Chasing Freedom Home (Malinding)

by Ireland, Tom

  'What can we do? We're as good as dead, surely? Let’s make a run for it - in the van, not the boat. They'll be watching the boat. If we get as far as Deganwy, say, we can steal another boat there and make it across to Ireland. There'll be a Railway link to safety there, won't there?'

  'It's not the boat or the van their watching, love, it's us. They seem able to read our thoughts - Lizzie, talk to me.'

  'I'm not sure it's a trap: it might be of course but we'd be dead by now if that was all there was to it. No, they want something. They want us to smuggle some one out of the country. It may be a spy. Perhaps they want to find the escape route? If it was that though, they'd just fit a tracker device to the van and the boat and let us go on our way. I think they want our help! Maybe there's some person who's an embarrassment to them; some one who's too important to kill for some reason; some one who, oh, I don't know. Some one perhaps who's our passport out of here?'

  'Rachel, what do you think?'

  'I don't know, Dad. They know who we are and where we are. If they wanted us dead we would be. I think I agree with Mum; they either want us to show them the escape route or, and it's a big or, they want our help out of a messy situation. They might not even be the official government, of course; it just might be some official who wants a solution to a personal problem. I vote we wait and see.'

  'That's possibly the best course of action; don't panic, carry on as usual. Who else is here now, Andrew?'

  'Mr Jones came in about an hour ago, just before the message arrived.' They looked at one another.

  'He's one of them, Dad. I'm sure. He's a Watch…'

  'Rachel, shut up love. We don't know who he is, and that's best.'

  'Dad, nobody else can afford to travel. Nobody has holidays now. Everyone with money left ages ago. We only get business people now and we all know exactly what their business is. Don't look like that! They know we know and we're only alive because for some God forsaken reason they need us alive. Sorry, sorry. Sorry, Mum. Sorry, Dad. I'm bloody stupid.' Lizzie put her arms round the girl, hugging her tightly to her.

  'Rachel, girl, we need you. Nobody stupid could have done all the things you've done and saved so many lives. You're going to save us too, me and your Dad, and whoever it is that's going to come with us. Your brother saves lives in that clinic of his and you do the same here. I don't know how and I don't know when but we'll all be together again soon, I feel it in my bones. Andrew, get a nice tray ready for Mr Jones and Rachel, love, you can take it up to him, and smile girl; he might just be the one who's going to save our lives.

  The tray was prepared in silence. Rachel carried it upstairs and tapped on Mr Jones's door.

  'Come in girl, come in. Ah, just how I like it, pop it down on the table. No, no; don't go. I need your help. Sit down beside me and listen. You helped a black man, Ed-Lamin Edwards, escape a while ago. Don't deny it, girl, you were followed, tracked at any rate, all the way out and all the way back. Remember that kerfuffle about a missing life-raft? Now, we've got a similar job for you and your mum and dad. Listen; if you don't go you're dead. Trust me. There's a certain very senior Watchman needs a favour. He's decided you're the one to help him. Do as you're told and you might live. Don't, and you're dead. This very senior Watchman is going to become even more important very soon, but he's got a daughter who is standing in the way. Bit of an embarrassment to her dad. Now, he could have her killed - and he's got friends who would willingly kill her, but he's a bit sentimental. So, he's decided you're going to export her. You exported her boy friend, remember? Well, now's the time for his girlfriend to follow him and live happily ever after in a village on the banks of the River Gambia. You job is to get her there. You can stay there too, you and your scummy traitorous parents. Come back here and you're all dead. Understand? Good. Go to the end of this street and wait. A black and grey four-by-four will stop and a young woman will get out. Bring her back here - she won't be a problem, she's been heavily sedated. Take her, and your parents, down to the boat and set off. Nobody will stop you. Keep going - there's a chance you might even make it. Slight chance, but better from your point of view than being the playmate of a couple of dozen of my boys. Very playful they can be, trust me. Your mum and dad can play with them too. The last girl they played with lasted three days. You are a virgin, aren't you, dear? Off you go and meet your new friend. Her name's Jane but you might have to remind her of it. Thanks for the tray - I do so enjoy a nice cup of Darjeeling.' She turned to go but he called her back.

  'If anyone does stop you just remember the code; "Empire Windrush reverses". Apt, don't you think?' Rachel walked slowly downstairs and out of the front door. This time they were on their own; there must be no contact with other members of the Underground Railway. They were alone; three thousand sea miles lay before them.

  Her father hunched over the keyboard, his head in his hands. Time to go; time to leave. A few hours more left in this house which had been their home in happier times. He remembered the excitement of greeting their very first guest, the father of Ed-Lamin, the young man who was to be their penultimate guest. In a very short while they would walk out of this solid, redbrick Victorian house, drive a mile or so to the mooring and set off to a land they had never before seen. Their son was there; his sister would sail and motor and navigate to him. There was very little they could take with them; food, fuel, whatever money they could grub together, a few bits of jewellery and paper work, clothing for sea and, hopefully, shore. Time to go and pack. Refugees; they were refugees now.

  21

  They had just crossed the bar and were out in open water. Rachel hoisted the main sail and went forward to hook on the jib. Andrew held the course steady, trying to remember the instructions his daughter had fired at him. Lizzie was in the cabin, trying to reassure Jane that all would be well, they were in safe hands, the drugs would wear off and she would be herself again soon. Lizzie kept her fingers crossed.

  Rachel made her way back to the cockpit and sent her father below. He looked exhausted. She made herself comfortable, back braced against the coaming, feet on the opposite locker. It would take a gale to dislodge her; she smiled, way to go, girl, way to go. The compass light shed a comforting glow. She began to think they might, just possibly, pull it off. The boat was too small, she was the only experienced sailor, there probably wasn't enough water on board and there certainly wasn't enough fuel for the small diesel engine. But here they were, still alive, still clinging to a shred of hope that this stupid adventure might succeed. A loud explosion, a splash in the water ahead, a loud-hailered voice ordering her to heave-to or be sunk shocked her out of the dream. A searchlight illuminated every detail of the boat; the Watchers had caught them on the first stage of their escape attempt. So this was how death arrived.

  'Heave to. Prepare for being boarded. Stand still.' She let the boat's head come up into the wind. The sails sagged. An inflatable bumped alongside and two uniformed Watchmen stepped on board. The inflatable backed off and started to circle, keeping the light trained on them. Rachel drew herself to her full height and stared coldly at the invaders. The top of her head was almost level with the armpit of the nearest intruder.

  'Isn't it customary to wait to be invited aboard a friendly ship?' She hoped her voice was steadier than it seemed as it left her mouth. 'Stand still; you do not have permission to search this vessel. You, name and rank?'

  'Sorry, ma'am. Level one Watchman Doyle, Ma'am. I have instructions to stop and search all vessels leaving the river. Ma'am'

  'Not this one you don't, Doyle. This vessel sails under my command by the authority of Senior Watchman Bibby. Ask me politely and I'll give you the password. You, yes you; back away from the cabin door. What rank are you, boy?'

  'Junior Watchman, sir, sorry, ma'am.'

  'Right. You have your communication device, Doyle? Good. You have my permission to transmit the following message to your H.Q. Are you ready?'

  'Ma'am, yes, ma'am.'

  'Good. Transmission
begins: Attention Senior Watchman Bibby. Project "Empire Windrush reverses" held at Mersey Bar. Request instructions. Message ends.'

  The message was transmitted. The stars in the clear black sky held their breath almost as hard as Rachel. She desperately wanted to cross her fingers but that probably wasn't a good idea. She continued to stare at Doyle, ignoring his minion. I'm going to be sick, she thought. They waited in silence for the response.

  'Render 'Project Empire Windrush reverses' all possible assistance. Captain Rachel's instructions to be followed implicitly. Out.'

  ‘Fucking Hell!’ thought the recently promoted Captain. ‘Fucking Hell! They bought it.

  'Captain, ma'am. How can we help you?' Tempted though she was to give the reply uppermost in her mind, Rachel decided to milk the situation just a little. Not being dead helped, being addressed with respect helped even more. She gave her orders.

  Doyle saluted smartly and the two sailors re-boarded their inflatable. Twenty minutes later, and twenty gallons of fuel richer and with hundreds of bottles of fresh Buxton water stowed safely away, the refugees headed out on course again. Her dad was at the helm; his daughter was puking her guts out over the leeward side of the boat.

  Jane and Lizzie emerged from the cabin and stared at the sight of their saviour bent over the side of the boat. A stench suggested her bowels had joined in the evacuation. Jane looked to Lizzie for explanation.

  'That's my girl. She'll do the impossible and then collapse.'

  'But you'll trust her to sail this boat to Africa? She's not twenty years old and you'll

  put her in charge?'

  'Jane, you heard her see off the Watchmen. Could you do that? No, nor could I. This is a girl who failed to get a single certificate at school. She left - escaped, as she puts it - when she was sixteen. They were glad to see her go. On the other hand, this is the girl who learned to sail a Westerly Centaur - a thirty-foot boat - on a sailing holiday in the Greek islands when she was just twelve years old. The next year she ran away with this boat and called us when she sailed into Dublin. Sent us a postcard of the Book of Kells the next day, and beat it home. She's a qualified offshore yacht master. She can navigate with a sextant if need be. She's more at home out of sight of land than we are at home in bed. I'm glad to see you out and about, Jane. If there's any one on this planet who can save our skins it's that sorry object crouched just there. Give her a few more minutes and I'll get her below and clean her up. She'll be fine.'

  'Would she let me help? I've dealt with worse.'

  'Not if you ever hope to speak to her again. As she'll see it, this hasn't happened. Go along with that; if you want to talk to her just share a watch with her. Andrew will look after the boat - we were all together on that first sailing holiday, just that Rachel was a quicker learner than the rest of us. Brother Henry was sick all the time and stayed ashore mostly. I think he found a pretty girl to look after him.'

  Mother helped daughter down the cabin steps and proceeded to clean her up and wash the soiled clothing. Rachel sobbed herself to sleep and Lizzie sat beside her and held her hand. Jane stayed out in the cockpit with Andrew, in silence, and reviewed her life.

  22

  A week after the refugees arrived in Malinding Ed-Lamin walked out of his house and stopped in the middle of the compound. This had been his mother’s house, built by his father on land made available by the Alkalo of the time.

  Now his mother was the Alkalo, and lived in the home of her new husband, Ebou. If he walked to the gate and looked across the path he would see her. He wondered how long she had waited at his bedside the previous night. Jane was still asleep in the spare room. He had wanted her in his bed, in his arms. She had refused; there was too much to tell him. She was not the woman she had been, there was much to tell and much to forgive. He must hear her story and judge her. She was sleeping soundly, thank God. There was world enough and time for words. Andrew and his wife were still sleeping, he supposed, if thoughts that their daughter might have died had not kept them awake. Rachel; she had navigated the tiny fishing boat down the Irish Sea, across the Bay of Biscay, along the Atlantic coasts of Morocco, Mauritania and Senegal and into what should have been the safe haven of the River Gambia. So many miles before disaster struck. They had collided with the Barra ferry; their little boat had capsized, they had become separated in the choppy water. Andrew, Lizzie and Jane had surfaced together but Rachel was nowhere to be seen. A fishing boat had pulled them out of the water though they struggled to search for their daughter. They were taken to shore and the fishermen had hailed a taxi and taken the survivors to Banjul Hospital. They had been treated expertly, and when they were interviewed by the police their sad state had been recognised and they were granted leave to stay. The matter of having the right paperwork was overlooked – who would stop to search for paper when a child was presumed to be drowning? It was discovered after a frantic search that Rachel had managed to swim to shore where she had been rescued by market traders. The Inspector of Police, Modou, was moved by the bravery the parents had shown, and by the thought that in long-ago and happier times his own father had made the reverse journey to England and been well received there. Now that The Gambia had a liberal government it was time to repay the favour.

  Henry, the medical specialist in something unpronounceable, read of his parent’s predicament over breakfast the next day, as did Ed-Lamin a couple of days later. The two men met at the hospital and made practical suggestions. Henry had money at his disposal and Ed-Lamin had the use of a large, comfortable house in a friendly village.

  Ed stared at the house, cream paint glowing in the morning sun. He’d been brought up here, played in the compound with his brothers and sisters, children of Sirra and Binta. Binta had been a true second mother to him, taking care of him when Sirra was busy at the school or with her other duties. He had dreamed of bringing Jane, with his own child, to this exact place. He had pictured them walking through that gate, the one his father had once painted with sticky black paint, and onto the veranda. In his vision Sirra had prepared Atayah, Binta had fussed with placing the chairs carefully in the shade, and nursing her grandchild. There would have been such a happy celebration.

  There might be other babies, now that Jane was home at last. He could not imagine what horrors she had endured but she was here. He would learn, perhaps, what had become of their child; time was on their side. Ed and Jane were an item again. Time and love would heal all. He walked back to the house and into her bedroom. She still slept, muttering slightly to herself, trembling, shivering, restless. He sat by her bed for an hour and at last his mother looked in. Sirra was horrified by what she saw. Had her son lost his mind? Did he not recognise the signs of Malaria? Look at the girl's arms, see the bites? Feel her brow, know her temperature? She was babbling, speaking nonsense, refusing to wake. Sirra wasted no time; Ebou was summoned and between them they bundled the patient into a car and rushed her to the village clinic. There was a Cuban doctor in residence who did everything that could be done, but too late. As day faded into night Jane lost her hold on life. Ed-Lamin held her hand for another hour, too shocked to realise what was happening. Ebou gently led him away; Sirra and Binta washed her body, wrapped it respectfully in white cloth ready for burial.

  23

  People avoided Ed-Lamin. They whispered behind his back about a curse, about evil spirits, about the devil. His woman had died; he had not protected her. He had lived too long in a foreign land but he should have known the signs that indicated that she was on a path which might lead to the grave. He should have known, he should have acted. His father had been a wise man, his mother was wise in her ways too; the son should have known what action to take. Perhaps he had wanted her death? Had she somehow in the past disgraced herself? Why else would a person who had been shown mercy, endured a most dangerous voyage now have her life ended by a tiny insect - and in a village where the most skilled medical advice was available? Perhaps she had been poisoned? Perhaps not; her man was not rej
oicing. He was mourning, and for much longer than the customary length of time. He was not working; he sat idle when there was work to be done. See; his mother fed him, spoon-fed him as if her were a sick child. His clothes hung off him. It was certain he would soon join his woman in whatever after-land white people occupied.

  Andrew, Lizzie and Rachel were equally distressed. They had come to love and respect Jane during the weeks of their voyage to freedom. As the effect of her drugs wore off Jane had adapted to life at sea with delight; she rejoiced in the wide horizons, the clean air, her new skills and abilities. She no longer had to govern her life by appointments to be raped; she was accepted by her crewmates as a useful human being, ready to learn and fit to be trusted again. She loved being part of a family which worked together for a common good, with a common aim, united by a common love. She and Rachel had become close friends, each sharing secrets about their lives, though Rachel had few enough to share and Jane, perhaps, had too many. Trust and respect united them, and by the time the little boat turned into the wide waters of the River Gambia there were few unknown details of their previous lives.

  Jane had died quite suddenly, unexpectedly, unfairly. Obviously she had been weakened by the life she lived. Her determination to survive had shone clear during the voyage and she had worked hard at her escape. She had been reunited with Ed-Lamin, her one true love. He had no idea of the degradation Jane had experienced to be with him once again.

  'Rachel, you were close to Jane; could you talk to him? She was a wonderfully strong person. Perhaps knowing a bit of what she told you might be helpful?' Lizzie was grasping at straws.

  'Mum, Jane was a slave, a prostitute. She didn't want to be but it was her one chance of life. How would knowing that help Ed?'