Chapter 3: Touching Down

“Purpose of visit?” asked the douanier.
“Visiting family,” Nurallah answered. He struggled to repeat the phrase in French, stuttering as he tried to get the simple phrase out.
The customs officer frowned and returned passport to Nurallah.
“Welcome to France,” he said in a hollow voice. Nurallah walked away, still looking at the officer.
“What’s his problem?” he wondered aloud.
“French people don’t like having to speak English,” Suleiman answered sleepily.
“That’s a bit of a stereotype, innit?” asked Maryam.
“Doesn’t mean it isn’t true,” Malika chimed in, double and triple checking to make sure she hadn’t left anything on the plane. Satisfied she had everything she needed, she hoisted her bag up her shoulder and began walking towards the baggage claim. The other three followed, though Suleiman lagged behind the pack.
“Hurry up, Suleiman,” Nurallah complained. “Didn’t you sleep at all on the flight?”
“No!” Suleiman said, clearly annoyed. He yawned before continuing, “Cause you stole the bloody travel pillow. It’s round your neck right now!”
Nurallah glanced down at his chest. Sure enough, he still wore the travel neck pillow.
“Sorry, mate,” he said.
“We’ll get you one before we leave,” promised Malika, put her hand on his shoulder. This seemed to console him a bit as Maryam handed him his bags. They sat down as Malika debated with Nurallah over whether to call an Uber, hail a taxi, or take the Tramway. They settled on the Tramway, given there were four of them and they didn’t want to take separate cabs.
Luggage in their hands, on their backs and shoulder and trailing behind them, they walked out of the airport. Once they spotted a sign indicated where the Métro was, they went down into the station (with difficulty, as they were forced to carry their rolling luggage down the stairs. Once they finally made it onto the Tramway, everyone breathed a sigh of relief.
“You’ve got the address on your phone, yeah?” Mayram asked. Malika pulled out her notes app. “Yeah. At the next stop I’ll turn Google Maps on again.”
Nurallah was still waving his fingers in pain.
“Should’ve listened to the rabbit instead of trying to find out if your hand is faster than the doors,” Malika told him.
“What rabbit?” he questioned.
“That one,” a random man said, point to the door. “Serge.”

Nurallah turned to see a cartoon brown rabbit on the door, extolling that passengers remain cautious around the tramway’s doors.
“Oh,” he said.

“You peoole are so stupid,” the man said, “I don’t know why we let you into our country.”

“‘Our people?’” Maryam repeated. “You mean Muslims? Or brown people as a whole.”

“No, British people,” the man said. “I don’t have a problem with immigrants, I have a problem with British people in my country. Go back to where you came from!”

The four stared blankly at the man. They were prepared for discrimination based on their faith or ethnicity, not their accents. However, the doors soon opened, and all parties got off.
“Right, turn it on then,” Suleiman said. Malika pressed the blue button on the screen, and followed the pedestrian directions. She walked along the sidewalk, completely focused on the phone.
“Tête de noeud!” cussed one passerby as Malika brushed up against him. Without glancing back or even removing her eyes rom her phone, Malika raised her arm and pointed a single finger towards the sky.
“Oi oi oi oi oi,” Nurallah said. “Mum wouldn’t like that, now would she?”
Malika made a sharp left across a crosswalk, her siblings following her.

“Vous êtes arrivé à destination,” a robotic female voice said.

“This is it,” Malika said.

“Whoaaaaa,” Maryam said, genuinely amazed.

“These guys have got bare money,” Nurallah said.

“Ao,” Malika said, beckoning Nurallah. She looked him up and down. Frowning, she adjusted his collar moved his hair over slightly. She repeated the same with her other two siblings and they seemed to, unlike Nurallah, match up to her standards.
“How do I look?” she asked.
“You look fine. Besides, they’re family,” Suleiman said.
“They’ve never met us before; we’ve got to make a good first impression, yeah?”
She turned and knocked on the door. No answer. After waiting about, she tried again. No response.

“Est-ce que je peux vous aider?” a female voice asked from behind them. They all turned around. “Malika, qui sont-ils?” she asked. The woman was older but certainly did not look elderly. Were it not for a few silver hairs, she could easily have passed for someone in their mid twenties. She held bags of groceries in her hands. Malika observed her body language. She looked confused, to be sure. A bit annoyed as well. Malika quickly came to the conclusion this woman was either nosy or the owner of the house. But that didn’t make any sense. This was supposed to be where he lived.
“Je pense que nous sommes perdus. Nous cherchons chez-”
A man came from round the corner of the house at that moment. He saw the four teenagers and the color immediately drained from his face. He fell to the ground.
“Davud! Davud!” said the woman. She dropped the bags and ran towards him, attempting to wake him up. Confused, the Khan siblings watched the display.

“Yooooo,” Nurallah said. “I think that’s Uncle Davud's wife!”

“Nah fam,” Suleiman said. “You remember Mum’s stories, no way anyone would marry him.”

Davud came to and looked at the woman. He groaned and slowly got up on his elbows. “I had the weirdest dream. I thought I saw my sister and…”
His voice drifted off as he looked at the figures approaching him. His breaths deepened and his eyes filled with terror. Then, he screamed.