I ask Mitch whether he’s planning some kind of confrontation. He’s abandoned the hunt for the dolphins.
‘Confrontation?’ He seems quite taken by the idea.
‘You and H.’
‘Because of Sayid?’
‘Of course.’
‘And you think that might help?’
‘I’ve no idea. I’m asking you.’
He shrugs, turns back to the view, leaning on the rail, absorbing the slow roll of the boat. Then I’m aware of another figure making his way towards us. It’s H. He’s carrying two mugs of coffee. He pauses beside us.
‘Here, gal.’
I take the coffee. Mitch turns back from the rail, expecting the other mug. H lifts it, takes a sip. His eyes haven’t left my face.
‘Cheers.’ He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Happy days, eh?’
For the next few hours we pick our way carefully through the busy shipping lanes off the French coast. I spend some of this time alongside Suranne in the doghouse, watching her monitoring the screen that charts the movement of passing vessels. When their course and speed indicate the possibility of a collision, she gets on the radio to alert them to our presence in case they haven’t seen us. Earlier generations of fishermen, I think, would have killed for technology like this.
By nightfall, as the wind begins to rise, we’re forty-three nautical miles north of the French coast. In a couple of hours, God willing, we’ll be halfway across. Esther announces an early supper for those who want it while Mitch, hunched in a corner of the saloon, makes occasional entries in the Guardian crossword. I’m sitting beside Ruth. She’s deep in a John Grisham thriller when something prompts her to check the time.
‘Shit,’ she says.
She produces her mobile and scrolls through her directory before trying to make a call. It doesn’t happen. Mitch pauses beside us.
‘We’re out of signal range,’ he says. ‘Patience is all.’
This could be a line from an Agatha Christie movie, a handful of near-strangers banged up on an ancient trawler at the mercy of the elements, and of each other. I’ve spent most of the day keeping a watchful eye on both H and Mitch but so far they’ve behaved themselves. This I interpret as a blessing but the real test, I suspect, will come later. Darkness, especially on a heaving deck, can invite all kinds of retribution and I have a quiet word with Suranne, suggesting that she try and keep H down below for the crossing. When she asks why I blame his shoulder.
‘He’ll never admit it,’ I tell her. ‘But he’s in agony.’
Supper is soup with freshly baked rolls and fish pie to follow. Out here in mid-Channel we’re fully exposed to a wind that appears to be rising. Rhys has volunteered to take the wheel, to give the crew a chance to eat. The swell has given way to a succession of big rollers, each breaking wave thumping into the wooden hull. The old trawler is corkscrewing now, plunging into one trough, shaking herself dry, then disappearing into another. The motion is acutely uncomfortable and there are few takers for either the soup or the fish pie. People are nervous again. You can sense it, even smell it. They know exactly what to expect because we’ve been here before and they dread the hours to come.
It’s at this point that I hear a commotion on deck above our heads. Raised voices. Heavy footsteps. Someone screaming. Malo is on his feet, following Suranne up the steps to the doghouse. I stay put, waiting on events. No point getting in the way, I tell myself. No point playing the hero.
Around the table, apprehension about the weather has given way to alarm. Something has obviously gone badly wrong and we’re in that scary zone where things abruptly become unreal. Cassie has found her husband’s hand. Amit’s eyes are huge in his face. Ruth is frowning. What’s happened? What the fuck’s going on? Only H and Mitch appear unmoved.
Another scream. Then comes the thump of something heavy from the doghouse and a blast of freezing air from the open door to the deck. Mitch is sitting beside me, rolling with the motion of the boat. He has perfect line of sight to the steps leading down from the doghouse.
The first pair of legs to appear belong to Rhys. He’s obviously surrendered the ship’s wheel. He’s still in his lifejacket and wet-weather gear and he’s dripping water everywhere. He gives us a nod and then turns back to the ladder as another body descends. Battered Nikes. Torn jeans, soaking wet. A filthy once-white T-shirt. And finally a head. His mouth is open, gasping for air. His teeth are very white in the blackness of his young face.
The boy stares at us. He’s shaking with cold. He seems to be in shock. For a moment there’s nothing but the howl of the wind in the rigging and a groan from the hull as another wave bears down. Then I get to my feet. My cabin is closest. Sadie has left a black quilted anorak hanging on the hook behind the door. I grab it and then judge the moment to get back to the saloon.
Rhys has already yelled at Esther to get something hot to drink. He has his arms around our surprise guest. It’s a clumsy embrace because of the life jacket but it’s exactly the right thing to do. I take over from Rhys. Mitch has found a towel from somewhere and I wrap Sadie’s anorak around the newcomer before mopping his face with the towel. I need a name. When I ask in English he doesn’t seem to understand.
‘Votre nom? Comment vous appelez-vous?’
‘Mbaye.’
‘Vous venez d’où?’
‘Un petit village. Près de Dakar.’
Mbaye. From Senegal. A stowaway.
I pass the message for everyone else’s benefit. We make space at the table, sit him down, make him drink the hot tea. First he warms his hands on the mug before taking a sip or two. Then he looks at me. Huge eyes. A deep scar down the left side of his face. Tight curls of black hair laid flat against his skull. Young. Maybe Malo’s age.
‘Sucre?’ he asks.
There’s sugar on the table. I give him the bowl. He tips most of it into the mug. He’s still shaking but he manages a nod of thanks.
‘Merci,’ he says.
H has been watching the boy carefully. ‘How did he get onboard?’ he asks.
I point out that we were all at the restaurant last night and that the boat was locked up but unattended. H isn’t interested in my opinions. He wants me to put the question to the boy.
I ask him exactly what happened. He mutters an explanation in rapid, heavily accented French. I’m not used to the Senegalese patois but I manage to pick up most of it.
‘I was right,’ I tell H. ‘He’d been watching the boat for a while. When we all went off to the restaurant he took his chance and got on board. He says there’s a pile of tarpaulins up towards the bow. He hid under there until he got so wet and so cold he couldn’t bear it any longer.’
‘I saw him on deck just now,’ Rhys says. ‘Just a movement in the darkness. I called Jack. He took care of it. There was a bit of a struggle but Jack calmed him down. Bloke could have been overboard in a flash, just like that.’
H nods, his eyes returning to the boy. H seems to have appointed himself Chairman of the Board, which in a way I suppose he is.
‘Ask him if he’s hungry.’ I put H’s question in French. The boy nods. ‘Then give him something to fucking eat.’
There’s still fish pie in the oven. Esther dishes it out. The boy eyes it for a moment. Then a pair of thin arms emerge from the folds of Sadie’s anorak and he wolfs the entire plate. He’s uncomfortable in our company but the shaking has stopped.
Ruth wants to know what happens next. Do we turn round? Take him back? Rhys laughs. With a wind like this turning round wouldn’t be for the faint-hearted and after that we’d be facing hours of grief from the onrushing waves.
‘Home, then? We hand him over when we dock?’
I’m aware of everyone looking at H. In law I imagine this must be Suranne’s call. It is, after all, her boat, her kingdom, but by the sheer force of his presence at the table this decision appears to fall to H. Mitch is watching him with some interest.
At length, after a huge wave tak
es the boy’s empty plate skidding off the table, H yawns and asks Esther for a coffee.
‘Early days,’ he says. ‘Let’s see what happens.’
Early days? I’m not the only one who finds this declaration puzzling. The situation couldn’t be plainer. We have a stowaway on board, a refugee, an illegal. He’s seen the flag on our stern, listened to our chatter from the quayside, knows we’re English. From my mum, I’ve gathered that France is unpopular among refugees, even French speakers like Mbaye. Work is hard to come by and there’s a lot of racism. Across the Channel, on the other hand, Mbaye could find some kind of job, maybe plead his case, maybe avoid deportation, start a whole new life. The attraction is obvious.
H is looking at Alex. He knows he was recently at the Home Office, bossed an entire department, understands the rules.
‘What’s the score then, Alex? With the boy here?’
Alex takes his time. I know he loathes heavy weather because Cassie’s told me so, but he seems to welcome this new development. Something to think about. Something to chew over. I also know the depths of his despair at a job he once cherished. Another confidence from Cassie.
‘The regulations are tricky,’ he says. ‘How old is the lad?’
I put the question to Mbaye. Dix-huit ans. Eighteen.
‘Then forgive me but it’s black and white. If he’s eighteen, he goes home unless there’s some pressing reason he might come to grief there.’
I ask Mbaye why he left Senegal. He says his life was boring. He was a fisherman with his father and two of his brothers but the fish have gone. In town there was no work, nothing to do. With a bit of money you could buy somewhere to squat in the back of a truck and head north across the desert to Libya. Everyone was doing it.
Alex shrugs. He doesn’t need a translation.
‘Economic migrant,’ he says. ‘We’d put him on the plane.’
H wants to know if he’s carrying a passport. Mbaye says no. H shoots a glance at Alex. I know what’s coming next.
‘Then what if he lies about his age?’ H growls. ‘Pretends to be sixteen? Fifteen? Whatever?’
‘Then he can stay until he’s eighteen,’ Alex says.
‘And how does he get by?’
‘We look after him.’
‘And then?’
‘He makes an application to stay, which he’ll lose, and then he goes home.’
Ruth intervenes. I can tell there are elements in this conversation she finds difficult. She is, after all, a lawyer.
‘But the boy’s eighteen.’ She’s looking at H. ‘He’s just told us so. Alex is right. It’s black and white. Eighteen years old. Economic migrant. Adieu.’
Amit is nodding with some vigour. He, too, would march Mbaye to the airport and put him on a plane home. Odd, I think, how a fellow immigrant might be hardest of all to win over in this strange debate. Last in. First out.
Rhys has at last shed his life jacket. He steadies himself against one of the pillars in the saloon and then looks at H.
‘You’re right, boyo,’ he says softly. ‘We take care of the lad. Make sure he comes to no more harm.’
No one calls H ‘boyo’, but Malo’s dad, our onboard gangster, looks strangely untroubled. Suranne has arrived from the doghouse. She slips on to the banquette alongside Mitch. Mitch updates her with the boy’s name and the rest of Mbaye’s story. When Ruth enquires again about returning our stowaway to French jurisdiction, Suranne confirms what Rhys has already told us. The barometer is falling fast. The weather is guaranteed to get worse, the wind strengthening and veering westerly to bring the waves beam-on. There’s no question of danger, or even of heaving to and riding out the next few hours, but neither does it make any sense to turn round and go back. We’re in for a rough night.
Ruth nods. Suranne has redrawn the watch list as I requested and Ruth will be up on deck between two and four, along with Mitch, Malo and myself. Suranne offers us all the chance to say no but none of us will hear of it. I’ve just taken the last of the tablets and my helping of fish pie is staying where it should, but I’ve learned enough now to know that Rhys is right: weather like this is best endured where you can see the next big wave coming.
Ruth hasn’t finished. She wants Suranne to confirm that she’ll be handing Mbaye over to the authorities when we berth in Portsmouth. I’m sure that Suranne hears the question but she has one ear cocked for noises that might indicate trouble. Every storm, I suspect, has a soundtrack of its own and the best skippers, the ones who survive, are the ones alert to every hint of danger.
Ruth puts the question again. She’s beginning to get under H’s skin. I can sense it.
‘We have to,’ Ruth repeats. ‘We have to stick by the rules.’
Suranne nods absently. Her body language speaks volumes. At the moment, she has more than enough on her plate. First things first.
She tells Esther to make sure the boy rehydrates properly. If he’s still hungry give him something else to eat. Unthinkingly, I pat Mbaye on the arm. He’s our charge now, our responsibility. The boy returns my smile and huddles closer. Every time the boat lurches sideways, falling off a wave, I feel the thinness of his body pressing against mine but unlike most of us, now he’s warmer and fed, he has no problem with the plunge and roll of the ancient trawler.
I ask him about life at home in Senegal. He’s already told me he’s worked on the family fishing boat. He has no fear of the sea, he says. It’s always been a friend, a source of food, a living. You have no money? You fish. And that way, if the gods are kind, you survive.
H is nearby, doing his best to monitor our conversation. I translate as best I can but H is greedy to know more. How many brothers? How many sisters? Does he miss them all? What else does he know how to do apart from fishing? And how’s life been since he jumped on the back of the lorry and headed north?
I put all these questions to the boy and he’s happy to fill in the details. He has four sisters and five brothers, one of whom died recently in a traffic accident in Dakar. Yes, he missed his family, and his friends too, especially when the trip north got rough. The desert, he says, goes on forever. The smugglers rip you off. And beware of soldiers with guns.
I ask him about Libya. How was it?
‘Affreux.’ His head goes down and he covers his eyes. ‘Vraiment.’
Even H doesn’t press him any harder at this point but what’s really interesting is Alex, the ex-civil servant. I’m not at all clear what role he played at the Home Office but he certainly knows a great deal about asylum seekers, appeal tribunals, and the mechanics of deportation. At the same time I’m getting the impression that this may be the first time he’s seen a refugee on the run, the first opportunity he’s had to translate all those Home Office statistics into flesh and blood.
H, too, is aware of this. He’s never less than direct.
‘So what do you think, Alex?’
‘About?’
‘Our friend here. And all those mates of his. Are we right to put them on the plane? Send them back? Or have the Germans got it right?’
Alex has been watching Mitch out of the corner of his eye. He seems to be as interested in the reply as H.
‘You want the truth? We’re civil servants. We’re there at the bidding of our masters. Our masters are the politicians. And to be frank, as far as immigration is concerned, they haven’t got a clue. That’s point number one. Point number two is related in a way. Because those same politicians always want something for nothing. They chop us down all the time. They call it austerity. But when it comes to the police, or the Border Force, or the prison service, God help it, there’s no flesh left on the bone. We have fewer bodies behind fewer desks and so we’re making bad decisions all the time. About a hundred people a month get letters ordering them to leave the country when they’re perfectly entitled to live here. That’s shameful enough but I’m afraid it’s not just the Home Office. Whitehall is a shambles and it’s about to get a whole lot worse. So it doesn’t matter what the po
liticians think they want. It won’t happen.’
‘That’s not what they tell us.’
‘Of course it isn’t. Most of them have only got one thing in mind. They need to stay in power. You want the immigration numbers down? They’ll promise you the earth. Do they ever tell you how complex this stuff is? Never. Will they ever get their way? No.’
This is beyond blunt. Mitch is nodding. I bet he’s memorized every word. H is only interested in Mbaye.
‘So say our friend here makes it.’
‘Makes it?’
‘Gets ashore. What then?’
‘That depends. If he’s on a watch list the police might go through the motions. It’s unlikely but they might.’
‘And the numpties in the Border Force?’
‘If he’s already made it they’ll be looking the wrong way.’
‘Home safe, then?’
‘Almost certainly.’
H nods. Says nothing. Ruth is staring at Alex. Then the boat rears up and falls sideways off a huge wave and we can hear nothing but the gunshot flapping of the sails. Some of us have tumbled off the banquette. Mbaye, Mitch, H, and myself are in a heap on the floor. I can hear water dripping through cracks in the decking overhead and sluicing down the companionway from the doghouse. Then the boat rights itself and comes slowly on to the wind again.
H and Mbaye are nose to nose. H is holding his shoulder.
‘Fucking madness, mate,’ he says. ‘Love it.’
Mbaye doesn’t understand. He looks to me for a translation. I shrug. I think H is talking about the Home Office but in truth I can’t be sure. I glance at Mitch. He’s eyeballing H.
‘I could swear you’re starting to bond,’ he says softly.
‘With fucking who?’
‘Our friend here. Mbaye.’
‘And so what if I am?’
‘Nothing,’ Mitch shrugs. ‘I’m just surprised, that’s all. Stowaway black kids aren’t to everyone’s taste. Neither are other refugees. Like Syrians, for instance.’
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