Stuart Blake

2015

Sometimes when the news became unbearable, Katya wished she could forget about refugees. Especially the children. Nobody escaped reports of migrants consigned to watery graves or left to fry in Sahara sands. The stories, repeated with all the consideration of a piledriver, left most people numb but forgetting was a trick Katya hadn’t mastered. She almost forgot as she inched towards London in her old, convertible Mercedes SLK, her mind fogged by a week of meetings, calls and reports. Then one word on the radio escaped the thicket of traffic noise, she adjusted the volume and was plunged into another catastrophe.

‘…Migrants…Look, you see Turkey… eleven kilometres. I was like beach cleaning and…’ The man’s voice pitching high, came in gasps. ‘This child was… like … lying in sea. Tiny. No more than two years and...Sorry...’

His voice broke and Katya found her hands gripping the wheel with white knuckles, her eyes watering. She’d seen the story already, but it was the voice through a soundscape of waves that drove her to despair. She visualised him distraught among beach chairs and parasols, the child limp in his arms. She wanted to hug him.

Instead, Katya moved her foot, felt for the accelerator, and gained three places in the queue. Meaningless. But for a moment it had distracted her from the rage growing inside like a beast trying to break out. The reporter hadn’t finished, wondering aloud whether the child was the son of economic migrants or asylum seekers. Isn’t that semantics? He’s dead. Why can’t people stop this? Why can’t I stop it?

She glanced at a red-headed woman sliding past, shouting inaudibly at her phone. The shouter was replaced by a man in a van munching a sandwich, crumbs in beard as he nodded to the ‘ump-cha-ump-cha’ of a techno track. Like frames in a storyboard. Another character would be there soon. Thousands on the move, but the exodus that mattered to Katya was elsewhere – in places where people braved barbed borders.

Perhaps it was the possibility she might help that sharpened her guilt, the fact she worked for Caring World. She wondered again how she could persuade the board to change their refugee policy... But I’m just HR director. They’ll tell me to get back in my box.

The traffic was moving again. She was going to be late for drinks with her friend, Rachel. At this rate it would be quicker if she walked. Rachel. I’ll ask her what she thinks. She’s bound to…The blast of a horn jolted her. Katya had passed the requisite two seconds reaction time. Should she raise a finger to the man behind? No, enough tension in the world already.

Or was there?

Katya opened the door and stepped out, feeling everyone’s eyes on her. She took three steps, kicking aside a wrinkled can of Fanta, and stood by the man’s open window. He was younger than she’d expected, his tie loose, some stubble missed while shaving. At this point, if she’d been a man, it might have signalled a fight or some full-blooded swearing, but he was avoiding her stare, keeping his eyes ahead.

She leaned towards him. ‘I just thought you should know there’s been another report of a drowned refugee. A small child as it happens. If you could direct your anger at that rather than me, it might be more productive. Don’t you think?’

Katya turned on her heel, catching his astonished look and the stares of the other drivers. She resumed her seat, trembling. Did I do that? He might have attacked me, pulled a knife. What would happen to Emma? She glanced at the text on her phone – ‘Hurry up Mum. Missing you’ with three heart emojis, imagined her eleven-year-old daughter asking the child minder what had become of her. She distracted herself by removing her headscarf – no point wearing it at this speed – and felt her riot of blond, corkscrew curls spring free. Sometimes they made her self-conscious but right now it felt assertive.

The traffic was starting to move again. She eased forwards and glimpsed in her mirror ­– the man must have been so startled he’d forgotten to drive on; someone else was taking his place. Her mind calmed, the breeze ruffled her hair, the last of the evening sun warmed her face.

Then her mobile vibrated in her pocket. She clicked the hands-free button and listened. A crackle. What? It sounded like, ‘Katya, help me.’ A splinter of pain and it broke – this stretch was bad for signal – but she knew the voice at once: Rachel. Something terrible had happened to Rachel.

*

Solomon tried to steady his breath as he leaned on the wire fence, watching the British Airways Boeing 747 taxiing towards them. The three boys, Solomon, Banjoko and Victor, had run the last mile in scorching heat, hoping nobody would spot them.

The noise of the engines made his ears ache, and he had to shout to be heard. ‘Ready?’

Victor said something but Solomon couldn’t hear. He noticed a new expression flicker across his friend’s face. Is he going to chicken out? Not if Banjoko does it. Solomon checked his kid brother. A grin and thumbs up.

He eyed ­ the hole in the fence. In a moment, the plane’s engines would rise to a scream and send it hurtling down the tarmac. They had watched the last one. A catapult pulled taut and released. If they were going, they must do it now.

Something uncoiled in Solomon’s stomach. He took a breath, shouted, ‘Six hours, forty minutes, that’s all it takes.’ Without looking back, he threw himself on the ground, wriggled through the hole and started running. The scream had begun, obliterating the footsteps behind him.

They had seconds to do this. The climb into the belly of the beast, Banjoko behind him, Victor on the opposite side, like they’d rehearsed. He watched Banjoko’s eyes widen as he clasped the strut that held the wheels.

Solomon felt a jolt and the plane moved. They’d timed it right. He grinned at his brother as the wind whipped their faces. Like a motorbike on a dirt road. Faster, the vibration jarring every bone. Then…

Take-off, a stomach-churning lurch into space, the strut swinging out, almost crushing them, landing gear doors shutting into darkness. He felt his brother’s hand, gripped it.

Air failed his lungs. Ice chilled skin, then bone. Shivering that wouldn’t stop. Solomon hugged his brother, tried to give them both the heat of life but his body was like meat clamped in a freezer. Time stopped. All that remained was the thunder of engines, the buzz and clank of hydraulics, the stench of oil, rubber, fear. Will we ever get out of here?

In moments of semi-oblivion, he repeated the name to himself. Khalil is waiting. Khalil loves us. Khalil will give us the money. As he regained consciousness, he remembered his brother. Banjoko? Yes, still breathing. Victor, clinging to the other strut. If he was alive.

Now their universe was in motion, the floor opening. The roar of wind and engines assaulted his ears. Streetlights, homes.

London.

The strut that had compressed them swung away. He slipped…. God save me… saw his mother’s face. That look as he told her he was going to see his cousin. She hadn’t believed him, but she didn’t know he was taking Banjoko.

Skidded…. Please. What if Victor was right about that graffiti? ‘Riding the wheel of a Jumbo is a deadly way to travel.’

Slithered… Banjoko, tumbled past, terror in his eyes. I shouldn’t have taken you. He grabbed at his brother’s shirt, tore a piece off, caught the strut. Pain shot through him like lightning. His legs swaying in air.

Must cling on. Can’t. Slip-sliding…. metal, tyres, hurtling past. Banjoko below him in space, the aircraft above, and he was plummeting.

*

Katya pressed the fob to close the roof of her Mercedes as the streetlights flickered on. A jet roared overhead. It wouldn’t be Barnes without jets. Her hand hovered over the doorbell, but her finger refused to press. She’d tried calling, played back the voicemail three times. It hadn’t made any sense but the panic in Rachel’s voice increased her fear each time she listened to it.

As she hesitated, she saw something lying on the tarmac in a secluded spot beyond the house where the road became a turning circle. Its shape drew her. She moved closer and her heart began to pound. A single word escaped her lips. ‘Ben.’

She was staring at a child’s body. Older than Ben, she saw now. Spread-eagled, legs askew, torn shirt. Concealed beneath the hunch of shoulders, the head. A trainer a yard from his foot.

She heard a door open and Rachel’s voice. ‘Katya? Thank God you’re here.’ She turned, saw her friend silhouetted in the porch. She was leaning against the doorframe as if for support. Katya hesitated, wondering why Rachel wouldn’t come out.

‘Please,’ Rachel called.

Katya ran up to her, tugged her friend’s arm. ‘Look.’ Still Rachel didn’t move. Why not? She noticed Rachel’s eyes were puffy in the security light. She was diminutive, almost like a child. Katya wrapped her arms around her, felt her sobbing, wondered who was more upset, Rachel or her? Had she knocked the child down, been too afraid to call the police? At last, she released herself, wiping the tears. ‘Rachel, you’ve got to come. There’s a child in the road.’

Rachel didn’t speak.

‘I thought that’s why you called.’

At last Rachel said, ‘Another one?’ She was looking back inside the house.

What’s she talking about? ‘Have you called the police, an ambulance?’

Rachel shook her head. Katya had heard of this before. Shock affected people in different ways. But if it wasn’t the child in the road… Rachel’s eyes suggested there was something worse inside. Katya gave way. Rachel closed the door behind them and led her upstairs, whispering, ‘I don’t know how Georgie slept through it. Such a bang.’

Katya followed her up past Georgie’s bedroom to the landing below the top floor. Rachel had a loft extension like her own. She stopped, clinging to Katya’s arm like a dead weight. She wasn’t taking a take a step further. ‘I shouldn’t have called you. You don’t need to go up there.’

Katya hesitated, then climbed the final set of stairs. She opened the door and her heart almost stopped. It took moments to process what she was looking at: a pair of legs hanging from the ceiling. They were suspended from a hole, wedged at the waist. Jeans shredded to the crotch as if they’d been through a grater. Blood, scarlet on black, had cascaded just clear of the bed, onto the carpet in an ever-expanding lake.

She turned at a sound and saw Rachel peering around the door, not looking at the suspended body but at her. Katya suppressed the urge to scream. Rachel was staring, her face a mask. Katya reached for her mobile, then decided she might wake Georgie. She went further into the room, keeping clear of the body, and dialled 999. Fire, police, or ambulance? Perhaps all three. As she listened to the questions, replied, waited for the next step, she was drawn back to the body.

She covered her nose, turned her eyes away. Then she saw the ball of paper. The blood was spreading towards it. In a moment it would be covered. She knew she shouldn’t, but curiosity had always got the better of her. She knelt and caught the paper just before the blood reached it, put it into her bag. Another question from the operator. Could she describe the person? She was forced to look again. The poor boy. The view from beneath hadn’t left him any dignity. But his sex didn’t explain anything. Who was he? Where on earth had he come from?

‘Yes, I’m still here.’ She must have failed to answer a question. Was he still breathing? She could only see below the waist. ‘I…I think he’s dead.’

The questions seemed to take forever. All she wanted was to get Rachel and Georgie out of the house. But they had to wait for the emergency services. She shepherded her friend down to the kitchen. Katya got Rachel onto a stool, boiled the kettle, and made her tea. Rachel didn’t take sugar, but Katya recalled reading somewhere it was good for shock. She knew her friend’s kitchen well enough to find everything. As she filled the kettle Katya noticed her own hands were shaking. What are you supposed to do in a situation like this? Roger. He’s police. He’ll know.

She called her brother, glancing at Rachel clutching her tea and attempting a smile. She didn’t know where to start.

‘Take your time.’ The voice of a brother, not senior policeman.

When she’d finished she noticed her pulse had slowed. Roger wanted to know where she was now. She told him, reassured him that Emma was in bed at home, the long-suffering childminder still there.

‘Mm-hmm. Did you touch anything outside or in the room?’

‘No,’ she lied before she could stop herself. Her fingers slipped into her bag, teased open the crumpled ball of paper. What was I thinking? Stopping blood getting on it? He’ll be furious. She was about to confess when he said, ‘I’ll come round now,’ and before she could interject, he’d gone.

Katya made another cup of sweet tea for herself, took a sip. She sat opposite Rachel and held her hand. It was cold.

‘Thank you. You said there’s another one outside?’

Katya nodded. Despite the horror upstairs, it was the boy on the road that haunted her. She tried not to think about it and pulled out the scrap of paper.

‘What’s that?’

‘Must have fallen from his pocket.’

Rachel went pale. She leapt up, crossed the room, just made it to the downstairs toilet. A moment later Katya heard her heave and the sound of vomit splattering in the bowl, a noise that always made her want to be sick. She took a slug of her tea and asked if Rachel would like water.

‘I’ll be alright.’

Katya poured a glass anyway and waited. She looked at the scrap of paper. There was half an oily thumbprint in the corner. The boy’s? A childish hand had scrawled the word KHALIL, an address in Wimbledon and a mobile phone number. Someone he was going to see? At that moment it felt like a message meant for her to find. She took out her phone – her hands were shaking less now – and copied Khalil’s contact details into her address book. Perhaps he knew something about the boys.

The toilet flushed. Rachel reappeared, flopped onto the stool, exhausted. The kitchen door was open and through the glass at the front Katya saw a pulse of blue light. She leapt up, opened it before the paramedics woke Georgie. A woman about her age and an older man, both carrying green bags. She couldn’t face going upstairs and pointed.

Katya sat in the kitchen with Rachel listening to the murmur of voices. What could they do with a body wedged in the roof? After a few moments another blue light appeared. She stood at the front door again. Three young male constables climbed out of a squad car. One went straight to the body on the road, the other two trooped upstairs. The murmur of voices resumed.

‘The beds in the spare rooms are made up. I’m taking you both home.’

‘But Katya…’

‘No arguments.’ Insisting was the least she could do for Rachel.

The sound of another car. Katya went to the door. The ambulance and police car had been joined by Roger’s unmarked BMW. Behind it, on the opposite side of the road a small group of neighbours had gathered. Her brother ducked beneath the door lintel and kissed her, stubble scratching her cheek. They stood in the hallway, spoke in whispers so Rachel couldn’t hear.

‘There’s so much blood.’

‘Probably ruptured the femoral artery.’

‘What?’

‘Main artery in the leg. Give me five minutes.’

She watched him lope up the stairs, two at a time. There was a hush upstairs followed by the rumble of his voice. She went back into the kitchen and sipped tea. The colour in Rachel’s cheeks was starting to return. After a few minutes Roger came back. He looked pale. It must have made an impression, even on a detective chief inspector in the Met’s Counter Terrorism Command.

He greeted Rachel but she looked away. ‘I’ll never be able to go back in that room.’

‘Have you got somewhere to stay the night?’

‘She’s coming with me.’ Katya tried to sound firm.

‘Good. I’ll get a female SOCO to pick up some clothes. It could be a while.’

‘SOCO?’ Rachel asked.

‘Scenes of Crime officer.’

Rachel looked confused.

‘They cover accidents too. You’re on the flight-path, aren’t you?’

She nodded.

‘Sounds like stowaways.’

‘What?’ Katya had heard of stowaways on ships but on a plane?

Roger explained people sometimes climbed into the wheel well and were usually killed by wheel debris or a lack of oxygen. Katya stared at him, willing him to shut up. Can’t you see she’s in shock?

‘Or they fall when the pilot lowers the landing gear. Probably what happened to your ones.’

‘My ones?’ Rachel looked alarmed. They were morphing from bodies into people. Katya’s imagination created questions she’d rather not ask – did they die first or was it the impact that killed them? Where did they come from? What drove them to do it?