by Rob Aspinall
One thing that nagged at her: why would they change the destination? What did they care where they ended up? They had their money. Why not dump them by the side of the road in Austria or Germany, the first chance they got?
Her European geography wasn't the best, but she felt sure Belgium was a longer drive than the Netherlands. Another border. And she knew it was further from Hungary than Vienna or Munich. Why would the people booking the coach pay for extra fuel and longer hours for the driver?
The questions played on her mind as the coach made its way to Ostend. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
10
I walk the streets rather than take the bus. I'm twenty pence short and my severance pay for the kitchen job won't hit my bank until the end of the week.
It's an hour's walk home, including a couple of wrong turns. Still finding my way around this place. Half of London looks the same to me. Especially once the shops and bars drop off and you get into the housing estates.
Your money doesn't stretch far down here, either. But it's a good place to get lost in. The best in the country. And since the law froze my assets and accounts, the more lost I get, the better.
The bedsit I'm staying in makes my old flat in Manchester look like the Taj Mahal. It's in a grotty part of the city in a high-rise block. The usual story: gangs fighting each other for turf no one in their right mind would touch.
I walk past 'em now. A handful of young lads. A mix of races. All with one injury or another. A cut face, a black-eye. One kid with his arm in a sling. They block the entrance to the flats, sitting on the steps, dressed in sportswear and jewellery. Rap music blares out of an old school ghetto blaster. I stop in front of 'em.
There's a tense moment. They look at me. I look at them.
They get up and step aside, pulling up their pants as they fall off their arses.
They shuffle into two orderly lines. They nod at me. I nod back.
We had a disagreement when I first moved in. Guns. Knives. Threatening residents. Me included.
I soon sorted that out. A little pro bono fixer work. Just like old times.
They leave the locals alone and I leave them alone. That's the deal. In fact, I've even seen 'em helping struggling mums with their shopping. No doubt they terrorise the surrounding neighbourhoods, but not here.
One of them fist bumps me. I don't know what's wrong with a handshake, but I go with it.
My bedsit is on the second floor. The block of flats overlooks a busy fly-over that passes right by my only window.
After wrestling open the wonky, rusty keyhole, I fiddle with the latch until it locks behind me. From a sunny start to the morning, the day has turned grey. As grey as the overpass that blasts and rattles the paper-thin walls.
The bedsit is dark and uneven. Damp crawls up the corners of the room. The knee-high fridge makes more racket than a nun's vibrator. The toaster sits on the floor next to it. A black scorch mark underneath on a threadbare blue carpet.
There's a sink against one wall. A door to a toilet and bath on the other. A tiny red sofa bed in the middle and a wind chill factor of minus ten blowing in through cracks in the window frame.
As I stand here and look at my life, I realise I haven't got the money to pay the damn rent.
Yep, this is it. The price of going straight.
I sag at the shoulders. Let out a big sigh. Dig a hand in a trouser pocket and call up a number on my decade-old pay-per-go handset.
Randall picks up on the other end.
"Chris?" I say. ”I’ve thought about it."
11
Ostend was a city. The driver hadn't lied in that respect. And even though night had fallen by the time they arrived, Amira could tell it was a nice place. The streets were clean and quiet. The buildings tall and well maintained: some modern, some historical.
The coach wound its way through the city to a seafront. A long, straight road. A flat expanse of sand and a black ocean in the distance, with tiny lights out to sea.
The coach came to a rest next to a harbour busy with moored yachts. The driver turned off the engine and opened the doors.
That's when the scramble began. Amira's fellow passengers pulled on their coats and grabbed any belongings they had left. They beat a path for the front of the coach. As if the journey to freedom demanded a sprint finish.
Amira waited for the others to clear. Malik too. She peeled Rima out of her seat and carried her along the aisle. She stepped down and outside. Into a windy, chilly night. She smelled the blustery sea air blowing in from the Atlantic. It was fresher than the Aegean, but more aggressive with it.
No sooner had she felt the tarmac beneath her feet, she saw the others lining up along the side of the coach. There were more men here, like the man in the coat and scarf in Hungary. They were big and well fed under thick black jackets. And blank behind the eyes.
Malik was the first to protest. A man shoved him backwards against the coach, threatening him with a handgun.
The man had wavy dark hair and slugs for eyebrows. He appeared to be in charge, barking instructions for the other two men to round up the others.
Amira looked to the driver as he stepped off the coach. He shrugged and lit a cigarette. She thought about running. She thought too long, soon dragged into line against the side of the coach.
"What's happening?" she asked in English. "We've paid, now let us go."
"Shut up," the leader said.
"But the girl is sick. I need to get her to a hospital."
The man ignored her. They waited in the cold wind. Then on the leader's command, they found themselves herded to the mouth of a wooden jetty.
They stood close together shivering—confused and afraid. Some passengers had belongings packed in rucksacks and small suitcases. Amira only had Rima, clinging to her for warmth.
She saw the gang leader talking to a middle-aged man at the end of the jetty. The owner of a sailboat from what she could make out. The leader seemed to be offering the man something. An envelope. The owner of the boat refused.
The leader tucked the envelope away. He grabbed the owner by his blue jacket and pushed his gun into his ribs.
Amira strained to hear, but the argument was out of earshot.
A few minutes passed. The owner of the boat disappeared beneath deck. The leader waved his men forward.
"Come on," they said, pushing the group along the jetty.
Amira picked up Rima. She shuffled in line—a dozen or more pairs of feet treading the creaking boards. In the dark, she heard the ringing of a bell in the distance and the sound of water lapping against the jetty supports.
As they neared the boat, Amira saw the black sea spanning out in front of her. It filled her with dread.
The two men stopped the passengers alongside the sailboat. They waved them on, one by one with the barrel of a gun.
Amira was last. Her feet locked rigid to the jetty. At the threat of being shot, she willed herself to step forward.
Her legs shook at the feel of a boat deck. Being forced below made it worse. As she wobbled on the top step, Malik reached up and took Rima off her. Amira steadied herself on a cold, steel handrail. She stepped down into a cramped living quarters overcrowded with the other passengers. There was barely room to breathe. Some people had claimed seats on benches that ran either side of the quarters. Others leaned against a square wooden table in the centre of the low-ceilinged room.
As the onboard engine powered up, Amira felt the vibration through the soles of her feet.
The gang leader stood at the top of the stairs with the boat owner. They argued in English.
"There are too many people," the owner said. "The yacht isn't designed to—"
"Never mind that," the group leader said. "You've got GPS on-board, right?"
"Well, yes, but—"
"Then programme it in. Let's get going."
"This is madness."
"You want to see your family again? You do what I say."
In a fe
w short minutes, the door to the deck closed. A man with a gun parked himself on the steps, blocking any hope of escape. With the last of the fresh air gone and the movement of the boat, the sickness returned to the pit of Amira's stomach. She tried to ignore it. She approached the man on the steps, leaving Rima with Malik.
"Back off," the man said.
"I need a place for the girl to lie down," Amira said, pointing to Rima. "She's sick."
The man looked at Rima. He let out a sigh of inconvenience and got to his feet, as if it had been a long day for him, too. "Follow me," he said, barging his way through the crowd.
Amira took Rima from Malik and followed the man towards the far end of the quarters. He led her to a thin single bunk with a blue sleeping bag. Three passengers sat shoulder to shoulder on the bed. The man barked at them to move. They stood and allowed Amira in. One, a woman around Amira's age, helped her tuck Rima in under the sleeping bag.
Amira thanked her and took a seat with two others on the edge of the bed, a hand stroking Rima's forehead. The young girl's body was burning up: a rasping cough from her mouth.
The man with the gun turned to leave.
"She needs water," Amira said, pulling at his jacket.
He shook her hand off him, as if she was carrying a disease. Without a word, he pushed his way out through the crowd.
He returned moments later with a chilled plastic bottle of mineral water. "Here," he said, handing it over.
He shoved his way back out again. Amira gave Rima a sip and offered the same to her near neighbours.
The ride on the small white yacht was smoother than the dinghy. Yet Amira felt no safer. Particularly when they left the port. She couldn't see, but she could hear the howl of the wind, feel the rolling of the boat over the swell of the North Sea.
The spotlight above her head was dim and yellow. Even though it was fixed into the ceiling, she could swear it was swaying.
So Amira held onto Rima—less for the young girl's reassurance and more for her own. She breathed deep, once again attempting to quell the sickness within her. The other passengers didn't look too enamoured with the rolling, tilting ride either.
And this time, there was a promise of nothing at journey's end. Nothing but uncertainty at the hands of the three men on-board.
Amira felt as if she was caught in a loop. Only with each turn of events, her situation got worse. Here she was, on another treacherous journey full of fear and sickness in the early hours before dawn.
Abdul had lied in Turkey about the size of the boat she'd be taking to Greece. The man in Hungary had conned her out of thousands, only to send her to Ostend. And after all the miles travelled, she found herself further away from Munich than ever.
Being under the thumb of the gangs was no safer than home, under skies of fire and rubble, streets caked in blood and dust. She cursed herself for leaving Aleppo. But what choice did she have? Her neighbours' homes were empty. Her classroom stripped of children. Some spirited away by fleeing parents. Others with candles lit next to photographs, messages and drawings.
Amira closed her eyes and waited out the journey. The nightmares that had punctuated her sleep came at her in waking hours too. A tangle of screaming people sliding off the dinghy. The icy blast of the water. Dead bodies trapped beneath. Rima's grandmother among them. She felt the air escaping out of her lungs. Her arms and legs tiring. The surface shrinking in the distance above. The sunlight petering out. Rima's pale face flashing in front of hers. Oily black eyes. Face half-eaten by fish. White skin flapping off her cheekbones.
Amira gasped awake. The roll of the boat had levelled off. She felt a bump as it docked.
“Everyone off,” the men shouted. "One at a time."
Amira roused Rima from her sleep. Rima cried and resisted. Amira pulled her from her bed and carried her across the emptied living quarters. Malik helped her carry Rima up the steps and off the yacht.
The gang leader marched them along another jetty to a deserted harbour wall.
As soon as she set foot on dry land, Amira's stomach settled. She felt the hard tarmac of a road underfoot. Saw the moon in the sky, close to full. A grey cloud drifting across its dazzling white face. It was the only light around, other than distant orange streetlights from the port town.
"Welcome to the UK," the leader said.
"What are we doing here?" Malik asked.
"You wanted to come to Europe," the leader said. "This is Europe . . . Well, for now.“
"I paid for the Netherlands," Amira said.
"You'll pay even more if you don't shut up," the leader said, flicking on a torch. "Now empty your pockets. And your bags."
Any protests were soon extinguished as the men roughed up the passengers. They turned out pockets and dumped the contents of bags onto the tarmac.
They took money, passports, papers and jewellery—off wrists, out of ears and from around necks.
One of the men held open a red polyester bag with a white drawstring. They filled it with cash and valuables.
The gang leader seized Amira's arm. He padded her down. "You're hiding something . . ." His hand lingered around the waist of her trousers. Without warning, he ripped the top button open. Forced a cold, rough hand down the front.
Amira screamed. Malik attempted to intervene. The butt of a gun struck him across the forehead.
The leader felt around Amira's knickers, the tops of her thighs. For a moment, she thought he had missed the money bag. But no, his hand stopped. He tore the bag from its stitching.
He shone the torch over the bag, revealing her passport and a thin wad of Euro notes. It was all that remained of Amira's worldly possessions, save for the clothes on her back.
"Well what have we here?" he said. "Sneaky fucking Arabs."
"What about the kid?" one of his colleagues asked, approaching Rima. "She might be hiding something too."
The man unzipped Rima's coat and shone his torch along the insides. He moved to pad her down.
"Don't touch her!" Amira yelled, fighting to stop him.
The gang leader pulled his man back by the sleeve. "Leave it," he said. “We haven’t got time.”
“What are we supposed to do?” Malik said. "We've no money, food, passports.”
The gang leader looked into the middle distance, to where a twin beam of headlights approached along a coast road. "Don't worry," he said. "Your transport is here."
12
Ramsgate, Kent. The south coast of England. It's early when I step off the train. Way too early. The sun hasn't been up long as I exit the tinpot station.
Ramsgate is your typical seaside town. Cottages, bed and breakfasts, small shops and cafés. It's still off-season, so tourists are few.
I set off. A small plastic bag with a rope string on my back, with a bottle of water and a couple of CDs inside. It's only when you get out here, you remember what fresh air tastes and smells like. I hear the cry of gulls. Suck in the sea breeze.
Nothing like it.
If only there was a chippy open. Seaside food always tastes better.
I stride along tiny, quaint streets. I follow a set of directions handed to me by Randall at St Pancras. They're scribbled in black ballpoint on the back of a crumpled e-ticket print-off. They tell me to head towards the harbour.
Through the gaps between cottages, I see the hazy grey line of the sea against the horizon. I walk towards it and find the promenade. The harbour wall is high. It wraps around a gathering of moored yachts, with a pair of ferries docked further out.
Further down the road is the start of a long stretch of honey-coloured sand. There's a red and white helter-skelter and a large hotel on the seafront. A few people jogging and walking dogs, but no other action besides.
The sea is calm and so is the breeze coming in off the channel. I keep walking. The promenade drops off and along with it, the main body of the town.
I find myself heading out into the sticks, wondering if I've read the directions wrong. Randall always had t
errible handwriting.
I walk for another ten minutes along a coastal road. Then I see it, there in the distance. The white cab of a truck facing me. Parked in a lay-by at the side of the road. I check the plate against the reg number written under the directions.
That's the one. A six-wheeler with a fixed trailer. Harder to drive than an articulated wagon, but straightforward enough.
Christ, they must have brought over a lot of fake merchandise. Who knows where it's come from and which designer brands they've ripped off. And who cares? I get my arse back to London for noon and I get five-hundred quid in my back pocket.
I walk around the truck, kicking the tyres. The trailer's unmarked and the rear doors padlocked, but the driver door is open. I climb inside the cab. It's right-hand drive. I find a folded map between the dash and windscreen. There's an air freshener hanging from the rear view mirror: bright orange in the shape of the letter M.
It smells of citrus.
It's been a long time since I've driven anything like this. I find the keys in the passenger visor, exactly where Randall said they'd be. I catch them and turn the diesel engine over. The truck rumbles and the cabin shakes. I let the engine warm as I take out my bottle of water and wedge it in the cup holder in a central console. I adjust the mirrors, belt up and turn up the radio: early morning sports chatter. I put the truck into gear and away we go.
The roads are dead. The muscle memory still there from the old days. I reminisce about when I used to hijack armed lorries and transporter trucks with a crew.
We'd drive ‘em away, leaving the guards gagged and bound by the side of the road.
Great days. Simpler days.
I swing the truck over a couple of roundabouts and head out of Ramsgate.
13
I crank up the stereo. "Sweet Caroline" by Neil Diamond. Not my personal favourite, but still a great tune. I sing my lungs out as the truck chugs along at fifty.