by Bill Kitson
With the window in position, she managed to half-climb, half-slide down the pipe, reaching the ground without mishap. Once on solid ground she groped about to locate her rucksack, found it and turned to face her next obstacle. There was no point opting for the gate which squealed loudly in protest even if someone threatened to open it. Scaling the garden wall, topped by broken glass, was the only alternative.
Standing in front of the two metre high wall she carefully edged her foot along the base. She moved position twice, repeating the action each time. Eventually, her foot made contact with a brick lying hidden in the grass. She had placed it there to denote the point where there were hand and footholds in the otherwise smooth brickwork. She removed the bath towel from between the straps of the rucksack and spread it on top of the wall. With this protection in place she cautiously felt for the gaps and began to climb. When she was able to grip the wall top in safety through the towel, the rest was easy. She dropped the rucksack over the side and jumped down. Quickly she dragged the towel away and tossed it in to the neighbouring garden.
She picked up the rucksack, slipped the straps over her shoulders, settled it comfortably, and turned to head for the town. It was a twenty minute walk, although at the time it seemed far longer. During the journey, she never once looked back.
In the town centre she made straight for the taxi rank. Many of the drivers were of North African descent like her. These, she avoided, opting for a white man who told her in halting French that he was from Poland. After a short discussion, Shakila climbed into the back of his taxi. Once she had settled, she took a hundred euros from her stolen hoard and gave him it, part payment for the journey. As she handed the money over, she told him sternly, ‘No tricks, no funny business. Drive me straight to where I want to go. No questions. And no talking. Get it?’
He nodded understanding, any thoughts he might have had of not complying being negated by the look in her eyes; or possibly by the sharp carving knife in her hand. Four hours later, at about the time when her mother would be waking up and thinking about going to her daughters’ rooms to rouse them, Shakila climbed out of the taxi and gave the driver the rest of the fare. She watched the car drive away, the last link with the past she had left behind; then turned to stare at the capital’s famous landmark. She walked swiftly towards the Eiffel Tower, but after a few hundred metres she entered the nearest metro station.
By the time her mother entered her room, found it empty, and raised the alarm, Shakila was on a train heading for the coast. She was determined to try and reach England. She had never been there, but one of her teachers and some of the other girls said it was a good place, a land where freedom was valued, and that thought was like a breath of fresh air to Shakila. Quite how she would get there without a passport or papers, she hadn’t worked out. Somehow, it seemed less important than what had gone before.
Shakila’s first instinct had been to head for the ports giving the easiest access to Britain, those closest to the south coast of England. However, during the long taxi ride, she had chance to rethink her original idea. She had read stories of immigrants trying to get to Britain via those routes. Their efforts almost always ended in failure, to such an extent, that the French authorities had set up what was in effect an internment camp close to the coast.
She knew she could not afford such a risk. It would mean being returned to her family and almost certain death. Instead, she headed further south. As she had been pondering the difficulty, a stray memory came to her aid.
It had been a year earlier, when she was still at school. A classmate had told of her summer holiday, which had sounded idyllic. ‘We stayed near Brest in a small town called Camaret-Sur-Mer. It is a beautiful little town. It has a marina and a campsite where we stayed.’
‘You spent the holiday in a tent?’ To Shakila it sounded wonderfully adventurous, if a little uncomfortable.
‘Of course not, although I wouldn’t have minded. My parents rented a small chalet, like a log cabin. Although of course it is a sleepy little place, not like Brest, where all the big ships come, the marina has lots of power boats and yachts from all over the world.’ She lowered her voice and whispered, ‘I met this beautiful Swedish boy who was on one of the boats. It belongs to his father. We used to meet on the beach every night. He has promised to write to me.’
Shakila had reflected on how different the girl’s exciting life was to her own miserable, caged existence. Not for her the freedom of meeting a lover on a beach. No beautiful Swedish boys would be allowed near her. Now, however, the town of Camaret-Sur-Mer, with its marina filled with boats from all over the world, seemed like the ideal place to try the next phase of her freedom bid.
If she could rent a chalet for a few days, it would give her chance to inspect the marina, possibly find a boat that would take her clear of French territory. And if she was really lucky, Shakila thought, she might even find one with a beautiful Swedish boy on board, who would be prepared to aid her escape. The only reservation Shakila had was what a beautiful Swedish boy might want in return for taking such a risk but she put that thought firmly to the back of her mind. If there was no suitable boat or the price demanded was too high, she supposed she could always try Brest where the bigger ships might give her an opportunity. Wherever she set out from, if the worst came to the worst she could always stowaway.
Mindful of the need to preserve her dwindling hoard of euros, she opted to walk the sixteen or so kilometres from Brest train station to Camaret, hopeful of arriving before nightfall. The choice of a campsite was a good one in several ways. Not only was it far cheaper than staying in hotels, but the campsite didn’t demand to see paperwork, or look askance at someone arriving with no more than a rucksack as luggage.
After parting with a further two hundred euros, Shakila secured a chalet. She had to eat, and sleep. This would deplete her cash a little more, but the hunger pangs of a healthy eighteen-year-old could not be denied any longer. Apart from a barely edible snack on the train, she hadn’t eaten anything for twenty-four hours. Not having slept for far longer, she would have to go to bed. On the way to her chalet, she had noticed a restaurant with takeaway section. Although her instinct was to go inside and sit down, order a meal and dine at her leisure, she realized with something of a shock that this option wasn’t open to her.
As she was booking in, Shakila had seen the television in the reception area. The news bulletin had been about to start as she left the building. For all she knew, her parents might have already reported her absence to the police. A nationwide search might be on for her. Perhaps she would be featured in the newscast. Perhaps there would even be a photograph. Recognition would almost inevitably lead to exposure; exposure would lead to detention.
The danger of being seen would also limit her mobility severely. Choice of where to go and when, must be governed by the need to avoid crowds and the heightened risk of detection. With this in mind, Shakila went to bed early. If she wanted to survey the marina it would have to be undertaken before the beach and sea front were thronged with holidaymakers. An early start was essential.
She did not sleep well, due in part to the stress she was under and to the romantic antics of the couple in the adjoining chalet. Despite this, Shakila was up, dressed and out of her room before first light. She set off in the direction of the marina and from a nearby headland was able to get a long distance view of the boats moored within the breakwater.
From her vantage point she realized there was one major obstacle. At the end of the pontoons to which the boats were moored was a high wall with a big gate, obviously designed to keep out people who had no business to be inside. People like her. Even if she was able to identify a suitable boat, she would have to devise some means of getting inside. To be so close, and yet be unable to advance her escape plan, was frustrating.
She sat on a rocky outcrop, looking at the lie of the land, pondering her options, which were, she admitted, severely limited. As she stared at the curve of the bay with t
he strengthening sunlight reflecting brightly off the calm blue water, Shakila began to get the glimmer of an idea. She tried to estimate distances, wondering about currents. If all else failed, there was one desperate measure she could try.
In the reception area at the campsite there was a small shop, whose shelves were crammed with anything and everything a holidaymaker might need. Shakila set off back, her funds were about to be further depleted, by a takeaway breakfast and by the cost of a swimsuit.
She returned to her chalet to eat and added the swimsuit to the few possessions in her rucksack. She didn’t doubt her ability to swim round the headland to the marina, but she wondered how difficult the task would be with the added burden of the rucksack. The label on the bag proclaimed it to be waterproof, but was that claim one that stretched as far as prolonged immersion in sea water, she wondered.
Identifying a British registered boat didn’t present that much of a challenge in itself, she knew she’d be able to pick one out by the pennant it displayed. But even if she saw a British craft, there was no way she could find out when it would be sailing, and equally important, what the boat’s ultimate destination would be. Shakila had a terrible vision of stowing away on board a vessel that didn’t leave the marina for weeks. Hunger alone would force her to surrender.
The alternative was equally terrifying. What if the boat did set sail, but instead of heading north-east, set a southerly course entering the Mediterranean, perhaps to end up off some remote Greek island or the Turkish mainland? Shakila would be forced to go ashore without being able to speak a word of the language, or any knowledge of the laws and customs. At least she was reasonably fluent in English, and her study of British history had given her some knowledge and insight into the people.
One thing was certain; her original idea of how she would arrive on British shores was a plan in ruins. She needed a radical rethink. Either that, or a miracle. Although she wasn’t to know it, miracles come in all shapes and sizes, and sometimes they are cleverly disguised.
Chapter thirteen
Early that evening, Shakila though it was safe to leave her chalet. The foreshore was all but deserted. By then, many of the holidaymakers would be preparing for their evening meal. When she reached the headland, she sat on top of a sand dune, staring across the bay towards the marina. She tried to think. How could she by-pass the security at the gate? The alternative was a long, difficult swim in unknown waters. Even if she reached the marina, how could she board a vessel that was soon heading for Britain?
The prospect seemed hopeless, and Shakila had to face the unpalatable fact that her attempt at freedom had almost certainly ended in failure here, so close to her ultimate goal. Her dream of escape, a new life in a land where she could be sure vengeance wouldn’t follow her was in ruins. She would be captured, returned to the family she hated and who hated her. In the fullness of time, when the glare of publicity had faded, she would simply disappear. Butchered most probably, her remains fed into the local waterways by those closest to her. Despair overcame her, and Shakila began to weep, tears of loneliness and desolation. Only a month had passed since her eighteenth birthday. Now, she felt sure it would prove to be her last.
‘Kes Kur say?’ The question was in an attempt at French, but the speaker’s accent was certainly not French.
Shakila looked up, startled by the interruption, and the unfamiliar tone. She saw a woman in early middle age, with bleached blonde hair. As the questioner saw Shakila’s face, her eyes narrowed and she stared at the girl.
‘Je connais vouz. Oh bugger it, I can’t get used to this ruddy frog speak. Do you speak English, Love? Because I reckon I know you.’
Shakila nodded, unable to say a word. Was this the end? The woman spoke again, and Shakila listened carefully, frowning at the effort of concentration needed to decipher the unfamiliar language when delivered in a strange, broad accent unlike any used by her teachers at school.
‘I know you. Your picture’s in this morning’s paper.’ The way she said ‘picture’ made it sound like a baseball player.
Pitcher? Was that really how you pronounced it? Shakila wondered.
‘You’re that girl who’s missing. The coppers are looking for you, aren’t they? Isn’t your name Shakira?’
‘Shakila,’ she replied wearily. She began to cry again. ‘But now you will give me to the police, and everything is finished.’
The stranger sat down alongside her and put a comforting arm around her shoulder. ‘Now hold on, Love, don’t take on. It’s not worth it, believe me. Nothing is. This will all be over with soon, and you’ve the rest of your life to look forward to.’
Shakila’s tears increased. When she eventually calmed down a little, she said in slow, careful English, ‘You do not know. You cannot know. You would not understand. I have no life ahead of me. When I am returned to my family I will vanish. Someday, a body may be discovered. Possibly.’
‘What the hell are you on about? Is this some daft game you’re playing? Like one of those virtual computer games where you pretend to be someone else?’
‘No, madam, it is no game. In the ways of my people, and the ways of my religion, in their eyes I have offended so deeply. I cannot be allowed to live. My existence is a blasphemy, almost. We have strict rules we must obey as a female. In dress, in conduct, and with marriage arrangements that might have been made when we were children. I refused to comply with many of these, and my rejection of a man I found repulsive was the final defiance.
‘I have brought disgrace upon my family. My parents no longer regard me as their daughter. Neither my mother nor father spoke to me in the week before I escaped, they would not make eye contact with me. My meals, such as I was allowed, had to be taken in my room, brought to me by my younger sister, who was forbidden to speak with me. Then, I heard my mother and father talking, plotting my death. I had two days to get out before my brother and uncle returned home. If I had remained, I would have been executed and my body disposed of.’
‘Hell’s bells! Are you kidding?’
Shakila began to cry again; heartrending sobs.
‘You’re not kidding, are you? I’ve heard stories of stuff like this, but I thought it was only fiction. An honour killing, that’s what you’re talking about, isn’t it?’
‘Oui ... I mean, yes, madam, that is it, precisement. And now you know it is not from the pages of the fiction writers’ alone. And now it will come about.’
‘No it bloody well won’t, Honey. Not if I’ve owt to do with it. Just steady on a minute and let me have a little think.’
Shakila obeyed, half-fearful, half-wondering if she dared entertain some hope that all might not be as bad as it seemed.
Her comforter spoke again. ‘How did you land up at this spot? I mean, it isn’t exactly Gay Paree, is it? And what were you planning to do next? How were you hoping to get away?’
Shakila explained, as best she could. When it came to her plan to swim with her rucksack over to the marina, and pick out a boat with a British flag, her companion shook her head. ‘You wouldn’t have stood a chance. First off, swimming at night with a rucksack, and hoping to find one boat amongst all that lot that was going to England. You’d have had more chance winning the lottery. No, you were bound to fail.’ She paused and studied Shakila for a moment, then asked, ‘How good a swimmer are you? Did you seriously think you could swim from here to the far side of the marina towing a rucksack?’
‘I do not know. If I had not the rucksack I would have succeeded. I was in my school the best swimmer.’
‘Then today might just have been your lucky day, Honey. See that boat at the far end of the marina?’ She pointed to a large cabin cruiser that Shakila had noticed earlier, one of the most expensive-looking craft in the bay.
Shakila nodded. ‘Is that your boat?’
‘It is, Love. Mine and my husband’s. What’s more, we’re leaving later tonight. And, we’re on our way back to England. My husband has gone to Brest to do a bit of busine
ss, but once he gets back, we’re away. If you can get on board without being spotted, then we’ll take you with us, how does that sound?’
Shakila couldn’t speak, choked as she was with emotion, but her face said it all for her.
Her new accomplice laughed and continued, ‘The boat is called the Blooming Rose. Here’s what I suggest. You nip back and gather your stuff in your rucksack and put your swimsuit on. Bring everything back here and then start swimming. I’ll take the rucksack and get it through the gate. They won’t stop me. All you have to do is swim to the end of the marina. There’s a ladder on the seaward side of the boat. If you climb up that, you’ll not be seen. Besides, I’ll be looking out for you. Get on board the boat and you’ve cracked it.’
‘Cracked it?’ The idiom defeated Shakila.
‘Achieved what you set out to do, Love.’ The woman smiled at her. ‘I know it’s not the ideal solution, but it’s the best I can come up with at short notice. Is there anywhere in England you were aiming for. Anywhere in particular, I mean?’
Shakila spread her hands in a gesture of helplessness. ‘I do not know anyone in your country, so I could not say.’
‘We’re headed home, to the north. A place called Yorkshire. Have you heard of it?’
‘I know of puddings.’
Shakila’s saviour laughed again. ‘Fame for my county at last. Anyway, best get on with it. Off you trot, sharpish. And don’t get seen. Remember, if I recognized you, others can.’ She saw Shakila’s hesitation. ‘Go on, get your skates on ... I mean hurry up.’
Shakila turned to go, then, on impulse, turned back and put her arms around her new friend. ‘Merci, madam, merci, merci.’