Bridge 108

by Anne Charnock

  I drift into a daydream. It’s a daydream I repeat most days, and it always starts as I imagine a voice asking, “Have you heard about Caleb?” In this daydream, I return home and meet my friend Leo. We hug one another. He steps back, looks me up and down. He laughs in surprise that I’ve done so well for myself. I’m rich. It’s a simple dream, but I have a bigger dream now, for I’ve rescued my mother. I’ve rescued her from the psych wing of the Dover Detention Centre. No, wait . . . it’s easier to imagine something else . . . My mother is sent to a hospital in Spain while I’ve stayed in England to make my fortune. And with my fortune made, I’ve tracked her down. I skip over the details, because you can in a dream. This is what I see: My mother is living in our old home with her own nurse, while I live in a big house nearby. And even though water is still in short supply, let’s face it, a rich person can survive anywhere. Whatever the shortages, they spend their way out of all their problems.

  The dream tells me it’s too soon to go back home.

  In the canteen I spot Javier and head over to him, but my legs are stiff. I froze solid when Officer Sonia told me about Mother, and I can’t thaw out. I sit opposite Javier. He’s leaning over his plate, spooning food into his mouth like he’s never lifted anything so heavy.

  “Hey, bad day?” I ask.

  He grunts. “No new arrivals. Shovel rubbish at incinerator. All fucken day.”

  Before I start to eat, I say, “Javier, tell me about those buildings, the ones you lived in with those other people.” I speak slowly and watch his face to see if he understands. “Y’know, when you were caught by immigration.”

  He looks up. “Why?”

  “Thinking ahead. When I get out of here, I want to find an old building, an empty one, abandoned. Set up my own fish tanks and go into business. Understand?”

  Under his breath, a long slow “Whoa.” He puts down his spoon. He almost laughs, more like a gargle. “Big ideas, man. Give me a job?”

  Ignoring his sarcasm, I play it straight. “Sure thing, Javier. So, how did you survive? Where did you find food? Because I’ll need time to get the operation up and running.”

  “Thieving. From gardens, houses.”

  “You were caught breaking in?”

  “Not me. Another guy. Police followed and found us all. Too many migrants in one building. Big problem.”

  “It’s safer to go it alone. Is that what you’re saying?”

  He nods, goes back to his food.

  Looking up at the ceiling from my bunk, I admit the truth to myself. Forgot my own rule, didn’t I? Be prepared. Over the last few years, all I’ve thought about is finishing my indentures. I’m not ready to do a runner. When I first arrived here, it was different. I thought night and day about how to escape because the camp was far worse than I expected. Skylark was right. Jerome was wrong. He made indentures sound like the sensible thing to do. But there’s never enough food. It’s baking hot in the summer, freezing cold in the winter, and we can’t leave the camp. I spent one week on starvation rations because I swore in Spanish on the football pitch. No one told me it was a prison.

  Old escape plans. Yeah, I thought about escaping with the vehicles leaving the camp—the rubbish trailers leaving the power-from-waste plant, or the transporters from the aquaponics warehouse. I can’t remember when exactly, but I lost the hunger to do that. Probably around the time I set myself a new goal, to become the best labourer at the fish tanks.

  I’ve no stash of food, no extra clothes, no torch, no nothing.

  I swear, the one and only chance is tomorrow morning. Even then I might be too late if I’m taken away first thing. My breath shivers inside my chest. I close my eyes and concentrate. I have one advantage that I didn’t have when I first arrived: I know how to create a diversion. Too bad I don’t have time for a practice run.

  Six of us carry tilapia boxes from the warehouse to the loading bays. Back and forth. I’m hot already—I’ve kept my sweatpants on under my overalls. Holden stands by the first transporter. He doesn’t lift a finger to help. We stack the boxes inside, and I try to drag my feet, slow things down, but it’s impossible. We do this job week in and week out. We’re on automatic. With the last six boxes loaded, Holden slams the rear doors and sets the destination: this one is heading for the Liverpool wholesale market, and it’s packed with the biggest tilapia. Two more transporters need to be packed—one for the Manchester market, and a smaller one for W2, the nearby enclave.

  It’s all about timing. We load the Manchester transporter, and Holden sets the destination. Off it goes, through the inner and outer gates, with little interest shown by the guard. When the smallest transporter is half-filled, with boxes stacked floor to roof, we trail back to the warehouse. I hang back. The others pick up more boxes and are returning to the loading area when I lay my hands on my next box, as if to lift it up. They’re out of sight. I run to the aquaponics control panel and switch off the main aeration pump.

  I reappear in the loading area, add my box to the top of the pile.

  “Get a fucken move on,” says Holden.

  “Stone in my boot,” I mumble.

  We load another twenty-four boxes between us. I’m sweating, and I get the whole frozen-legs thing again when the alarm rings inside the warehouse. We all stop and look at Holden.

  “What the hell?” he says. He charges back inside and we all follow, me hanging back again. When they all disappear inside the warehouse, I twist around, hotfoot to the transporter, open the side door. I lift out half a stack of boxes—it’s all I can manage—and take them to the rear, push them inside. Return to the side door, climb in, and close the door behind me. I crouch there—there’s no room to stand—and I ask myself: What do I have to lose? What’s the worst that can happen? If I’m found, I’ll be beaten up and then deported with my mother. And all the years I’ve spent in England will be wasted. All totally pointless.

  “Hurry up. Load those and that’ll do.” Holden’s pissed off.

  The back doors slam closed. The transporter silently moves away from the loading area. I place my hands on the stacks to the side and front to steady myself. Even so, I lurch as the vehicle stops between the automated inner and outer gates. Another lurch. The outer gates have surely opened. Am I out? Yes, I’m out.

  Why didn’t I do this before?

  I tap my head against the boxes. Father would kill me for this. I feel shame for the first time. It burns me. But it’s not fair. It’s not my shame, it’s my father’s. Father was the one who fucked up. I’d tell him straight if I ever saw him again: You fucked up. Why did you leave without us? Why did you ever believe that was a good idea? Why didn’t we all leave years earlier?

  I know Mother wouldn’t recognise me. There’s no point being reunited. Her eyes were dead. She’s not the same person. She’s not my mother.

  In her right mind, she’d want me to take this chance. I believe that. I’ve no doubt.

  I hear sounds. Other vehicles. Stop-start for two or three minutes. Does Holden know I’m missing? He always skives off after we’ve loaded. With luck he won’t notice until after I’ve reached the enclave.

  Is W2 the same as Ma Lexie’s enclave? The same street patterns?

  I’ll be ready to run when the transporter’s door locks are released. How far have I travelled now? Damn. I should have counted the seconds, the minutes. It occurs to me, the last time I made a real quick decision, when I ran off with Odette, that was a giant mistake. I groan.

  The transporter stops and reverses. This must be it. Voices . . . someone calls, “Oy! Over here.” I hear the locks release. The back doors open. Shafts of light between the stacked boxes. Too soon to run. Wait. Wait for them to get busy. Minutes seem to pass.

  A male voice again. “Oy! Come on!”

  Another voice. “Hold your bob hat on.” Laughter.

  Now. Before anyone climbs inside. While they’re fooling around.

  I can’t feel my feet. They’re numb with pins and needles, but I open the
door and climb down. The open rear door shields me from the labourers at the back. I’m near blinded by the morning sun, and I start walking, fearing I might fall before my legs find their strength. No time to work out where I am.

  Side glances: other vehicles, porters with trolleys, rough ground. Keep my head down. Head for the edge of whatever this is. I don’t look back. I spot a group of porters, squatting like they’re playing cards. All eyes on the ground between them. I see a shirt thrown over a trolley. I nick it as I stride past because I need to get out of these camp overalls and cover up my camp T-shirt. No one shouts, and I head straight for a street leading off from this open area. I guess the market square is somewhere close by.

  It all comes flooding back. The streets just wide enough for two rubbish trailers to scrape past one another. Narrow alleys leading off. I look up to the top of the building. The same. Four floors. Shutters, some open, most of the higher ones closed against the sun. Rooftop activity on both sides of the street, but from this angle I can’t tell what those activities are. I take a sharp right into the entrance to a housing block. A concrete stairway faces me. I can’t hear anyone. I struggle out of my boots and overalls, pull on the shirt. Boots back on. Chuck the overalls to the back of the hallway, under the stairs.

  I’d be an idiot to hope for the best. Always assume the worst. Holden knows I’ve escaped; he knows I hid in the transporter, that I’m somewhere in the enclave. The alarm has already been rung, word has gone out to the local police—and to immigration. To Officer Sonia. I must hide until dark and then head off to the forests on the distant hills. Keep off the roads. I won’t risk stealing anything else. I’ll have to go hungry. But where to hide?

  All’s quiet on the stairwell and I walk up, trying to look innocent, like I’m going to see a friend. At the top-floor landing, I step up to the roof access and try the door handle. It’s locked. I return to the landing and look across through the windowless opening. Check the neighbouring roofs. Difficult to tell what kind of businesses are going on up there. I return to the street, walk three blocks, duck into another block of flats. Listen. I hear footsteps in the stairwell. Out I go again. Hopefully, the next block will be quiet. There I go: hoping. I need to concentrate. But I can’t walk these streets much longer. I look up and I catch sight of clothes on a line, on a roof. A laundry? I slip into the building, climb the stairs, up to the roof access, and the steel door is open.

  There’s a man with his back to me, taking a sheet down from a line. I step onto the roof, sneak like a cat across to the far end of the roof and kneel down among the solar arrays. It’s near perfect. With the clothes and sheets wafting, I’m well hidden. I couldn’t have hidden like this on Ma Lexie’s roof. It was too open. No, this is good.

  The man returns to the roof every hour through the rest of the morning and afternoon, and not once does he lock the roof access door. It’s a different setup to the one I knew before. No illegal workers. I guess, when he’s carrying laundry, wet or dry, he doesn’t want to mess with a lock. Anyway, there’s nothing valuable up here.

  I’m keeping an eye on the washing lines. I’d like to leave the roof with a warmer top for the night. I’ll allow myself that, one more theft.

  But when should I leave the roof? Too soon, and I’m exposed during daylight. Too late, and I risk getting locked on the roof at night. Because I can’t rule that out as a possibility. He might lock the door when he takes down the last dry clothes.

  Late afternoon, he reappears with another wet load. When he leaves the roof once again, I slip across to a rooftop standpipe, cup my hands, gulp down water and return to my hideout among the arrays. My hunger goes away with my stomach full of water. The streets below become noisier, children’s voices too. I feel the urge to leave, but I know it’s still too soon. But, jeez, if he locks up, I’ll have to stay up here another day.

  I find myself on my feet. Another bad decision? I cross the roof, stooping. I reach up and take a padded shirt off the line—I’ve had my eye on it for an hour at least. If I don’t nab it now, the man will take it away. I fold it up and push it under my arm. I listen but my ears are ringing, just like my last moments on Ma Lexie’s roof. I rush to the steel door, and, as I reach towards it, I hear footsteps on the stairs. I can’t back off. The man pushes against the door with his palm, I barge past, knocking him hard against the wall, and I charge down the stairs. I reach the third floor before the man yells. I must have winded him. And I’m out on the street when I hear him shout from the roof. “Eh! Stop him!”

  I dive down the first alley to the right, walking as fast as I dare, trying not to attract attention. Take the first street to the left, then the first alley to the right again. Zigzagging, slowing down to a steady walk. I shake out the shirt. It’s patterned with green and brown leaves, but the inside is plain. I turn it inside out and pull it on over my first stolen shirt. A mother and child approach me, holding hands. The child jumps and skips while her mother takes long easy steps. Both smiling. They don’t even glance at me.

  Feels like six o’clock. Two hours until dusk, possibly. How to kill time? I’m tempted to lurk around the workshops on the edge of the enclave, position myself to make my run to the forest as soon as it’s dark. But why take the risk of being spotted? Instead, I squeeze myself behind the rubbish bins at the final housing block. Not ideal. If anyone notices me here, what can I say? I won’t be able to talk my way out of it. If I’m hiding, I must be in trouble.

  After an hour, I’m cramping in my thighs. I shift to a kneeling position. I wish I had knee pads.

  When it’s as dark as it’s likely to get here inside the enclave, and I’m daring myself to make a move, I hear someone humming a tune, and they’re coming towards the bins. Whoever it is lifts the lid of the tall metal bin in front of me. The lid clanks closed. I don’t know why, but I take it as a warning, a signal to go.

  Javier was right. It’s best to go it alone. And I’m not so lonely now. It’s starting to feel quite normal. Truth is, I’m not completely alone. I wish I’d learned about birds at school, their songs. Why don’t they teach you anything useful? The birds in England must be different from the ones back home, but I can guess the names of two or three that I hear in the forest. Like the woodpecker. I knew the name of this bird before I ever heard one in the wild—here. Wherever here is, some distance south of the River Mersey is all I know. I’m sure it’s a woodpecker. I think it visits the dead oak tree by the clearing.

  Everyone knows owls, but I swear no one hears as many as I do. Two families of owls live on opposite sides of this wooded valley. They call to one another, and their hooting can last an hour or more, but not every night. When they start their calling, I stop whatever I’m doing to listen. I can’t help it—I remember Ma Lexie’s dress, the pattern. I see her walking ahead of me on the roof.

  The owls don’t know I exist, or I don’t think so. They don’t care if I’m cold, if my tarp leaks in the night. But some of our problems are the same. They need to eat. They don’t want any other owls invading their patch. The difference between the owls and me is this: I am on my own, while they stick together as a family. I’m pleased to share the night with them.

  Mainly, I’m not too lonely because I’m busy. It’s a full-time job living in the wild, and I’m getting to like it.

  Last week, I moved my camp in a single day—a breakthrough for me after seven weeks in the forest. I’m better organised, and I need to be, with all the gear I’ve collected. I like to break camp every six or seven days, partly because I feel safer shifting around, and partly because the ground gets muddy if I stay too long in one place. That depends on the weather, how much it rains. At first, I picked bad sites and I had no choice but to move on. I learned that a dip in the ground might make me feel safe, better hidden, but it’s the first place to fill with water. And when it rains here, it rains heavy. Nothing worse than waking up soaked to the skin. Also, when I pick a site, I look up into the trees. I could be crushed in my sleep if a strong win
d rips off a dead branch.

  My first break-ins were garden sheds. I found my tarp and a solar cooker, knives, ropes, a spade, containers for water, a bucket and an axe. It’s surprising how many people keep tinned food in their sheds, like they’ve planned for the apocalypse. Now that I have the basics for living in the wild, I set out to rob houses with a mental shopping list. Helps me to focus, and to get in and out of properties as fast as I can. But I wish I could find a tent because that would help me stay in the woods until spring. By then, I’ll feel safe to walk out of hiding. Though as time goes on, I like the idea of staying outdoors like this.

  I broke into one house three weeks ago, the door left unlocked, and took a pile of winter clothing and a pair of hiking boots. Three bottles of whiskey too. My first taste of alcohol, real alcohol. I’ve had wine before, but never spirits. I take one slug of whiskey as I go to bed, enough to get me to sleep, and another when I wake up, to get myself going on these damp mornings. So, I’ve added spirits to every shopping list. I only wish I wasn’t scared shitless when I go inside a stranger’s house.

  No one has seen me out here in the woods. Or if they have, they haven’t bothered me. But I really pushed my luck one time, leaving the forest during a half-moon to climb an escarpment. I wanted to see the surrounding land. I stayed there until first light, and below me I saw a wide sweeping waterway. But, more exciting, I saw a straight line of water catching the orange rays of the sun. I felt a strong pull from that line of water. I felt tempted for a moment.

  Today I plan to walk half an hour over difficult ground to a small group of houses that I’ve been watching during the past week. I’ve memorised the habits of the people living there: Who goes out to work and at what time. Who stays home most of the day. Who has visitors. How many deliveries are made and at what time they usually turn up. I haven’t stolen anything from these houses yet. I hope the man who lives in the house nearest my route—the one I aim to hit today—leaves a window unlocked. If I can’t get into the house, I’ll take food from his vegetable plot and try next-door’s house. If that fails, I’ll open a couple of sheds. So, this is my eighth day, and this is the day I’ll do my thieving, and tomorrow I’ll move camp.