by Bill Kitson
As she walked swiftly back to her chalet avoiding the more popular paths, Shakila repeated the name of the boat. The Blooming Rose sounded quite romantic, she thought. She wasn’t to know that the owner had named the vessel after his mother-in-law, and that blooming, in that sense, was a mild expletive.
Shakila’s elation was tempered by caution. Could she trust her new friend? Dare she place her future in the hands of a stranger, a foreigner at that? And what would the reaction of her husband be to the news that they were carrying an illegal migrant?
In reality, Shakila knew she had no choice. She must risk the voyage, must risk the kindness of strangers. Her decision was made, but had it been made out of wisdom or naiveté? In the long run, she could hardly be worse off than she already was.
Wearing jeans and a T-shirt over her swimsuit she left her key in the chalet door rather than risk returning to the campsite reception and headed back to the headland. Sure enough, the Englishwoman was waiting, sitting on a rock staring out to sea. A lazy plume of smoke drifted into the night air from the cigarette in her left hand. Curiously, the sight of the woman smoking comforted Shakila slightly. Perhaps it was the air of normality that eased her mind.
It was now almost dark, the lights from the town and the marina glowing brighter by the minute. The older woman watched in silence as Shakila took off her shoes, and then helped pack the discarded clothing before gesturing towards the sea. ‘Luckily, it’s quite calm tonight, but be careful, the water will be cold. Cramp is always a danger. As I remember there isn’t much of a current, and if you’re as good a swimmer as you say, you should be OK. One more thing, swimming in the sea is a lot different from a heated indoor pool. Apart from the cold, there’s the salt content of the water. Try and avoid swallowing any. Apart from it tasting unpleasant, with what gets dumped in the ocean, you could get sickness, or the trots.’
‘The trots?’
‘Dysentery.’ The word was accompanied by a graphic gesture. ‘Go on. Get off with you while there’s no one around. Just remember, keep going at a steady pace, don’t try to rush, and don’t thrash around in the water too much, nothing that might draw attention to you. I’ll be waiting on the boat.’
On impulse, Shakila hugged her, then turned and walked into the water, giving an involuntary gasp at the cold. She plunged into the sea, striking out with bold, confident strokes. The Englishwoman watched her for several minutes, until the girl was all but lost to sight. ‘Aye,’ she murmured, ‘you can swim, right enough.’
She picked up Shakila’s bag and slipped one of the straps over her shoulder. As she made her way towards the marina, she mused on what Shakila had told her. She and her husband hadn’t been blessed with children. If blessed was the right word. From what she’d heard that evening, she wasn’t too sure she regretted the lack of family. If Shakila’s story was anything to go by, family wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. She would have liked a daughter, but although she had no regrets when that hadn’t happened, the thought of Shakila’s parents had been prepared to do made her blood boil. She increased her pace, partly through anger, partly in order to be back at the boat before either her husband or the girl got there. She wondered what the business he had gone to Brest for was about. He was being very secretive but she’d learned to put up with that sort of behaviour from him over the years. Was it anything to do with money? They’d suffered a lot because of the recession. Just how much, she wasn’t sure, but from his attitude she knew things were far from rosy of the financial front. Their savings wouldn’t be giving them much of a return; that much she did know. The boat had been a luxury they could afford, but buying it just before the banking crisis hit hadn’t turned out to be the wisest investment of all time. With their income stream reduced to a trickle, the upkeep of the boat was rapidly becoming a millstone. If times were better, they would have sold it, but then, if times had been better, they wouldn’t need to. Even if they could find a buyer, the price offered would be a fraction of its worth. So they were stuck, unable to afford to keep it, unable to afford to sell it. Catch 22.
She had only been back on board the Blooming Rose a few minutes when her husband arrived. She saw the taxi draw up outside the marina gates, knew it was him by the stride as he hurried along the quay towards the pontoon where the boat was moored. She wondered how near the girl was. He climbed aboard and greeted her with a kiss on the cheek.
His first words came as a surprise. ‘We’re not leaving tonight, Love. There’s been a delay. We’ll go in the morning.’
She eyed him suspiciously. ‘Why’s that? I thought you were dead keen to be off. At least that’s what you said before you vanished on your mysterious mission this morning.’
‘Ah, well, there’s a little job I arranged for us. Nothing too arduous, we just have to collect something and deliver it on the way. And we get a nice little fee for doing it. The problem is the stuff we’re going to be carrying won’t be ready until tomorrow.’
‘Stuff? What sort of stuff? What’s this about? Nothing illegal, I hope?’
He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Nothing for you to worry about.’
‘I don’t like the sound of it.’ She would have said more, pressed him harder, but she had her own secret and realized this was the ideal time to tell him. He could hardly object, not in the circumstances. She explained about Shakila and the trouble the girl was in. When she finished telling her story, she waited for his reaction. She didn’t have to wait long.
‘You’ve done what? You stupid cow. Do you realize what will happen if we’re caught trying to smuggle an illegal immigrant in to the UK? The fine alone would bankrupt us and there’d be the prison sentence to go along with it.’
‘And that “little job” you’ve arranged for us to do? I’m no legal expert, but I’m damned sure the penalty for smuggling one terrified girl whose life is being threatened would be a hell of a sight lighter than that for running parcels of cocaine or heroin or whatever it is you’ve organized.’
The argument continued for several minutes and was only curtailed when a splashing sound from the starboard side of the boat announced Shakila’s safe arrival. As she climbed the ladder onto the half-deck, he took in the girl’s olive-skinned good looks, her attractive figure, and her long, shapely legs. ‘Oh, all right then, in the circumstances I suppose we have no choice,’ he muttered. Exactly as his wife had known he would.
Once Shakila was safely inside the forward cabin away from any prying eyes, his wife ordered him to make hot drinks for them. That would allow Shakila chance to dry off and change without him drooling over the girl, and also give her chance to explain the slight change of plan.
Once she’d told her, she saw the dawning apprehension on Shakila’s face and hastened to reassure her. ‘I know you’d have preferred to leave under cover of darkness, but when we’re ready to go you can stay in here. All we have to do is draw the curtains over the portholes and nobody will see you. Nobody will think it strange if they haven’t been pulled back.’
The knowledge of what was before her, the ever-present fear of discovery and uncertainty about whether to trust her new friends led to Shakila passing a sleepless night. When she’d reached the boat, she’d paused to recover her breath before climbing the ladder, had heard them arguing and knew that the man did not want her on board. Besides which, it sounded as if they were about to do something illegal; something to do with drugs. Had she gone from danger into worse peril? By committing her future to this couple, had she placed herself at far greater risk than if she had stayed hidden in France?
Chapter fourteen
Tormented by doubts, Shakila was wide-awake when she heard the faint sound of a mobile phone, alerting the owner to an incoming message. This was followed by a mutter of conversation from the wheelhouse where the boat’s owners were sleeping, then, the soft padding of footsteps across the deck. Shakila cautiously lifted the curtain away from one of the portholes and peered out. She was in time to see the figure of a man hurrying a
long the quay leading from the pontoons towards the security gate. Was he going to inform someone about her? Or was it something to do with their other mission? She waited, half hoping, half fearful. It seemed an age, but eventually she saw him return, carrying a cardboard box. That had nothing to do with her. Shakila began to relax. She waited until he had climbed aboard and then looked out again. The quay was deserted. No security men, no port officials, no gendarmes. He hadn’t given her away; her fears had been groundless. But, there was still the voyage, and what would follow it.
Shortly after first light, Shakila, now alone in the cabin, heard the engines fire up. She felt the gradual motion as the boat slipped its mooring and edged out of the marina before heading for the open sea. The engines’ roar deepened to a growl as the speed increased. Shakila lifted the curtain over one of the ports, and saw they were already well clear of the coast, the town and the shoreline receding into the distance.
Quite unexpectedly, she realized the enormity of what she’d done, recognized how completely alone she was. She faced the daunting prospect of Britain, a country she did not know, and where she knew only two people out of the scores of millions of inhabitants. These two, her companions on the voyage, had only promised to take her to Britain. Beyond that, she was on her own; alone in an alien country with no papers, no form of identification. What hope did she have of surviving undetected? And, if, as she now believed would happen, she fell into the clutches of the authorities, would they listen to her plea to remain? Or would they simply turn her round and send her back to France to face the wrath of her family?
‘Do you fancy coming up into the wheelhouse?’
Shakila looked up; she hadn’t heard anyone enter the cabin.
The woman could see the girl was upset and could guess the reason. Fear of the future, uncertainly as to what Britain would hold for her would be enough to daunt anyone. ‘It’s a grand morning, and things will seem much brighter out in the fresh air. I’m going to make breakfast and then I’ll take the wheel.’
She saw the girl’s look of surprise. ‘It’s going to take us a couple of days or thereabouts to get where we’re going. So we take it in turns to avoid one of us getting over-tired. Later, I’ll show you on the map where we’re heading. Come on, Love, you can’t stay moping in here all the time.’ She lowered her voice, ‘Later, when his lordship’s having a kip, I’ll let you have a turn at the wheel. You’ll enjoy that, I bet.’
The first part of the journey passed without incident. The man had the helm, on the port side, with his wife alongside him in the navigator’s seat. Shakila perched on one of the bench seats behind watching them steer the boat.
As they travelled, the Englishwoman explained the voyage. ‘We have about five hundred nautical miles to go before we reach Whitby, which is our home port.’ She pointed to the chart, tracing the route for Shakila. ‘As we pass Guernsey you’ll be able to see the island off to starboard, then we steer north-easterly until we’re off Dover. The white cliffs.’
‘Please, what is starboard?’
She listened carefully as the older woman explained the nautical equivalents of right and left. ‘After that we run north-by-east up the east coast of England. Normally we would complete the trip in a day and a half, but we’re taking it easy this time. We can’t sail into Whitby with you onboard. If you disembark there you’d be arrested immediately and sent back to France. All vessels, big or small are watched by the coastguard, the UK Border Agency, or the police. They are always on the lookout for illegal immigrants.’
‘How will I avoid them?’
‘I think you were lucky to come with us. Before we reach Whitby we’ll be going inshore at a remote bay, where you can easily swim ashore. The distance will be no more than a few hundred yards ... er ... metres. Then, after we’ve reached Whitby we’ll drive back down the coast for you. We’ll bring your rucksack with your clothes and things. You can stay at our house for a few days until you decide what you want to do. How does that sound?’
‘Merci. Thank you both. You are so kind.’ Shakila was again close to tears.
When her companion announced she was going to make lunch, Shakila remained, watching the husband steer the Blooming Rose. After a few minutes he glanced across at her. ‘Is it true, what my missus told me, that your family was going to have you killed?’
‘Yes, I heard my parents talk of it. They did not know I was listening.’
‘And you’re sure they meant what they said?’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘Simply because you refused to marry some bloke they’d chosen for you? Is that right?’
‘There is more, much more. I am afraid in their eyes I was a very bad daughter. I did not conform in dress, or behaviour, or in worship. They said they believed I was possessed by devils. That may sound odd to you, but this is a very powerful belief where my family came from.’
‘I have heard of things like that, but to have you done in because you wear jeans and don’t do as they command.... I didn’t think people still behaved that way, I thought all that was in the past.’
During the afternoon, the husband went into the cabin to sleep. ‘He’ll take over from me tonight,’ his wife explained. ‘I’ll make our dinner then have a few hours’ kip up here. Before that, how do you fancy taking the wheel?’
As she slid into the helmsman’s seat, Shakila asked, ‘Kip, is that another word for sleep?’
Her mentor laughed. ‘Yes it is. It means a short rest, like taking a nap.’
‘I think English is going to be more of a challenge than I knew. How do I drive the boat?’
‘Steer, not drive,’ she was corrected.
Shakila spent the next hour learning how to control the Blooming Rose. When it was over, she relinquished the wheel with real regret.
Despite her unfamiliar surroundings and the motion of the boat, Shakila slept long and well that night. She had been living on adrenalin for so long, that exhaustion had at last caught up with her. She awoke only once, when the boat slowed then ceased moving; she dozed back off. It was daylight by the time she was fully awake, the Blooming Rose had picked up speed again. She realized this would be her last day on the boat. She had come to regard the Blooming Rose as a haven, her sanctuary. Now she knew how fleeting that sanctuary was.
As the day wore on, Shakila’s nervousness increased. Eventually, soon after dusk, she heard her saviour give her husband the instruction to set a new course, one she told Shakila that would bring them close inshore. ‘We’re getting near to the point where we drop you off. The sea might look a bit choppy, but once we get beyond the headland into the bay where it’s more sheltered, it’ll be much calmer. The swim shouldn’t be a problem; the only thing you’ve to be wary of is again the cold. This is the North Sea and the water temperature is very cold, even at this time of the year. When you get to shore you’ll be OK, as long as you keep moving. Do you like running?’
The question was such an odd one, Shakila paused before replying. ‘Yes, I was good at it in my school.’
‘The best way to keep warm will be to run along the beach and back a few times. It will help dry you and the swimsuit off. It will be an hour or so before we get back to you. No point in escaping from being murdered only to catch pneumonia or die of hypothermia.’
Shakila went into the cabin to change into her swimsuit and pack her clothes. She left the door open, and even above the sound of the engines, she heard the couple’s conversation.
‘How does this drop-off work?’ The woman asked. ‘How will they know where to look for the packages?’
‘They’ll have someone watching from the shore,’ he explained. I have to tie the packages to the buoy and when we’ve cleared the bay, I send a text message. I suppose someone comes along to collect: simple as that. When we round the headland after the drop, I’ll take us into the next bay and we can get the girl away.’
They had almost reached the cove when they heard the sound. The three looked at each other, all gripped with fear, the same fe
ar, but stemming from different causes. The sound was the unmistakeable roar of diesel engines. Loud, and getting louder by the second. ‘Patrol boat!’ the husband muttered.
‘Stay in the cabin,’ the woman shouted to Shakila. ‘And for God’s sake keep quiet.’
Seconds later, as Shakila crouched, trembling with fear the Blooming Rose was lit up by a powerful searchlight. At the same time she heard a voice, amplified and echoing from a loud hailer. ‘Motor vessel Blooming Rose, heave-to! UK Border Agency. We are about to board you.’
In the wheelhouse, there was a moment’s pause, as if the couple were weighing their chances of making a run for it before the boat began to slow down. The Blooming Rose lost way and wallowed to a standstill as the dark shape of the other vessel came alongside. Such was the skill of the other helmsman that there was only a slight bump as the two boats touched. Seconds later, two men stepped on board.
The boat owner looked at them as they entered the wheelhouse. ‘Hey!’ he exclaimed. ‘Who are you? You’re not Border Agency—’ His speech was curtailed abruptly.
Shakila jumped at the sound of the shots. The cabin door was slightly ajar. Through the crack she could see into the wheelhouse where the man’s body lay. His head was turned towards her, and the glare from the searchlight was strong enough for her to make out the bullet wounds, to see the trickle of blood that ran from the empty, eyeless socket. Shakila bit back a scream, but the Englishwoman more than made up for the girl’s silence.
Shakila heard the sound of several sharp slaps. ‘Shut the fuck up,’ a voice hissed. ‘Shut up or you’ll get the same as he did. Now, where are they?’
The woman was silent now, staring in horrified disbelief at her husband’s body.
‘Where are they?’ the killer repeated his question. ‘Don’t make me ask again. Where are the drugs? If you don’t tell me, I’ll have to let Stanley here persuade you. He’ll enjoy that, but I promise you, you won’t. Show her how you’ll persuade her, Stanley.’