Illegals - Caroline Harbord

January brought the first really cold weather of the winter. Sometime during the second week it began to snow, adding yet more misery to the cold, hungry and despondent inhabitants of ‘The Jungle’ on the outskirts of Calais. The immigrants, in their hastily-built cardboard and plastic shacks, closed inadequate flaps against the icy winds, and thus created, in the warm and fetid interior, a perfect breeding ground for tuberculosis and pneumonia.

Twenty miles to the north, across the English Channel, the little town of Dover woke to a world of sparkling white. At Immigration Control, Junior Officer Malcolm Adjeh diverted his mind from the pleasurable contemplation of the naked and extremely willing body of his next-door neighbour, and wondered if someone had turned down the heating; his feet were cold.

Deputy Chief Immigration Officer Nathan Smith, tall, bulky and greying fast, was preparing to start another week, unhappily aware that, eleven days into the New Year and despite his best resolutions, the depressing spiral of disgust, despair and anger were back. He looked speculatively at the girl sitting opposite. She reminded him of Tabitha: small, dark, sleek and slightly predatory, sitting in that loose-limbed way that cats have, her eyes half-closed, her claws well-sheathed - for the moment. On her lap was a small squirming bundle.

“What do we know?” he enquired of Adjeh.

The younger man squinted at his file, “Came in late last night on a lorry from Calais. There’s her, the baby and a man. There were several others on the lorry but they’re a different ethnic group, all Somalis.”

“The lorry driver?”

“Oh you know, the usual, didn’t know they were there, nothing to do with me mate.”

“Do we know where she’s come from? Any paperwork at all?” He knew this was a vain hope. Illegals never travelled with paperwork. If you knew where they came from, you had somewhere to send them back to, and that was the last thing they wanted.

“No, nothing”

“So what do we know?”

“Female, mid to late teens possibly early twenties, probably Lebanese, Palestinian, possibly Syrian, Egyptian or even Iraqi. Clothing typical Arab, nothing to denote origin. Doc says she’s clean, recently given birth, probably two to three weeks ago, which ties in with the baby which is about three weeks old. It’s a boy. Oh by the way, Doc says to make sure she gets plenty of fluids as she’s breast feeding the baby.”

Smith raised his eyes heavenwards. “What do they imagine this is, a bloody hotel? Is the baby hers? Does she speak any English?” Unlikely he knew, but sometimes illegals had a smattering of useful words or phrases picked up in transit.

“No, but one of the Somali women said the baby is the girl’s but it is not the man’s.”

“Yes, apparently there was a bit of a dust-up ‘cos one of the men called her a tom which didn’t go down well. She probably didn’t understand the words but she sure as hell understood the meaning.”

“What do we know of the man? Where is he?”

Adjeh scrutinised his file. “Down the corridor with Bailey; and all we know is that he says he’s her husband; apparently ‘wife’ was a word he knew.”

“So he’s her husband but not the baby’s father. How old is he?” Another check on the file. “Early thirties probably.”

“So we have what appears to be a family group but in all probability isn’t.” Adjeh rifled through the paperwork again. “She had some stuff with her, Sir.”

Smith sighed. The day was already proving to be trying; he really didn’t want the complication of drugs. It was the same day after day, an inexorable tide of miserable humanity banging against the door, trying to get in, wanting a little of what you had. It did him no good to rail at the unfairness of life, why some had so much and others so little; he should leave that to the Church or the politicians.

“OK, What’s that?”

“She was carrying a couple of containers, a plastic one and a sort of glass bottle thing, and some coins .“

“Good God! Hadn’t somebody relieved her of those on the way? How could they have missed them?”

“It seems she had it wrapped up with the baby. Bloody uncomfortable for the poor little thing I’d say.”

‘What was in the containers?”

“The lab’s having a look. That’s why there was a bit of a scare ‘cos you never know, do you. Apparently there was a sort of sticky mush in the bottle — lovely little bottle it was too, not your average glass, all decorated and fancy-like; and the plastic container had some smelly gluey stuff in. The lads were worried it might all go off bang.”

“I presume Mr Lakail is on his way, we can’t do much more without him. “

The girl was now looking at Smith, the same mute appeal in her eyes he had seen thousands of times from girls like her, girls who knew their lives and their children’s lives would be transformed if only he would give the nod. Sadly most of the time he couldn’t let them stay, not because he didn’t think they were deserving, not because he didn’t want them in his country, but because there simply wasn’t enough bloody room or enough bloody money. He didn’t want to think about how much he would be prepared to give up in order to pass just a little to someone like her.

A muttering outside the interview room was followed by a knock and a small smiling man entered. His middle-eastern origins were obvious.

“I gather you needed me, Mr Smith?”

“Ha, Adjeh if it isn’t our friend the interpreter. How are you today Mr Lakail?”

“Oh, you know, not so bad; can’t say I like the snow. Ah, is this the little lady?” He indicated the girl who had lowered her eyes. The baby was awake by now and was waving his arms about.

Smith shifted uncomfortably. He always felt at a disadvantage with Milos Lakail. It was something to do with Lakail being so bloody multi-lingual and Smith only hearing one side of the conversation — a bit like watching a foreign film with subtitles — you felt sure you were missing something.

“All we know is that she came in yesterday with a group of Somalis which are probably nothing to do with her. There’s also a man, possibly her husband, and the baby here which is probably, but not definitely, hers. Also she had some possessions — some money and a couple of containers of stuff. See what you can find out.”

Lakail spoke rapidly to the girl. She looked uncomprehending. So he tried again, a different language. This time she understood, and a stream of words came out. She gesticulated and pointed at them and at the baby. She seemed very distressed. ‘As well she might,’ thought Smith.

“She says her name is Mariam; she’s about 15. Is the man down the corridor? She is very worried about him; says he is her husband but is not the baby’s father. She says they had to come because there was danger. They had to get away. She says they came from somewhere on the Israeli- Palestinian border, she won’t say exactly where.”

“What did she say about the things?”

“Says they were presents for the baby. Given to her for the baby.”

“Ask her who gave her the presents.”

Smith turned to Adjeh. “I don’t suppose the lab gave any indication of timescales did they?” A shake of the head.

Milos Lakail turned to Smith. “She says the men who gave her the presents were strangers, she had never met them before. They just arrived one evening and gave her the presents saying they wanted to give the baby something, and that she should be thinking of leaving as there was trouble brewing, and the things might come in useful.”

“Hmmm. Seems very bloody unlikely to me. People turning up out of the blue and giving you presents. Does she mean that these strangers suggested she came here and gave her the stuff to bring with her? And ask her about the danger. Who does she say was threatening her and why?”

Adjeh realised his boss was thinking along the same lines that he was, but it all seemed a bit unlikely. The drugs trade didn’t normally use illegals they preferred the more sophisticated approach — mules being their current vehicle of choice. And anyway the part of the world was wrong. Drugs rarely came in from there.

This time the conversation between the girl and Lakail was very heated.

“She says it was her husband’s idea to come here, not the strangers.’ They just told her about the authorities and what they were planning to do. She says the baby would have been killed if they’d stayed. I find it hard to follow precisely what she is saying, but from what I can understand, she’s talking about a massacre.”

Smith pursed his lips. “Was she in a camp? Something like the Shatila massacre perhaps; but I’ve not heard anything have you Adjeh? Apart from the normal everyday killings of course. When did this massacre happen?”

“She doesn’t know, and no, she wasn’t in a camp. She thinks it must have happened by now because they left several days ago.”

The questioning continued for about another half- hour but by the end they were no further on.

“She’s going to have to give us more than this if she wants to stay.”

Smith was loath to leave it there but he really couldn’t spend any more time on her, he had five other illegals to interview, and that was before lunch!

As Smith had feared his day went from bad to worse — a man became violent and had to be restrained, and one of the Somali women started screaming and wouldn’t stop. All he wanted was home, supper, bed and wife, in that order. Then he remembered the young Arab girl. He went on a search for Malcolm Adjeh and found him bent over a computer up to his eyes in writing reports.

“How is our little Arab family coming along? Any further news?”

Adjeh didn’t look up from his typing “Chief decided they should go back. They went to Yarlswood this afternoon; probably deportation tomorrow. They don’t like keeping babies there, do they?”

Smith didn’t know why, but he felt a real pang of regret. What a rotten world it was. He knew he’d got fifty thousand times more than she had but of course that wasn’t the point and wasn’t the issue here. They had rules.

Stepping out into the cold evening air, the sky above was alive with whirling snow flakes caught in the illumination of the street lamps, but the ground beneath his feet was already a mess of unpleasant, grey slush created by the feet and the cars of men like him.

Postscript:

“Olibanum” said Adjeh “That’s what it was; comes from the Boswellia tree; smells sweet and is used as incense; you know that stuff they swing around in posh churches, bit like joss sticks; usually known as Frankincense. And the stuff in the plastic container was a gum which you get from the bark of the Commiphora Myrrha. Apparently it’s bitter and aromatic; known as myrrh. And the coins were gold, copper-bottomed real 24 carat gold!”

“Bloody hell!” said Smith, “Gold, frankincense and myrrh. What the effing so and so do those jokers at the lab take us for? I know it’s just past Christmas and all that but you are joking aren’t you?”

“Nope! That’s what it says here.”

Smith and Adjeh looked at each other. The older man sat down heavily in the chair and put his head in his hands. He looked up with a weary smile and said “OK, where’s the donkey?”

Adjeh looked flustered. “Nobody said anything about a donkey. Was there one? How on earth did they get it into the lorry?”

“Don’t panic, Malcolm. I think I was only joking.”

If he didn’t laugh he thought he might cry.