AllFreeNovel
Share Us
‘I’m informing the detective in charge of a murder investigation that I can’t interview possible witnesses until tomorrow because private security guard Gary Parkinson won’t give me access.’
He hesitates. ‘Who said anything about murder?’
‘I did. Just now.’
Hitching up his trousers, the guard walks back to his booth and returns with paperwork. Minutes later, the boom gate pivots upwards on a counter-weight, and Florence takes us along the gravel access road, parking near the admin building.
Across an old parade ground, dozens of migrants and asylum seekers are sheltering beneath shade-cloth and trees. Young children are playing with bright plastic toys and a painted pull-along wagon.
Florence approaches the nearest group and asks if any of them are recent arrivals. The women, many with headscarves, turn their faces away from me. A man approaches. He’s in his thirties with a full beard and deep brown eyes.
‘Can I help you?’ he asks in impeccable English.
‘I’m a lawyer,’ says Florence. ‘I’m looking for any of the migrants who arrived by boat on Saturday morning.’
‘What sort of lawyer?’
‘I can help you with asylum claims.’
The man laughs bitterly. ‘They’re going to send us back. No exceptions.’
‘They can’t do that. Under the Human Rights Act, everyone has the right to seek asylum.’
‘Yet, here we are, locked up like criminals.’
‘You’re being processed.’
He looks at me, as though I might offer him more hope.
‘Where are you from?’ I ask.
‘Lebanon. My name is Mikhail. I’m a Christian. My uncle is a politician. He was murdered by the Hezbollah. If I go back, they will kill me too.’
Florence gives him her business card. ‘Call my office.’
Mikhail studies the cardboard square, as if memorising the details.
‘We’re trying to find anyone who left Calais four days ago,’ I say. ‘Another boat left the beach at the same time.’
‘Yes. We left together,’ says Mikhail. He takes out his mobile phone and opens a video. The footage shows a young boy on the sand, with his arms wrapped around his mother’s legs. Behind her, men are standing waist-deep in water, holding an inflatable boat steady as waves roll past them. Beyond the broken water, a wide, black sea stretches out into the darkness. The time code on the footage is 20.42.
The camera pans to reveal a second RHIB. A lone man is bent over the outboard motor, trying to get it started. People are standing in the water, waiting to get on board. Most are not wearing life-jackets. The mother is lifted on board the first boat, clutching a bag to her chest. A man wades back to the beach and picks up her child, a small boy, and lifts him over the waves. I remember the boy I carried from the water. He was about the same age. My chest hurts.
‘Why didn’t the boats cross together?’ I ask.
‘They weren’t given permission to go.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘They had no money . . . no permission. We paid.’ He rubs his thumb and two fingers together.
‘Permission from whom?’
He makes a shushing sound, wanting me to lower my voice. His own drops to a whisper. ‘The Ferryman.’
‘Who is that?’
‘The man who must be paid.’
