Baghlan Boy

by Michael Crowley

  Farood interrupted, ‘Vinnie, we need to take this man. He’s been here too long.’

  ‘It’s not his turn,’ dismissed Mustapha.

  Farood put his new-found friendship to the test. ‘We decide, right, Vinnie?’

  ‘That’s not how the money works,’ explained Mustapha, patience in his voice.

  ‘I know how the money works,’ said Farood. ‘I was the money once, just like him. You get paid when we take them. You want to get paid, then we take this man along.’

  Mustapha swallowed indignantly; he led Vinnie by the elbow onto the landing. ‘Vinnie, there are rules here. I allowed you to come here. That is unofficial. Then you bring this boy, I don’t know who he is and now he wants to call the shots.’

  Vinnie played calm. ‘Okay, I hear you, Mustapha. I’ll have a word with him and I’ll come back tomorrow – I need to show these people something.’

  ‘What you gonna show them?’

  ‘I’m going to bring them the box they’ll be lying in. With the polystyrene. I don’t want them screaming in the back of the lorry. They need to practise.’

  ‘Okay, just you.’

  ‘Just me.’

  It ended with a handshake, but before their backs were turned Mustapha began dialling his superior.

  Walking back to their apartment Farood was apologetic but adamant that the contractor and traveller alike were getting a bad service from this so-called agent. Vinnie stopped every few hundred metres to pensively roll cigarettes that he didn’t smoke. Outside the block Atherton was facing the elevated bonnet of a recently purchased, long-ago manufactured, blue transit van.

  ‘A Vauxhall, eh?’ stated Vinnie.

  ‘It won’t let you down, Vinnie. I knew a transit once that had four hundred K on the clock. Four hundred! And it wasn’t even the right clock.’

  Atherton twisted in a new spark plug then tenderly applied some grease to the battery terminals. He nodded Vinnie over to a carrier bag containing a few sets of number plates.

  Inside the barren apartment Vinnie slumped into the embrace of an armchair, airing his doubts about the partnership with Mustapha. ‘He’s too casual by far. Too matey with the cargo. He’s not in control of the property or the people in it.’

  Farood testified as an expert witness. ‘In my opinion he is unprofessional. A good agent never gets overcrowded with travellers. Not at this late stage in the journey.’

  ‘So, why do you think he’s so overcrowded?’ asked Vinnie.

  ‘It’s obvious. Because drivers don’t trust him. How much is Mustapha paying you?’

  Vinnie wiped his brow, scratched his nose. ‘Not enough.’ He rose to his feet, looked out at Atherton revving the transit van and tried to join some dots. ‘Roodie, tell me, who pays Mustapha, is it the border-jumpers in his flat?’

  ‘No. Not always, not directly. The first agent, the main agent who the travellers pay one thousand, two thousand dollars to at the beginning of their journey, takes their cut and passes the money on, a piece at a time. Down the line. Into bank accounts, as agents move the people. Except some agents, most agents, always want more money. So, they keep the people, make them work for them, make more money. Sometimes the people never leave Istanbul or wherever. In the end, if families don’t hear from people, that they have made it to France or wherever – they have to be compensated and bad agents get cut out of the chain.’

  ‘We could do with Mustapha being cut out, couldn’t we?’ suggested Vinnie.

  ‘I could do a much better job.’

  ‘How?’ asked Vinnie.

  ‘I just need one phone number out of him. That’s all.’

  ‘Tomorrow then. We take Mustapha out of the picture. What do you say, Farood?’

  ‘It’s why you brought me here, isn’t it?’

  Twenty-Three

  Rotterdam

  The van was reluctant on ignition and shuddered between two minds at traffic lights. Vinnie’s tennis elbow was giving him jip on the shivering gear stick. Farood and Atherton were steadying themselves in the murk of the back. Between them lay a six-foot-long, two-foot-wide cardboard box.

  ‘This van has a nasty smell to it, boys.’

  ‘It’s back here, Vinnie, it’s bad,’ agreed Atherton, squatting with one hand, steadying himself mid-ship.

  Vinnie wound down his window and threw a question into the back. ‘Who did you buy it from?’

  ‘Some random Asian,’ replied Atherton.

  Farood smelled the brown stains that had stuck to his fingers and suppressed a retch.

  ‘What is it?’ Vinnie wanted to know.

  He pulled over, ramped the van up on the pavement and tore open the back. Atherton stepped out, examined his trainer soles. He looked baffled; Farood did not.

  ‘It’s blood.’

  Atherton felt faint enough to sit on the kerb. ‘How do you know?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve seen enough of it. It’ll be animal blood. He’s been slaughtering animals in there.’

  ‘Vinnie, can I sit in the front, please?’ asked Atherton. ‘And I don’t think those border-jumpers are gonna like it in there one bit.’

  Vinnie punched a dent into the bodywork. His eyes switched onto his nephew. ‘Jesus, it’s like a fuckin’ abattoir. Did you not look at this?’

  ‘I was looking at the engine, wasn’t I?’

  ‘Right, you looked at that and thought, It’s pissing oil so I’ll buy it.’

  ‘It wasn’t when I looked at it.’

  ‘Because it wasn’t running when you looked at it, was it?’

  Michael Atherton’s eyes were an admission.

  Vinnie promptly composed himself before continuing. ‘I need to have these people feel at ease. How am I going to do that in these kinds of conditions? We’re involved in a business here and we do things professionally. Understand? I want it cleaned out this afternoon.’

  They drove on to Mustapha’s apartment where Vinnie got out and shouldered a coffin-sized box.

  ‘Right, you two wait twenty minutes before you go in.’

  He made his entrance, Mustapha watching the box nudge up the stairs.

  ‘Are you ready, Mustapha?’

  ‘I was born ready. Ready for what, Vinnie?’

  ‘My demonstration. It’s all in the box. Lead me to my intrepid travellers.’

  Inside the stale departure lounge, Mustapha clapped his hands and a number of people rose from their sleeping bags. Vinnie stood next to him, one arm curled around the waist of the box. People lying on the floor studied his face from within their diminishing dreams, their memories of the past and the future. He appeared to be a magician of sorts or a low-budget undertaker. One or two greeted him with a delicate wave.

  Mustapha compered. ‘I want to introduce the man who is going to take you to the UK. To a new life. To plenty of work and a place of your own. Welcome, Vinnie!’

  Vinnie carefully laid out his prized box. ‘You’re going to get there in my lorry. I’m a good driver, by the way, the best. But while we’re getting on and off the ferry, I’m going to have to hide you. You’ll be well used to that by now.’

  Someone volunteered that they had once hidden in a lorry full of onions and now they can’t eat onions anymore when they used to be keen on them. The interruption was acknowledged before Vinnie progressed on to point two.

  ‘The security people going over vehicles have wands, and these wands detect body heat. So, I have…’

  He prised open the flaps of his box to reveal a shining silver cloak that he encouraged members of the audience to touch.

  ‘This will make you invisible. Pass it amongst you. When you wrap that around you, they won’t be able to pick up your body heat. You lie in this box with this nice warm blanket around you and you wake up in England. Would somebody like to give it a try?’

  The onion g
irl rose to her feet; Vinnie welcomed her into his thermal blanket and then the box. She dipped down and sprung up and insisted on a selfie that he wanted no part of. Once inside the box Vinnie closed the flaps and, for a finale, lifted it onto his shoulder and did a 360-degree turn whilst the girl inside screamed with laughter.

  ‘Anyone got any questions?’

  Farood’s Afghan friend raised his hand cautiously.

  ‘Yes, my friend.’

  ‘How do we breathe?’

  Vinnie was unfazed, was right back at him. ‘Good question. Pass the scissors, please, Mustapha.’

  ‘I have no scissors.’

  Forced to improvise, Vinnie reached for a fork from a deserted Pot Noodle to stab the box a few times. ‘See these holes? There’ll be plenty of these wee holes.’

  Atherton and Farood were stood at next door’s front door, unable to mount the surprise attack. Atherton knocked politely, twice, and no one came. He thumped, first with his fist then with his blood-stained heel. A child on his toes opened the door. They pressed him against the wall and ran up to the knock-through apartment. In the living room two boys kicked a ball about. Atherton confiscated the ball under his arm. He whispered to the boys, ‘Go get Mustapha, say someone wants to see him – in here.’

  The boys ran through the comic strip-style hole to the next apartment. A chair was placed centre stage; Farood pressed his back flat against the wall next to the hole. Atherton bounced the ball and Mustapha appeared at the hole, filling it out like a man at the entrance to a cave.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m your new gaffer,’ announced Atherton.

  Seizing Mustapha by the collar, Farood hauled him to the chair. Atherton swung his instep into his groin, following it up with a thrust punch to the ribs, after which Mustapha settled into his chair.

  Farood flapped his hands. ‘Empty your pockets,’ he said.

  Their prisoner was breathless and submissive.

  Farood snatched his phone. ‘You do this job and you don’t carry a weapon? What’s the pin number?’

  Mustapha grimaced as he recited the numbers.

  Farood rolled the screen. ‘This is the agent in Istanbul, right? Ring him. Tell him you have a new partner now. And know that I understand your mongrel language.’

  Atherton produced a pistol from an ankle holster and ejected the magazine into his palm. He showed it to Mustapha. ‘Full to the brim, mate.’

  He clipped it back in, pressed the barrel onto Mustapha’s right kneecap, which began to twitch a little. He wasn’t very long on the phone, his voice frayed and breaking.

  Atherton kept the gun where it was whilst Farood took the phone and introduced himself to the agent in Istanbul. ‘The situation here is basically out of control… He can’t move anyone on to the UK, he has two apartments full, attracting too much attention… He needs help… I’ve been up and down the line more than once… speak many languages… Yeah, I went through Istanbul… There’s a lot of agents there… I’m called Karam… Okay… this is my number now… I’ve got a driver who can move some tomorrow…’

  Vinnie shimmied through from next door. ‘Everything okay in here?’ That his nephew was scowling down the barrel of a firearm pointed at his Turkish associate confirmed all was in order.

  Mustapha rose to his feet, protesting like a child. ‘You think you can come in here and take over my operation?!’

  Atherton booted his shins. ‘We know we can, mate.’

  ‘That’s enough now,’ ordered Vinnie. ‘Mustapha, you’ll still continue to be part of this. You’re going to make a good living – we all are. We’ll be back tomorrow, early, to pick these up. If anyone else comes here to doss down, show them the door.’

  The van was jet-washed and scrubbed with bleach. That evening, whilst Atherton and Farood tried a medley of Dutch cannabis over a post-mortem on the day’s insurrection, Vinnie made notes in his journal on the forthcoming voyage. Vinnie held an admiration for the Vikings, their singular brutality, their great endurance and obvious organisation. Historians, it seems, were always discovering new evidence of their arrival on assorted points of the globe leaving university types scratching their heads. These Norsemen had been underestimated by the clever clogs and by Kirk Douglas. They’d been portrayed as savage dimwits, yet Vinnie sensed they were the great thinkers of the Dark Ages, masters of what Eddie Stoddard called ‘logistics’. And whilst they might not have written on a lot of stone pillars like the Greeks and Romans, they would at least have made a list. Vinnie broke his responsibilities down into ‘packing them’, ‘keeping them quiet’, ‘keeping them alive’, ‘unpacking them’.

  Five o’ clock the following morning. Vinnie and Farood loaded up the transit with five boxes plus an economy bag of polystyrene pellets. At Mustapha’s apartment Farood saw to it that the man from Herat was on board and that everyone had sandwiches that hadn’t made it past quality control at the food factory. As they rumbled off towards the docklands area, Farood provided the five rear passengers with a heads-up on life in the UK.

  ‘If you work hard in the UK you can make something. They won’t pretend to be your friend when they’re not.’

  The teenager that had greeted them from the balcony took out her earphones. ‘First day in London, I’m going to take a look at Buckingham Palace.’

  Farood spoke in Pashtun to the Afghan alone. ‘You won’t be killed in a war over there, and you won’t starve. But people will want to buy and sell you. The place will make you greedy and careless. Never forget the times when you were hungry. Don’t get fat and lazy.’

  They pulled up next to Vinnie’s larger white delivery lorry in a cluttered lorry park to casually move some boxes from one vehicle to another.

  Farood clambered into the back of the transit and crouched on the tarp. ‘One at a time, wrap yourself in thermal blanket and lay in a box.’

  Everyone was perfectly cooperative, enthusiastic, amused, even. Farood sprinkled in polystyrene pellets and one by one they were carried into the back of the lorry.

  ‘From now on, no talking, understand?’ whispered Vinnie. He rolled down the shutter and shook Farood’s hand. ‘I’ll see you in a couple of days. Get that house in order, understand.’

  *

  Back at Vinnie’s apartment Atherton was squaring up to a mirror in a medium blue suit. ‘Michael van Hurst – pleased to meet you, mate.’ He shook a hand, leaned his head, listened attentively, nodded and smiled. The mirror said he was ready. Cool as a Budweiser. He strutted to the end of Farood’s beached mattress. ‘What d’ya reckon?’

  ‘You’re wearing too much aftershave.’

  ‘Reckon?’

  ‘You smell like a woman in a department store.’

  ‘I’ll wash some off then.’

  ‘And have a shave while yer at it,’ added Farood, turning back to sleep.

  An hour later Farood and Atherton rode the blue van back to Mustapha’s to pick up the work party. Mustapha hadn’t fed or watered anyone, and this was noted. The workforce was bundled into the back of the van, stopping shortly after at a garage where Farood bought everyone cereal bars and coffee.

  Atherton paced the forecourt, clutching his clipboard and fiddling with his tie. He signalled everyone over to the jet-wash area. ‘Who knows the boss at this place?’

  A Moroccan overwhelmed in an anorak raised his hand.

  ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘He’s a pig. A fuckin’ pig.’

  ‘What’s he do?’ enquired Atherton.

  ‘He thinks we’re slaves. And he touches the women.’

  Just before 8am they were delivered to the middle door in a row of factory units, each with its own singular parking space and discreet window. Inside the stench of raw meat and mayonnaise wrestled one another. Beneath the strip lighting, lagged piping and girders, line after line of stainless steel: conveyor b
elts, tables, vats, cages and steps. The work party pushed their arms into white coats, put on blue cellophane aprons and hats, and headed for their positions. Atherton tapped a biro on his clipboard, waiting for the gaffer. A phone rang, everywhere. A bald, ginger-bearded character, wheelie-bin wide, slammed an office door behind him and the ringing stopped. Atherton watched his work party mechanically fill and stack sandwiches that headed up rollers to be packaged. He watched a man stuffing a carcass into a super funnel throw a scrap of meat at them.

  Atherton knocked respectfully on the manager’s door and let himself in. Before the receiver was down, before the telephone conversation was over.

  ‘Michael van Hurst, pleased to meet you.’

  The ginger wheelie bin refused to take Atherton’s handshake.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I run the Van Hurst Employment Agency, I brought eight workers here this morning.’

  ‘The Turk, Mustapha, he usually brings them.’

  ‘There’s a new arrangement now. That’s why I’m here.’ Atherton withdrew a glossy business card. ‘Any you’re not happy with, ring this number.’

  The manager examined the card; it was reassuringly amateur. ‘This is still a cash arrangement?’ he asked.

  ‘Best way,’ confirmed Atherton. ‘Friday alright?’

  The manager nodded. ‘So, Mustapha, he won’t be coming back here?’

  ‘No. You’ll be dealing with me from now on,’ concluded Atherton.

  *

  A few minutes off the N57, a few kilometres from the docks, Vinnie turned his lorry into a forecourt dignified by roses and hawthorn. He slid open a hatch behind him and faced down to the boxes below.

  ‘Everybody okay?’

  He took a roll of silver gaffer tape from the glove compartment and strolled round to the back of the lorry. He sealed all five of the boxes then stood above his row of buried passengers.

  ‘We’re going to be loading up here now. So, everyone stays quiet. As far as everyone else is concerned, you’re all sunflowers.’