist, ‘Okay greaser, do you need nurse Ayamin to help you with the rest of your clothes?’

I raised an eyebrow, ‘I mean, if you’re offering…’ 

Next to me, Grandpa chuckled, ‘This man is an opportunist,’ Grandma started laughing and soon we all were, even the kids who didn’t quite understand – they didn’t care, it was laughter and we were safe and it felt good.

****

The hay was soft and slightly prickly to sleep on. But it was dry. I woke as light began to enter the hayshed and found a small piece of grass poking my cheek. 

I yawned, stood up and walked over to where Ayamin and Grandma had started a little firepit near the entrance of the barn. 

I sat down beside Ayamin and kissed her. 

‘How are you feeling Danny?’ 

I shrugged, ‘Stiff and sore, but okay. I think the sleep helped.’

We sat watching the small flames lick at Grandma’s pots. 

While the storm raged outside it was relatively peaceful in the haybarn. It felt like maybe we were in the eye of the storm.

There was a sharp click of metal, and I looked around to see a thin, dark-bearded man wearing a dripping coat and pants standing in the entrance of the barn. He started shouting in Serbian and moving closer. In his hands was a soviet-looking rifle. It was pointed at us.

The rest of the family emerged from the hay like mice. Jamal helped Grandpa down into a sitting position. 

We were sitting around the fire, Ayamin grabbed my hand, and Grandma’s next to her. She nodded towards Mahdi’s wife, and I took her hand. Within half a minute we were all linked and looking up at the gunman, waiting. 

He seemed a little less sure of himself now. Like his plan had only gone this far. 

He was moving from one foot to the other, and his jacket swayed from side to side. He shouted in Serbian again and waving his gun around. We all sat there with blank faces. 

‘English?’ I tried. 

The man snorted and continued his barrage of Serbian words. After about five minutes he seemed to run out of steam. The guy wasn’t young. His hair was grey and his skin all wrinkled from a life outdoors. 

In the pot oats and apples were boiling with a whistling sound. The Serbian pointed to the pot, said something in his language, then gestured with his hands like he was eating from a bowl. 

Ayamin was the first to move. She reached slowly into a bag and pulled out a bowl and a spoon.

The man nodded. 

Grandma scooped a heaped spoon of porridge, then a smaller spoon of the apple sauce. The Serbian man shouted, gestured for her to add another spoonful and then another. 

One of the kids licked his tongue, looked up at the man, then back at our breakfast – now half gone. He could do the math. 

The Serbian man took the bowl. With one hand on the trigger of the shotgun, he began eating and eating. 

The man burped as he finished. Then smiled and pointed back to the bowl. 

‘I think he wants seconds,’ Ayamin said. 

‘Pig’ Grandma said in Arabic, but on her face, she wore a smile as she ladled more of the steaming meal into his bowl.

We watched him eat with desperate eyes. I saw the children whispering – who was going to miss out?

When the man had finished, he dumped the bowl back onto the hay and seemed unsure of his next move. 

He sniffed, then pointed the gun at me, Mahdi, and Jamal then pointed out the door where the rain poured down.

I shrugged like I didn’t understand, so he beckoned with his finger for us to follow, then with the gun still pointed at us he walked backwards into the rain. 

We followed. Barefoot and all. Ayamin ran and grabbed our jacket – throwing it to me. 

About fifty meters from the barn a faded orange car was bogged down in the mud. The angry man walked into the mud and mimed pushing it, then pointed at the three of us. I nodded as the rain beat down on us.

‘Hey Mahdi, how you feeling man?’ I asked. 

‘I’m good.’ 

‘Well, my ribs hurt like hell. Think you guys have got it?’

Mahdi and Jamal looked at each other and gave a brothers’ nod. 

‘Yeah we got it,’ Jamal said. 

They stood either side of the car, bending their knees like rugby players in a scrum. I stood in between them with my hands resting on the boot of the car. I hunched my shoulders slightly like I was ready to push but I just let my hands sit there. Little spiderwebs of pain spread out along my ribs. What was I thinking yesterday?

When he looked sure we wouldn’t attack him the man jumped into the car, locked the doors, revved the engine, and stuck a hand out the window – pointing forwards. 

My feet sunk into the cold mud and gravel below me. Gritty bits of sand rubbed against my ankles as the vehicle moved forward with both tires spinning. 

After a minute-long fight, there was this sucking sound and the tyres began to move against the gravel. The car shot out of its place and the Serbian man gave two toots of the horn.

The man got out of his car, leaving the gun on the front seat, but armed himself with a large sack of potatoes. He handed them to us, then pulled three oranges from a small bag in his back seat. 

He gave one to each of us which we accepted like men who’d won the lottery. 

The man said something in Serbian, winked, and jumped in his car.

As the faded orange car sped along a track towards an old rickety house in the distance, I looked at Mahdi, and then Jamal. The brothers’ eyebrows were wrinkled – they were confused, and so was I.

****

Back at the barn the oranges were cut up and passed around. The kids weren’t quite so angry about being cheated out of half their breakfast after that. 

When everyone had eaten, there was a big debate about what to do next. 

Mahdi was all for going. 

‘If that idiot shoots one of us – or calls the police we’re done.’

His wife was nodding her head, one kid sat on her knee, his head bobbed up and down as her knee shook, the kid didn’t seem to mind though. Bits of the orange were smeared around his mouth and he was licking at the peels.

But beside her, Grandma wasn’t so sure.

‘You look out there, you see the rain.  Grandpa will never survive, the kids too. If they get cold there’ll be nowhere to recover. We need to leave yes. But we can’t leave in rain like this.’

In the end, Grandma won. We stayed another night – filling ourselves up with baked potatoes throughout the day. 

By the next morning, the rain had eased. As it grew light, we began to pack. But just as we were pulling our bags onto our backs a steady clattering of metal interrupted us. 

The Serbian man had returned. Only this time he carried four shovels instead of a gun. He carefully laid the shovels down outside the haybarn, then pulled a few Serbian banknotes from his pocket. 

He laid the money – two notes with 500 written on them on the ground, then stared at us with an almost pleading look in his eyes. 

‘How much do you think that is?’ I whispered to Ayamin.

‘Not much,’ she said, ‘He doesn’t look rich.’

‘Should we take it?’ 

She shrugged and looked at Grandma, as the rest of the family was doing. The old woman had a hand resting on her chin as she stared at the tools and money in front of her. 

The Serbian seemed to realise that the ultimate power lay with her and he held up his hands, running back to his car.

Five minutes later he returned with three cartons of eggs and milk in a steel bucket. He opened each tray of eggs so they faced us, but I hardly noticed. I was too fixated on the frothy milk in the bucket. It felt like years since I’d tasted that creamy goodness. 

Grandma raised her eyebrows but didn’t nod yes or no. With a grin, the man produced two tomatoes from his jacket and laid them down beside the eggs. He folded his arms and we all stared at Grandma. 

‘Danny, Ayamin, how do you feel about working?’ she asked without turning her head.

I shrugged, ‘My ribs are stuffed, but my stomach has the final say.’ 

Grandma nodded to me, then turned and nodded to the Serbian. A smile filled his face. 

We sat in a circle and passed around the stainless-steel bucket with milk in it while the Serbian farmer watched. The taste was unreal – almost like honey, but cooler and softer. A thick layer of cream had settled on top and I swallowed three gulps before passing it on to Mahdi. 

The Serbian took us to the edge of a field and showed us how to dig holes for fence posts. We worked most of the day and then when we’d finished the Serbian came back and sat down to eat with us.

While the kids gave him a few strange looks, Grandma acted as if nothing was different. She gave him the first serving, and we watched with pained eyes as he wolfed it down. When he reached for more Grandma shook her head and replaced the lid. 

‘No.’

The farmer shifted his hand away and watched as she served the kids, Grandpa, and finally herself. The pan was empty and his face had gone a bright red. He put down his bowl and stormed out of the barn. 

‘Mister Farmer is coming back with his rifle,’ Mahdi said. 

His wife shook her head, ‘Mister Farmer’s coming back with the police.’ 

Their youngest kid sat between them, clutching his mum and shivering with wide eyes, ‘He’s going to bring the train conductors.’ 

It was almost dark when the farmer returned. He lugged a big brown sack on his back that almost made him sink into the mud.

Mahdi and I stood as the man approached the barn. He stood like a silhouette in the doorway – half Boogieman and half Santa Claus.

He walked inside and upended the sack onto the hay in front of Grandma. 

Bread, apples, carrots, flour, oranges, spaghetti, tinned apricots, potatoes, biscuits, and lollies spilled in front of us. The kids' mouths fell open. Little piles of drool landed on the hay.

But that wasn’t our biggest surprise – the farmer said a word – not in his language, or even English. He spoke in Arabic… and he said ‘Eat.’

‘Eat, eat, eat, eat, eat.’