by Rob Aspinall
They all look as if they can handle themselves.
Randall shakes his head as he approaches. "Sorry mate, if I'd have known, I never would have put you forward."
He extends a hand. I shake it. "Don't worry pal," I say. "So long as you've got a fix."
Randall breaks into a smile. "That I have," he says, glancing inside the empty trailer. "Where are they hiding?”
I nod towards the Portakabin. "Keeping warm. Poor bastards."
"Then let's get 'em sorted," Randall says, signalling the drivers of the people carriers.
The two men open the sliding doors to the VWs. I lead Randall into the Portakabin.
I speak to the room. "Time to go."
There's chatter among the refugees.
"First you tell us where we are going," Amira says. "We still haven't been told."
Randall addresses the room. Amira translates for a few who speak her language.
"We've got a couple of empty houses not far from here," Randall says. "We'll take you straight there. You can get a warm bed, a nice shower. You can wash your clothes and we'll get you something to eat."
"What about passports?" Amira asks. "They were taken."
"We'll need a few days to look into it. In the meantime, there'll be work for anyone who wants it. Pay at the end of the day, in cash."
Amira translates. A few of the refugees nod and smile. It seems to convince the others.
"Okay folks," Randall says. "Follow me."
The group trail us out to the people carriers. A couple of the refugees acknowledge me. A nod. A handshake. A look in the eye.
Amira is the last one to climb in. She puts a hand on my arm. "Are you sure about these men?" she asks.
"Chris is a mate of mine," I say. "I can vouch for him."
I can see she's still not convinced, so I pull her in close for a hug. I take out the burner Chris gave me. I’m discreet about it, speeding through the contacts and finding the number for the phone. I commit it to memory using a technique I learned years ago. Handy when you need to remember alarm and safe codes. I slip the burner in Amira's trouser pocket, unseen to anyone else. "Here," I say. "I'll call and check on you."
I let her go. She nods and climbs inside the second of the VWs. I slide the passenger door shut. I wait for the two people carriers to take off. But I realise the drivers are missing.
I see Amira's eyes widen. She shouts my name, muffled by the glass. She bangs on the window and pulls at the door handle.
I turn around too late. Catch the end of something hard and heavy on my nose. Take a whack in the ribs and a stinging smack behind my right leg. I drop to one knee, trying to get my bearings.
But that was the appetiser. Now the main course. I'm forced to the ground. I lie on the floor, trying to cover up while the three drivers beat the shit out of me. Steel baseball bats with my blood all over 'em.
I see the Land Rover boot wide open. I wasn't paying attention. While my back was turned, they were tooling up good and proper. I fight to get to my feet. The drivers kick me while I'm down. A steel toe boot in the side. Another in the head.
I look up, hanging on to consciousness. The drivers stand over me.
Randall too, smoking a cig. "Sorry Breaker, but I told you not to open those doors."
He knew. He knew all along, the scheming little fucker.
"You piece of fucking shit,” I say . . . I think I say. Whether the words come out, I don't know.
"If there was any other way mate . . ." Randall says. "But the people I work for now . . . They've given the order."
Work for? Order? He's supposed to be the middleman. Independent. Guess he must have sold out. Gone corporate.
I squirm on the floor, desperate. Feet kicking out for traction. Handfuls of dirt, drained of energy. My vision blurred. My hearing woolly. The drivers all look the same: burly and mean.
I realise I'm seeing three of the same guy. I see a flash of baseball bat swinging towards my head.
Nothing but sounds now. Voices.
"You want me to pop one in him?” one of the drivers asks.
"No," Randall says. "The sound'll travel for miles around here. Besides, he's only got a few minutes left in him . . . Me and Terry'll take the foreigners to the compound. You two bury him with the other one, then get rid of the truck."
I hear 'em say “yes boss”.
Then no sounds at all.
I feel like I'm rolling, falling.
Falling into a deep, dark hole.
19
I open my eyes. It takes me a minute to focus.
I'm staring at a wall of dirt. My face resting in wet soil. I move slow. My body rages, head to toe. Yet it's cold, too. My head pounding like a subwoofer.
I hear the churn of heavy machinery. The chug of a diesel engine. Something wet, slapping and slopping.
I roll onto my back. Thin black clouds drift over a grey wash of sky, spitting for rain.
That sky looks further away than usual. I realise I'm in a hole. Big and square and high on either side.
A hole dug deep by machines, not shovels. One of those foundation pits I saw on the way in.
I peer down between my blood-stained boots. See wet concrete and lots of it. It slops into the pit, out of the arse-end of a mixing truck.
I look right and see . . . A body. Wrapped in a clear plastic sheet. Naked and bleeding around the abdomen. It's a woman with long brown hair a shade darker than her skin.
I guess the plan is to bury the both of us at the same time and save on cement.
I admire their efficiency. But only for a moment. I roll onto my front, grabbing fistfuls of soil. I dig the toes of my boots into the ground. But it's slippery and hard to get traction. Harder with a broken body.
The concrete keeps coming, sliding towards me.
I push up onto my forearms. Fall flat again. I'm so bloody knackered. I wanna close my eyes and sleep.
And that's exactly what I do.
But I snap out of it. Survival instinct . . . I dunno. The wet concrete is cold around my ankles. It advances up my legs. I kick out. Push up. The hole filling fast.
I make it onto all fours. I hear one of the goons talking on his phone. Can't see him, but I can hear him.
I reach for my own mobile, thinking I can call the police. But my pocket's flat.
Bollocks, they took it.
I struggle to my feet. Concrete around my thighs.
I see the goon talking on the phone. His back to the hole The other one must be smoking a cig somewhere. I smell it in the air.
I look for a foothold in one of the four walls of the hole, but the earth is packed tight.
Concrete rises like thick porridge up my waist. As I try and twist out of it, something catches my eye. The end of a length of steel rebar, sticking out of the top of the pit on the far side. It's a good six feet away.
Can I get there? Will it even come out?
I wade in slow-motion across the pit, up to my guts. By the time I make it across, it's rising past my chest.
I reckon the hole is eight feet deep. The rebar a foot below the edge of the hole.
I'm six-five with a big wingspan. If I can force myself onto my toes and reach . . . I stretch until I get a fingertip on the rough end of the metal, leftover from a previous foundation.
I get a grip. I wiggle it left to right. It comes free from the earth—a broken metal rod, heavy and two feet in length. I grip the clean end as the concrete comes up to my shoulders. A lumpy pool of the stuff filling out the pit.
Now you might be wondering why I didn't use the rebar as a grab handle and pull myself out.
Well I'm betting at least one of those two goons has a gun.
If they see me climbing out of here, what do you think they're gonna do?
Yeah, you guessed it.
But while they think I'm buried in here, they'll stay complacent. The goon on the phone'll keep yapping. His mate'll keep smoking.
And since I've buried a few bodies in this s
tuff, I know how it works. I stay on my tiptoes and let my weight fall backwards into the concrete.
The kind of cement they're using is full of water until it sets, so it's a lot like floating to the surface of the sea. You don't fight it. You let it push you upwards.
And in no time, I'm lying on my back like a starfish, holding the metal rod above the surface. I roll over and kick out with my legs and my spare arm. I wriggle across the sludgy grey pool, my body a few centimetres beneath the surface. My head stuck out like a crocodile approaching its prey.
I make it to the other side. The goon laughs like a drain down the phone. He's a couple of feet away from the edge of the pit, still with his back to me.
I swing the length of rebar, swiping the bastard’s ankles. He yelps and drops the phone. Falls backwards and splats into the concrete. He scrambles to right himself. I punch him in the face and push his head underneath before he can take a breath. He fights like hell. I hold him down. After thirty seconds, he stops struggling. I slosh a thick wave of concrete over him, covering his body.
As the level of concrete nears the top of the hole, I dig the end of the rebar in the dirt.
I drag myself out onto the mud. I use the bar as a crutch to get to my feet. The last of the concrete drips from the back of the mixer. The pit full to the edges.
I trudge towards the back of the truck. Beaten half to death. Covered head to toe in grey goo and weighing double what I did before.
Christ, it feels like I'm carrying an elephant on my back. As I rest against the passenger side of the mixing truck, I smell the cigarette again.
The driver shouts to his goon pal from the other side of the truck.
I wait.
He shouts to him again. Gets impatient and marches to the hole.
He looks around. Ditches the cig butt on the floor.
"Wazza," he shouts. "Stop fucking around. The hole's full. Time to go!"
He shakes his head and looks at the pool of concrete. Something catches his eye. He walks around the hole and squats on the balls of his feet.
Shit, his dead friend's hand is sticking out of the concrete.
I set off towards him, bar in hand. Dragging my right foot behind my left.
"Wazza?" the guy says, backing away from the pit.
He recognises that hand. Turns and sees me coming at him. "What the f—"
He reaches inside his red and black check lumberjack coat. I swing the bar and crack him in the temple. It's a heavy blow. Skims off a layer of flesh. He lurches forward, takes out the gun and lets off a round. It's way off target, his legs unsteady.
He lines up another shot. I smack the firing hand with the end of the rod. The gun spins into the concrete. I swing again and hit him in the same spot on the temple. His skull cracks open. He falls backwards and splashes into the concrete. I push his body down with the rebar. If you pin 'em down long enough, the grey stuff will suck 'em beneath the surface.
I move onto Wazza's hand. I reach out and knock it down underneath.
Note to self: this rebar stuff is bloody useful.
I toss it aside and waddle over to the silver van, which I'm guessing delivered my naked companion in the pit. Both trucks are a non-starter. No way I can climb in either cab in my current state. So the van’ll have to do.
The driver's door is open, but the keys must be with one of those two dead goons in the concrete.
Damn, I should have thought of that.
Still, if I can climb inside I can hot-wire the thing.
But climbing is impossible when you can't raise your foot more than shin-high.
So I drag my sorry carcass inside the van, pulling myself up straight by the seat. I reach beneath the wheel and rip off the steering column panel. I slide out the pin locking the wheel and strip the wires.
I start the engine and haul my legs in one by one. I try to bend them at the knee, but I can't. So I lie on the seat, stiff and upright like a mummy. My foot on the accelerator and hands locked out on the wheel. I reach out slow and put the van in gear. I steer and shift gears like a learner driver, following the tracks out of the site. I make it through the front gate without crashing. Shit knows where I'm even going.
I pull out onto a quiet side road. It takes me a while, but I get the van going straight. Up to a T-junction.
I attempt to brake. My foot slips off the pedal. The van careers across a busy main road. A miracle I don't hit anyone. I step on the brake again too late. Unable to turn the wheel, I drive the van straight into a lamp post. Steam rises from the crumpled bonnet. I open the door and fall out onto the pavement. I limp along the road. There's a wire fence on the inside of me. A school playground full of young girls in blue jumpers. I go dizzy and fall into the wire fence.
The girls scream in horror. Shriller than dog whistles.
I guess I must look like some sort of sludge monster to them. The creature from the deep, every inch of me covered in drying concrete and cuts and bruises.
There's an unlocked gate to my right. I push through it. Thinking I can rest up a minute on the other side of the fence.
I limp towards the girls. Tell 'em it's okay. I'm not gonna hurt 'em.
They hold onto each other and shriek even louder. I put a hand out to calm them down. But they must think I'm trying to grab 'em. They turn and run like hell, fighting to get in through the school doors. I start to drop in and out of consciousness. The ground spins and rushes up at me. I hit the playground and roll onto my back, a face full of sky.
As good a place to die as any.
20
Again, I wake up.
To a freezing cold blast of something in the face.
Still not dead. Unless there's an afterlife. And it involves an old man standing over you with a hosepipe.
He sprays me in the head with the water. A crinkly little guy with a face like a skeleton, he wears dark-blue work pants, a matching polo shirt and sweater. He runs his green rubber hosepipe over me, rinsing off the concrete. Must be the school caretaker. I notice the same crest on his sweater as on the wall of the school.
His eyes are dark and hollow. The ice-cold water relentless. He moves on from my head and down my body. I see the concrete washing off around me. Great big pools of the stuff. My own blood mixing in, like raspberry sauce making swirls in melted ice cream.
Getting my bearings back, I see four other people stood behind the caretaker.
There's a tall man in a suit with a police badge on his hip. Hands in trouser pockets. The tails of a long, beige raincoat fanning out in a stiff breeze. Then a pair of coppers in high-vis coats and caps. And finally, a disapproving woman with curly grey hair and glasses. She looks like my old Headteacher, from the few weeks I actually went to school. Her name was Mrs Emley. I got to know her very well, the old battle axe.
The memory of her cane across my arse snaps me back to my senses.
I hear twittering birds and rustling leaves. Smell school dinners wafting from a canteen. Feel my horrible wet clothes clinging to my skin.
Next comes the pain.
21
Amira watched in horror as the men beat Charlie to a pulp. "You're killing him!" she screamed, pounding a fist on the rear passenger window of the people carrier.
"Quiet," the driver seat said as he returned to the people carrier. "Or you'll get the same."
The arguments from Amira and Malik died down as both VW vehicles departed the building site. They exchanged nervous glances as the vans made their way through busy streets.
Ordinary life was a pane of glass away: a girl's school, a library, a Post Office and a coffee shop. Simple, everyday life, where people went to work, to school, to meet with a friend over a slice of cake.
Yet it felt a thousand miles away. She may as well have been at the start of her journey, when she first packed her bag in Aleppo. The same bag a thief would later snatch from her on a crowded market street in Turkey.
Amira's people carrier followed the other. One way traffic turned into a d
ual carriageway, which turned into a long stretch of motorway. A sweeping A-road followed, into a country road flanked by fields of grazing cattle.
At least Rima was in good hands. That was something. Though it didn’t stop her worrying about the fate of the young girl.
The driver turned onto a narrow lane running beneath a canopy of overhanging trees. They appeared black against the light grey sky. An ominous sign.
The people carriers came to a stop in front of a high wall with barbed wire on top. A dark-green steel gate slid open and they continued through.
Were these people with the military? Was all this government sponsored?
The sight of a plainclothes guard on the gate seemed to suggest not. He carried an automatic weapon strapped over one shoulder. A cigarette between finger and thumb.
The driver wound down his window and yelled something at the guard. He spoke in what sounded like Eastern European. The guard gave the driver the finger in return. The driver laughed.
A wide concrete training yard led up to a large, brown-brick building.
The place looked abandoned. It sat behind an unkempt grass bank, paint peeling off the white window frames and a flagpole missing a flag.
"What is this place?" Amira said, thinking out loud.
"An old army barracks," Malik said.
"What do you think we're doing here?" Amira asked.
“Who knows,” Malik said.
The driver brought the people carrier to a stop outside the building. He got out and slid open the rear door. "Out," he said.
Amira and the others lined up on the tarmac, as if they were recruits fresh off an army bus.
The drivers held them at gunpoint until another guard opened a fire exit door. He waved them in. The drivers pushed and shoved the passengers along a stone path that led up the grass bank.
Out of the blue, one of the passengers made a break for freedom. A gangly Somali man with overgrown stubble and panic in his eyes. He peeled off the line and sprinted towards the nearest people carrier, as if planning to steal it.