The Way Home
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n the small garden near the station, Nadia sits and watches a tramp rummage and mutter over the contents of the rubbish bin. She does not really want to look at the pigeons, though she does eventually, not wanting the tramp to think she is staring at him. The pigeons are sick in this garden, they are bloated and lazy. They waddle about gorging themselves on the remnants of crisps and cigarette butts and all the things they were not created to eat. Near Nadia's foot a pigeon pecks at the dark bubbly liquid oozing out of a Diet Coke can. She stamps her foot to frighten it away but the bird is placid, shrugs its wings, cooes and continues to drink. Once at school, Tracy and Nadia did a project on the threats to animals from pollution and waste. They spent months reading about animals. They even became vegetarians for a time, a whole month, until they lapsed one day together in Burger King. Two Whoppers with pickles and mayonnaise. Eventually, Tracy took down the poster in her room of a Tyrannosaurus with the caption 'Dying To Meat You'. In its place went a smiling Jason Donavan. Nadia sits and around her the benches of the garden are decorated with pigeon excrement, greyish white stains congealed in peaks like icing. On the grass, that of the dogs nestles in clusters, brown among the green.

Nadia tries to think of Tracy but instead thinks of how Lateefa can be both right and wrong at the same time. In Tracy's family there were no guns and maybe even no shame. Lateefa's fears have no place here. They belong to another age, another continent. Here, the furious uncle was substituted by a stepfather who went away on holiday, who could eat Wurst and drink beer and sleep soundly at night while Tracy bore her own pain. And shame was substituted by the sense of inconvenience, washed by a facile night at the nursing home.


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