by Rob Aspinall
"How's the kid?" I ask.
"She's stopped shivering.”
"That's a good sign, right?"
"I don't think so," the woman says. "How long?"
"Depends on traffic. Maybe twenty minutes. Then we've got to find the hospital." I look across at the woman. Dark circles frame her round brown eyes, as if she hasn't slept in days. "What's your name?"
"Amira." she says.
"I'm Charlie," I say, turning the wheel to overtake a red Nissan Micra.
"What happened earlier?" Amira asks.
"Two of your smugglers came for me. I had to sort 'em out."
"You're not one of them?" she asks.
"I'm just a guy driving a truck. Didn't realise it was full of migrants. What have you come over for, jobs? 'Cause there ain't many."
"We're not here because of work. Most of us are professionals. Scientists, Engineers . . . I'm a teacher."
"Then why are you in the back of a bloody truck?"
"It's not safe at home. And we heard we'd be welcome in Europe."
I burst out laughing. "Yeah, about as welcome as a fart in a lift."
Amira looks confused.
"It means asylum seekers aren't too popular over here," I say.
"Does that include you?" she asks.
"Me? I couldn't give a toss, love."
"A toss?"
"It means . . . Er, what I mean is, I'm like Switzerland." She looks at me funny again. I'm confusing her even more. "I'm neutral. I don't care one way or the other. But then again, I've been cash-in-hand most of my life."
"You mean truck drivers don't pay tax?"
"I didn't say I was a truck driver."
"Then what's your profession?" Amira asks me.
“At the moment? Unemployed waiter.”
"Oh," she says.
"Yeah, at my age." I say, steering the truck back to the inside lane. "How much did you pay those smugglers?"
"What does it matter?" Amira says. "They stole everything from us. Money. Passports. Everything."
I whistle. "Jesus." I slow the truck for an upcoming roundabout. "You shouldn't have gone near those guys. I hear they're brutal."
"It was the only way," Amira says, steadying herself with a hand on the dash.
I swing the truck around the roundabout and take the third exit. As I'm accelerating away, I glance over my shoulder at the young girl. She coughs and whimpers. Amira flies out of her seat to comfort her. With a hand on her forehead, she speaks soft words to her in her own language.
I get us up to speed again and see a sign for Guildford. Next junction and we're there. I wonder if I should call Randall. Maybe I can sort this lot out in the back after we drop the young girl off at the hospital . . . If she makes it.
I reach inside my jeans pocket for the burner phone. I rest it against the wheel and toggle through the tiny blue screen for Randall's number.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a tall white cab pull alongside, detached from its trailer. The driver's a bulldog in blue overalls. He turns his wheel hard to the left.
What the bloody hell?
The cab shunts into us. The phone spills from my hand, lost in the footwell as we take the hit. We veer off to the left. I straighten us out, back onto the road. The cab comes again. Hits us even harder. Metal crunching against metal. I steer it straight again.
Amira's in a panic. "What's going on?"
"Just a wild guess, but I'd say your smugglers want their merch back. Hold on."
As the bulldog in that cab turns his wheel again, I turn mine to the left, swerving another attack. Then I turn right, giving him a taste of his own medicine. But his cab is bigger than this one. Made of sterner stuff too. And there's another problem.
We take a hit from behind. A heavy one.
I lurch forward in my seat. Amira sprawls over the dash. The girl rolls halfway out of bed.
As Amira gathers herself and sees to the girl, I check my mirrors. I see another unmarked white cab easing back into view, lining up for another go.
At the speed we're travelling, there's little danger of us catching any of the cars up ahead. But the problem isn't the cars. It's things like other trucks and coaches on the road. I see the cab come at us again, faster than we are without its trailer.
We take another shunt. Amira holds on to the bed and the girl.
At almost the same time, the cab alongside swings into us. The steering wheel judders under both impacts.
They force us left. The hard shoulder not enough to save us from a steel barrier and a sheer drop over a bridge.
I think fast and slam on the brakes. The tyres scream as they fight the speed of the cab behind. But we slow enough for his mate on the right to slide off us and shoot past. I steer back onto the carriageway. Saved for the time being, but I've gotta do something. Gotta think.
"Here, take the wheel,".
"What?" Amira says. "I can't."
"Take the wheel or we all die," I say, opening the driver door.
"I don't know how," she yells.
"Sure you do. Just keep your foot on the pedal and hold it steady."
"What about you?" she asks.
"Forget about me. If you can take the next exit, take it."
I don't give her much choice. I'm already halfway out of the door with one hand on the wheel and a toe on the accelerator. Amira slides into the driver's seat behind me. Her head an eyebrow above the wheel and legs stretching to reach the pedals. I hang half out of the door. Eyes watering. Body buffeted by the wind.
I wait for the cab in front to pull to the right. The brake lights go on. It's dropping back for another round.
When he's a few feet away, I make the jump. I land on the rear tractor axle behind the cab. As the truck lines up with mine, I climb around the driver side.
Holding onto a grab handle, I fling the door open and reach inside. The bulldog behind the wheel pulls a shotgun on me. I slam the door shut on his hand. The gun falls away and the guy screams in pain. I hit him twice in the face. The cab swerves left into Amira. I see her through the passenger window. She wrestles with the steering, scared out of her mind. I pull the wheel of the cab to the right, giving her a chance to correct. The bulldog catches me with a heavy punch to the ribs. He fights me for control. I plant an elbow hard between his eyes and he goes loose. I grab him by the overalls and throw him out of the cab.
Right. Now let's sort this other dickhead out.
I hit the brakes and drop back alongside the cab behind our truck. As the driver brings it in for another bump from behind, I steer left and knock him off his path. He comes back at me. We jostle left and right, trading blows. It takes the heat off Amira, but I'm soon ducking low in my seat. Another shotgun and a man who isn't shy on using it.
I stay down low, windows and windscreen full of bullet holes. I see another bridge crossing coming up.
It's a chance.
I wait for the right moment. I pull a hard left with everything I've got. As the remaining driver lets off another round, I slam my cab into his, pushing him left and sticking with it.
I see the look of panic on his face. He drops the gun and fights to correct. I straighten up in the nick of time. But it's too late for the other driver. His cab smashes through a steel barrier. It flies off the edge of the bridge, plunging towards the river below.
I give the cab the full beans, cranking through the gears and catching up to Amira. The dual carriageway drops to a single lane as we near the exit, with cars and trucks coming the other way. I'm forced onto the inside, the hard shoulder. I come up alongside Amira. This is gonna be tricky.
Trickier still, thanks to a small mountain of grit and dirt piled up by the roadside.
I've got five-hundred metres before I hit the stuff.
I open my door and switch my left foot to the accelerator. My right foot on the doorsill, left hand on the wheel and the other reaching out for a hold of the truck.
Dirt Mountain is coming up fast. The exit right after it.
The ground rushes beneath my feet. I jump at the last second. I catch hold of the door handle but my feet slip off.
I hold on for dear life. The cab ploughs into the dirt. The stuff explodes into the air: soil, grit and sand raining all over me as the soles of my boots clip the tarmac. I haul myself up and open the door. I slide inside the truck and slam the door shut.
Amira can't wait to hand over control. As we switch places, I notice the Guildford exit about to pass us by. I swing left into the slip road, cutting up a car towing a caravan. The exit ramp is steep and slows us in time to join a big, busy roundabout. I follow the road to Guildford and see signs for a hospital.
The truck is bruised and battered.
Amira’s shaken up.
I'm bloody knackered. Grit in my mouth and sand in my eye. I crank up the fan heaters and step on the accelerator.
17
By some kind of miracle, the police have yet to catch up with us. Something tells me they won't be far behind after that three-way truck battle.
I swing the lorry into the emergency drop-off area of the Royal Surrey County Hospital.
I scoop up the girl, blanket and all. I make for Accident & Emergency. Amira jumps out behind me. She wants to stay with her.
"No," I say. "Stay with the truck. I'll dump her and run."
"Someone needs to be with her. I made a promise—"
"The police will get hold of you.”
"I don't care," she says.
"Well do you care about your friends in the back? 'Cause if that truck gets towed, they're either dead or deported."
Amira throws her arms up in the air. "Okay," she says, staying with the truck.
I run inside with the girl, shouting my lungs off. An ageing, dreadlocked nurse comes running. She asks what's wrong with the girl.
"Hypothermia," I say. "She fell in the sea."
"How long ago?" the nurse asks, feeling the girl's pulse.
"I dunno," I say. "But she's on death's door."
The nurse calls over a junior doctor. A young Indian guy with floppy black hair. I hand over the girl.
"Will she be okay?" I shout as they rush off with her.
"Stay here," the nurse yells back, as they disappear around a corner.
I look around me. An A&E waiting room full of sick and miserable people. I flash a woman on reception an innocent smile and stride off.
I come out of the automatic doors as an ambulance pulls in, beeping at our truck. I wave a hand in apology and hop inside the cab. I swing the truck out of the carpark and find a quiet street. It's lined by a factory wall on one side and a series of shuttered lockups on the other.
"I'll check on the others," Amira says, climbing out of the passenger door.
"Be discreet," I say. "Don't let them get out."
I reach into the footwell and run my hand along the carpet. I retrieve the burner and see three missed calls from Randall.
I call him up.
"Charlie, what the fuck's going on? You were supposed to call me."
"Yeah, well I was a little pre-occupied," I say, stepping down, from the cab. I walk around the back of the trailer, keeping an eye out both ways. "The important thing is I've got a wagon full of refugees and nowhere to put 'em."
"Where are you?" Randall asks.
"Guildford. Near the hospital. Though I don't fancy hanging around for too long."
I cast an eye over the people in the trailer. They look even more afraid than before. Not surprised after the battering we took on the way in here.
"Listen," Randall says. "I reckon I've got a solution that'll work for all parties. You got a paper and pen?"
"Hang on," I say jogging back to the cab. I reach inside a compartment in the door and dig out a chewed blue biro. I retrieve the map. Randall talks me through the directions to a suggested meeting place. I draw a line from our current location to the nearest junction on the map. "Right," I say. "See you in an hour." I come off the phone. "Everyone okay?" I ask Amira.
"Yes, but they need water,” she says, climbing into the cab.
I roll the truck a few hundred yards down the road, stopping outside a glass office building. I notice an unmanned reception desk on the ground floor. "Wait here," I say.
I enter the building through a revolving door. I take a lift up to the first floor. Security is light here. The smell of fresh paint on the walls. They're still getting themselves sorted.
I walk straight in through a spacious kitchen, into an open plan office.
The key here is confidence. A nonchalant boredom, as if you do this all day, every day.
I'm looking for a water cooler.
Oh, even easier.
There's one right next to me as I enter the office. I don't even have to disconnect the barrel: there's a spare one sitting next to the base of the unit.
I hoist it up over a shoulder and carry it out. I grab two supermarket bags from the staff kitchen on my way out. They’re full of crisps, sandwiches and chocolate bars. I take the stairs rather than the lift and ghost out of reception. I open a trailer door and slide the water barrel inside.
They can figure the rest out for themselves. I take a few things from the bags before sliding them in.
The first chance I get, I stop at a petrol station and fill up the truck. I buy two bottles of water for me and Amira. I find my way back to the A-roads and onto another dual carriageway out of Guildford.
Amira downs half a litre bottle of water, spilling some on the neck of her shirt. She demolishes a sandwich and a Snickers.
I check in my mirrors, expecting blue flashing lights. The cops haven't caught up with us yet, but it's only a matter of time.
Gotta get us off these roads.
I consult the map again. A few more miles and I'll be rid of this whole bloody nightmare.
18
The meeting place is on the outskirts of London. It's a stalled building project on a patch of deserted land. Black wooden hoardings with CGI impressions of a factory. The name of the developer, Taylor Williams, is written in fancy gold type on the boards.
And little white signs dotted around saying: Property of VX Holdings. Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted.
I get out of the truck and find the chain around the gates isn't locked. I guess they'll just have to prosecute me, 'cause I open the gates and steer the truck onto the site. The ground is a mix of soil, stone and building sand. The truck wheels splash through big, horrible puddles of milky-brown water. I follow a track made by digger wheels. We bump and trundle past square pits dug deep in the ground. Some with giant foundation pins driven in. Some filled in with concrete. Others left empty.
It looks like one of those places you see where the money ran out and they abandoned the project.
Halfway across the site, I spot a grey Portakabin at the far end. I park up in front of it. This is where Randall said to meet, but there's no sign of him yet. I turn off the engine. Amira looks at me like: is this it?
"Don't worry," I say. "We won't be here long."
We climb out of the truck. I walk around back and open up the trailer. The water in the barrel is halfway gone and the two shopping bags are full of empty food wrappers.
One of the men, his eyes sunken and his body lean, has his hands over his crotch. He speaks English too. "I need to go."
"Okay pal," I say. "Hold on a second."
I check around the rear of the Portakabin. There's a freestanding blue Portaloo. I open the door. The toilet bowl is empty, lined up over a hole in the ground. It isn't pretty, but it'll do.
I take a piss myself, then return and point the guy in the direction of the loo. He hops out of the truck, squinting in the grey London skies. The others follow suit. They form an orderly, snaking queue to the Portaloo.
I text Randall and let him know we've arrived.
It's chilly out here. Nothing standing in the way of the wind. So I take a look at the Portakabin door.
It's locked.
I put my foot through it.
&
nbsp; Not anymore.
I turn on the heaters in the cabin and invite my relieved human cargo inside. One by one, they return, filling up the cabin, crowding around the heaters to get warm. Not used to our tropical spring climate.
Crammed inside the Portakabin, we wait for Randall to arrive. Whatever plan he's come up with, I know it'll be a good one. He's not an enforcer like I used to be: the scary character who breaks your door in and puts a gun in your mouth. No, he has a way of thinking around problems. The last time we worked together, there was a big falling out between the north and south. All-out war for a contract with a big Dutch supplier. Pills, weed, coke, stuff like that.
Anyway, they fought for sole control for two years. Revenge attacks every other week. Neither side backing down. After they got tired of spilling blood, both bosses saw sense and sent in their two best fixers.
We met in the middle. A service station near Birmingham. We thrashed it out over a Big Mac meal. Randall came up with a plan to pool resources and double the size of the operation. They split it fifty-fifty, which meant neither side's balance sheet took a hit. In the end, they tripled their profits across the board: drugs, hookers, stolen goods, the whole lot. And we all lived happily ever after.
Well, for a while at least.
Point is, it opened my eyes to a new way of doing things. I started to think around problems for a change. Hurt fewer people. Get better results. Up my rates in the process.
The Double Dutch Plan went so well, the two sides paired me and Randall as a team. We became good mates after that, until Randall got sent down. He got done for glassing a guy in a pub of all things. Though in defence of Randall, the guy was shagging his now ex-missus.
After a thirty-minute wait, I hear engines approaching the cabin. I step outside and walk around the front of the lorry. I see two grey Volkswagen people carriers approaching, along with a silver van and a dark-blue Land Rover bringing up the rear. They park up twenty feet away. Randall gets out of the Land Rover. A guy out of the van. Two more out of those VWs.