by Keith Nixon
“You’re new here.” The man with the milky eye stated the obvious. “Where are you from?”
Khoury said nothing.
One Eye smiled. “Don’t matter if you speak or not, we can tell you’re foreign just by looking at you. Ain’t that right, Jez?”
Jez nodded stiffly.
“Let me tell you how it’s going to be, my friend,” continued One Eye. “You can stay here tonight. Get your head down, your belly full. We’re not total bastards. But tomorrow, you move on, you don’t come back. This place isn’t for your type. Understand?”
“Is everything all right?” It was Natalie, from the food queue. She was standing right behind them. She was older than Rachel, her hair tied up in a similar fashion. She wore dungarees too.
“Everything’s fine, little lady,” said One Eye with a huge grin. “Just getting to know our new friend here.”
Natalie visibly bristled. “Two things, Mr Hardwick. It’s Natalie or Miss Peace, not little lady or any other derogative term you may wish to use. Secondly, you know the rules. Any abuse or violence will result in you losing access to the hostel. Based on your past behaviour that would be for a week, again. Do you remember?”
“Yes.”
“I’m glad we understand each other. Enjoy your evening.” Natalie smiled sweetly and headed back over to the food bar.
“Bitch,” muttered Hardwick under his breath. He turned back to Khoury. “Where were we in our little chat before her rude interruption? Oh yes, me telling you how it will be. The thing is, my friend, you and yours are a problem. A big, never-ending one. There are too many of you. Services are stretched, meaning less for the rest of us. If we keep letting everyone in, there’ll be no space left. We were born here, you’re an incomer. Understand?”
Khoury nodded. In his country, Khoury’s attitude would be to eat Hardwick for lunch before Hardwick ate Khoury for dinner. But Khoury couldn’t get the first blow in; he needed somewhere to sleep tonight so he had to let it go.
Hardwick patted Khoury on the face, said, “Good boy. I knew you were bright. There’s a place more suited for your kind across town. The old Nayland Rock Hotel, you can’t miss it. Go there tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
“Just in case you have second thoughts though: if you use this place again, I’ll break your legs. Okay?”
Hardwick stood and left, trailed by Jez.
“Lights out in fifteen minutes,” said Natalie.
Khoury made his way to the sleeping area. There were ten rows of cots, laid out close to each other, a narrow channel down the centre. Most were filled already with snoring men. A few men sat and talked together in low voices, pausing for a moment to eye Khoury before they returned to their conversation. A huge fart rent the air from someone over to his right.
There was a free cot against the far wall. He walked through the sleeping men. They were all white. No wonder he’d been targeted by Hardwick. Khoury lay down, removing only his boots, and wrapped himself up in a blanket. Back to the wall and facing the room. Eventually, if he was lucky, he might fall into a restless sleep.
Fifteen
Gray grabbed a beer from the fridge and his laptop from a bag, dragged open the floor-to-ceiling French window onto the balcony, and sat in the solitary wooden seat.
For a moment, he thought about what Carslake had told him. Had Tom really been taken to Europe? If so, why? Where the hell was he now? The trouble was, Gray was powerless. In the UK, at least Gray could have spoken to colleagues. They would probably have helped a fellow officer, even if they hadn’t known each other. But in a foreign country? And in a foreign language? The challenge was immense, but the new lead was huge. For the first time in ages he had a path to follow.
Gray had settled into his new home faster than he’d expected. Perhaps it was the view; the uninterrupted seascape as far as the eye could see across almost one-hundred-and-eighty degrees of panorama. Perhaps it was the lack of garden to deal with – not a single piece of greenery – or that there weren’t any families around him anymore, reminding of what he didn’t have. Or maybe it was leaving the past behind. Ultimately, it didn’t matter what the cause was as long as the effect was acceptable. Other than Carslake and Hamson, he’d had no visitors since he’d moved in a month ago.
High panels either side of the balcony blocked him off from the neighbours. The upstairs balcony overhung, providing an element of shade on the sunniest of days. Below was the clifftop walkway to Viking Bay; beneath that, the sand and surf of Louisa Bay.
The location was as good as it got and the cost of the flat was accordingly high. Gray’s finances had stretched sufficiently because his old house was within the catchment area of the best local schools, a feature that parents were desperate to pay for and that estate agents ruthlessly promoted. In fact, two families had entered a bidding war to acquire his property. Gray had ended up getting ten thousand pounds over the asking price. So, although Gray had a mortgage again, it was manageable.
Also manageable was the beer, which disappeared far too easily, bottle empty before he realised. Once it was gone however, it was gone. His was a new start. While packing for the move, Gray had poured all the spirits down the drain. He’d scrunched up the final pack of cigarettes, a couple unsmoked.
Since then he’d been attempting no more than one beer and two coffees a day. He was exercising a little too, jogging on a treadmill in the spare bedroom, though he wasn’t yet at the point where he felt confident enough to go out on the street in plain view.
He missed the pub, the experience of enjoying a beer. He’d tried orange juice a couple of times, but it wasn’t the same. Boozers were for boozing in.
And for all the supposed benefits of taking up a healthier lifestyle, Gray sometimes felt unwell. The odd bout of constipation, an upset stomach from certain foods, a transgression as Hamson had pointed out. Gray put it down to irritable bowel syndrome as his body grumbled adjusting to his change in diet. Nothing disabling, more of an irritant. Being sick was new, though. And the food sticking in his throat.
Gray dismissed the symptoms; they’d pass. He clicked the Facebook icon on his laptop. He’d only recently set up an account. There were only two people he’d consider friends, Carslake and Hamson, and he saw them most days. He wasn’t interested in connecting with other work colleagues or old school mates. There was a reason he’d drifted away from them and it would be staying that way. He’d joined Facebook because of his daughter, Hope.
Gray’s current objective, however, was Regan. He found his profile immediately. The main photograph was of a grinning, slightly younger Regan, seemingly in a pub, someone’s arm around his shoulders, the person’s face cropped out. The banner photo was a wide angle shot of the club, Seagram’s, lit up at night. Regan’s personal data was innocuous. He’d labelled himself as single, born in Margate, worked at Enterprise Associated Partners, his father’s company, his title of Director in capitals. The page’s structure shouted success and good times.
Regan’s timeline was awash with messages. A long scroll of posts unable to comprehend that Regan was gone, that he’d been taken too young, offering condolences to the family. Then quite a few who said good riddance to bad rubbish, and worse. Gray clicked on some of the friends who’d posted and took in their profile too. He couldn’t believe how much information people dumped into the public domain.
A buzz from within the flat interrupted Gray’s research. It was a call from the lobby. He picked up the entry phone.
“It’s Jake. Can I come up?”
Surprised, Gray paused a moment before he told Jake his flat number. Gray went onto the balcony and shut down the laptop. A few minutes later there was a knock on the front door.
“This is unexpected,” said Gray. “Come in.”
Jake stepped inside and glanced around. “I didn’t know who else to speak to.”
“The Samaritans?”
“I’m depressed, not fucking suicidal, Sol. It’s not in me.”
Gray led Jake onto the balcony.
“Great view,” said Jake, leaning on the railings.
“It’s one of the reasons I bought it. Fancy a beer?”
“How about ten?”
Gray grabbed a couple of bottles from the fridge, breaking his own rule again, and popped the caps. He carried them back outside and handed one over to Jake who was still looking out to sea.
“Thanks.” Jake accepted the bottle and took a deep draft.
“I’m sorry about Regan,” said Gray.
“So, this is what it feels like.”
“Yes.” There wasn’t anything Gray could say to make it better so he didn’t.
“Remember when we were kids, Sol? Best mates.”
Inseparable, thought Gray, but said, “Long time ago.”
“That it is. They were good days.”
“Different days.”
“Before anything mattered.”
And before we took our different paths.
“Now look at us,” said Jake.
Again, Gray didn’t know how to reply. He wasn’t the best at eloquent, meaningful statements. He let the silence stretch.
Eventually Jake said, “How’s the new place?”
“Fine. Does what it needs to.”
“Better than rattling around in that old house of yours. Too many memories?”
“That was one problem.” Another pause until Gray said, “I’m sure you didn’t come over just to reminisce.”
“You know me too well. I’ve a favour to ask.”
“Okay.”
“Will you come to the funeral?”
Gray groaned inside. He hadn’t liked Regan very much. Going seemed hypocritical.
Peering at Gray, Jake said, “I don’t hear a yes, Sol.”
“I’m not sure I can.”
“Why? Too busy to be at the side of an old friend?” Gray heard the disdain in his voice. “I’m sorry I asked.” Jake rose.
“Wait.” Gray put a hand on his arm. He was being utterly selfish. What he thought of Regan was of no importance here. “I’ll be there.”
“Thanks a lot, Sol, I really appreciate it.”
“As you said, Jake. Old friends.”
“And the wake afterwards? It’ll be at Seagram’s.”
Which would mean getting drunk at the club. “That’s a maybe.”
“Okay, I can live with that.” Jake drained the beer, said, “Any more of these?”
Gray had barely touched his. He got Jake another.
“I feel like I failed them you know, Sol. Let everybody down; everyone I’ve ever loved.”
“We all fail in some way or another.”
“I’m not sure which of us is worse. You losing your kid or me driving them away.”
“Thanks, Jake, I appreciate that.”
“I’m sorry; I didn’t mean it that way. You know me; I’m a heart-on-sleeve kind of man. Sometimes what’s up here,” Jake tapped the bottle against his forehead, “falls out of my mouth with no moderation in between.”
“It’s not a problem.”
“Look, I’ll leave you to whatever.” Jake was clearly embarrassed.
“Did you drive over?”
“I’m parked just round the corner.”
“I’ll call you a taxi then. Your car will be fine overnight. Then we can have another beer.”
“It’s okay, I’d better be off anyway.”
Gray showed Jake to the door.
“See you at the funeral then?” asked Jake.
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
When Jake was gone, Gray returned to the balcony, sat down, and opened up his laptop once more. There were already additional messages on Regan’s Facebook timeline. Gray skimmed them, but wasn’t really paying attention. Jake’s comment about failing his family was stuck in his mind.
Gray accessed the Facebook search function. He typed in “Hope Simpson”. His daughter had taken her mother’s maiden name some time ago. Gray knew Hope lived in Edinburgh; almost as far away from Kent as it was possible to get. She was nineteen now and partway through a nursing qualification at Napier University there.
It was the work of moments to find her Facebook profile, even though they weren’t classified as friends. Her timeline contained plenty of smiling photographs with a wide array of people, none of which Gray recognised. Why would he? He wondered if one was a partner. Was she in a long-term relationship? How were her studies going? What did her voice sound like? It had been so long since they’d talked. Every time he’d gone to pick up the phone, his guilt had got the better of him, and he’d never made the call.
He’d read that people these days, particularly the young who’d grown up with social media as a constant, tended to project a face onto the world that didn’t really exist. Gray hoped she was as happy as the photos suggested. He closed the laptop lid and the balcony darkened. A gull, riding the thermals, flitted past. The bloody things never seemed to sleep.
Gray’s phone vibrated on the table top. Noble again. Gray rejected the call twice, though each time the ring tone kicked in immediately. Then a text bleeped: “HELP”.
When Noble called again Gray answered. “Bit melodramatic this evening, Will.”
All he received in reply was a groan and a drawn-out cough.
“Will? Will, are you okay? What’s going on?”
All he got was another groan. He left his flat at a run, slamming the door behind him. He took the stairs, rather than wait for the lift to arrive, jumped into his car, and drove as fast as he was able to Noble’s Margate office.
Sixteen
Despite a chorus of snores, Khoury slept fitfully in the crowded room. He dreamt he was in the sea, far from shore. His arms were useless. He couldn’t stay afloat any longer, no matter how hard he fought. Khoury sank beneath the waves, his lungs filling with water as the light receded.
He awoke with a jerk, breathing heavily. It was dark, but he didn’t think he’d been asleep long; no more than an hour, maybe less. He sat up, unsure of his surroundings. Then he recalled he was in the homeless shelter in a strange country. His family were dead. His friends were dead. The irony of it all. He, Najjar and Shadid had survived years of civil war in Syria, only to die at the hands of their "rescuer". His wife and child had perished in a place where they were supposed to be safe. Khoury lay back down and stared at the ceiling.
Yesterday, he and his two friends thought they’d finally found a way to England from France. He recalled the man’s words: A short trip on a fishing boat, and you’re free. Remarkably straightforward after such an arduous route from Syria, followed by months stuck in a squalid camp in Calais. Khoury looked forward to the day they were settled because then his wife could travel over from Syria, and they’d finally be a family again. How long had it been since he’d comforted his daughter when she woke from a bad dream? But once on the waves, it had all gone wrong. The drowning of the white man, and the stabbing of his brother Najjar with Najjar’s own knife. With the memory, fury flared within him once more. He’d felt fear and anger when his neighbourhood had been bombed to ruin, but this was different. This betrayal was personal.
Khoury didn’t know what had happened to Shadid. He’d glimpsed him cowering beside the bulkhead before Khoury threw himself overboard. Khoury floated momentarily, glimpsed the words Etna and Ramsgate on the stern before he began swimming and someone began shouting.
Somehow, what seemed like hours later, Khoury made it ashore. Half in, half out of the surf, he had retched. It took a few minutes for him to regain his breath. He began to shiver. He was drained, every muscle ached, his throat sore from gulping down seawater when a wave had caught him. He breathed deeply, taking air into his straining lungs. He had to move, it wasn’t safe here. But he stood for a moment, water dripping off him. His clothes were sodden, the fabric cold against his skin. He shivered in the night air.
In the moonlight, he’d been able to see a white cliff before him, sand and rock all around. There was a faint tw
inkle of lights, which meant people, so he decided to head that way.
After stumbling along for ten minutes or so, Khoury reached a concrete esplanade and a few small wooden huts. Were these tiny homes? Did people live here? They all looked shuttered. He needed somewhere to dry himself; somewhere to sleep that was out of the way. He expected the men from the boat would come looking for him. In a way, that’s what he wanted, because, as they said back home, one who cooks poison should taste it. But, at the moment, he wasn’t ready. Too wet, weak, too cold.
All the huts were fastened up tight, so Khoury collected a heavy rock from the beach below. As he swung the rock at the first of the two locks on the door, it slipped out of his frozen fingers. Shivering, he picked up the stone and tried again, this time catching the metal hard enough to rip the screws out of the wood. When he was done, he tossed the shattered catches away, shot the bolts, swung back the door, and peered within.
In the moonlight, he saw the interior was a surprisingly neat space. A bench along the back with a curtain hanging below, shelves on either wall, hooks for towels, various beach paraphernalia and toys, stuff for toddlers. He spotted a set of toddler swim wings and flashed back to his little girl’s first time in the water. Laila, his daughter. Laila, Shadid’s niece. She’d flapped her little arms, giggling “Baba! Baba!” as she splashed him. Overhead was a lantern which he switched on, then pulled the doors closed behind him.
In the dim glow, Khoury undertook a more thorough search. He found towels and a hoodie, which appeared a bit small, though would have to do. He discarded his wet shirt, vigorously towelled himself dry and dragged on the too-tight top. If he tugged at the sleeves to stretch them they just about ran to his wrists. He took a knife out of his pocket, put it on the floor, then pulled off his trousers and dried his legs. Finally, he hung a couple of towels over his shoulders for additional warmth.
But he couldn’t be a beggar acting like a rich man. A beggar was what he’d become during his transit across Europe. No longer a teacher who helped others; now someone who lived by their good or ill. Usually the latter.