Death & Back

by Rob Aspinall

  The field was filling up with refugees. Dozens by the hour. Amira huddled close to the girl, as much for her own warmth as Rima's.

  Drifting in and out of nightmares, she felt a hand on her shoulder. A face in the dark. The man who'd given Rima a piggy back. Rangy and lean, with deep, dark circles under his eyes.

  Amira jumped. "Get away."

  "No, it's okay," the man said in a soft voice. "I can get you on the coach. There's one leaving soon. But you have to pay."

  "To Austria?" Amira asked.

  "To Germany," the man said with a smile. "That's where you're headed, right?"

  Amira's eyes lit up. Help for Rima and the promise of Germany, where she had family. The only family she had left. The only dream to cling to. "How much?" she asked.

  "A thousand each. You have it?"

  "Yes, I have it."

  "Then come, follow me."

  Amira shook Rima awake. The girl could barely raise an eyelid.

  "Here," the man said, scooping Rima up in his arms.

  Amira rose to her feet, her backside sodden with cold, wet mud. She followed the man through the sleeping crowds—a sea of bodies huddling for warmth. A broken rainbow of tents dotted between.

  The guard who spoke English opened a gate on the fence and let them through, looking neither of them in the eye. They walked across a dark stretch of unlit concrete behind the railway platform. To a waiting coach. Plain white. Its engine ticking over. A shadowy figure stood at the open door at the front. He had a clipboard and a leather money bag strapped around his front. A long, black coat open at the front and a thick grey scarf high around his neck.

  He looked like he might be local to Amira, though in the low light spilling out from the coach, she couldn't tell.

  "You got money?" the man asked.

  "Yes," Amira said, unbuttoning her trousers at the waist. She unzipped the clear plastic pouch she'd had the good sense to stitch into her trousers. It was waterproof and hidden from sight. She counted her way through a wedge of notes before pulling out the required amount. "Germany, yes?" she asked.

  The man shook his head. "Netherlands."

  Amira held onto the money. "But you said Germany."

  "That's what he told me," the man travelling with her said.

  "There's been a change of plan," the man in the coat and scarf said. "The coach is leaving now. You're either on it or you're not."

  Amira looked at Rima. She handed over the money.

  The man counted it out again and stuffed it inside his own money bag. "That pays for you," he said. "What about the child?"

  "She's just a kid," the man helping Amira said.

  "Payment is for seat, not size of person."

  "I've only got two hundred," Amira said, hoping the lie would stick.

  The man humphed and thought it over. "Okay, two hundred."

  Amira handed over the extra fare. The man took the money and directed them on-board the coach.

  The driver was a small bald man in a black fleece and jeans. He handed Amira three litre-bottles of water from a torn open pack at the front of the coach. He reached inside a tatty carrier bag and handed over the same number of energy bars. He did it without a hint of warmth. Amira wasn't complaining. She thanked the driver and walked along the aisle. The coach was only half full. Not everyone had the savings to spend on a fast-track journey to western Europe.

  The man helping Amira laid Rima out on a window seat halfway down the aisle. Amira thanked him and took the seat next to her; the man settling in across from them. Amira removed Rima's coat. She opened it out and flung it over the pair of them. They sat close together, as if they were mother and daughter.

  The coach doors folded closed. The air brakes hissed and the driver revved the diesel engine hard. The coach set off across the car park. The heaters came on overhead. Amira closed her eyes and dreamed of a better life.

  8

  I sleep on it for the night.

  When I wake up, I'm still of the same opinion.

  It's not safe for me, or the rest of the Gastronomy staff. Not even the customers.

  Now the word's out about where I work, Gaz and Daz'll be just the appetiser.

  So I head into work as usual. Only I'm not there long.

  "I can't work here anymore, Mr Dubois."

  Dubois looks up from sampling a pan of soup he's working on. He pulls his face. "Too much salt," he says to himself.

  "Mr Dubois?"

  He tastes the soup again. "Your trial's up tomorrow," he says. "I was going to fire you anyway."

  "Oh," I say, disappointed. It would have been nice to get the job, even if I can't accept it. "You want me to work the rest of the day?"

  "No," Dubois says, his tongue as sharp as his lemon tart. "I've lined up someone else."

  I linger on the spot as he adds a pinch of salt to the soup. "Uh, what about my wages?"

  "Payment at the end of the week," he says. "I'll transfer it then."

  "Okay," I say, turning to leave. I stop with a hand on the kitchen door. "Those dickheads who charge you protection money . . . You won't have to pay 'em anymore."

  Dubois pauses, the spoon an inch from his lips. He lowers it into the pan. "What do you mean?"

  "I had a word with 'em."

  Dubois can't seem to wrap his head around the fact.

  "You're welcome," I say, on my way out of the door.

  With my working day over by noon, I head for the nearest pub. The closest affordable boozer to Gastronomy is The Old Ship. A ten minute stomp down a smog-filled high street. I head inside. It's a traditional place. Musty and grim. A flashing fruit machine in the corner and a maroon pool table towards the far end. The pub smells of stale ales and cigarettes smoked before the ban. The kind of hole only alcoholics and old men with skinny dogs frequent during the day.

  I slide onto a bar stool and take out my phone as it rings. It's a video call from Cassie.

  She pops up on the screen, sat on some stone steps. Like she's outside a library or something. "Hey, Dad," she says, a strand of blonde hair escaping from a green wooly hat.

  "Hi sweetheart. How's uni?"

  "Oh, uni's okay," she says. "You not working today?"

  "I'm working four till eleven," I say, scratching the back of my neck.

  "What's wrong with your hand?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "It looks bruised or something."

  I study the redness on my knuckles, courtesy of Gaz's face.

  "Don't tell me you've been fighting again."

  "Oh, I caught my hand on one of the ovens . . . You know your old man. Clumsy bastard, aren't I?" I look again at Cassie's surroundings. "Where are you? Why aren’t you in lectures?"

  "It's reading week," she says.

  "What's that when it's at home?"

  "It's kind of like a week off. I've read all the books already."

  "So just chillin', huh?"

  Cassie rolls her eyes the way her mother does. "Please don't use words like chillin', Dad."

  "Oh sorry, I'll keep it real, shall I?"

  "You're so last century," she says.

  "Who you talking to?" I hear a young guy say, off-camera.

  "Just my Dad," Cassie says.

  "Who's that?" I ask, feeling my heckles rise. "You got a boyfriend?"

  "No, Dad. Don't flip out. It's just Sam."

  "Just Sam, eh? Well what are you and Just Sam up to?"

  "We're at a protest."

  "Another one? What's it about this time?"

  "Fur," Cassie says. "They're having a fashion show at the art gallery. Some of it's real. It's disgraceful, Dad."

  "Well the animals won't miss it," I say. "They're dead, aren't they?"

  "They don't just wait for them to die, Dad. They kill them for it . . . Don't you know anything?"

  "I wish you'd stop all this protesting bollocks, you're gonna get yourself in trouble."

  "Yeah, so?"

  "So I don't want you having a criminal record." />
  "Dad, I'm not gonna—"

  "No, listen to me Cass. The pigs—I mean, these riot police are mean bastards. They'll baton you as soon as look at you."

  "There's not gonna be a riot, Dad. It's a peaceful protest. There's three of us chained to a gatepost, that's all."

  I shake my head. "Well as long as it's legal."

  "Sam studies law. It's legal, isn't it Sam?"

  "It is?" I hear Sam say. "I mean, it is. Yes, perfectly."

  "Look, I've gotta go," Cassie says. "Just wanted to check up on you. Make sure you're okay."

  "Let me do the worrying, sweetheart. Stay out of trouble."

  As we end the call, a fat, bald man appears behind the brass-railed bar. He wears an England football shirt, his belly sticking out over the waist of his jeans. "Sorry mate, I was changing the barrel. What can I get you?"

  I look across the taps. A range of solid ales. None of that fancy designer nonsense.

  "Pint of lager, please."

  The landlord picks up a glass and pulls me a pint. He rests it on the bar and tells me the damage.

  "Five quid a pint?" I say, counting my coins. "Jam on toast again tonight."

  The landlord shrugs and rubs a pint glass dry with a towel.

  "London prices," says a man with an East End accent. He takes the stool next to me. Leather jacket and jeans. Sandy hair and a cocky grin. "You're not up north now, you tight fucker."

  I fix him with a stare.

  He stares back. A pint of Guinness and a folded-up paper in front of him. "Northern monkey," he says, slurping the head off his pint.

  "Soft southern shit," I say, sipping my cold pint of lager.

  The landlord takes a step back from the bar, like there's gonna be a rumble.

  Chris Randall puts down his pint and breaks into laughter. He rises off his stool. Me off mine. We shake hands. I slap him on the arm.

  "Breaker, what the hell are you doing here?" he says.

  "Having a pint. What does it look like?"

  "Been around long?" he asks.

  "About a month."

  "You should have said."

  "Thought you were still in the nick, Chris."

  "Got out a year ago," Randall says. "Good behaviour . . . So what brings you down here? You settling a score for someone?"

  "Nah, I'm done with all that. Playing it straight."

  Randall laughs. Sups on his pint. Double-takes. "Seriously?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "So what are you doing instead?"

  "Anything that'll pay the rent. As long as it's honest, I don't mind."

  Randall puts down his pint and shakes his head. "Charlie Cobb, underworld hard-man and legendary fixer, working for a living."

  "Well, I was until about half an hour ago."

  Randall pauses. Looks at me like he's thinking. "How straight is the path, exactly?"

  "What's that mean?"

  Randall lowers his voice. Leans in to me. "I've got this job."

  "It's not waiting on tables, is it?"

  Randall laughs into his pint. "God, no."

  "Hang on Chris," I say, finding myself a little too interested. "I don't wanna know."

  "It's nothing heavy."

  "Sorry pal," I say.

  "It's only fake merch, Charlie."

  "I don't care if it's fake snow. I don't wanna handle anything iffy,"

  "You won't be handling anything. You won't even see it. I'm after a driver, that's all."

  "Where from?"

  "Ramsgate. You pick up the truck in port, pre-loaded and ready to rock. All you have to do is drive it back to the big smoke.”

  "Why do you need it driving out from there?"

  "Because the arsehole I hired decided to have a drink on the ferry from Belgium. Only he can't handle his booze, can he? So he gets pissed up, starts a fight and does a runner when he hits port. I get a call from the ferry company telling me the truck's parked up in fucking Ramsgate."

  "And the driver?"

  Chris shakes his head. "Fuck knows, mate . . ." Point is, I can't get another driver who knows how to handle a truck. So the merch is sat there by the side of the coast road. And I've made promises, you know?"

  "I see your problem," I say, sinking the rest of my pint. "How much?"

  "A lot more than being a waiter pays. And if it works out, you can have the drunken bastard’s routes."

  "I dunno," I say. "I swore I wouldn't do anything dodgy."

  "Come on, Breaker. Most of it's tat sold by eBay mums. You'll be putting food in the mouths of little kiddies. It'd be a crime not to."

  Randall's always been a persuasive guy. The slick salesman at the centre of everything. The only thing he ever handled was the money. You do the work. He takes his cut. The rest goes to whoever's paying for the job.

  But he's one of the good guys. I'd trust him with my life—matter of fact, I have, on more than one occasion.

  Randall takes a biro from inside his jacket and scribbles a phone number on his newspaper. He tears it off at the corner and hands it over.

  I pocket the number and push my empty pint glass across the bar top. I stand off my stool and pat him on the shoulder. "Good seeing you mate. I'll think about it."

  Randall raises his half empty pint glass. "Don't think too long."

  9

  The coach rumbled on. An endless stretch of motorways, dual carriageways and border crossings. Amira had exchanged some of her remaining life savings for euros in Turkey. She'd spent a small amount of them on blankets, water, pre-packed sandwiches and fruit for her and Rima.

  But Rima had stopped eating. She was restless, grouchy, her skin clammy with sweat. Her cough getting worse. All Amira could do was coax her to drink, keep her warm and nurse her to sleep.

  She offered her spare food to the man who'd helped them on-board. His name was Malik. He was a former soldier from Afghanistan. He'd returned to his civilian role of physicist, only to lose his job after the bombing of his lab. He had no home, job or family. But enough money to pay for passage to a fresh start in Europe. He told Amira he hoped to become a scientist again once he found his feet. Perhaps at a university.

  After telling Amira his story and finishing his sandwiches, Malik fell asleep. Amira yawned and rolled out her neck. She'd made it through another night, to see the sun rise in the East.

  The coach had passed through Hungary into Austria. The scenery had changed. Now came mountains and valleys. Rolling carpets of green, snaking blue rivers and swathes of dense, dark forest.

  Amira couldn’t believe her eyes. She felt excited for the first time. This was really happening. This was the Europe she'd dreamed of. The roads were free of holes. The buildings and tunnels in one, well-maintained piece. The sky was crisp and blue: not a missile or plume of mushrooming smoke in sight.

  And flying past the coach, the occasional Mercedes, Audi and BMW. Not caked in dust or rubble, but polished to a gleam, the sun winking off alloy rims and chrome badges.

  Amira nudged Rima awake and pointed out of the window. "Look Rima. Look at how beautiful it is. We're almost there."

  A smile flickered on Rima's face like a bulb with a loose connection. She took in the view: the snowy mountain peaks and wispy white clouds casting shadows over the fields. Rima let out a weak gasp. "This is Germany?"

  "No, Austria," Amira said. "But not long now."

  Rima remained awake, eyes glued to the scenery. Amira held back the news about the Netherlands. She didn't want to confuse the girl in her weakened state

  On towards Germany the coach continued. Only hour-long sleep breaks for the driver punctuated the onward movement.

  Amira wanted to stay awake for the rest of the journey. To see Germany, the Netherlands too. She'd heard there were fields of tulips and windmills. What a sight that would be . . . Yet she could hang on no longer. Her eyelids closed as the coach headed north east.

  By the time she opened them again, she heard an argument at the front of the coach. It was Malik, remonstrat
ing with the driver. The other passengers watching on and murmuring to each other.

  Amira looked out of the window. The coach was on another stretch of motorway. The road signs in a different colour and language to that of the German autobahn.

  She checked on Rima. She was shivering in her sleep. Her temperature higher than ever. Amira thought she'd been getting better, yet she appeared to be getting worse. She eased Rima's head off her bosom. The sleepy young girl repositioned herself against the window curtain.

  Amira got to her feet, her body stiff and aching. She stretched out her lower back and shook out her legs. She made her way to the front of the coach, hands on headrests to keep her upright.

  Malik was irate. He turned to Amira. "Now he says we're not going to the Netherlands."

  "What?" Amira said, still sleepy.

  "Change of plan," the driver said, as if it was the official line that killed all arguments.

  "I don't understand," Amira said. "What do you mean? Where are we?"

  "Belgium," Malik said. "We're in Belgium."

  "What are we doing in Belgium?"

  "Change of plan," the driver repeated.

  "What are we going to do here?" Amira said. "We were promised—"

  "I only drive bus," the driver said. "They phone me and tell me to reroute. So I reroute."

  "Who told you?" Malik asked.

  "The people who pay."

  "We're the people who pay," Amira said. "And we were told the Netherlands. I need to go to the Netherlands."

  "What's the difference?" the driver asked.

  "So I can get into Germany," Amira said.

  "Well now it's Belgium," said the driver.

  "Where in Belgium?" Malik asked.

  "Ostend," the driver said.

  Amira had never heard of Ostend, but it didn't sound like a place she wanted to go. "Will there be a hospital?" she asked. "I have a sick child."

  "There'll be a hospital," the driver said. "It's a big place. A city. Not far from the Netherlands."

  "How long?" Amira asked.

  The driver checked the digital clock above the windscreen. "A few hours . . . Belgium is good for you people. A lot of immigrants."

  Malik looked at Amira and shook his head. He cursed at the driver and stormed off. Amira followed him along the aisle. She flopped into her seat. All she wanted to do was get off the coach. To get Rima some attention and go her own way.