Chasing Freedom Home (Malinding) (5 page)

‘Ed, we’ll forget what you just said. I’m sure you didn’t mean to insult us. There’s a Government Agency that pretends it will support your return to another country – and take all your money without lifting a finger to help you.’

‘Are you Christians? Religious of any kind?’

‘Some of us are religious; the Quakers are very active as you’d expect, and so are lots of Muslims and all sorts of Christians. We’re just people who know it’s wrong to treat human beings like this. Look, it’s been a traumatic day for you. For the moment you’re safe.

We can’t work miracles; we can’t re-unite you with Jane. We can’t even risk making enquiries. That would endanger her and us and you. You’ve arrived safely at the second station on the Underground Railway. Be satisfied with that, if you can, for a while. Rest; if you need anything stay in this room and press this bell switch – see, by the bed? Do not put a toe out of this room until we tell you. Good night, Ed.’ the three smiled at him, Rachel shook his hand, and said

‘What they haven’t told you is that they met your dad, a long time ago, before he travelled to The Gambia.’ The door closed behind him Ed listened for the sound of a lock, but heard nothing. At least this cell was luxurious, he thought. He cleaned his teeth after finishing the orange juice, washed his hands and climbed into bed. Somebody in England remembered his father. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine the time before he had been born, before his mother had met his father and his father had a previous wife and child. It was like trying to envisage another planet. If he had been born to that previous wife he would not be Ed-Lamin. He would not be a frightened black man, trying to escape from what he had thought to be his adopted motherland. Could he, possibly, have become one of the men who now hunted black people for sport and killed for trophies? What was it that put you on one side of the fence or the other? How would he behave if he suddenly became empowered to hunt down his captors? That man who had sentenced him to five years imprisonment for no reason other than his colour? What would he do if he had Mr Jones in his gun sights? Would he even pick up the gun, let alone fire it? He could not tell. What had motivated those guards at Belsen? Had they gone home to their families and played with their children, made love to their wives, with the stench of the gas chambers on their clothes? He could imagine, almost, killing to save the life of some one he loved – Jane, obviously, or his child. But to kill a stranger, in cold blood, for no reason? A fine time to consider philosophy, he thought. Then another thought troubled him. That place, the prison, its name sounded oddly familiar. ‘Harden detention facility’. There was another word he knew which sounded the same. But his parents had spoken of a place they had visited on their honeymoon, they had laughed when they told him that he had journeyed there too, safe inside his mother’s womb. His first visit to England. He tried to remember exactly what had been said – a library, a residential library, given to the nation by a politician. It was spelled differently and there was a room which his mother had loved, devoted solely to Islam. She had studied there, and returned to it. His father had joked and said it was the homemade cooking and cakes that she had loved. Gladstone’s Library, at a place which sounded like ‘Harden’. He fell asleep, dreaming of his parents and brothers and sisters in a far away land.

He woke early next morning and reached across the bed for Jane. She must have got up early, he thought. The pregnancy had that effect on her. He opened his eyes and didn’t recognise the room. He sat up hurriedly and called her name. The door opened and she did not come in. He stared at the strange woman.

‘Hi, Ed-Lamin. Remember me? Lizzie? My, you must have slept soundly. Rachel’s bringing your breakfast. I hope you like porridge? There’s toast and marmalade and orange juice too. Have I missed anything? Andrew’s gone out to do a bit of shopping. He’ll bring you a paper, ‘The Times’ if you like – get the official propaganda view of the world today. It used to be a great paper – ‘The Thunderer’ people called it. Sorry, I’m rabbiting on. Here’s your breakfast. Hope to have a bit of news for you later. Come on, Rachel. Don’t stand there like a lamp post. Ed must be starving!’

He was hungry. Breakfast disappeared rapidly. He thought of how his mother would reproach him for eating before he had taken a shower, and felt oddly ashamed. He showered, and dressed in a clean baggy tracksuit. One size fits all.  His room must be in the cellar of the guest house. It was warm and dry. Thin light entered through a long horizontal window almost at ceiling height. The glass was heavily patterned and revealed nothing of the outside world. There were faint sounds of traffic and even fainter bird-song. Somewhere suburban, then. Underground. Like the London Underground or the Channel Tunnel. Or the slave escape route in the days of slavery. The Underground Railway. That was what Lizzie had been talking about. The Underground Railway that had aided escaping slaves all those years ago. White people helping black people escape from slavery. How horribly appropriate; he shuddered. Andrew brought him the paper, but he couldn’t bring himself to read it. If he and his fellow escapees featured in it he didn’t want to know. He sensed already that he was the sole survivor and that distressed him enough for the moment. His rescuers would no doubt be debating the safest way for him to move on, move away from this sad, pathetic, depraved country. He lay back on the bed and worried and wondered about his future and that of his child, and if indeed, they had a future.

Lizzie watched him eat. At least he had an appetite, she thought. He smiled at her.

  ‘I haven’t properly thanked you. Sorry. I can’t begin to think how traumatic this must be for you and your family. I think I’m not your first passenger?’

‘No. The first was nearly our last; she became desperate and tried to make a break for it. She rushed out of the house and half a mile down the road she was hit by a car. She died on the way to prison.’

‘Prison?’

‘Of course; she was a black girl. She had been raped by the guards, managed to escape, we picked her up and kept her for a couple of nights while we tried to work

out what to do with her but her nerve broke and, as I said, she made a run for freedom and lost. Sally; her name was Sally. She thought she was pregnant. Not much older than Rachel, our child. Heartbreaking; tragic.’

Ed-Lamin was silent. Lizzie sat down on the edge of his bed and held his hand.

‘We’ll get you out. We’re a bit better organised now. Can you swim?’

‘Swim? Not since I was a kid. We used to swim in one of the hotel pools when I was a boy. Dad had taught the family of one of the hotel’s managers and she used to let us swim. Can I ask why? It’s a long swim to West Africa!’

‘We aren’t planning that you should swim all the way! We have access to a small   fishing boat. It’s just a possibility, one of many plans we have. Sorry; that’s a lie. We have one or two ideas that might become plans but they haven’t hatched yet. We try to leave no trace between the stations; the person who told us where you were can’t be linked to us and we mustn’t be linked to the fisherman and he, well, we don’t know yet who he mustn’t be linked to. Hope that’s not too clear?’

‘Clear as mud. I guess that at each change of station there’s a time when I’m on my own? So there’s no evidence to join all the stages together if the powers that be catch me?’

‘Right. Trust is the glue that joins us. You don’t know who notified us; you do know a fair bit about us and that’s a risk we decided to take. I expect the fisherman won’t speak a word to you, just pass you on to somebody we know nothing about. Trust. You won’t be able to send us a postcard to let us know you’ve arrived safely wherever it is you’re going to. Perhaps, years from now, when the world’s sane again …’

Ed tried to calculate the probability of ever seeing home, any home, again. Yet people of his tribe had survived slavery, had travelled that long ago and far away other underground railway, and survived. Did he want even to start out on this journey? He looked at Lizzie.

‘I can’t cope with this. Maybe Sally did the right thing; at least she died a free woman. If I go on with this escape I’m endangering not just myself but all of you – the old lady who helped me to hide in the ditch, the unknown person who passed me onto you, you and Andrew and Rachel and all the other people. All for what? To help one convict escape?’

‘You know better than that, Ed. I can’t tell you there’s a guaranteed better world round the corner, but there certainly won’t be if we don’t play our part. We have a conscience for a reason, and now’s the time to use it.’

‘I’m not good at patience, Lizzie. I should stay here and organise resistance. What good can running away do?’

‘Think. One black man, with nowhere to live, unable to leave wherever he’s hiding, is going to overthrow a totalitarian government, single handed? Get real. Dead, you’re useless; in hiding you’re useless – and worse, you’re a danger to others. But if we can get you away to somewhere safe you’ll have a voice. You’re young, you’re intelligent and we think you’re worth saving. We have succeeded in getting people out of the country; it just gets more difficult each time. If we think it’s worth the risk, why don’t you?’ Ed-Lamin took a deep breath.

‘Lizzie, sorry. You make me feel ashamed. You got me out of the gutter and took me into your home. You risk everything. Sorry. Thank you.’

‘OK. I promise we’ll get rid of you as soon as we can, and set you off on the next stage. I’ve a feeling it might be sooner than you think. Have a rest, read the paper; Rachel will bring you lunch soon. Anything you fancy?’

‘Anything – I fancy anything. Thanks, Lizzie.’

10

‘She’s getting her memory back.’ Jane’s father stated. ‘What the hell are we going to do?’

‘You can’t be sure, Geoff. They said there might be a few flash-backs, sort of bad dream things. Nothing to worry about.’

‘Think again, love. I’ve just spent the best part of an hour with her and she was lucid all the time. She’s not raving; quite calm in fact. She recited every bloody detail of how we got rid of the boy friend. She’s not connected us with it, thank God, but sooner or later the penny will drop. Sooner. She’s got her brain back and she’s joining up all the dots. Seems she’s not been taking her medication like a good girl. What the hell do we do, Karen?’

‘We talked about this, remember? Get her back on the tablets, get her mated with one of your brain-dead mates – wedded and bedded. Or have her sectioned. She won’t be the only one. That doctor who did the needlework on her, on her – you know what I mean. He’ll be willing enough to have her committed if he thinks his nice little income’s in jeopardy.  What are you doing out of bed, Jane?’

‘Have me committed, would you, mum? Just because I’m remembering things? I had a baby, Ed’s baby, a baby boy. And if he’s dead, somebody’s murdered him. He was well enough when he was born. I’m right. I know I am. So, treat me like an adult, will you? Truth, that’s what I want.’ Her father looked at her.

‘Truth, love? Sure you want to know? All right. Come and sit next to me. Your mum’s going to make a nice cup of tea then we’ll all have a nice chat, and we’ll see how you like the truth. You can still go back to bed and start taking the tablets again. But the truth will not set you free, love. No way.’ He looked over to his wife and nodded. Karen left the room, walked out into the garden and thumbed a number on her mobile ‘phone.

‘It’s happened. Come and get her.’ She walked back to the kitchen and filled the kettle. A few of her tears fell in with the tap water. They were drinking tea when the black ambulance pulled up close to their front door and four people in grey uniforms walked into the house. Jane was subdued with a single injection and her parents watched, grim faced, as their only child was stretchered away to an uncertain future.

‘She’s got no thought for either of us. She’s a selfish child. Going on about how much she’s lost – that worthless boy-friend and her bastard child. After all we’ve done for her. She couldn’t have been better treated if she’d been born a boy. The best of everything she’s had. Look at her now.’

‘I can’t, Geoff. Where is she? What will they do to her?’

‘They’ll look after her properly; we’re only amateurs, not proper nurses. You saw how they whisked her off just now; she’d no idea of what was happening to her. Very professional, I call it. A few months with that sort of care, proper drugs, good strong ones, and she’ll be home again as good as gold. Time she realised which side her bread’s buttered.’

Jane was back in the clinic where she had been operated on after the birth of her son. She was in a locked ward, strapped to a bed, a drip attached to her arm. She was kept sedated for a week. She was allowed to surface, fed, observed, shown pictures of Ed-Lamin and their home, reacted violently, and then sedated again. It was decided to continue the regime till she retained no memory whatsoever of her previous life. An enterprising pharmaceutical research company undertook to sponsor her treatment. They gave up after a couple of weeks. The next day her father received a ‘phone call from the chief medical officer of the clinic.

‘It’s about Jane, I’m afraid. She’s not responding as we hoped to the treatment programme. Still, there’s hope, of a sort. She’s the ideal candidate for the position of Care Assistant at a remedial centre. The guards, sorry, the staff there, need tender loving care. The work tends to brutalise them. A daily dose of Jane would make their lives so much more bearable.’ The caller waited for her father’s response. A long pause.

‘You mean there’s no hope for a cure for her? Nothing more you can do to make her normal? Just a bit brain damaged?  Just more memory loss?’

‘No. No chance. Not unless she’s to remain strapped to this bed for the rest of her life. Or we could, if you’d rather, just let her …?’

‘No, not that. I suppose I owe the girl something.’

‘Take this chance, then. It could be to your credit. Not every father would send his daughter to comfort the troops. I hear the Committee have plans for you, too?’

‘Rumours, only rumours.’

‘Not what I heard. Still, your dear lady wife has issues too, I believe?’

‘Bloody woman’s becoming a liability. Wants her darling daughter back home, says she could nurse her. Woman couldn’t nurse a sick onion. I’m always looking over my shoulder to see what stupid thing she’s about to do.’

‘So, if your wife’s father was suddenly likely to be seriously ill you could encourage her to fly to his bedside? South Wales, I think? I hear the old man’s going to have horrendous medical problems … should keep your good lady busy, especially now her mother’s had a breakdown? So sad for these old people. What do you think?’ You’re going to be very busy soon, I hear. Complications won’t help you at all. Let me know in the next few days what you decide? I’ll call on Wednesday, shall I?’

‘No. No need to wait. Send Jane off to the remedial centre – care home, I think is the proper name? Let me know as soon as my father-in-law needs tender loving care. No need to fossick around. Get things moving.’

‘Good decision. My superiors like a man who can make quick decisions, especially nowadays. And especially when the decision is the one they hoped for. Congratulations, Senior Watchman. As soon as your house is clutter-free we’ll move your new equipment in. You’ll qualify for a vehicle upgrade of course; any particular car in mind? The new Lexus has good reports. You’ll be travelling to HQ more, of course.’

‘The Lexus will be fine, in black and grey, if possible?’

‘Everything’s possible, Senior Watchman. Enjoy your promotion, sir.’

The Senior Watchman ended the call. Senior Watchman; he looked around the room. His wife was out of sight but not out of sound. She clattered pans and things in the kitchen. It sounded like battle. Everything the woman did generated noise. She couldn’t even sleep quietly. Not much longer, he thought; the Committee will arrange everything perfectly. There will be a call from a concerned neighbour of her parents. Such a shame, did she realise how sick the old man was? And her mother, crying all day, so upset, poor old thing …

‘

11

‘Ready to go swimming?’ Andrew’s voice reached the mists of Ed-Lamin’s dream. He’d been lying in bed, arms round Jane, kissing her neck and suggesting sweet naughty things. He disentangled himself from the pillow and tried to concentrate.

‘Two o’clock in the morning’ Andrew answered his unspoken question. ‘It’s pissing down, dark as a witch’s whatever bit is darkest, and the boat’s ready. Perfect conditions. I’ll drive you down to Spike Island and point you in the right direction. You wait till I’m well out of sight – it’ll give you time to strip off and pack your stuff into this waterproof bag – I hope it’s waterproof, Lizzie says it is so it probably is – then you swim out to the boat that's tied to the mooring below the lock. Hopefully. If it’s not there something’s gone wrong and you’re buggered.’ Ed-Lamin struggled out of bed.

‘Lizzie and Rachel send their best wishes. They’ve gone to spend the night with her dad. If anything goes wrong it’s down to me and hopefully they’ll escape blame. Hopefully. Come on.’

Andrew drove and Ed hid in the back of the van. He wondered about the name of the island and what would happen to him when they got there. The name of the river – Mersey – found a memory of his father telling stories to the school in his African home village. His father, leaning back against the huge trunk of the old Baobab tree, vultures circling in the high blue sky, he himself, sitting on a rough bench, huddled amongst his school friends, listening. The story featured a man carried off by a demon and screaming for mercy.

The van bumped along a potholed road devoid of lighting. A sharp left turn threw him against the metal side.

‘Nearly there. Remember, when I stop get out quick; you’ll be about five steps from the old Sankey Canal. Turn right, and follow it down to the river lock. It’s steep there but dark. Strip off, bag your things, the boat will be dead in front of you, about ten feet off the bank. Swim to the back and drag yourself on board. Get into the cabin and dress. Then it’s a matter of waiting. Keep out of sight. Good luck.’

‘Thanks. Good luck. Thanks.’ The van pulled up sharply; he grabbed the bag and dived out, closing the door behind as quietly as possible. It drove off; he crouched, waiting for it to be out of sight. He took a few steps forward and halted abruptly to avoid falling. Turn right, he remembered, and inched slowly along. The massive beams of a lock gate interrupted his passage. He groped his way round and sensed the path rapidly descending to the river. The cold air carried the stink of mud and rotting fish. He located a dark shape which might be a boat. Time to strip and swim. His bare feet felt a cinder path. His ankle hurt and he inched toward the edge of the river. The boat seemed a mile away, high-sided and impossible. He inched forward, found the sandstone edging stones and sat down. The water froze around his feet. A fish jumped and he slipped into the river and struck out for the boat. He bumped into its tarry wooden side a moment later and searched for something to hold onto. He missed, felt himself slipping under the boat's hard slimed planking. In panic, nose filled with river water, choking, he flailed around and felt his hand close round something. A rope, a thick, strong, rough rope met his hand. He pulled himself up, further up, slipped back and then managed to swing a leg over the gunwale and roll into the cockpit.  Naked, he lay on his back, coughing, subservient to fortune. He was cold and wet and alive. Water murmured along the side of the boat. He rolled over, onto his knees, and crawled towards the cabin. He couldn’t open the door and panicked. Soon it would be dawn; he would be seen and arrested. The boatman would have to give him to the police. He rattled the door again and found that it slid sideways. He crawled into the cabin and closed the door. He was shivering uncontrollably; his heart racing and he had difficulty breathing. He sobbed silently for a while. Slowly, reason returned. He was cold; he should dress. There was a towel, rough against his skin. The bag was waterproof. He pulled his clothes on. Thanks, Lizzie. There were a few chocolate bars and a bottle of water. He ate and drank. He explored the small cabin. There was a V-shaped bed in the bows, and a large sleeping bag. He pulled the bag round him, and curled up as tightly as possible in the very far end of the bed. The boat rocked him to sleep.

An unknown length of time later the sound of the boat’s engine woke him. He sat up and banged his head on a beam. He fought against the confining embrace of the sleeping bag. It was daylight, and the boat had left its mooring. There was a skylight above his head; low grey clouds were slipping by. The only other window was in the door; he thought he could make out the dark shape of someone steering the boat.

‘Stay where you are, for God’s sake. We’ve got a few hours to go then it’s over the side with you. Show your face before I tell you to and you’re over the side anyway.’ Ed-Lamin lay back. His head ached, his foot hurt and he felt sick and sorry for himself. Somehow he knew the voice. A woman’s voice.  Back on land he had a woman who wanted to be his wife. She was carrying their child, and their child would be black like his father. Jane was a feisty girl; she would cause trouble; she would escape and they would be a family again. If only it could be Jane. He closed his eyes and tried, and failed, to imagine playing with his children as his father had played with his family. The boat crashed into a big wave, rose, fell, crashed into another and another. Ed lurched out of bed, found a bucket and vomited copiously into it. Crash, pause, crash, pause, vomit; the sequence was without end. He remembered his father saying

‘There’s a problem with sea-sickness; at first you’re afraid you’re going to die and later you’re afraid you won’t.’ He suddenly felt better. He was his father’s son and his mother’s firstborn. He was a tribesman of a noble tribe. He was an educated and civilised man. Nil carborundum – don’t let the bastards grind you down. He rinsed his mouth with the last of the water and lay down again.

‘We’ve crossed the bar and there’s not a patrol boat in sight. Come on deck and breathe the air!’ Ed stumbled to his feet and slid the cabin door open. There was plenty of air to breathe. The motion of the boat was easier now; she rose and fell, rolled gently, but made her way purposefully through the dark water.

‘God, you look rough, man. Sure you’re cut out for this sort of thing? There’s hot tea in that flask. Leave some for me. Welcome to the wet bit of the railway.’ Oddly high pitched voice for a man. Ed looked again. Not a man, then. A woman, a teen-aged girl. Rachel! It was Rachel. She grinned at him.

‘Surprised? You can jump over the side and take your chances with the fishes? No? Nor would I. It’s time to tell you the next stage. It sounds a bit lunatic, but it’s worked before. Twice at least that we know of. Depends on the weather. In two hours I’m going to invite you to climb into that rubber dinghy and cut yourself adrift and wait for rescue. You’ll be in a main shipping lane and you’ll have a very good chance of being picked up by a freighter bound for North Africa. Sounds good?’ It sounded bloody stupid, thought Ed. He supposed that Rachel's identity had been concealed from him in case he'd been captured by the Watchmen before they set sail.