by Mark Dawson
Milton extended his hand and Samir took it, using it to help him maintain his balance as he negotiated the smaller boxes on the pallet. Milton lowered himself to the ground. “Go easy on him,” he said to the officer.
Samir slid down.
The customs official was taking notes.
“I’m going to be fined?” Tommy said to him.
“I’m sorry, sir. Nothing I can do.”
“How much?”
“Probably a couple of thousand. That’s the going rate.”
“What a farce,” Tommy said. “Look at what they’ve done. Who’s going to pay for the damage to my roof?”
“You go to the station and make a statement, sir, and maybe the French government will pay.”
“And the fine? They’ll pay that, too?”
The man shrugged.
“Come on,” Milton said, pulling him away.
The officers cuffed Samir and led him to the van.
“Where will they take him?” Milton asked one of the officers.
“Dover immigration centre,” the woman replied.
“And then?”
“Depends on his application. Most likely, they’ll send him back where he came from. But that’s not our problem.”
Milton disagreed, although he kept it to himself. Things were different now. They were much simpler. He was interested in helping people who had no other means of helping themselves. Samir had asked him to help, and Milton had said yes.
That made the young man Milton’s problem.
Chapter Five
THE BUILDING had been a prison before it was pressed into service as a holding facility for immigrants. It was on the Western Heights on the outskirts of Dover, a monstrous Victorian hulk that presided over the town and the sea beyond it. Milton had driven down from London, leaving at six so that he could arrive in plenty of time for the start of visiting. It was cold when Milton stepped out of the car and looked down from the hill. The town beyond was cloaked in fog, and the sea was invisible, the mournful warning of the foghorn echoing out over the water. Milton drew his jacket tightly around his shoulders, zipped it all the way up to his neck, and set off.
Milton had read through the information on the facility’s website before he went to bed last night. The Western Heights had been a fortified area since Roman times, and these buildings occupied the site of fortifications commenced during the reign of Napoleon to counter the threat of a French invasion. The facility was encircled by a high wire mesh fence and Milton made his way to the guardhouse, told the guards that he was here to visit a detainee, waited for the gate to be unlocked and, when it was, he went inside.
He reached the reception area. There was a desk with two clerks processing the details of the visitors. There was a double line of vinyl chairs, each row bolted to the linoleum-covered floor. Milton went to the desk. The clerk asked for proof of identity, and Milton handed over his fake passport.
“Take a seat, please, Mr. Smith. I’ll let you know when you can go through.”
Milton took an empty seat and looked around. There was only one other visitor, an elderly woman who was still wrapped up in a thick winter coat. That, he supposed, wasn’t surprising. If the detainees were young men like the ones who had been removed from the back of Tommy’s trailer, then it was likely that they had no relatives here. They would come and seek asylum and, if it was granted, they would apply to bring their families. Others, the economic migrants, had no intention of being detained. They would have tried to sink beneath the surface, evading bureaucracy and taking advantage of the opportunities that would be afforded them. Those men, too, would not normally have family in the country to visit them. They would be left here until their cases were determined. Most would be sent back home.
There was a low coffee table next to the chair, with leaflets spread across it. Milton reached down, took one and read through it as he waited for his details to be processed. The leaflet explained that the centre consisted of five living units—Deal, Sandwich, Romney, Rye and Hastings—and one small separation unit named Hythe. The accommodation was arranged into six-bed dormitories, with a handful of single and double rooms. The leaflet had clearly been written to gloss over the fact that the facility was, in practical terms, a prison. It had a picture of a smiling detainee, and, next to him, a block of text explained that all living accommodation had access to discrete lavatories, power supply and televisions. There were prayer rooms, and all detainees were allowed to keep a mobile phone or borrow one from the centre. Recreational activities were provided in the association areas on each of the units, and detainees were locked up for the least time possible.
A woman took a seat over from him.
“Hello,” she said.
“Good morning.”
Milton looked at her. She was middle-aged, dressed in a trouser suit, with tousled blonde hair and a gentle face.
“You here to see someone?”
“I am,” Milton said. “You?”
“I’m an immigration lawyer.”
“Looking for work?”
She frowned a little. “Not chasing ambulances, if that’s what you mean.”
“Sorry—”
She waved a hand. “It was legal aid before the government made it more difficult to get. It’s mostly pro bono now. The men here, the women in the other places they put them, they’ve got no hope of getting a fair hearing without representation. I don’t think that’s right.”
“That’s very noble.”
“You’re very cynical, Mr…”
“Smith. And no, I’m not. That didn’t come out right. Sorry.”
She extended a hand across the table between them. “I’m Cynthia Whitchurch.”
Milton took her hand. “John. Nice to meet you.”
“Who are you here to see?”
“A young man I met yesterday.”
“How did you meet him?”
“I was driving the truck he was inside.”
“And you’re here because…?”
“Because I’d like to help him. If I can.”
“And you think I’m noble,” she said. “Good for you.” She opened her purse, took out a business card and handed it to Milton. “He’ll need a lawyer. Tell him to come over and see me. I’m here all morning. If he doesn’t want to speak now, that’s my office number.”
“Thank you,” Milton said. “I’ll tell him.”
A pair of double doors swung open.
“Here we go,” Cynthia said. “They’re ready for us.”
Chapter Six
THE VISITING AREA was a large room with views out over the sea. Some effort had been made to make it look welcoming: there were sofas decorated with colourful throws, a coffee machine offering free drinks, and a plate of biscuits. It was a good attempt, Milton thought, but not enough to deflect attention from the bars on the windows, the guards posted at two doors, and the stifled atmosphere. This was a prison and, despite the attempts to make it something else, it would always be a prison. Cynthia set herself up behind a table with a patterned cloth spread over it to foster an impression, perhaps, of homely friendliness.
The doors were opened and the detainees came inside. There were forty of them, mostly wearing standard-issue prison tracksuits. Some would have been detained as soon as they entered the country, bringing no other belongings with them apart from the clothes that they were wearing. Others would have been detained on the street, with no opportunity to collect their belongings. The majority of them made for Cynthia, waiting patiently to sit at one of the two chairs so that they could discuss their situations. The others helped themselves to the coffee and biscuits and sat around, talking with one another in low voices.
Milton looked, but he didn’t see Samir. He was about to get up and ask one of the guards if he could help when he saw him. He was standing in the doorway, peering inside, an expression of wariness on his face. Milton raised his hand to attract his attention and, seeing him, the young man came over.
Milton stood and offered his hand. “Do you remember me?”
“You’re the driver,” he said, taking his hand.
“That’s right,” Milton said. “John Smith. And you’re Samir. What’s your full name?”
“Samir Al Hamady.”
“Sit down. You want a coffee?”
Samir released Milton’s hand and sat. “All right.”
Milton went over to the coffee machine, slotted a plastic cup beneath the nozzle, and pressed the button for a cappuccino. He turned as the machine started to hiss and churn and looked back at the table. Samir was angled away from him. His hands were clasped on the table and he was looking down at them. He looked younger than he had looked last night. Milton wondered how old he was.
He filled a second cup, put two biscuits on a napkin, and brought everything over. He gave Samir one of the plastic cups, left the biscuits in the middle of the table, and sat down.
“You came.”
“I said I would.”
“I thought that was just talk. To get me out of the truck.”
“No. When I say something, I do it.”
“Thank you. But I doubt that there is anything you can do to help me.”
“Shall we see about that? What’s happened to you so far?”
“They talk to me. They ask am I claiming asylum. I say yes, I am.”
“And after that?”
“There are more interviews. I have to meet the person who will look after my case. Then an interview where they decide whether or not I stay. But that is several weeks away. The process can take four months. I have to stay here until they decide, and my sister is still outside. She needs me.”
Milton nodded to the busy queues leading to Cynthia. “Have you thought about speaking to a lawyer?”
Samir looked around. “Her?” he said with a sudden derision that took Milton by surprise. “She is here to ease her middle-class conscience. She is here to talk to the poor migrants to make herself feel better, but what do you think she would say if they opened the doors and said we were free to stay in the country?”
“I spoke to her outside. That’s not what she thinks. She wants to help.”
“She cannot help me, John. And I doubt that you can. The others here”—he gestured around the room at the other detainees—“they say that I have no chance. I will be returned.”
Milton looked at him steadily. “Okay, then. What can I do? How can I help?”
“Can you get me out of here?”
“No,” Milton said. “Probably not.”
“Then there is no point in us talking.”
The mood had changed abruptly. Samir looked as if he was about to stand.
“Wait,” Milton said.
The young man had been despondent, but something Milton had said had stirred a flash of anger. He was hot-tempered, with more to him than the downcast man Milton had met yesterday.
“What good will it do me?”
“Ten minutes. Just talk to me for ten minutes. What else have you got to do? Sit in your room all day?”
Samir sighed and settled back in the hard plastic chair. He spread his hands on the table.
“Where did you get into the truck? Calais?”
“There was a queue of traffic. You stopped. I followed a man who climbed up.”
“You took a big risk.”
“I’ve tried the other ways. They said the trains might work, but others said they were too difficult now. They have guards and dogs. A truck is the best chance of getting over the border. And I nearly did.”
“Why are you so desperate?”
He looked away.
“Your sister?” Milton pressed.
Samir stared out of the barred window that looked out onto the sea below, and, for a moment, Milton thought that he was ignoring him. But then he turned back to face him, and Milton saw that his eyes were damp.
“Her name is Nadia,” he said. “We… we…” His voice became choked and, as Milton watched, he bowed his head and started to cry. Milton sat there awkwardly. He had never been a particularly empathetic person, and his previous career had cauterised any vestiges of sensitivity that he might once have possessed. He sat quietly, waiting until Samir had composed himself again.
When Samir looked up again, his cheeks were wet. “She is my little sister,” he said. “Do you have a sister, John?”
“No,” he said.
“Then you will not understand.”
“Just tell me.”
“We are from Eritrea. It is a dangerous place. My father opposed the regime. That was enough for the government to kill him and my mother. They would have killed us, too, but we were able to get away. We travelled north, through the desert to Libya. We left on a boat. It was dangerous. Many people fell into the water and the boat did not stop to collect them. We watched them try to swim after us until we couldn’t see them anymore.”
“Where did you land?”
“Italy,” he said. “There is an island—Lampedusa. We have a cousin in Turin. He said that we could stay with him until we found work.”
Samir paused again, and Milton saw that his hands, resting on the table, were now clenched into tight fists.
“What happened?” he said.
“There were men there,” Samir said. “They worked for the smugglers. They said the money we had given them was not enough for the trip. But it was enough. They said ten thousand dollars. But we do not have ten thousand. They said that Nadia would have to work for them until the money was all paid. I told them that this was bullshit, that they could not say these things, but they did not listen to me. They took Nadia from me. I tried to stop them, but there were four of them and one of them had a gun. They hit me on the head; they knocked me out. When I woke up, Nadia was gone. I spoke to the others afterwards. They said they put Nadia in a van with three other girls and drove them away.”
“Drove them where?”
“I do not know,” he replied. “I asked. No one knew anything. No one could help me. I did not know what to do, so I went to Turin to meet my cousin like we had planned. There was nowhere else for me to go.”
Samir reached out for his cup, his fingers circling it, but he didn’t try to take a drink; he was distracted by the memories that the conversation had recalled.
“What happened next?”
“I waited. Two months, John. I had no idea where Nadia was for two months. She could have been dead. I thought about her every day. I waited and waited for her to contact me, to tell me where she was so that I could go and find her and get her. But nothing came. A week, one month, two months. Nothing. But then I had an email. Two weeks ago. She told me that she was in this country. They took her to Calais and then they sold her and the other girls. She said they were bought by Albanians. They smuggled her over the border with a false passport, and now they make her work in a brothel.” He spat the word out. “They said that she would have to work there every day until the money was paid back. They keep her there. She cannot leave. She did not even know where she was for the first month. They say she must stay there; she cannot speak to anyone outside the house.”
“So how did she email you?”
“My sister is clever,” he said. “She stole the telephone from a man who had been to see her. She used the phone to send me an email, plus a map of where she is. I have saved the map.”
“Where is she?”
“A place called Wanstead. Do you know it?”
“It’s in London,” Milton said.
“That was where I was going to go. I go to the brothel, I find my sister, I get her out.”
“Just like that?”
“Why not?”
“I know a little about the Albanians. They are very influential in the underworld here. They’re very dangerous. They don’t make idle threats, and they won’t be pleased to see someone interfering with their business.”
“They have her in a house,” he said. “Not a prison. I can get her out.”
“And then?”<
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He looked at Milton with an expression of certainty. “And then maybe we make a life for ourselves here. I claimed asylum. If they refuse me, we go back to Turin. The Albanians will never find us.”
Milton regarded him critically. He was naïve and he was underestimating the task ahead of him. More important even than that was the impracticality of his plan: he was locked up in the detention centre and there was no guarantee that he would be allowed to leave.
“You asked why I took a risk last night,” he said. “Nadia is why. I got this far. She is my sister, John. I love her. I am going to find her. I am going to take her away from them.”
Milton had already decided what he was going to do. He had seen the desperation in Samir’s face as he was dragged away from the truck yesterday morning. It wasn’t just the desperation to get into the country, although that was part of it. He had seen panic there, the gut-wrenching fear that he wouldn’t be able to do something that was obviously of great importance to him. That was why Milton had come to visit Samir, and hearing the story that the young man related had reinforced his determination that it was the right thing to do.
He would help him.
“I’m going to be brutally honest with you,” Milton said. “Is that all right?”
Samir shrugged.
“I don’t know much about asylum. Maybe you get it, maybe you don’t. But the climate isn’t friendly towards asylum seekers at the moment, and I’d say that the odds are against you. If that happens, there’s no way you’ll be able to try to get your sister.”
“Then I come back.”
Milton shook his head. “And, assuming that you did get out of here, or you come back again, my guess is that it’ll be more difficult than you think to get Nadia away from the Albanians. And if we make another assumption and say that you can do all of that, that you can get out of here and then find her and get her out, what’s to say that they don’t come after you? Are you confident you can hide from them? Two Eritrean refugees won’t be that hard to find in London or Turin.”
“How is this helpful to me?” he said sourly.
“I’m just laying it out for you. I think you need to be realistic.”