By: Seumas Gallacher
CHAPTER
1
It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.
It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.
The journey from Krakow to Cherbourg is
a thousand kilometres as the crow flies.
The dingy truck with four dozen aboard
was cramped and filthy. Svetlana could smell the sweat and fear that clings to
transit refugees. Like herself, the others sharing the dark canvas-covered
space in the rear of the transporter were searching for a way out of the squalor
and poverty of their villages. All were female, some barely older than her own seventeen
years, some older than that. She knew only two of her companions. Their common
thread was the desire to find a route to England and a chance of earnings,
however meagre, at least better than nothing in their homeland. Desperation and
hope make easy bedfellows.
The handlers had outlined the way out
two weeks ago, promising work with their business partners in London.
Guaranteed placements with good families keen to have their foreign labour. No
money up front required. That was the clincher. What was there to lose? There
were early misgivings as whispers surfaced about enforced prostitution. These
evaporated with their handlers’ assurances that this was a legitimate business,
with constant need in the UK for reliable workers like themselves. However,
crossing borders without documentation was illegal, but who could afford time
and money to acquire passports?
Thin matting covered the floor of the
truck, and piles of large empty cardboard containers softened the jolts and
jarring. They were told not to smoke, as that could betray their presence to officials
at checkpoints. It would also be dangerous because extra fuel containers were
stacked inside to avoid the need to purchase gas on the road.
A small light fitment shed its glow
across the passengers. Some were already in nervous conversation, but many travelled
in silence, wrapped in the anticipation of better times at the end of the
journey. They were warned not to speak when the vehicle was motionless.
Officials have ears.
Svetlana was the third last to board in
Krakow before the door was locked. Some dialects she understood. Most she didn’t.
She tried to focus on being as comfortable as the overloaded conditions
allowed. Tucked into the left rear corner, at least she was supported on two
sides. Her belongings were crammed into a duffle bag, which doubled as a
cushion. She didn’t own a watch, had no idea how long they’d been on the road,
and not being able to see out of the vehicle made the time drag even more. The
initial fear that caused the dryness in her mouth at the start of the journey
was slowly turning into more positive anticipation of what lay ahead in
England. At least she’d be able to send money to her mother in the village. Her
father had been an unknown figure, having died sixteen years ago when Svetlana
was barely one year old. Opening her bag, she took out the grease proof paper
holding the cheese and bread she had brought aboard, and ate half of it. Not
knowing how much longer they might have to go, she decided to keep some for later.
The bottle of water, warm by now, eased her throat a little. The monotony of
the noise from the wheels as the journey progressed began to make her drowsy.
With barely room to manoeuvre with the other girls pressed so closely, she
tried to position the bag at her back once more and leaned her head against the
heavy cloth wall. The truck had been used to transport many different cargoes
in recent months. The smell of rotted vegetables and dank canvas mixed with the
sweat and body odour. Proper sleep was almost impossible, but she managed to
doze for short spells.
Tev Naar had made this run dozens of times
over the past three years.
His job was to drive. Just drive.
Nothing else. Each trip had a bag man aboard. Some of them he had journeyed
with often, some not. Names were neither asked for nor exchanged. The bag man’s
function was to grease palms at the points of entry and exit ensuring that
recognised friendlies at customs crossings received the standard payment. No
vehicle inspection needed.
The greaser on this trip was a regular.
A small man, unremarkable in any crowd. These were the best operators. Quiet.
Effective. Mingling in.
Early evening drizzle misted the
entrance to the quay as the truck drew into the port of Cherbourg. As normal,
Tev parked on the far edge of the dockside, away from unwelcome attention. Now
the wait. In a couple of hours, around ten o’clock, local handlers would arrive
to transfer the human cargo to the waiting freighter for the journey across the
English Channel. Until then, Tev and the greaser chatted quietly about
football, the only common interest they shared.
In the rear, the women waited, talking
only in low whispers. They had been briefed on the schedule. They knew in a
couple of hours they would be on the high seas on the final leg to England.
The dashboard clock neared nine o’clock.
Tev’s companion opened the truck door.
“I need a pee.”
“Right,” said Tev.
The greaser stepped down from the
passenger seat. He didn’t hear the click of the silenced gun that blew a hole
in his right temple.
Tev heard a grunt. He turned towards the
passenger side door and was met by an equally deadly bullet to the head.
Inside the truck, Svetlana heard a
rustling coming from the canvas-covered side of the vehicle, along with
whispered voices in a language she didn’t recognise. Then the pungent smell of
petrol fumes. What was going on?
Everything happened in a blur. Flames
exploded along the sides of the truck and up across the roof. The screams from
the women were terrifying. Utter panic. Instinctively, she and several others
beside her clawed frantically at the back door sheeting. Nothing moved. Others
piled forward. They heaved their bodies against the door as acrid smoke filled
their lungs. Svetlana struggled for air. “Dear God, I’m going to die,” the thought
came to her, “who’s going to look after my mother?”
The flames reached the spare fuel tanks
at the right hand side of the truck. Seconds later they ignited in a roar. None
but those furthest from the tanks stood a chance. The wall of refugees between
Svetlana and the explosion saved her along with the front three women pressing
against the door. It gave extra impetus to their shoving.
The door broke open. Svetlana fell
headlong on to the muddy ground and rolled away. She wasn’t aware that the back
of her clothing had been burned along with her legs, half of her back and her left
side. At least she was away from the burning truck.
It
wasn’t supposed to happen this way.
Everything went black as Svetlana passed
out.
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