Mo's Story by Mark Freeman

The electric motor started up. It whirred as Mohammad's scrawny arms swung the floor polisher from side to side. Not Mohammad. It's Mo now. That's easier. Mo glanced up and saw the tops of the trees where the birch forest started. The thin watery light lost its battle at the window. How could light be so dark?

He worked his way backwards, down the corridor. The harsh ceiling light bounced back off his polished floor. His mind drifted, to golden splinters of sun reflected from the surface of the river near his village. Sounds of splashing as he played with his friends in the water. Those were happy times. Then men with guns started visiting the village in their trucks. Give us your boys, they said, and we will turn them into men. 

One of his friends went with them the first time they visited, but no one heard what happened to him. By the third time they visited Mo was wondering  what sort of man he was. He knew he didn't want to be a man with a gun. But could he stay in the village? Times were changing. His uncle had some savings, and offered to lend him money to make the long journey. Then he could get rich and give the money back.

The asylum lawyer was kind. She had let him Skype his uncle on her computer. At least his mother knew he was safe now. The lawyer had said, if you work for a year then you get something called a "credit rating" and then you can get a contract for a cell phone. She had got him this job cleaning at the hospital. You could eat at the canteen before going back to the hostel.

Cre-dit...swing the the left. Ray-ting....swing to the right.

He looked back along the corridor, light glinting on his handiwork, the blue floor rising. A wall of water rose up in his subconscious, breaking through, white cresting. There was no horizon to see from the boat, their bodies flexing together as they willed themselves over the next wave. Cold salt spray stung their faces. The pool of water grew in the middle, anxiety turning to panic. He didn't really know the ones that hadn't made it. Best not to. Block it out.

Three hours until meal time. There were pretty girls there, blond with broad pale faces. He sometimes caught their soft blue eyes on his face, wispy beard and black hair, but they turned their eyes away. Would they take him home to meet their families? He couldn't take the risk. All his risk was used up. What sort of man was he?