by Mark Dawson
Tommy opened the passenger door and, using his left hand, awkwardly clambered up.
“She’s not much to look at,” Tommy admitted as he swept the piles of papers from the passenger seat and onto the floor, “but she’s reliable. Never once broken down on me yet. Keys are in the ignition.”
Milton reached down and turned the key. The engine grumbled to life. Tommy settled into the seat and then struggled to fasten his seat belt. Milton waited until he was done, clipped his own into place, and put the truck into gear. He pulled out of the yard and started the journey.
#
THE TRIP TO DOVER had been straightforward. They had boarded the ferry and it had departed for Calais on time. Milton and Tommy had enjoyed a late breakfast in the Routemasters café, and now the ferry had arrived in port and they were ready to set off again.
Milton jockeyed the truck out of the maw of the ferry and set off to the south toward Boulogne-sur-Mer. Amiens was two hours on the A26. The law allowed him to drive for only ten hours a day; they had planned for him to have clocked up four hours by the time they reached the warehouse. He would rest while the goods were loaded, and then they would make the return trip. It meant that he would drive for around six hours in total. They were returning on the overnight crossing, so the clock would be reset provided they made it back to the ship before the end of the tenth hour.
Tommy had left spare time to take into account the possibility of delays, but getting out of the port took longer than it should have. Two hours passed before they were even out of the terminal, and Milton was looking at a best case of eight hours behind the wheel to make it back to port. Tommy started to get anxious.
The long queue of trucks was crawling; Milton suspected a crash, but, as they left the facility and joined the main road, he could see that it wasn’t that at all.
A crowd of people was clustered around the northbound road. The police and port security were there in force, and the spill over meant that people were on the southbound road, too. Traffic was moving at a few miles an hour.
“Who are they?” Milton asked. “Migrants?”
“Yes,” Tommy said. “Trying to get over the Channel. They think it’s the land of milk and honey. Suppose it is, compared to what they’ve got where they’ve come from. They’re desperate to get over. You wouldn’t believe some of the things I’ve seen driving through here.”
Milton nudged the nose of the cab out into the road until a gap opened up for them and they could join the slow-moving queue.
“Calais has changed,” Tommy said. “I used to love stopping here. We used to call it Beach back in the day. We’d all park our trucks on the front, go and get something to eat and drink, stretch the legs a bit, and sleep in the cab until the ferries started sailing in the morning. We’d never have any trouble. Now, though, you wouldn’t dare stop. Some operators don’t let their drivers stop anywhere within four hours of here. You know, soon as you get up, you’re going to have passengers in the back that you don’t want. My old lady worries about me whenever she knows I’m coming through here. I’m a big bloke, John, right? You might think I can look after myself, and you’d be right, but I still worry about it. I’ve seen them go after drivers with knives when they tell them to get out of the back. But it’s serious business. If I get caught with one of them in the back, it’s a fine. A big one. My margins are already thin. I can’t afford to get stuck with something like that.”
The truck in front of them stopped suddenly. Milton braked and brought them to a halt.
“There are thousands of them here,” Tommy went on. “The French put them into a camp.”
“The Jungle,” Milton said. “I’ve seen the news.”
“They come from there, wait by the side of the road, and try to get into a lorry. Some of them go through the tunnel. They get into the freight. I read about one poor bastard, last week, he tried to cling onto the bottom of a trailer. Fell off, got squashed under the wheels.”
“And you don’t approve?”
“I know they’re desperate. But this…” He gestured at the crowds on the other side of the road. “It’s chaos.”
Tommy was normally an affable man. Milton could tell that this was something that bothered him.
“I don’t know,” Milton said. “It’s difficult. If I was in their situation, if I had a family I couldn’t look after, maybe I’d do the same thing.”
Tommy nodded. “I get it. I know why they do it. Maybe I’d do the same thing, too. But this—what happens here—it’s not right. It’s not right for them or for us. You’ll see. Wait until we come back through again tonight.”
Chapter Three
MILTON MAINTAINED a steady pace, a constant sixty-five that ate up the distance between Calais and Amiens. He had been driving for the better part of four hours, and he was starting to feel tired by the time they finally arrived at the warehouse. He rested while the truck was loaded with the furniture that they had come to collect. Then, after a quick meal and a cup of strong black coffee, he got back into the truck and started back to the port. Google reported that the traffic at Le Touquet was poor, so they had diverted onto the longer—but likely faster—A1 through Arras and Béthune. It was still another two hours behind the wheel, though, and, by the time Calais hove back into view, he was exhausted.
They were five miles from the coast when they saw a solitary figure walking along the side of the road.
“Here we go,” Tommy said.
“What is it?” Milton asked him.
“You ready? There’s your first migrant.”
They saw another man walking through a ploughed field and then another walking down a slip road to the Autoroute.
“Some of the drivers drive close enough to get them to jump back over the barriers. I’ve gone past some of them who’ve chucked eggs at the windscreen. I’ve seen a truck with a smashed window where they chucked a brick.”
The truck climbed a hill and, at the top, they were rewarded with a view of the camp where the French had allowed the migrants to gather. Milton slowed. It really was a jungle. There were hundreds of tents and temporary buildings crammed into a space that was too small for them. He saw campfires and hundreds of men and women, some of them with children, milling around.
Milton saw dozens of red brake lights in the gloom ahead and, as they continued on, the traffic started to snarl up. Milton touched the brakes, bringing their speed down to a brisk walking pace.
“Try not to stop,” Tommy said.
Milton saw maybe two dozen men on the side of the road. The truck was passing through a cutting, and the ground sloped steeply on both sides. The men had scaled the bank, all the way to the top, and, as Milton watched, they started to clamber down. They were hurrying and looked as if they might slip and tumble down at any time. If they fell, there was a risk that they would roll into the road in front of the truck.
Milton dabbed the brakes.
“No,” Tommy said. “Keep driving. Don’t stop.”
Milton bled a little extra speed off, turned the wheel a little to bring the truck a little farther into the middle of the road, and went by the first two men just as they reached the verge.
The men started to jog after them, but Milton accelerated again and they pulled away. He glanced back in the mirror and watched as they maintained their pursuit.
The traffic had slowed to a crawl ahead of them, a long snake of lorries that were waiting to negotiate a roundabout. The men had all made it over the fence now, and they were all running in their direction.
“They’re determined,” Milton said.
“Check your door,” Tommy advised.
Milton did as he suggested; it was locked. The men reached them. Milton looked back in the mirror as one of them disappeared into the blind spot at the back. The others hurried ahead, four on one side of the cab and seven on the other. One man came alongside and indicated that Milton should roll the window down. Milton looked at him. He was young, no older than his mid-twenties, with
jet black skin and bright eyes. He was wearing jeans and boots and a quilted jacket.
“What’s he doing?” Tommy asked him.
Milton looked down. “Wants me to open the window.”
The others reached the front, all of them indicating that Milton and Tommy should open their doors. Others had joined the group. Milton looked down as one of them stared up at him, putting his two fingers together to make the sign of a gun. He pointed his fingers at Milton and made as if to shoot him. Tommy swivelled as they both heard the slap of a hand against the glass. One of the group had climbed up the side of the cab, knocking against the window.
“Piss off,” Tommy shouted.
The man shouted something in return and then spat at the glass. A thick gobbet of phlegm rolled down the window. Milton accelerated gently, the two men in front of the cab slapping their palms against the radiator grille as they stepped aside.
The roundabout cleared and Milton was able to increase their speed to thirty.
They approached the tall fence that marked the start of the port’s premises. Milton changed gears and slowed down as Tommy reached across to the dash to collect their papers.
“Want me to check the back?” Milton asked.
Tommy shook his head. “No need. We weren’t stopped long enough for them to get inside. And I don’t want to stay around here any longer than I have to.”
#
THE FERRY left on schedule. Milton and Tommy locked up the truck and went upstairs to the Routemasters drivers’ canteen. The food was simple and comforting: steaks, pork chops, béarnaise sauce, chips, mushy peas and gravy. Tommy said he was going to get a bit of sleep. Milton was tired, but his mind was active and he doubted that he would be able to get down. He left Tommy lying across two seats in a quiet lounge and went to explore the ship. He wandered into the duty-free shop and browsed the shelves of cheap perfume, economy French wine and poor quality chocolates, all of them priced to sell. There were other drivers there, and Milton listened to their conversations: French prostitutes, rising fuel prices, tobacco smuggling, bent police and customs officials, migrants. Mostly migrants.
Milton watched as one of the drivers bought a box of chocolates for his wife and, wondering what it would be like to have someone at home that he could buy chocolates for, he went back to the lounge.
Tommy was asleep. Milton went over to the other side of the lounge, where he could watch the sea through the large observation window. The glass was dirty, encrusted with dry salt, and the sea was starting to grow rough. The waves were large, big enough for the ferry to pitch and yaw; spray and spume blasted over the sides and against the glass. Milton felt a little queasy.
He knew now, for sure, that he wouldn’t be able to sleep. He went to the café for a polystyrene cup of coffee. He took it to an empty table, put in his headphones, and listened to the Stone Roses as he nursed the drink.
Chapter Four
MILTON DROVE out of the ferry terminal at Eastern Docks and followed Tommy’s directions to the overhead roadway. The crossing had been slower than scheduled thanks to the inclement weather, and Milton was tired as he drove the truck down the ferry’s ramp and onto the dockside. Tommy had slept for the entire crossing, and, when he awoke, he explained that he had had more than enough practice sleeping regardless of the condition of the sea.
Tommy pointed ahead and Milton followed the signs for EXIT/SORTIE above the two freight lanes until they approached the customs booths. Two officials in high-vis jackets stepped out of the booth and waved for Milton to turn into the inspection bay.
“Here we go,” Tommy said.
Milton slowed and brought the lorry to a halt. One of the officials, a man with a frizz of white hair, indicated that Milton and Tommy should get out of the cab. The man’s colleague, a young woman, went around to the back of the trailer.
Milton opened the door and climbed down. “Morning,” he said.
“Good morning, sir.”
“Let’s get this over with,” Tommy said as he went around to the back.
The man had a clipboard with a sheaf of papers attached to it. He flipped through the papers until he found the one that he wanted and then took out a pen from his inside pocket. “What are you carrying?”
“Furniture,” Tommy said. “Just come from Amiens.”
The man noted it down. “Destination?”
“Hounslow.”
“All right, then. Anything happen in Calais?”
“No.”
“You didn’t stop?”
“There was traffic outside the port, but we didn’t stop. Came straight over. Do you want to have a look in the back?”
“Yes, please, sir. Grateful if you could open it up.”
Tommy went around to the back. The mechanical security seal was still in place. It comprised a cable that extended through fixing points on the door, and, when sealed, it generated a unique number that the driver logged. Tommy unfastened the seal, retracted the cable and then opened the two big doors.
The interior of the trailer was lit by the sunlight that glowed through the canvas roof.
Tommy groaned. “Fucking hell.”
Milton looked up. A metre-long opening had been cut in the roof. Someone had climbed up with a knife and sliced their way inside.
The official keyed the radio that was fastened to the lapel of his jacket and called for the police.
“Must’ve happened before we got inside the port,” Tommy said. “We were stopped in traffic.”
“I don’t doubt you, sir.”
The interior of the trailer was as Milton remembered it after it had been packed in Dijon. The pallets were arranged along the bed of the trailer, with the cardboard boxes that contained the furniture stacked in neat piles and secured with fabric ties. The first row of boxes was three feet high, but the second—containing larger items—was taller than a man. Milton saw muddy scuff marks on the cardboard where someone had clambered up.
Tommy came up next to Milton. “See what I mean? This is ridiculous.”
A Port of Dover police van pulled up to the back of the trailer, and four uniformed officers got out. The customs official explained that he suspected that illegal immigrants were inside the trailer and then stepped aside.
The police stepped up to the back and formed a line.
“Out you come,” one of the officers called.
There was no reply.
“We know you’re in there.”
Milton stood behind the officers and watched. They didn’t have long to wait. A pair of hands grasped onto the edge of one of the taller boxes and a man pulled himself up. He was wearing jeans, a lightweight jacket and a beanie. His skin was dark and he wore a wide smile as he slid down onto the pallet, stepped forward and jumped down to the ground. The police attended to him as another two young men clambered up from their hiding place. They were dressed in similar clothes to the first, both shivering a little in the early morning cold.
Milton watched as the three men were cuffed and taken to the police van.
The senior policeman went back to the trailer. “We’re going to come in and look,” he shouted up. “If there’s anyone still inside, it’ll be a lot easier to just get out now.”
There was a short pause before Milton saw another pair of hands fasten onto the lip of the cardboard box. A fourth man hauled himself up and over, but, instead of jumping down to the ground, he waited inside the trailer.
“Come down, please,” the policeman said.
“What will happen to me?”
“You’ll be taken to a detention centre, sir. Are you claiming asylum?”
“I’m here to find my sister.”
“You can talk about that when you get to the detention centre.”
“Please, sir. She has been kidnapped and trafficked here. She is being forced to work as a prostitute.”
“Come down. Don’t make me come up there.”
The man was frantic. “Please, sir. I have to find her. Please. If I go to th
e detention centre, how can I do that?”
The officer turned to the brawniest of his colleagues and suggested, quietly, that he might have to go up there and bring the man down. The immigrant was young, not even out of his teens, and Milton had no wish to see him manhandled. Before the officer could say anything, he stepped up, braced his palms on the lip of the trailer and boosted himself up.
“Sir,” the officer complained, taking a step forward, “please—leave this to us.”
The man inside the truck shrank away as Milton stepped onto the pallet. “Help me. I need to find my sister.”
Milton spoke evenly and calmly. “You have to come down,” he said. “You can’t avoid it. Just come down or they’ll bring you out. They won’t be gentle about it. Come on—make it easy on yourself.”
“What about my sister?”
“Claim asylum,” Milton suggested.
“And then?”
“You can ask them to help.”
“Why would they help me? They don’t care.”
“You don’t have a choice right now.”
The big police officer was right up against the lip of the trailer now. “Get down, please,” he called up.
The young man looked torn. He glanced at the officer and then back to Milton. “What is your name?”
“John. What about you?”
“Samir.”
“Come on then, Samir. We’ll get down together.”
“Will you help me?”
“Will you come down?”
“If you say you will.”
There was something earnest about the young man that Milton found himself drawn to. He meant what he said; his desperation was authentic, and he believed him.
“Okay,” Milton said. “I’ll help.” He turned to the open doorway and addressed the policeman. “He’s coming down.”
