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there was nothing in it. At first I thought it was empty but then I thought,
Why do you carry that bag, girl, if there is nothing in it?
I could see her sari through it, so I decided she was holding a bag full of lemon yellow. That is everything she owned when they let us girls out.
    I knew that second girl a bit. I was in the same room as her for two weeks one time, but I never talked with her. She did not speak one word of anyone’s English. That is why she just shrugged and held on tight to her bag of lemon yellow. So the girl on the phone, she pointed her eyes up at the ceiling, the same way the detention officer at his desk did.
    Then the girl on the phone turned to the third girl in the queue and she said to her, Do
yu
know the name of dis place where we is at? But the third girl did not know either. She just stood there, and she was wearing a blue T-shirt and blue denim jeans and white Dunlop Green Flash trainers, and she just looked down at her own see-through bag, and her bag was full of letters and documents. There was so much paper in that bag, all crumpled and creased, she had to hold one hand under the bag to stop it all bursting out. Now, this third girl, I knew her a little bit too. She was not pretty and she was not a good talker either, but there is one more thing that can save you from being
sent home early.
This girl’s thing was, she had her story all written down and made official. There were rubber stamps at the end of herstory that said in red ink this is TRUE. I remember she told me her story once and it went something like,
the-men-came-and-they-
    burned-my-village-
    tied-my-girls-
    raped-my-girls-
    took-my-girls-
    whipped-my-husband-
    cut-my-breast-
    I-ran-away-
    through-the-bush-
    found-a-ship-
    crossed-the-sea-
    and-then-they-put-me-in-here.
Or some such story like that. I got confused with all the stories in that detention center. All the girls’ stories started out,
the-men-came-and-they.
And all of the stories finished,
and-then-they-put-me-in-here.
All the stories were sad, but you and I have made our agreement concerning sad words. With this girl—girl three in the queue—her story had made her so sad that she did not know the name of the place where she was at and she did not want to know. The girl was not even curious.
    So the girl with the telephone receiver, she asked her again.
What?
she said.
Yu no talk neither? How come yu not know the name dis place we at?
    Then the third girl in the queue, she just pointed
her
eyes up at the ceiling, and so the girl with the telephone receiver pointed her own eyes up at the ceiling for a second time. I was thinking, Okay, now the detention officer has looked at the ceiling one time and girl three has looked at the ceiling one time and girl one has looked at the ceiling
two times,
so maybe there are some answers up on that ceiling after all. Maybe there is something very cheerful up there. Maybe there are stories written on the ceiling that go something like
the-men-came-and-they-
    brought-us-colorful-dresses-
    fetched-wood-for-the-fire-
    told-some-crazy-jokes-
    drank-beer-with-us-
    chased-us-till-we-giggled-
    stopped-the-mosquitoes-from-biting-
    told-us-the-trick-for-catching-the-British-one-pound-coin-
    turned-the-moon-into-cheese-
    Oh, and then they put me in here.
    I looked at the ceiling, but it was only white paint and fluorescent light tubes up there.
    The girl on the telephone, she finally looked at me. So I said to her,
The name of this place is the Black Hill Immigration Removal Centre.
The girl stared at me.
Yu kiddin wid me,
she said.
What kine of a name is dat?
So I pointed at the little metal plate that was screwed on the wall above the telephone. The girl looked at it and then she looked back to me and she said, Sorry darlin, I can not
ridd
it. So I read it out to her, and I pointed to the words one at a time. BLACK HILL IMMIGRATION REMOVAL CENTRE, HIGH EASTER, CHELMSFORD, ESSEX . Thank you precious, the first girl said, and she