by Mark Dawson
The truck in front of them stopped suddenly. Milton braked and brought them to a halt.
“There are thousands of them here,” Tommy went on. “The French put them into a camp.”
“The Jungle,” Milton said. “I’ve seen the news.”
“They come from there, wait by the side of the road, and try to get into a lorry. Some of them go through the tunnel. They get into the freight. I read about one poor bastard, last week, he tried to cling onto the bottom of a trailer. Fell off, got squashed under the wheels.”
“And you don’t approve?”
“I know they’re desperate. But this…” He gestured at the crowds on the other side of the road. “It’s chaos.”
Tommy was normally an affable man. Milton could tell that this was something that bothered him.
“I don’t know,” Milton said. “It’s difficult. If I was in their situation, if I had a family I couldn’t look after, maybe I’d do the same thing.”
Tommy nodded. “I get it. I know why they do it. Maybe I’d do the same thing, too. But this—what happens here—it’s not right. It’s not right for them or for us. You’ll see. Wait until we come back through again tonight.”
Chapter Three
MILTON MAINTAINED a steady pace, a constant sixty-five that ate up the distance between Calais and Amiens. He had been driving for the better part of four hours, and he was starting to feel tired by the time they finally arrived at the warehouse. He rested while the truck was loaded with the furniture that they had come to collect. Then, after a quick meal and a cup of strong black coffee, he got back into the truck and started back to the port. Google reported that the traffic at Le Touquet was poor, so they had diverted onto the longer—but likely faster—A1 through Arras and Béthune. It was still another two hours behind the wheel, though, and, by the time Calais hove back into view, he was exhausted.
They were five miles from the coast when they saw a solitary figure walking along the side of the road.
“Here we go,” Tommy said.
“What is it?” Milton asked him.
“You ready? There’s your first migrant.”
They saw another man walking through a ploughed field and then another walking down a slip road to the Autoroute.
“Some of the drivers drive close enough to get them to jump back over the barriers. I’ve gone past some of them who’ve chucked eggs at the windscreen. I’ve seen a truck with a smashed window where they chucked a brick.”
The truck climbed a hill and, at the top, they were rewarded with a view of the camp where the French had allowed the migrants to gather. Milton slowed. It really was a jungle. There were hundreds of tents and temporary buildings crammed into a space that was too small for them. He saw campfires and hundreds of men and women, some of them with children, milling around.
Milton saw dozens of red brake lights in the gloom ahead and, as they continued on, the traffic started to snarl up. Milton touched the brakes, bringing their speed down to a brisk walking pace.
“Try not to stop,” Tommy said.
Milton saw maybe two dozen men on the side of the road. The truck was passing through a cutting, and the ground sloped steeply on both sides. The men had scaled the bank, all the way to the top, and, as Milton watched, they started to clamber down. They were hurrying and looked as if they might slip and tumble down at any time. If they fell, there was a risk that they would roll into the road in front of the truck.
Milton dabbed the brakes.
“No,” Tommy said. “Keep driving. Don’t stop.”
Milton bled a little extra speed off, turned the wheel a little to bring the truck a little farther into the middle of the road, and went by the first two men just as they reached the verge.
The men started to jog after them, but Milton accelerated again and they pulled away. He glanced back in the mirror and watched as they maintained their pursuit.
The traffic had slowed to a crawl ahead of them, a long snake of lorries that were waiting to negotiate a roundabout. The men had all made it over the fence now, and they were all running in their direction.
“They’re determined,” Milton said.
“Check your door,” Tommy advised.
Milton did as he suggested; it was locked. The men reached them. Milton looked back in the mirror as one of them disappeared into the blind spot at the back. The others hurried ahead, four on one side of the cab and seven on the other. One man came alongside and indicated that Milton should roll the window down. Milton looked at him. He was young, no older than his mid-twenties, with jet black skin and bright eyes. He was wearing jeans and boots and a quilted jacket.
“What’s he doing?” Tommy asked him.
Milton looked down. “Wants me to open the window.”
The others reached the front, all of them indicating that Milton and Tommy should open their doors. Others had joined the group. Milton looked down as one of them stared up at him, putting his two fingers together to make the sign of a gun. He pointed his fingers at Milton and made as if to shoot him. Tommy swivelled as they both heard the slap of a hand against the glass. One of the group had climbed up the side of the cab, knocking against the window.
“Piss off,” Tommy shouted.
The man shouted something in return and then spat at the glass. A thick gobbet of phlegm rolled down the window. Milton accelerated gently, the two men in front of the cab slapping their palms against the radiator grille as they stepped aside.
The roundabout cleared and Milton was able to increase their speed to thirty.
They approached the tall fence that marked the start of the port’s premises. Milton changed gears and slowed down as Tommy reached across to the dash to collect their papers.
“Want me to check the back?” Milton asked.
Tommy shook his head. “No need. We weren’t stopped long enough for them to get inside. And I don’t want to stay around here any longer than I have to.”
#
THE FERRY left on schedule. Milton and Tommy locked up the truck and went upstairs to the Routemasters drivers’ canteen. The food was simple and comforting: steaks, pork chops, béarnaise sauce, chips, mushy peas and gravy. Tommy said he was going to get a bit of sleep. Milton was tired, but his mind was active and he doubted that he would be able to get down. He left Tommy lying across two seats in a quiet lounge and went to explore the ship. He wandered into the duty-free shop and browsed the shelves of cheap perfume, economy French wine and poor quality chocolates, all of them priced to sell. There were other drivers there, and Milton listened to their conversations: French prostitutes, rising fuel prices, tobacco smuggling, bent police and customs officials, migrants. Mostly migrants.
Milton watched as one of the drivers bought a box of chocolates for his wife and, wondering what it would be like to have someone at home that he could buy chocolates for, he went back to the lounge.
Tommy was asleep. Milton went over to the other side of the lounge, where he could watch the sea through the large observation window. The glass was dirty, encrusted with dry salt, and the sea was starting to grow rough. The waves were large, big enough for the ferry to pitch and yaw; spray and spume blasted over the sides and against the glass. Milton felt a little queasy.
He knew now, for sure, that he wouldn’t be able to sleep. He went to the café for a polystyrene cup of coffee. He took it to an empty table, put in his headphones, and listened to the Stone Roses as he nursed the drink.
Chapter Four
MILTON DROVE out of the ferry terminal at Eastern Docks and followed Tommy’s directions to the overhead roadway. The crossing had been slower than scheduled thanks to the inclement weather, and Milton was tired as he drove the truck down the ferry’s ramp and onto the dockside. Tommy had slept for the entire crossing, and, when he awoke, he explained that he had had more than enough practice sleeping regardless of the condition of the sea.
Tommy pointed ahead and Milton followed the signs for EXIT/SORTIE above the two freight lanes
until they approached the customs booths. Two officials in high-vis jackets stepped out of the booth and waved for Milton to turn into the inspection bay.
“Here we go,” Tommy said.
Milton slowed and brought the lorry to a halt. One of the officials, a man with a frizz of white hair, indicated that Milton and Tommy should get out of the cab. The man’s colleague, a young woman, went around to the back of the trailer.
Milton opened the door and climbed down. “Morning,” he said.
“Good morning, sir.”
“Let’s get this over with,” Tommy said as he went around to the back.
The man had a clipboard with a sheaf of papers attached to it. He flipped through the papers until he found the one that he wanted and then took out a pen from his inside pocket. “What are you carrying?”
“Furniture,” Tommy said. “Just come from Amiens.”
The man noted it down. “Destination?”
“Hounslow.”
“All right, then. Anything happen in Calais?”
“No.”
“You didn’t stop?”
“There was traffic outside the port, but we didn’t stop. Came straight over. Do you want to have a look in the back?”
“Yes, please, sir. Grateful if you could open it up.”
Tommy went around to the back. The mechanical security seal was still in place. It comprised a cable that extended through fixing points on the door, and, when sealed, it generated a unique number that the driver logged. Tommy unfastened the seal, retracted the cable and then opened the two big doors.
The interior of the trailer was lit by the sunlight that glowed through the canvas roof.
Tommy groaned. “Fucking hell.”
Milton looked up. A metre-long opening had been cut in the roof. Someone had climbed up with a knife and sliced their way inside.
The official keyed the radio that was fastened to the lapel of his jacket and called for the police.
“Must’ve happened before we got inside the port,” Tommy said. “We were stopped in traffic.”
“I don’t doubt you, sir.”
The interior of the trailer was as Milton remembered it after it had been packed in Dijon. The pallets were arranged along the bed of the trailer, with the cardboard boxes that contained the furniture stacked in neat piles and secured with fabric ties. The first row of boxes was three feet high, but the second—containing larger items—was taller than a man. Milton saw muddy scuff marks on the cardboard where someone had clambered up.
Tommy came up next to Milton. “See what I mean? This is ridiculous.”
A Port of Dover police van pulled up to the back of the trailer, and four uniformed officers got out. The customs official explained that he suspected that illegal immigrants were inside the trailer and then stepped aside.
The police stepped up to the back and formed a line.
“Out you come,” one of the officers called.
There was no reply.
“We know you’re in there.”
Milton stood behind the officers and watched. They didn’t have long to wait. A pair of hands grasped onto the edge of one of the taller boxes and a man pulled himself up. He was wearing jeans, a lightweight jacket and a beanie. His skin was dark and he wore a wide smile as he slid down onto the pallet, stepped forward and jumped down to the ground. The police attended to him as another two young men clambered up from their hiding place. They were dressed in similar clothes to the first, both shivering a little in the early morning cold.
Milton watched as the three men were cuffed and taken to the police van.
The senior policeman went back to the trailer. “We’re going to come in and look,” he shouted up. “If there’s anyone still inside, it’ll be a lot easier to just get out now.”
There was a short pause before Milton saw another pair of hands fasten onto the lip of the cardboard box. A fourth man hauled himself up and over, but, instead of jumping down to the ground, he waited inside the trailer.
“Come down, please,” the policeman said.
“What will happen to me?”
“You’ll be taken to a detention centre, sir. Are you claiming asylum?”
“I’m here to find my sister.”
“You can talk about that when you get to the detention centre.”
“Please, sir. She has been kidnapped and trafficked here. She is being forced to work as a prostitute.”
“Come down. Don’t make me come up there.”
The man was frantic. “Please, sir. I have to find her. Please. If I go to the detention centre, how can I do that?”
The officer turned to the brawniest of his colleagues and suggested, quietly, that he might have to go up there and bring the man down. The immigrant was young, not even out of his teens, and Milton had no wish to see him manhandled. Before the officer could say anything, he stepped up, braced his palms on the lip of the trailer and boosted himself up.
“Sir,” the officer complained, taking a step forward, “please—leave this to us.”
The man inside the truck shrank away as Milton stepped onto the pallet. “Help me. I need to find my sister.”
Milton spoke evenly and calmly. “You have to come down,” he said. “You can’t avoid it. Just come down or they’ll bring you out. They won’t be gentle about it. Come on—make it easy on yourself.”
“What about my sister?”
“Claim asylum,” Milton suggested.
“And then?”
“You can ask them to help.”
“Why would they help me? They don’t care.”
“You don’t have a choice right now.”
The big police officer was right up against the lip of the trailer now. “Get down, please,” he called up.
The young man looked torn. He glanced at the officer and then back to Milton. “What is your name?”
“John. What about you?”
“Samir.”
“Come on then, Samir. We’ll get down together.”
“Will you help me?”
“Will you come down?”
“If you say you will.”
There was something earnest about the young man that Milton found himself drawn to. He meant what he said; his desperation was authentic, and he believed him.
“Okay,” Milton said. “I’ll help.” He turned to the open doorway and addressed the policeman. “He’s coming down.”
Milton extended his hand and Samir took it, using it to help him maintain his balance as he negotiated the smaller boxes on the pallet. Milton lowered himself to the ground. “Go easy on him,” he said to the officer.
Samir slid down.
The customs official was taking notes.
“I’m going to be fined?” Tommy said to him.
“I’m sorry, sir. Nothing I can do.”
“How much?”
“Probably a couple of thousand. That’s the going rate.”
“What a farce,” Tommy said. “Look at what they’ve done. Who’s going to pay for the damage to my roof?”
“You go to the station and make a statement, sir, and maybe the French government will pay.”
“And the fine? They’ll pay that, too?”
The man shrugged.
“Come on,” Milton said, pulling him away.
The officers cuffed Samir and led him to the van.
“Where will they take him?” Milton asked one of the officers.
“Dover immigration centre,” the woman replied.
“And then?”
“Depends on his application. Most likely, they’ll send him back where he came from. But that’s not our problem.”
Milton disagreed, although he kept it to himself. Things were different now. They were much simpler. He was interested in helping people who had no other means of helping themselves. Samir had asked him to help, and Milton had said yes.
That made the young man Milton’s problem.
Chapter Five
THE BUILDING had been a
prison before it was pressed into service as a holding facility for immigrants. It was on the Western Heights on the outskirts of Dover, a monstrous Victorian hulk that presided over the town and the sea beyond it. Milton had driven down from London, leaving at six so that he could arrive in plenty of time for the start of visiting. It was cold when Milton stepped out of the car and looked down from the hill. The town beyond was cloaked in fog, and the sea was invisible, the mournful warning of the foghorn echoing out over the water. Milton drew his jacket tightly around his shoulders, zipped it all the way up to his neck, and set off.
Milton had read through the information on the facility’s website before he went to bed last night. The Western Heights had been a fortified area since Roman times, and these buildings occupied the site of fortifications commenced during the reign of Napoleon to counter the threat of a French invasion. The facility was encircled by a high wire mesh fence and Milton made his way to the guardhouse, told the guards that he was here to visit a detainee, waited for the gate to be unlocked and, when it was, he went inside.
He reached the reception area. There was a desk with two clerks processing the details of the visitors. There was a double line of vinyl chairs, each row bolted to the linoleum-covered floor. Milton went to the desk. The clerk asked for proof of identity, and Milton handed over his fake passport.
“Take a seat, please, Mr. Smith. I’ll let you know when you can go through.”
Milton took an empty seat and looked around. There was only one other visitor, an elderly woman who was still wrapped up in a thick winter coat. That, he supposed, wasn’t surprising. If the detainees were young men like the ones who had been removed from the back of Tommy’s trailer, then it was likely that they had no relatives here. They would come and seek asylum and, if it was granted, they would apply to bring their families. Others, the economic migrants, had no intention of being detained. They would have tried to sink beneath the surface, evading bureaucracy and taking advantage of the opportunities that would be afforded them. Those men, too, would not normally have family in the country to visit them. They would be left here until their cases were determined. Most would be sent back home.