The Invisible Crowd

by Ellen Wiles

  He asked to stop off at the toilets in the corridor, just behind reception. As he was coming out, he noticed a cleaner pulling some purple material out of a cupboard in a room opposite, marked STAFF ONLY. The cleaners he’d seen all wore purple overalls. Yonas walked swiftly across the corridor and into the room as the cleaner went out, catching the door just before it closed. ‘All right?’, he said, a British greeting he’d now adopted and learned was rhetorical.

  Sure enough, the cleaner just nodded at him, said ‘all right’ back, and walked off.

  The cupboard had a laminated sign on it saying SPARES, and in it were several of the purple garments. Yonas pulled out two. Since he had no bag, he stuffed half of one down his trousers, and the other half up the T-shirt he wore underneath his shirt. There was a mirror on the other side of the room; he walked over and looked at himself. The overall bulged out from his back. He took off his shirt and T-shirt as hastily as possible, popping a button, then put both overalls on, before replacing his own garments on top, just as another staff member came in. He could tell she was staring at him, asking herself whether she’d seen him before. ‘See you later,’ he said amicably – another British saying he’d learned was standard, even if you weren’t going to see the other person again that day, or that week, or perhaps ever – and strolled out.

  He went back to the reception, sweltering and self-conscious with his extra padding, fearful that that woman would come out after him, point and tell the receptionist in urgent tones: Hey, that guy was just in the staff room, call the police – but she didn’t reappear.

  Back at the squat, Yonas selected his least conspicuous shirt and trousers, then tried one of the overalls on over them. He paced about in his room, thinking. His idea was nuts. But it had to be done, there was no choice, not with Gebre in a too bad state for a visit – it was probably a medical emergency that the real doctors were pretending didn’t exist.

  He phoned Veata. ‘Hi. I just wanted to ask, when are you planning to see Gebre next? He is in a bad way. I saw him yesterday and told him about my letter, and he started shouting. He was very disturbed, even more than last time, and they are doing nothing still. And he has been cutting again… Today they wouldn’t even let me see him and refused to explain.’

  ‘I will make a call now, and go tomorrow morning first thing to check on him,’ Veata said. ‘I’ll ask for the doctor to re-examine his condition as a matter of urgency, okay? I’ll make the case for Article 35 again – I don’t know why they’re being so bullish about it.’ He could hear in her voice that she suspected she’d fail.

  The next morning, Yonas went to the detention centre wearing one of the overalls under his clothes. He waited behind a hedge until he saw Veata arrive, held off for a couple of minutes, then put on the second overall and followed her in. His blood seemed to be shooting around his body at three times the normal speed. Passing reception was the riskiest bit – but when he said he was sorry but he’d forgotten his pass, the security guy just grunted and handed him a temporary one.

  He made his way through to the visiting area, and saw Gebre sitting opposite Veata at a table. So, he was okay! Okay enough to have a visitor now, anyway. Therefore okay enough to do this.

  Another toilet was nearby, available to detainees and visitors. Yonas waited until the guard was looking the other way, then moved into Gebre’s line of sight and waved wildly. He caught his friend’s eye, put his finger over his lips, pointed to the toilet, and retreated into it. In a cubicle, he removed the inner overall and waited, heart racing. Would Gebre do anything? Would he tell Veata? Was he too far gone to care?

  But after a few minutes, the door squeaked open. He opened his cubicle door, and it was Gebre!

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ Gebre said, but he was unable to help grinning back at Yonas, as he took in the overalls.

  ‘I’m getting you out, that’s what! Prison break number two. And this is your disguise. I’ve got some extra bits too. You just need to put them on and follow me. Veata’s waiting there so they won’t suspect anything. And look at this!’ Like a conjuror, he whisked Emil’s wig out from his pants, relieved to rid himself of the itch. It was shiny, loosely curled, long, and a patchy shade of brown. (It had been platinum blonde, but some cheap dye from the pound shop had made it more subtle.)

  ‘You are even crazier than me,’ Gebre said, shaking his head wryly.

  ‘I’ve never been more sane. We can do this!’ Yonas said. But Gebre’s face seemed to crumple. It made Yonas realize how much he was asking, by putting Gebre on the spot with no warning like this, when he was at his most fragile. He might say no. Maybe the most sensible thing would be for him to say no. But then, who was helping him in here? Who knew him? Who cared? Gebre would cut himself to death if he stayed any longer. Well, now Yonas was taking control, and at least he was giving Gebre a chance to do a joint escape again, to be together, free in the UK, even if they both had to be on the run from now on in.

  ‘Okay, so what do I do?’ Gebre said.

  Yonas reached out impetuously and hugged his friend’s skinny body. He felt Gebre stiffen in surprise. ‘Right, we haven’t got much time,’ Yonas said, pulling back. ‘So, first, we need to dress you in this.’ He shoved the overalls over Gebre’s head. ‘Next, we need to beautify.’

  He placed the wig on – thanking his stars that Gebre’s hair had been cut short and his beard shaven. Gebre stood still, compliant, his mouth curled up at one side. Yonas stood back to inspect. ‘Oh yes. Yes, yes, yes!’ he said. ‘But don’t look in the mirror yet. Wait a second.’ He reached into his pocket, and pulled out a pink lipstick he’d found in the pound shop where he got the dye that he thought looked suitably subtle. ‘Here,’ he said, reaching for Gebre’s face. Placing his palm gently on his friend’s cheek, he drew the lipstick slowly over the shapely lips, traversing the familiar deep bow on the lower one that disappeared when Gebre smiled, as he did now – even let out a laugh, from lips that were more mauve than pink in fact, but never mind. ‘Gorgeous!’ Yonas said, clapping softly. And it was true – womanhood suited Gebre unexpectedly well. ‘Oh, except I brought you a scrunchie to tie the wig hair back so you look more like you’re at work,’ he said. ‘Just turn round for me.’ He swivelled Gebre to face away from him, then twisted the fake hair awkwardly into a knot above his neck and secured it with the scrunchie, remembering, as he did it, the sight of his mother spending hours plaiting Melat’s hair, how glad that had made him not to have been born a girl.

  He swivelled Gebre back around. ‘Perfect!’ he pronounced, wondering if he’d overdone the lipstick. He grabbed a tissue from the toilet. ‘Just pad the lips a little, for some extra sophistication, a “natural look”. NICE!’ Gebre did as he was told, then pouted flirtatiously. ‘You could charm any man you want, looking like that.’ Gebre raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Okay, so now it’s simple,’ Yonas said. ‘We have to move fast, but look like everything’s completely normal. So, you just walk out of here and towards reception, then I’ll follow. When you get to security, if the guy there looks up, you just raise your hand and say see you later or something like that – sound happy, relaxed, low-key, okay? Then when you get into the car park, take off the purple overall and stuff it up your jumper. At the end of the car park, there’s a driveway, and at the end of the driveway, you turn right up the road. You’ll see a bus shelter on the left. There’s a high wood fence next to it, and you can chuck the overall over that. I’ll be close behind, and we’ll catch the bus – they come every five minutes, and I’ve got you a ticket already – then we’ll be out of here. We’ll be free! Got it? It’ll be great.’

  Gebre looked at him, seriously now. Yonas began to worry he’d change his mind again, wondered if he should go through it once more, but then Gebre nodded, turned and left.

  Yonas waited for an interminable three minutes before following. No alarms sounded yet. No shouts. Nobody running. All quiet, all normal, all oppressive and grey, just like any other detention c
entre day.

  At reception, the guy at the desk was reading a book – didn’t even look up. Yonas started jogging through the car park. As he turned the corner at the road, he saw Gebre walking ahead, towards the bus stop, slowly, as if he were out for a stroll. Miraculously, the bus was already coming. We’re going to make it! Yonas thought. I’m the new Houdini! He sprinted to catch up, slapping Gebre on the back with delight. Even if the authorities got to them in the end, somehow, it didn’t matter – they were doing this together, and for however long it lasted, they were going to be free here, just like they’d imagined.

  But as the bus slowed to a standstill and its doors opened, Gebre stopped too, and started shaking his head.

  ‘Come on. What’s up?’ Yonas asked.

  But Gebre put his hands over his eyes. His head carried on shaking. ‘I can’t,’ he said, into his fingers.

  ‘What? No! We made it already, you’ve escaped! The bus is right here. We need to go. Come on! When we’re on the bus I’ll tell you the rest of the plan…’ He pushed Gebre gently, but he resisted.

  ‘I’m going back,’ he said.

  ‘You gettin’ on or what?’ the driver asked impatiently, as the doors stood open.

  Yonas began to panic. Surely Gebre wasn’t really pulling out, not now, not at this point, traumatized or not. ‘Don’t do this,’ he said, as gently as he could. ‘You can’t go back in now anyway – they’ll realize what you did and it’ll be worse. Come on – we’ve done the hard bit!’

  Gebre shook his head again, looking up at Yonas now, tears standing in his eyes. ‘I can’t. I can’t hide any more. I can’t run any more.’

  ‘You can rest, soon…’

  ‘No. I’m done. If I stay in prison, Veata can give my case a try, but if that fails I’m dead anyway, and I’m ready for that. I was ready a long time ago.’

  The bus driver beeped his horn. ‘Last chance, love birds. I’m closing the doors.’

  Yonas stuck his foot in to stop the doors closing. He glanced down the road, certain the security guys would be running towards them, or that sirens would come wailing, but there was nobody yet. ‘Trust me,’ he said to Gebre, squeezing his friend’s arm, pulling it, tugging it, wrenching it. ‘Come on, don’t do an Osman on me. Let’s go!’

  But Gebre snatched his arm back. ‘You go. Quickly, get out of here before the bus goes.’

  Yonas wanted to rage at him. ‘I’m not leaving you again!’ he pleaded.

  The bus doors slammed onto his foot, and reopened automatically. ‘All right, that’s it. I’m driving off now, even if I take your leg with me,’ the driver said.

  ‘Thank you for trying,’ Gebre said. ‘I know you want the best for me. But if I come, it will bring both of us down. This was meant to work out for you. Not me.’ And before Yonas could contradict him, he felt his friend’s palms hard on his chest, and now he was being pushed backwards hard into the bus, with a strength he hardly imagined Gebre had any more; then his body slammed against the driver’s cubicle window, and he fell to the floor.

  The doors closed. The engine revved, and the bus moved off. ‘You people,’ Yonas heard the driver say wearily, as if he had to transport crazy folk like this all the time. Yonas grabbed the luggage rail to pull himself to his feet, regained his balance, pressed his face against the door, and watched Gebre’s figure recede into the distance. His friend was waving, slowly, ceremonially, like a father sending his child off to school. Then he slid out of view.

  Chapter 27: Martina

  GUARDS AT ASYLUM SEEKER CENTRE UNMASKED AS BNP MEMBERS

  You’ve got flat white? New Zealand style? I’ll have a small one.

  That guy Yonas Kelati? I wish I could give him a piece of my mind. He got me this close to being sacked! If I hadn’t been so soft, maybe the whole fiasco would never have happened. When he first turned up at the centre, I was on the front desk, and I turned him away – I had to.

  ‘I am here to visit Gebre Merhawi,’ I remember him announcing casually, as if I’d just say: Great, come on in!

  I asked for his name on the visitor list, but there was no record of it. ‘Have you given notice of your visit?’ I asked. He shook his head. ‘All visitors to any immigration removal centre in the UK need to give notice, twenty-four hours in advance of any visit,’ I said.

  ‘Oh. I did not know that.’ He looked crestfallen, then asked me: ‘Could you please make an exception this time? I know that Gebre really needs a visitor – he is like my brother, and he has no other family here, and he’s had a very difficult—’

  I had to cut in. ‘It’s not just the notice. You also need to provide ID and a utility bill for proof of address. And then you would have to be searched, have your fingerprints scanned and have a photo taken.’ He had a large, battered rucksack on, I noticed. ‘You can’t take a bag in, either,’ I added. ‘There is a lot of security, and it often annoys visitors, but it’s important, or you could get anyone going in.’

  ‘But I didn’t know all that,’ he said. ‘Please, just let me have a very quick visit, just one minute even, so he can see my face and he knows I came. I can write down my address for you, you can check it,’ and he started scribbling on a scrap of paper! When I repeated that he would need a utility bill to prove his address, he said, ‘But I am staying with a friend. I don’t pay bills there.’

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘you will need an official letter as proof of address if you come again. Council tax, for instance. And ID. We can consider other official letters, like bank statements, but they won’t necessarily be accepted on their own. I can’t let you in without those items. And don’t forget the twenty-four hours’ notice.’

  ‘But I paid to travel all the way here to visit today,’ he said. ‘It’s a lot of money for me.’

  ‘There is nothing I can do for you now, I’m afraid,’ I said, fed up with him by then. He looked at me angrily, but didn’t shout or swear like some.

  ‘Can you just pass a message to him that I came, then, please, and I will be back,’ he said. ‘Can I write something?’

  ‘You can leave a note and I’ll put it in the post tray,’ I said. He thought a moment, wrote something down on a receipt, folded it, handed it to me, and left. I unfolded it, out of curiosity. Just some scrawls in a script I didn’t understand.

  A lot of the detainees and their family and friends think we staff want to make their lives difficult, but it’s not true. We are just doing a job. The failed asylum seekers failed for a reason. We have to make sure they stay where they’re supposed to, and we look after them while they’re here. It’s not like prison. Okay, they’re locked up, but it’s not that bad. For one thing, they can go back to their home countries if they want, any time. Another thing is that it costs ninety quid a day to look after them in the centre – that’s like staying in a pricey B&B. And they get services to match. There are classes and things they can do, an area where they can exercise, and the food’s okay – it’s a bit like being in a holiday camp, almost. I mean, I’ve never been to a prison but I assume it’s much worse.

  You have to keep a distance though. I got close to a couple of the detainees when I first started – I really got on with this girl called Esme from Ivory Coast, she was funny and we both liked basketball – although I soon learned that was a bad idea. You know, the other detainees got jealous and the staff told me it was inappropriate, and then Esme got deported anyway and I knew I’d never see her again.

  My boyfriend Ben hates what I do. He says that asylum seekers should all be allowed to work here and live freely and pay tax and we’d all be better off, as well as better, morally. But then where would it end? And he’s never actually met a failed asylum seeker. Most of the detainees I see can’t speak English well, or are too messed up in the head to do useful work here, even manual labour, and there are plenty of people from Eastern Europe who are happy to do that and can integrate better. Like me and my parents. I’ve been here since I was seven so I sound British, and I’m part of British culture.
I mean, I support Arsenal like Ben does (okay, so most of the detainees support Premier League clubs so maybe that’s a bad point). What I’m saying is, there have to be limits.

  I know it isn’t easy for the detainees. It’s not like I don’t get their point of view. It must be gutting to get locked up after making a long journey to a place they thought would make life easy. But it’s a risk they took.

  My parents took a risk when they arrived too, but theirs didn’t involve breaking the law. My dad got work as a translator, and my mum worked super-hard so she could open up a small shop selling Polish food in our area. It was the first Polish deli in London, I think. My classmates used to say, Eeeeew yuck, her family eats sour cucumber and tripe soup, don’t ever go round there, and I felt embarrassed, but then I made a couple of friends and they liked coming for dinner. Anyway, the point is that my parents came here legally, made a good contribution to the country paying taxes and everything, and so they deserved to stay – but that doesn’t mean that everyone from everywhere does.

  So, the following week Yonas Kelati came back, and told me he’d given twenty-four hours’ notice and had his proof of identity with him. I checked, and he was on the visiting list. I was glad – I’d hoped he would come back. I’d heard talk that Gebre Merhawi had gone downhill fast, and was cutting himself. It also occurred to me I might have forgotten to put that note in the post tray – I might have just left it on the reception desk, and maybe the cleaners had thought it was rubbish. Anyway, there was talk about whether Gebre Merhawi was fit to be detained, and whether the doctor should have reported his condition under Article 35. But for now he was just being looked after at the centre, in the special wing. So, Yonas Kelati dug around in his inside pocket and produced a letter from the Home Office confirming that he was seeking asylum and that the address was his, and temporary ID. I knew you were an asylum seeker too, I thought. But the letter was all folded up and was a bit torn on the edges. ‘I am afraid this is not sufficient as proof of address,’ I said. ‘As I said last time, we ask for a utility bill.’