Mosi's War Read Free Page A

the tower block . . . the silence as he went down . . . the sound of him hitting the ground. He was usually so good at telling stories, but for some reason the right words wouldn’t come.
    ‘That must have been quite a shock.’
    The journalist had turned to the camera then, Patrick’s moment of fame had passed. But Patrick had stopped listening anyway. He wondered if he had seen everything. The man had made no sound. All he had seen was a man, his arms flapping like a windmill, falling – and looking as if maybe, just maybe, he’d decided he didn’t want to do it after all.
    A woman had come to the flat after school, some kind of counsellor, asking if he needed to talk about it. That had made his mother laugh. ‘He’s been talking about it all day. Can’t get him to shut up.’
    The woman didn’t smile when his mum said that. His mother wasn’t taking this seriously enough. But for once, his mum was right. He didn’t need to talk to an adult. He had his friends, and they would be happy to listen till he’d talked it out.
    The woman had left with a promise, a threat, his mother had called it, of coming back again.
    And after she left they had sat together and watched the news, plates of egg and chips on their knees.
    ‘I really think I should have been in that shot with you, Patrick. As your mother, to let people see I was there to support you.’ She spoke through a mouthful of chips. ‘I mean, I know I gave them permission to film you, but I think I should have been there as well.’
    Patrick had to smile at the memory of his mother trying her best to sneak into the shot behind him. She hadn’t been quick enough. The interview was over in seconds, and her fifteen minutes of fame had been snatched from her.
    She stood up and took his plate from him. ‘Now, you don’t mind me going out tonight, do you?’
    This was unusual. She almost never asked. She went out every night. ‘Because I don’t mind staying in, son. You have had a very distressing day. And you’re my priority.’
    He’d heard his granny on the phone ordering her to stay in. ‘Don’t leave that boy on his own!’ she’d shouted. So loud she didn’t need a phone. And his mum had assured her she wouldn’t. She’d lied. His granny was away on a retreat to the convent at Carfin and wouldn’t be back till tomorrow. She’d never find out. Patrick certainly wouldn’t tell her.
    ‘Don’t be daft, Mum. I’ll be fine. Slasher movie on the horror channel.’ He grinned at her. His mum was more like a daft big sister really. She’d only been sixteen when he’d been born. She acted as if she was still sixteen. She didn’t need much convincing to go out anyway. This was singles night. She would have had a heart attack if he’d asked her to stay in with him.
    It was the last thing he wanted anyway. He had things to do. People to meet. His mum was hardly out of the door when Cody called. ‘I’ll be there in ten minutes,’ Patrick said.
     
    Mosi saw the interview on TV too. He watched it with his mother and father in silence.
    ‘The poor boy. What a terrible thing to see,’ his mother said.
    After speaking to Patrick, the journalist turned to the camera. ‘This suicide has focused attention once again on what is happening here for the asylum seekers. Life is hard on this run-down estate. They have to contend with poverty, racist attacks and the fear of being deported. Although Hassan had still been waiting for a final decision on his asylum application, friends have said he was growing increasingly afraid that he would be sent back. There is an air of tension here on this grim Glasgow estate. We will have to wait to see what the repercussions of this tragic event will be.’
    ‘This means trouble for us,’ Mosi’s father said.
    Mosi agreed. The media made things worse, calling this a grim estate, talking of racist attacks, all this would stir up bad feeling when the majority of them – asylum seekers and the local people – just