“Right. Pete, bring that bottle of water.” I lifted the bag and Wodin clambered out of the back.
“Have a taste of this sir,” Wodin said to Bob, passing him another joint discreetly tucked under his plate-sized hand. “My finest home-grown. Don’t smoke it all at once, it’s a strong one,” he winked.
“Cheers boys.”
Bob turned up the music and wound up the window. As we walked towards the row of containers I glanced back. He’d already tipped the seat back to forty-five degrees and closed his eyes, the joint protruding from his happy lips.
“We’ve got a big problem, Wodin,” I whispered urgently. “I think there are illegal immigrants in my containers.”
“Fuck me. Do you think they’ve drunk all your wine?”
“I bloody hope not. They’ve probably shat all over it though. It takes a week to ship from Genoa and that’s a long time to keep your legs crossed.” We stopped at the doors of the container I’d knocked on. I glanced back at the car but Bob was already invisible behind the steamed-up windows. I knocked again on the door. “Galad? Are you there?”
“Well that’s nice – you already know his name.”
A pause, then the heavy accent. “Hello?”
“We’re opening the door.” I pulled the bolt cutters from the bag and handed them to Wodin. I also extracted the torch, logbook and a heavy-duty plastic tie to reseal the doors.
“Cut it there.” I focused the torch on the metal seal. Wodin lifted the heavy cutters, which carved through the metal in a second and the bolt clattered to the floor. I lifted the slider on the container door and, with the torch held next to my head, pulled open the door.
At first, all we could see was a wall of wine boxes, neatly stacked to shoulder level. Then an eye-watering wave of warm foulness washed over us – a humid cocktail of body odour and faeces. I gagged and Wodin took a step back, covering his mouth.
“God almighty! That is revolting!” he spluttered from behind his hand.
Holding my breath, I opened the other door and saw the front left-hand pallet of wine was missing. In its place there was a deep pile of crumpled blankets and dozens of empty plastic soft-drink bottles. And further back, leaning against the wall of wine, five seated bodies swaddled in blankets, black hands hiding their faces like naughty children caught in the act.
“Kill the torch, Felix, they’ve been in the dark for a week.”
I switched it off and, as our eyes adjusted to the gloom, we saw the hands move aside to reveal five black faces with bright white eyes. I noticed a bucket in the corner of the tiny space splattered with something dark and unspeakable.
“Fuck me. Where are you boys from, then?” asked Wodin.
A few seconds silence then the same voice I’d heard through the doors piped up. “Somalia.”
“Well you’re in Braintree now. Not sure that’s an improvement to be honest.”
The stowaways started to stretch and one of them – I was guessing Galad – winced as he stood up. His dark skin was smooth and drawn tight over prominent cheekbones and a high forehead. He took a step forward and squinted at the drizzling sky and yellow floodlights, lips parting to reveal buck teeth.
“Christ man, get back in!” I exclaimed. I looked back at the car but it was obscured by the open container door. I looked up and around frantically for CCTV cameras. There were none close by, but if the guardhouse controller became interested it would be quite straightforward for him to zoom in on us. “You have to stay there or they’ll call security.”
Galad’s eyes widened and he stepped back, although not before taking a deep breath of the damp night air. “We are in England?”
“Yes, you’re in England. But you’re not safe yet.”
He smiled and looked at me. “We are safe.”
I suddenly had a terrible thought. I swallowed. “How many of you are there?” Please let it be just these five I prayed. Please God.
“Forty-two.”
“Oh Jesus wanking fucking Christ!” I closed my eyes as the next hours and days played out in my head.
The dream was over. The depot security guards would snip seal after seal and open the doors of containers out of which dozens of Africans would stumble, wide-eyed and blinking, kneeling to kiss the puddle-strewn concrete of an Essex industrial estate. Then vehicles full of police and immigration officials would roar into the depot, leading the confused stowaways into the backs of vans. And my precious stock would be impounded – not just this lot, but the hundreds of containers arriving over the next few days – as the police investigation into the smuggling route took hold.
There would be an awkward, quite probably violent, conversation with Colt, Head of Margin, and Bannerman, Head of Execution, where I would explain that Gatesave would not only have no market-beating Asti Spumante to sell over Christmas, but no sparkling wine at all. It was far too late to find another winery capable of producing the volumes we needed. And that would be the end of my glorious career in wine and the beginning – if I was lucky – of a new job mucking out the stables at Cackering Hall.
“Shitting fucking bloody hell!”
“This is an interesting logistical challenge,” said Wodin, matter-of-factly.
“Yes, you could call it that,” I spat, “although I’d call it a gigantic, spunking cluster-fuck.”
“Well, we can’t just leave them here for the Old Bill.”
“What the hell are we going to do? Drive them out in the Cavalier? We’d need a fucking coach.”
“Yes, we do Felix. That’s exactly what we need.”
I looked at Wodin’s smirking face. “Have you finally smoked too much of your rhino-anaesthetising marijuana?”
Wodin pulled out his phone and started pressing buttons. He had a confident smile on his face. “We need a coach. Which means we need Carlos.”
5.2
Harlow Sunshine Tours
It was a lunatic idea, but my only real choice was to smuggle our migrants on their final leg to freedom before the containers were moved to Gatesave’s huge distribution centre. If they ended up there they would be discovered for certain, heralding the end of my plan for sparkling-wine dominance over Christmas, not to mention the end of my career.
We snipped through all the metal seals and laid out a replacement plastic seal alongside each container, the old and new security numbers dutifully entered in the log book. We opened the doors of each of the twenty containers, checking them carefully. Ten contained stowaways, all Somalis as far as we could tell, mostly men but a few women too. Just don’t start bloody wailing and bring security down on us, I prayed.
We resealed the containers that contained just wine and left the doors of the others ajar to let in fresh air. All of our Somali friends appeared to be conscious and moving, although most looked terrified. It wasn’t really surprising, considering their first sight after a week in the dark was a gigantic hippy in a high-vis vest holding a massive pair of bolt cutters.
With a combination of gestures and pidgin English we told everyone to stay put for the moment – Wodin’s alarming appearance helped. We took turns removing the slop buckets and foetid blankets and litter, dumping them in a skip some distance away. I couldn’t afford to leave any evidence of stowaways inside the containers or else the warehousemen at the next depot would be on the phone to immigration as soon as they opened them.
When we checked the containers nearest the Cavalier I crept over and peered in at Bob. It was impossible to see through the condensation-coated windows but I heard a deep snore. Wodin’s home-grown herb had done its job. I just hoped he hadn’t passed out with the joint between his lips – the last thing we needed was the sod waking up screaming with his crotch on fire, surrounded by half of Mogadishu.
Wodin’s phone beeped and he nodded to me. “Carlos is on the outskirts of Braintree, better get to the gate.”
Rather than wake the comatose Bob, I jogged the half-mile back to the main gate, leaving Wodin to keep our stowaways in place. I k
nocked on the guardhouse door and poked my head round. I was pleased to see the young Indian guy was playing poker on his computer rather than watching the CCTV. “We need to take a few samples away with us for analysis.”
He waved his approval without taking his eyes off the screen.
“Quite a few samples actually, there’s a problem with the labels. Can’t fit them in the car so we’ve got another vehicle coming.”
He turned around with a faint look of irritation.
“We requested a van but can you believe it, all they could send us was a bloody coach!” I gabbled.
He looked at me, wordlessly, with growing annoyance.
“It’ll be a pain in the arse loading those cases up the steps.” I started to break out in a cold sweat. He wasn’t buying this at all. Who ever heard of a coach picking up cases of wine from a container depot? I gave a weak smile. Please, fucking please, I thought.
“Well I ain’t fucking helping you, man.”
A wave of relief broke over me. “No, of course not. We’ll manage.”
It was close to midnight by now and the low background hum from the motorway had quietened. I heard the grumble of a coach-engine growing louder as Carlos’s bus hove into view. It approached the guardhouse slowly, coming to a stop by the barrier with a hiss of brakes. I opened the door and bounded up the steps.
Carlos, dressed in a thick lumberjack shirt and jeans, gave a cheerful smile. “Felix darlin! What a fackin pleasure.”
“Carlos, thank fuck you’re here. Have we got a job for you!”
“Yeah, Wodin said you had a few people to pick up. Funny fackin place this. What is it, a rave?”
“Shhhh!” I looked through the windscreen beyond the barrier. The guard stood in the doorway of his office observing us balefully.
“It’s a bit sensitive. You’re picking up stock, not people, ok. Say as little as possible.”
I jumped back out of the coach. “Does he have to sign in?”
“Course he does.”
Stupid thing to ask, I thought. Play it cool.
The guard walked over to the driver’s side and with an unfriendly expression handed a clipboard up to Carlos. “What the fuck is this?”
“It’s a fackin coach mate,” replied Carlos, signing the clipboard with a flourish.
The guard walked slowly down the length of the vehicle, which was proudly branded ‘Harlow Sunshine Tours’ in large letters, complete with a cheerful cartoon sun holding a bucket and spade. He walked back up to the driver’s window, his distaste clear. “I’ve never seen anyone pick up stock in a fucking coach man.”
“First time for everything isn’t there,” said Carlos brightly, popping in a stick of gum. Then, nodding to the barrier, “You going to raise that, then?”
The guard looked warily at me then lifted the barrier. I jumped back on board and sat behind Carlos. “Cheers mate!”
The sullen guard watched us pull through the entrance and nose the coach into the depths of the container park.
“He was a bit of a cunt wasn’t he!” said Carlos brightly.
“Yes. Yes, he was.” My stomach started to churn again. That was the easy part. How the hell were we going to load forty-two confused Somalis onto the coach and get back out through security? Our unfriendly guard was likely to be zooming his cameras in on us even now, maybe even dispatching a mobile patrol to check us out.
“We need some privacy.” I leapt up and scurried down the coach aisle, leaning over each pair of seats and closing the beige curtains across the windows.
“Darling! I never knew!” laughed Carlos, taking the whole situation far too bloody lightly in my view. Mind you, he didn’t know the half of it yet.
We approached our row of containers at the far end of the park and all seemed quiet. I’d had visions of returning to find security personnel running around like Keystone Cops, trying to catch dozens of fleeing Africans, but I was relieved to see Wodin standing alone in the drizzle next to the first container.
“Pull up here, Carlos, alongside the doors of those containers.” We could use the long, high body of the vehicle to shield the boarding of the bus from any nosy cameras. I jumped out of the coach. “Let’s go.”
Wodin swung open the first container door and gestured to the occupants. “Go guys, go!” he urged. Four dishevelled men emerged, stiff-limbed and with their blankets around their shoulders. Grimacing at the dark, drizzling sky, they limped up the steep stairs to the coach.
“Down to the back!” I urged, making pushing movements with my hands.
“What the fackin hell is this!” screamed Carlos.
“Chill, man,” called Wodin. “We’re just helping some fellow humans.”
“Where the fack are this lot from?” Carlos’s face screwed into a visage of horror. “And, fack me, what’s that smell?”
“They haven’t washed for a while. And a couple of them might have shit themselves,” called Wodin breezily.
“Oh no, no, fackin no! No way!” warned Carlos. “Deal’s off mate, I am not having these stinking fackers on my bus. I’ll have to get it deep cleaned.” The next few stowaways were trying to board the bus but Carlos held his hands up. “Sorry mush, deal’s off.” He made flicking movements with his fingers. “Offa del bus, gracias!”
Wodin mounted the steps. “I don’t think they speak Spanish, Carlos. Mind you, nor do you.”
“Not happy mate. Not fackin happy.”
“Well, maybe this will make you happy.”
Wodin held up a large wad of banknotes, most of which appeared to be fifties, and lobbed it into Carlos’s lap. Carlos’s eyes popped and stared.
“Fack me, how much is this?”
“Two grand. Plus we’ll cover all your cleaning costs and buy you a slap up meal. Felix will chip in with a case of Champagne too, won’t you Felix?”
“Er… yes. Yes I will,” I replied slowly, looking from Wodin to Carlos and to the wad of red notes in his hand. Wodin often carried large amounts of cash, which was par for the course when one was involved in the wholesale marijuana trade. I didn’t have time to dwell on why Wodin had suddenly turned into a one-man humanitarian aid agency, but it did the trick.
Wodin gestured to the group waiting to board. “Up you get. Galad, you can help me.”
I recognised Galad, my first stowaway, by his buck teeth. He accompanied Wodin to each container and, in his native tongue, cajoled the occupants out and onto the bus. Several had limps, and the women were very nervous – I doubt we could have done it without his help.
“Move the coach forward Carlos,” I said. “We need to shield them from the cameras.”
Carlos, very much back to his chirpy self, kept the engine running, nosing the vehicle forward a few yards each time, allowing the residents of each container to climb aboard. I sealed the steel doors with the numbered plastic security ties as each was vacated.
“Last few, let’s keep up the pace,” I urged.
“Felix,” said Wodin, tonelessly.
“Yeah, I’m nearly there.” I pulled the security seal tight on the penultimate container.
“Felix.”
I looked up from the lock to see Wodin and three Somalis standing still and staring at a slightly swaying, woolly hatted figure next to the door of the coach.
“Oh shit,” I muttered.
“What. The fuck. Is happening?” groaned Bob, very slowly and unsteadily. His eyes were vividly bloodshot and a long thread of drool ran from his pouting bottom lip to the paunch of his high-vis jacket, where it pooled before making its way down his leg.
“We’re… checking the load,” I started cautiously, wondering how the hell we could get out of this one, short of murder.
Bob turned to me very slowly. “Do you have? Any crisps?”
Carlos poked his head out of the coach door. “Here you go mate.” He handed Bob a half-eaten tube of crisps.
Bob turned his attention from the refugees to the crisps and inverted the tube, grasping an inch-th
ick wad. He raised them to his mouth and pushed the lot in whole, crunching slowly. He groaned in ecstasy and tiny fragments of crisp slowly abseiled down the shining thread of saliva to the pool of ooze on his stomach.
“Go! Go!” urged Wodin quietly to the remaining migrants, who obediently clambered aboard.
Bob turned and shuffled back to the warmth of the car.
“Ok, that’s everyone,” said Wodin.
Galad was the last on board and took his seat with the others – all the seats were now filled except for the first three rows.
“Fuck almighty. Right, let’s get some stock on board,” I shouted.
Wodin, Carlos and I formed a human chain, passing cases of Asti Spumante into the coach. We stacked cases up to head height on the second row of seats and in the aisle, building a wall of wine to obscure any view of our passengers.
Before we bricked up the aisle completely, I leant through and warned Galad, “Keep the curtains shut, don’t let anyone look outside. And don’t make a sound. If we’re seen or heard, we’re all dead, ok?”
“I will tell them,” said Galad quietly. “Please do not hurt us.”
“Er… no, well just be quiet then.” I jumped off the coach to confer with Wodin. “Here’s the key to the car. You’ll have to drop off our munchie-crunching friend somewhere, preferably the other side of the depot. Hopefully he’ll put it all down to a dream. See you back at the house. By the way, thanks for paying off Carlos, I appear to owe you a substantial sum of money.”
“Not a problem, see you later.”
I climbed aboard and Carlos nosed the coach away from our row of containers and back onto the service road, towards the main gate. This was the final hurdle and a bastard high one it was, too. As we approached the security gate I motioned to Carlos to pull up short. I jumped out and, striding purposefully to the little office, presented the log book and ID once more.
“We had to load forty cases from one of the containers for analysis at Head Office. My Compliance Manager has concerns about the label,” I said, in as bored a tone as I could muster. “I’ve filled in the log book with the transfer quantity, of course.” Don’t check the bus, please don’t check the fucking bus, I prayed. Take my lying fucking word for it, for the love of God.
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