by Finn Óg
“Sounds ok to me,” said Sam.
“No, it used to be a holiday camp. Now it’s a detention centre by the sea.”
“Oh, where?” Sam’s interest piqued.
“East coast, above Dublin. We used to go there when we were children. It was fun then. Now – not so much.”
“So it’s for migrants?”
“Yeah. They’re kept there until their asylum claim has been dealt with.”
“I can imagine what goes on in there.”
“Exactly. It’s not where I want them to wait this out, so my plan is to keep them with us in sheltered accommodation until the counselling is finished and then start the process – unless I can think of anything better for them. But they’re safe, that’s the main thing, thanks to you.”
She looked at him, searching for a reaction, receiving little more than a grunt of dismissal.
“You did, Sam. You got them away from that terrible man.”
“Funny you should say that,” he said as she gazed at him with something close to admiration.
“What?” she said, moderately alarmed.
“Well, the man who killed her husband – the bloke on the boat who wanted to rape her.”
“Yes, the trafficker’s brother.”
“What?” asked Sam, new to this tidbit.
“Apparently he was a brother of the man who organised all the trafficking.”
“Really?” Sam again realised how little he’d learned about the whole process.
“According to Alea.”
But Sam’s mind was racing. “I gotta go, Sinead, sorry,” said Sam.
“Not a fucking chance,” she suddenly hissed at him, careful not to disturb the other customers in the café. “This time you’ll sit and you’ll tell me what you’re doing.”
He rested back in his seat suddenly aware of his capacity to irritate her. He boiled down his story as quickly as he could.
“On the way here, on Grafton Street, a man set himself on fire.”
“Sure, I know.”
“How can you know? It was less than half an hour ago.” Sam was incredulous.
“Somebody Facebook Live’d it.”
“You’re joking?”
“Look.”
Sam gazed at her phone, which showed a bundle of firefighters and paramedics crowded around someone. Sam wasn’t in frame.
“What’s it say about him?”
“Who?”
“The man who went up in flames.”
“Funny enough, it says he’s an asylum seeker who burned himself in protest after being told he’s to be removed.”
“Removed?”
“Deported. Sent back.”
“From where?”
Sinead scrolled a little. “Everyone’s posting about it. They’re pretty sympathetic.”
“They shouldn’t be,” said Sam.
“What are you not telling me?”
“You’ll not believe it if I do.”
“Try me.”
“That’s him – that’s the man. The bloke from the boat. I dunno how he got here but that’s the bastard who skipped in Sicily.”
“Go ‘way,” said Sinead, genuinely shocked.
“I’ve just hammered out the flames on him – see?” He showed her his blackened jacket.
“What the f—”
“Look again. Where is he gonna be deported from?”
“Well, I’d say he’s off to hospital.”
“He’s not too bad. He didn’t burn for long and he used lighter fluid. His skin was ok-ish.”
Sinead kept tapping and swiping.
“Well, seems he’d been detained you know where.”
“Butlins – what did you call it again?”
“Mosney.”
“Right,” said Sam, whose mind had slipped its lines and was headed to sea again.
“Looks like you’re off again,” Sinead said.
“Looks like it,” he said, and did something he’d never done before. He reached forward and gave her a kiss on the cheek.
The best things come to those who deserve it.
Feet and faeces. Toes and arse. The doc gagged. The man next to him claimed he wouldn’t notice in a few weeks.
“Soon you will smell just the same.”
“A few weeks?” asked the doctor, incredulous.
“I have been here seven months. No one has ever left unless they were dead,” said the man, who exposed festering bedsores as he rolled over to resume his sleep. For there was nothing else to do, not in this detention centre – this room, this oversized shipping shed now crammed with unsuccessful migrants.
The doctor lamented his luck but knew he’d got what he was due.
They’d spent less than twelve hours at sea. The skipper, whoever he was, had motored west, too far west. Because of the sea state, he’d said. The doctor had challenged him and so the African had changed course to prove his point. Immediately the women had begun groaning as the slop of the swell hit the rubber boat side-on and bile bubbled up throats. Reluctantly the doctor had acceded to the African’s seamanship and the boat had been turned again to face the swell, making the going at least consistent and uniform if still like a roller coaster.
The crew had quietened as the journey went on. The thrum of the outboard, its occasional tonal changes as a large wave plucked the propeller momentarily from the sea. They crouched, resigned, tensing their muscles at the top of each wave, bracing against the plummet into the trough. Routinely the helmsman had to replenish the fuel, a precarious procedure during which petrol was spilled into the bottom of the boat. It swashed about with the seawater they were compelled to bail and soaked into their garments, inducing dry bokes and eventually headaches. The wind took to their rear treating them to the exhaust fumes of the engine. The doctor knew nothing of the sea and couldn’t understand how waves could come towards the boat while the wind came from behind.
Night lifted to day and still they made west and north, the African consulting his little compass and gazing at the horizon. As the afternoon crept towards evening the African’s agitation increased, although the doctor didn’t understand why until the engine began to cough and splutter.
When it stopped the helmsman simply stared at the sea.
There was nothing to be done. They were alone, adrift, at the mercy of the wind, the waves and the sun.
Nobody asked, “What now?” Everyone knew it was time to wait for a boat to rescue them, to take them to the promise of Europe, to Italy or Greece, or maybe even Spain, because that was what had been promised. You pay premium, you get top-dollar service.
When night came the sobbing started. Fear crept over hope and promises were exposed for their emptiness. The wind built and the sickness returned. Mothers clutched their children consumed by fear. The boat stretched and contracted over the mounting sea terrifying all inside, including the skipper.
And so when salvation came it was greeted with relief despite it not being what had been hoped for.
The beam froze them in its ferocity. They shielded their eyes and dropped their heads jubilant at its presence, stunned by its sudden appearance. From nowhere came their rescue.
And they were grateful to step aboard a steadier ship, to be given water, blankets, orders. The direction was welcome until the dawning arrived that their Samaritans spoke their language and had guns and aggression.
The engines roared and the boat moved away. They watched as their own tiny vessel was set alight and committed to the deep.
Within six hours they were back on the coast they had left, processed and marched into sheds by the port of Tobruk. After two years, a desert crossing and the depletion of every cent of savings, they’d arrived back where they had started once again bereft of their freedom and with all remaining dignity and hope expired.
Mosney was an easy nut to crack. Sam considered getting to it by boat but such fun exploits proved unnecessary. There was any number of ways in and out. It was all but signposted by a woman who sto
od at the end of what, in most states, would pass as a country road. She was plainly punting for business. African-looking women in miniskirts and knee-high boots weren’t a common sight in County Meath, so he knew he was on the right track.
He tried the beach approach first but the shore was crammed with dog walkers and there was a fence of sorts. In the end he went at it from the car park just outside the gate and walked straight in unimpeded.
The huts had seen better days but Sam had been to much worse places. The whole thing didn’t look too bad. It was the people who would cause problems not the infrastructure. Sam knew that while the vast majority of those being housed there would be genuine folks escaping war or worse, there were some who would turn the concentration of people to their advantage. The Nigerian woman on the roadside was testament to that. Whatever was going on there, that line of business wasn’t generally voluntary work.
He asked around for the infirmary and was pointed in the direction, but when he got there the cupboard was bare. Empty beds – all three of them. He paused for a moment and thought. He’d ask some more, try to find out if an Arab man had made any friends. As he strolled about looking for other Middle Eastern folks he was treated to a break. From behind came the rumble of a heavy diesel engine and he turned to see an ambulance moving slowly towards the sickbay. It stopped outside, the doors opened and the ramp lowered and out was wheeled a bandaged body upright in a chair.
“Sinbad,” muttered Sam to himself.
The GPS seemed a bargain but when the clerk’s boss swanned into the hotel and actually looked at it he was less than impressed with his purchase. He had imagined he’d be able to charge a little more for its inclusion in any of his aged cars and that it would pay for itself within two journeys. But it was old and he couldn’t understand what it was telling him. There was no map as such, just a squiggly line. He plugged it in to the computer but it immediately demanded a download of an update. The boss clicked his way through the on-screen directions using the hotel’s Wi-Fi and overcame the frustration to bring his new toy into the modern world on modern roads with modern warnings.
“Ok,” he said to the poorly paid clerk at the desk, “for foreigners charge ten dollars every time someone asks for GPS. Don't give it to locals.”
Then he strolled out of the hotel for a look at the ladies. He had no idea of the global chaos he had just caused.
Sam turned the scorching on his jacket to his advantage.
“Hello, sister.”
“Oh, I’m not a sister,” said the woman. “I’m a healthcare assistant.”
Sam wouldn’t have cared if she’d been an alchemist or a soothsayer, he just wanted in.
“I’m sorry to bother you but that man in there, he was burned on Grafton Street in Dublin, yes?”
“Who are you?” The woman was Spanish or Portuguese Sam guessed.
“Sorry, should have said. I’m the man who – well, put him out.” He held up the jacket and showed the melted holes in it.
“You saved him?” said the woman in wonder.
“Well, I put the fire out,” he said, almost bashfully.
“Oh,” she said. “You want to see him, yes?”
“Would that be ok?” he asked, his hopes rising that he might get in on such an easy ticket.
“Yes, yes, of course,” she said, and ushered him into the little room. “Would you like a cup of tea?”
“No, thanks,” said Sam. “I won’t stay long. He’s been through a lot.” He feigned sympathy knowing that the man was about to go through a lot more.
“It’s ok, no rush,” said the woman and left him to it.
Sam couldn’t believe his luck.
Waleed listened to the operation on the radio. He’d requested a patch through from Cairo and, with reluctance, the air force had agreed. It was utter devastation.
In the end they’d forced his hand: tell us what to target or we fly sorties, identify our own and incinerate whatever we think is out of place. That was politics in Egypt these days: be strong – be seen to be strong. The uprising and attempts at democracy had come to nought. After trying out a Western system, Egypt had elected the Muslim Brotherhood, which had been promptly overthrown for perceived incompetence in its administration. The people had tried various things including fresh riots, and the military had responded with typical ruthlessness. After countless thousands had been interred in the ground the country was back to where it had begun – with a notionally democratically elected leader of military pedigree who would surely become a dictator in everything but name. Mubarak was out of jail but not back in power. His replacement, however, struck an uncanny resemblance.
So when the demands came Waleed had been forced to give direction. He knew where the extremist camps were, what he didn’t know was who was in them. His hunch was there were hostages or prisoners – innocents like the girl who’d been sent to blow up a bus in Arish. Waleed didn’t want such people targeted but what choice was there? If he didn’t offer coordinates, then some other entirely innocent settlement would probably be annihilated.
What he could hear on the radio was the pilot talking to command, confirming target acquisition and firing. What he could hear in the distance were occasional rumblings of the explosions. What he did silently throughout was pray for forgiveness for his part in what was being done.
If Sam had possessed clamps, he couldn’t have opened Sinbad’s eyes any wider.
“We need to talk,” he said, “and I’d advise you not to fuck about.”
The man had plainly been too busy burning to notice who had extinguished him in Dublin. He couldn’t believe who he was looking at. Sam could barely believe it either.
“And just for the record, I know you can speak English and I know you can understand me, and I know about Alea and Sadiqah and what you did.”
The man’s face looked more and more disturbed as Sam went on.
“So here’s what I want to know. What you are doing in Ireland, how the trafficking route works and who is behind it. You have about ten minutes to explain everything and then I start to twist your burnt bits, which will be pretty sore.”
“Ok, ok, ok,” said Sinbad, who had presumably thought through the wisdom of shouting for help and opted against it. There was only a small woman in the infirmary hut. If the roles were reversed, Sinbad knew he would simply slap the woman into submission, so he assumed incorrectly that Sam would do the same.
“Why did you set yourself on fire?”
“They lock me up. Here. I cannot have asee-lum. They say they send me back. I want TV to say, ‘Look at him. He is needing help.’”
“Worked out brilliantly,” said Sam. “Did you really intend to burn so badly?”
“What?” asked the man, confused.
“Did you think you would be injured?”
“Is not matter. Is better not to be sent back.” Sinbad shrugged his bandages. “I thinking someone will help fast and I think fuel’s only burning clothes.”
Sam wondered if he’d been right about Sinbad’s intellect all along.
“Right. What are you doing in Ireland?”
“I looking for Alea.”
“Why?”
“She has something belongings to me.”
“No – why Ireland?”
“I thinking you take-ed her here.”
“Why?”
“Nobody else is allowing you. I seeing you leave from Sicily with her and child.”
“You were watching?”
Sinbad fell silent, looking down.
“You came back when you realised she had whatever it is you wanted.”
He shrugged. “Pier-haps I do not find her, pier-haps I find you instead.”
“What, and you reckon you were going to persuade me to tell you where they were?”
“I have no choice.”
“Well, whatever you want from them it must be bloody valuable. What is it?”
Sinbad hesitated, so Sam hit him with a flick slap on his most heavily
bandaged bit. The man yelped in agony.
“If that nurse comes in here, I’ll have to tie her up, and then you’ll be alone and I’ll skin you, understand?”
The man chewed the inside of his cheek as the pain ebbed.
“What has Alea got that belongs to you?”
“Information.”
“About what?”
“About bank.”
“About her bank accounts?”
“Yes.”
“So? What she has is hers not yours.”
“We make deal. We take her to Europe, she pay.”
“Who is we?”
The man stared at Sam.
“You and your brother?”
Sinbad’s shock was obvious.
“Yes, my brother.”
“And where is he?”
“Home.”
“And where is home?”
The man cocked his head, curious that Sam was short on this snippet of information given that he knew so much else.
“Libya,” he said.
“So you are Libyan?”
“Yes.”
“And you are a people trafficker?”
Sinbad’s head wavered as if he were saying “kind of”.
“I’m not the police, I’m a whole lot worse than that,” Sam hissed.
“Yes.”
“And you think Alea owes you money?”
“She owes me money. And more.”
“What?”
“She has taken from me.”
“Taken what?”
“I tell you, information – about bank.”
“What are you talking about?”
“On boat with you I make her keep papers. Information, about bank.”
“Why?”
“I think on boat you are going to attack-ed me maybe. And if you attack-ed me, maybe you tear clothes. And then you see information under clothes.”
“But you knew I would not attack Alea,” said Sam.
“She is Muslim woman.”
“So you got her to hide the papers.”
Sinbad’s head began the dither and warble again. Sam pressed on.
“Why did you not take the papers from Alea when you got to Italy?”
