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Authors: Olumide Popoola

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BOOK: Breach
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Please let her move on now. She doesn’t. She’s tugging at the straps of her backpack, trying to take it off and zip it open. ‘He’s so young,’ she’s saying. Meaning me. ‘You can see how much he’s been through,’ she says. ‘And he doesn’t understand French either.’

One of the others says, ‘Well, OK then.’

She reaches into her backpack and out comes a small box. It’s a radio. You wind it up, she shows me how. ‘You can listen to your own people,’ she tells me in a loud voice, slowly. ‘News from home.’

We never take donations. Ghostman’s rule. But this radio is kind of cool. I mime big gratitude, tuck it in my pocket, wave at her as they move on. Finally.

But Mouse must have seen something and then reported. Back at our place, Ghostman tells me to give it to him.

‘Give what?’ I say. I lift my arms and Mouse frisks me. The radio’s hidden by now. He finds nothing.

Ghostman slaps my face.

‘We take nothing from those people,’ he says. ‘Ever.’

That’s one of his rules for them too – anyone who wants to get across must set out from the camp in his
or her own clothes, no donated shoes or coats or shirts or trousers or skirts.

He turns back towards his tent.

‘Why not?’ I ask. ‘Why can’t we take things from them?’

We never question his rules. The others wait for him to hit me again. I’m ready for it.

But he doesn’t hit me. Weakness. He talks instead.

‘You look,’ he tells me. ‘You look carefully at those trainers they bring, those boots, those jackets. You’ll find something small and hard,’ he tells all of us. ‘Tracking devices.’

The others are nodding. ‘You can’t trust them,’ Mouse says.

‘Why do they bring old clothes?’ another one says. ‘It’s suspicious, right? Why not real help?’

They’re all nodding. Here comes a long night of stories and politics. Who started the bombing? American planes and British soldiers. And whose father died, whose brother? Swearing and smoking and then weeping for their mothers. I can’t listen to it. I follow Ghostman into his tent. He hands me a parcel to give them, something for their night off: pills, weed, I don’t know what. He knows I don’t touch it, I don’t need it. I don’t listen to talk about mothers and I don’t need drugs.

‘Is it true,’ I ask him, ‘what you said about tracking devices?’

Again he doesn’t hit me. He tips his head to one side. ‘Might be,’ he says. ‘Doesn’t hurt me to say so.’ He laughs. ‘Doesn’t hurt me at all.’

It’s a more powerful weapon than violence, I can see that. Better than hitting them – make sure they trust no one else.

I trust no one else. I used to trust him but he’s weakening. Now I trust only myself.

 

It happens when I’m with a French girl. She’s older than me but not old and I like her laugh. It’s been a bad night. Police checkpoints on the road. Dogs in the forest. He’s gone back to the camp to sleep, Mouse and the others too, but I wasn’t tired so I came to this club in the town, and I’m standing outside smoking a cigarette, acting like I’m waiting to go back in, listening to the music from inside thudding through the walls, blaring out when the door opens. I light a cigarette for this girl who’s stepped out. She keeps laughing when the wind blows out the lighter flame.

I ask for nothing, I suggest nothing, but when she asks me, I say OK. She’s a little drunk but not too much and I put my arm around her hip when she slips. She isn’t like anyone I know or anyone I knew before. I set myself a challenge: make her laugh.

It’s dawn when I walk back towards the camp. The grey time. She wants to meet me again. I’m thinking, why not?

Then I see the police vans parked under the motorway at the entrance to the Jungle. They park here some days but not often this early. And seldom so many of them.

I slip by them. I know how. After all, I’ve been Ghostboy for two years now.

Men are standing by their tents, and outside shelters and cafés. I keep to the shadows, I listen to the talk, but these guys don’t know anything. Police marching, they say, not searching tents, not fanning out across the camp, they tell each other, just marching directly that way.

They wait. I wait.

We hear the tramp of boots. This is sleeping time in the camp but not this morning. Everyone is awake. Here come the police. I swallow because I think I know what I’m going to see and my stomach is twisting.

His wrists are manacled. His head is bare. More police stride in front and behind and to the side of the two holding his arms, and they all have rifles at the ready, as if someone might try to rescue him. Everyone falls silent as they pass. He’s the only one they take.

There’s a clamour afterwards, like their boots stirred up a wave of voices. Around me, people are talking shit. Oh, this one knew him, that one remembers him, they all hate him but – oh, God – what will they do now? Others will surely charge more now that he’s been caught. How did the police know exactly where to find him? Did one of his people sell him out?

I haven’t slept for many hours, maybe two days and nights, and suddenly I’m dizzy. I lean against the wooden shack wall. I don’t want to think about them bursting into his tent. I don’t want to imagine him, right now, being shoved into a police van. I try to remember the girl,
the French girl, her laugh and her hair falling forward over her eyes.

‘So this is where you are,’ says a voice behind me.

It’s Mouse. I look down at his feet. He always sleeps with his trainers on, in case he has to run.

‘Mouse,’ I say. I forget for a moment that I never call him that out loud, but he doesn’t say ‘What?’ or ask me why.

‘There’s people,’ he says, ‘who want to speak with Ghostman.’

I nod.

‘So,’ he says, ‘I’ll bring them to your tent.’

Enitan is hammering. It’s supposed to become what he calls the hospital. Somewhere dry and sheltered. Wooden pallets fixed together, more solid than the canvas of the tents and the tarpaulins. The tent where Enitan sleeps is there, right next to the wood and his tools. On the other side of the clearing, by the spacious shack, a queue has formed. It is drizzling.

This queue breathes: men are chatting and pushing forward in a friendly way, checking out what’s happening inside the tent. A woman with blonde curls that fall into her face when she tilts it, which she does often, is attentive and fast-working. The other barber is a man with tight-cropped curls. He frowns a lot, taking a step back, rocking on his heels, hand still on his customer’s head, brushing away stray clippings, tousling the hair into the right shape.

Ramzi is standing in line with the others. Farrukh recognises his slumped posture from when he saw him with his mates at the water taps yesterday. That’s when he found out his name.

‘You from the UK?’

Ramzi nodded. There wasn’t a reason not to answer – Farrukh didn’t want anything from him: We’re just killing time. We’re all here, innit, not like one of us got a golden ticket. Ramzi didn’t look at him, though.

Eventually one of his mates said, ‘Today not good. You from UK?’ He pointed at Farrukh.

‘Yeah, man.’

‘He too, from Newcastle.’ He pointed at Ramzi. ‘Why you here?’

‘I need to get back, man.’

‘He too.’

Ramzi was detached, not engaging at all. Like the guy said, it wasn’t his day.

‘He is Ramzi. From Afghanistan but also from UK.’

Farrukh nodded and left. He could always wash a bit later. No need for bad energy because some guy was having an extra bad day.

 

Ramzi still looks depressed. He does need a haircut; really needs it. His black strands are tied at the back but some fall out over his face. He can’t pull this one off, not this bloke; the long strands pull him down, making his face even sadder.

Farrukh tries again. Would be rude not to.

‘Hi.’

‘You all right?’

‘Getting your hair done?’

‘Yeah. You?’

‘Yeah.’

‘About time.’

‘Yeah.’

Ramzi’s shoulders are up by his ears, maybe because of the drizzle, maybe because he’s cold, maybe because of
fuck off.

‘You from Newcastle?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Why you here, then?’

Farrukh isn’t in the mood to beat around the bush, doesn’t have that sort of patience today.

‘Long story.’

‘Yeah, same.’

The hammering is getting louder. Enitan’s friend has joined, a skinny dark man with a metallic blue jacket. They are fixing slats to the frame. It’s starting to look good. The corner poles are in place and now the sides are going up one pallet slat at a time.

Farrukh turns to them. ‘Nice place you got there.’

But Enitan is distracted.

‘Nice place,’ Farrukh repeats.

‘It’s not for me.’ Doesn’t look like Enitan is in the mood to give him any face time.

‘Why not?’

‘Because I have a place. This is going to be a hospital.’

‘Yeah, you’ve said.’

‘You asked me before?’ Now he’s got Enitan’s attention.

‘No, I heard. You told someone else.’

Enitan is checking Farrukh out, eyes lingering. His phone rings and he straightens up, answers. A young white man with blond dreadlocks comes up from the street with a roll of nylon string in his hand. It’s all different colours: red, blue, green and yellow.

‘Hey, can I have that string?’ someone from the queue shouts.

The dreadlocked guy laughs and shakes his head, then points at Enitan. ‘Sorry, but it’s for him.’ He is aware that he’s carrying a rare commodity, something too useful for people not to try and barter for.

Enitan hands the hammer to his friend, steps out of the wooden frame into the mud and puts his hand up, asking the dreadlocked volunteer to wait while he’s on the phone.

Farrukh hasn’t so much but blinked, he’s following every move.

‘That guy is connected; he can get anything.’

Ramzi is lost. What is the point here exactly?

‘His new place?’

‘No, he’s making something for the camp. First aid, classrooms, something else I forgot.’

‘Why?’

‘Someone has to. It’s good, innit.’ Farrukh is tense.

‘I can feel the water underneath my sleeping mat when it rains.’

Farrukh is still watching Enitan, who is making big gestures while he talks.

‘You gotta make yourself a better place, man. Find some wood. Anything. You can’t just give up. Ramzi is your name, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Ramzi, that guy there, he is, like, busy. Watch him. If you want to make it here you gotta get busy.’

Ramzi’s frame tightens. ‘How long have you been here?’

‘Five weeks. Supposed to have been a quick stop. I lost my temper. Wasn’t supposed to be here.’

‘No one is supposed to be here,’ Ramzi says.

Farrukh is surprised. Didn’t look like Ramzi had it in him, this talking back.

 

A new family arrives. It’s obvious by the way they look around the clearing, they have no idea where anything is. The volunteer who is leading them stops, points to the barber. The two women are led away by the tall man, whose hoodie has
One Love
written over its back. The young boy follows his mother, his hands holding on to the outside of her legs to help him spin around.

The men have joined the line.

‘I have been living in the UK from time. Already had grant to stay and all.’

‘Yeah.’

Farrukh turns to the new arrivals.

‘You have tents? They give them out in that caravan over there.’ The pink van is parked on the other side of the clearing.

‘They make a place for us.’

Farrukh approves. ‘That’s good. Your family?’ The other man, who looks like a younger version of the father, is barely in his twenties.

‘Yes.’ The father introduces himself. ‘We’re from Sinjar, Kurds from Iraq.’

Farrukh turns back to Ramzi. ‘I’m just saying, ’cause I have seen you and you don’t look like you’re in good shape. You need to get busy. Don’t let it get you down. Just saying. No offence meant.’

The small boy comes running from behind a tent. His trainers soak up the damp through the holes in the soles. Mud splashes up his legs. He is giggling, running fast, his father chasing after him.

Ramzi is on snooze, hasn’t said anything, but Farrukh keeps talking. ‘I shouldn’t be here. Left ages ago, like when I was really young, innit. Been up in Leeds. Now I’m stuck here, can’t get back.’

Farrukh wants to chat, but Ramzi is stalling him like a clutch stuck in neutral.

All of a sudden Enitan shouts, ‘Wait for me, just one minute.’ He jumps down the rise between the clearing and the camp road beneath and walks off with the dreadlocked volunteer. As if on cue, Enitan’s skinny friend puts down the hammer, pulls a piece of tarpaulin over the wooden frame, sits underneath and wraps his arms around himself, the blue of his jacket bright.

The queue is getting smaller; only the new family,
Ramzi and Farrukh are left. The woman with the blonde curls steps out of the tent.

‘Quick break.’ She smiles.

Ramzi does a good job, his smile is convincing, his face no longer looks like he has gum disease.

‘You can go first,’ Farrukh offers.

‘That is nice of you.’ Ramzi is not impressed.

The father is throwing his little son high up in the air, catching him, arms outstretched. The sun breaks through the trees at the back of the clearing. The boy is happy and shrieking.

‘Do you remember when you first arrived?’ Ramzi asks.

‘In Britain?’

Ramzi nods.

‘Of course.’

‘I mean the first thing that happened.’

‘Yeah, I do.’

‘First British person I met was a policeman. Opened the lorry and said, “Welcome to England.” Then they took me to prison.’ Ramzi says it like it wasn’t even him, like it’s some random piece of information that doesn’t belong to him.

Farrukh laughs. ‘That’s what they do. How old were you?’

‘Thirteen.’

‘Did you shit yourself?’

Ramzi is back on minimum exertion, no reaction. Maybe Farrukh is pushing his luck. He is shifting from
one foot to the other – it’s cold, that drizzle has made him uncomfortable. But he can’t leave Ramzi here. He has to wait, see what the barber can do with this sad face. They are both good but the guy knows a thing or two about changing the men with a new cut.

‘I was thirteen. Some guys I knew died in a car boot. I was lucky. I was in a lorry, there was air,’ Ramzi offers.

‘I know what you mean. I shat myself. Like proper. I was only fifteen, innit.’

‘Yeah.’

The little boy is running around again, his arms spread wide, turning and making the noise of a plane engine.

‘How old?’ Farrukh asks.

The father holds up four fingers.

The woman barber stubs her cigarette out on a stone.

Ramzi turns to the younger relative. ‘Go. You just arrived. You got lots of things to do.’

The male barber is now available too. Ramzi and Farrukh both nod towards the father, catch each other, look away. The father puts his hands together in prayer, bows.

‘How long have you been here?’ Farrukh says.

‘Two months,’ Ramzi replies.

Enitan is climbing back up the mound from the road.

‘What is it with you and this guy?’

‘Nothing.’ Farrukh’s tone is sharp. ‘I just find him, don’t know, he is like always doing something.’

Ramzi scoffs. ‘Just now you told me to get busy. Which one is it?’

But Farrukh is again fixed on Enitan, who is standing in front of the frame, hammer in hand. His friend is still squatting underneath the plastic, head hanging over his bent knees.

‘Doesn’t look like he wants to work any more.’ Farrukh’s voice is high now.

‘He’s tired,’ Enitan replies. He says it like
I’m tired of you.

He holds a piece of wood, fishes some nails out of his jeans pocket, props the wood up with his elbow and uses his left hand to hold a nail, then begins to hammer with his right hand.

‘You have a lot of tools.’ Farrukh has moved closer. ‘I might want to borrow some.’

‘I don’t give them out. If you need to you can use them here, but they can’t leave this place unless I’m there too.’

‘How am I going to use it here? I’m on the other side of the road, Iranian section.’ Farrukh is standing with his hands in his jeans.

Enitan does not reply. Hammering seems to be his number-one priority.

‘You got to be kidding me? Just let me borrow them, mate.’ Farrukh’s winding him up.

‘Sorry, can’t give them out.’ Enitan places a couple of nails between his teeth.

‘Why not?’ Hiding his anger isn’t part of Farrukh’s repertoire, but Enitan is all Zen and calm, starting on the next slate.

The young Kurdish man is leaving the barber’s tent with the sides of his head shaved.

Ramzi taps Farrukh on the shoulder.

‘He’s full of himself,’ Farrukh snorts.

‘Not really, mate. Would you just give away your stuff? Maybe if you asked a little nicer.’ Ramzi seems to have all the insights. Suddenly.

The Kurdish father is leaving the barber’s tent too.

Farrukh wants to shout over to Enitan, say that he needs the tools, but his throat is on fire. His fingers turn white from squeezing them inside his pockets.

The woman barber calls, ‘OK, ready.’

Ramzi gives Farrukh a little push.

‘I’ll wait here if I’m finished first.’

‘Nowhere to go anyway, is there?’

 

After, Ramzi catches Farrukh walking off, sliding down the mound towards the road. Enitan is still hammering in the background.

‘Why did you talk to me?’

‘Why not?’

‘You made such an effort. Many guys to talk to here.’

‘You already know England, innit. Not everyone speaks good English here. Ever noticed?’

Farrukh stops in the middle of the path.

‘I just wanted to talk. Chat, you know.’

‘Why are you here?’

‘My mother is sick. I wanted to see her. I came here to get smuggled back to Iran. Can’t really go with a visa, can I, while I’m waiting for my indefinite stay.’

‘I see.’

‘You see what?’ Farrukh’s head is jerking around.

‘I understand.’ Ramzi pauses for a second, then starts again. ‘OK, you’re fed up with me now, but you the one that bugged me. Make up your mind next time.’

He calls after a guy and trots to catch up with him. In less than a second Farrukh is beside him.

‘I’m not annoyed with you. Just this place.’

He holds out his hand. Ramzi isn’t in the mood but Farrukh keeps his hand there, steady, until Ramzi shakes it.

‘Why are you so depressed, man?’ Farrukh is pretending it’s not been him, doom and gloom all afternoon, ready to burst.

‘Why? I’m stuck here.’

‘We’re all stuck here. It’s not for ever.’

‘How do you know?’ Ramzi is waving for his friend, further up, to move on.

‘I’m waiting for my papers to go through. I shouldn’t have left Leeds. I even tried to get back, went to the police here and told them everything so they could deport me to England.’

The laughter breaks out of Ramzi like he has been waiting for a good one for a while. ‘How did that work out for you?’

‘They said it’s not their problem.’

‘You crack me up. You pretend to be all smart and stuff, that you know how to do this, and you go to the police?’

‘I know.’

Embarrassment isn’t even the word. Everyone has told Farrukh this. Everyone. Police and refugees, not a great combination here. He was lucky they didn’t drive him far away and release him in the middle of a field somewhere.

‘My mother begged me not to come, but I was already here. I had to do something. Not my brightest moment, I know.’

Farrukh thinks about how he left. Long time ago. The walking to Turkey. Then in a lorry, being handed over from one smuggler to another, until he was finally in England, at the police, then foster care. All went well, over the years, kind of, if not for his little problem. His temper. Always getting him into trouble because he can’t wait for the fog in his head to clear. His indefinite stay was practically a formality, yet here he was, squatting like the new arrivals.

BOOK: Breach
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