Chasing Freedom Home (Malinding) (4 page)

7

Jane woke up in bed in her parents’ house. Whatever drugs she had been given had caused her great memory loss. Ed was missing; why didn’t he come to her? There had been a baby, or at least the dream of a baby. She was sore; had she had a baby? She couldn’t remember. Sleep was good, but when she slept she dreamed strange dreams, dreams about men in uniform and someone screaming, screaming. Something was missing. Somebody was missing. Ed, Ed-Lamin; why was he not with her? Had he been just a dream? She tried to remember his voice, and could not. Perhaps she was dreaming, but if this was the dream how would she know when she was awake? Her mother was there; all the time she hovered, adjusting pillows, offering glasses of water and these nice pills the doctor ordered. From time to time her father would appear in the doorway to her room; standing, fidgeting, trying to communicate with her. Days and nights crawled or scurried by. Karen helped her to the toilet, mother caring for child. Weight had been lost, too much weight. A doctor came to stare at her; she shrank from his touch. More pills were prescribed; more glasses of water were sipped and dribbled onto her nightdress. A beautiful summer day passed un-noticed. Slowly, boredom emerged from indifference.  A therapist convinced her that there had been an accident and she had been hurt, unconscious for a long period, her memory had been lost and her parents, such lovely people, had feared she might die. There would be false memories, that was only to be expected. Her dreams of a child? False also – she was still a virgin. But there was hope, of course, there was always hope. A lovely young woman like her? Sure to fall in love and live happily ever after. Her parents would give her the best possible care and she was still young; of course the right man would come along. Naturally, it was just a matter of time. Rest, that was what she needed now, rest and care. And sleep. Lots of sleep and lovely dreams. The drugs helped, of course they did. The dreams still troubled her.

Safe in her father’s desk, securely locked away, was the birth certificate of her son. Hopefully, her parents thought, never to see light of day. They were convinced their daughter had no memory of that terrible day when they had had to change her world. It turned out to be a lovely summer. Jane sat, in the shade, on the sun lounger and learned to do very little. Karen tended to her every need, secretly alarmed that her daughter showed all the get up and go of a brick. Her father stared at her from the lounge, relieved that at least his only child was free of the threat of disgrace. It would have been a risk to a man in his position to have a mixed race grandchild and a daughter living with an African immigrant. Now, although the price paid was a daughter with the apparent mental capacity of a butterfly he could breathe a sigh of relief and hold his head high as he stalked the corridors of power. It had been a close thing though. The Watchers were everywhere. Would it be enough that she looked good in a bikini? Her conversation was limited, but she had a nice laugh. She could smile at most things. Karen coached her to a standard where she could be trusted to pour a drink and hand round plates of nibbles. Maybe in time some older man, desirous of appearing younger and virile, would, for the sake of a good dowry, marry the girl and father children on her? Given time, all things might be possible. He turned from the window and activated his laptop.

He sent an email: Girl still has memories; suggest drug increase? He waited for a reply.

In her bedroom his wife took out a treasured folder of documents, normally hidden under the mattress. Certificates of birth, of baptism, of education. A degree, Second Class Honours in PPE from an Oxford college. A few photographs, childhood holidays and friends. Two official pictures, Mother and father and daughter, and daughter with boyfriend, at a Degree Ceremony. Everybody was smiling. She failed to recognise the image of her daughter as one and the same person who languished on the patio at the back of the house.

8

A night passed, uninterrupted by any activity other than their own. Morning came and found them all awake, waiting. Their routine had been disrupted; there were no guards to order them, to drag them out to feed or wash or defecate. They were naked. They had become accustomed to being chained together; there was safety perhaps, in numbers. They were, in a way, a team, a chain gang. Now they felt isolated, vulnerable, exposed to the consequences of their own actions and so afraid to take any initiative. By noon hunger drove them to action. The priest discovered that the door to their cell was unlocked. The journalist opened it and peered up the staircase. Ed cautiously ventured to the foot, then to the top, of the stairs. He waited, dreading hearing some sound which might herald his death. Only silence threatened him. He walked along the corridor to the canteen, and pushed the door open. The table was bare. His cellmates followed him into the room.

‘How we supposed to survive if they don’t feed us?’ one complained.

‘Maybe it’s time for God to provide’ said another, looking at the priest.

‘God has provided an open door.’

The Watchers sniggered.  The prisoners moved out of the canteen and along the corridor, away from their cell. Every door was open, every room was empty. The shower room was open but the water was turned off. Next they ventured out into the prison yard. There was a shutter fastened across the opening in the wall, but the large double gates stood slightly ajar.

‘What’s going on?’

‘Trust me, it’s a trap. We should go back to the cell and wait. It’s the only safe thing to do. I’m going back.’ The medical student turned back, then stopped at the first door. ‘They've shut it. It’s locked. I can’t open it. I want to go back; it’s not safe out here. Let me in’ he screamed. The others gathered round him; the door was firmly fastened against them.

‘Maybe,’ said one, ‘there’s been a revolution and the guards have run away. They did that at Belsen, I think, when the war ended.’

‘If the guards have gone, who is locking the doors as we go through them?’

‘It may be an automatic system of some sort – how should I know? Let’s see how far we can get.’ They turned round, marched back across the prison yard and pushed open the other pair of double gates. The found themselves in another, smaller yard, open to the sky but surrounded by more high walls. They faced another pair of tall gates. As they walked across the gates behind them closed. They heard locks fasten.

‘I really don’t like this.’

‘I do. We’re being given a chance to escape.’

‘Escape? Stark naked black men? Bare-footed? Some chance.’

‘It’s a chance, and the only one we’ve got. Trust God, brothers. Follow me.’ The priest strode confidently into the outside world where the sun shone brightly. One by one the others followed him. The final pair of gates closed against their return. They stopped and surveyed their new world. A dusty unmade road, flanked by deep ditches, stretched for about half a mile across empty stony fields to a pine forest, where it disappeared between thick trees.

The first shot killed the priest.  The others ran. Ed zigzagged crazily, praying to a god he didn’t believe in. He stumbled and fell, saw the dust rise inches from his body, indicating where a shot had struck. He hadn’t heard the report. He rolled, ran again. Another fall, into the ditch this time, and this time a shot grazed his arm. The ditch was deep and dry. He scuttled along on all fours as fast as he could. He heard more shots but none came near him. At last he reached the shelter of the trees. His comrades had disappeared; he had no way of knowing if they still lived. A road or track crossed the ditch by way of a low bridge. He considered sheltering here but decided it was too obvious a place. He crawled on. His ankle throbbed. Somewhere, back there, he must have twisted it. He cautiously felt the joint. It was swollen.

He lay flat on his back and tried to consider his situation. He heard a car stop nearby. Footsteps. A woman, an old woman, peered down at him. He covered himself with his hands.

‘I’m going to dump some rubbish here. Anti-social behaviour. I could receive a stiff fine. There’s a bottle of water among it. Stay covered until some other idiot comes along. If the idiot is singing “Three little maids from school” show yourself and do exactly as you’re told. Otherwise the idiot will kill you. Good luck.’ A short silence, then the sound of something being dragged. A pause, then rubbish, stinking garbage, fell on him, covering him from sight. A car door closed and the car drove slowly away. He groped for the bottle and found it. He took his first drink in freedom and settled down to wait. Rescue was a long time coming. He heard the sound of running feet but they passed him by. Several vehicles drove along the track, but none stopped. A helicopter flew overhead. A dog jumped down on top of him and started to paw and snuffle in the rubbish but it was called off by its master, and reprimanded for getting into such a filthy state. The dog had pissed on him, but he hadn’t moved. He waited. He attempted not to think about Jane, about his child, about their love. That way lay madness; he could only suppose that they were suffering as he suffered.  He tried to think of his first home, tried to compose messages to his mother, his brothers and sisters, to Binta, his father’s second wife. He named all his teachers, including his father. He thought of all the visitors who had come to the village, mostly to meet his mother, the chief, the Alkalo. If ever he escaped he would stay for the rest of his life in the village, teach at the village school and perhaps, perhaps, if Jane could not join him, perhaps … but that was a thought too far removed from reality. He lay still, trying not to move, under the noxious filth. Whoever she was, the old woman who had concealed him from sight, she had selected the garbage efficiently No daylight penetrated it. No eyes peered down on him, no shots came his way. Under its cloak he lay, in his own filth now, waiting. He sensed it was dark above him. An owl sang its ghostly song. Small things moved among his dunghill. Something, piss or rain – he prayed it was rain – fell on him. And then a woman started to sing.

9

‘Get in the van, quickly, in the back fool; do you want to be on public view?’ As quickly as his damaged foot would allow, Ed climbed into the darkness of the van’s interior. He lay on the floor, gasping for breath and trying to understand what was happening to him.

‘Pull the bloody door shut; we haven’t got all night.’ A woman’s voice, urgent, frightened. Makes two of us, he thought. Immediately he began to have doubts. Was he about to be returned to his captors? Was there a price on his head? How had his escape been notified? Dangerous lunatic, do not approach this man, reward for information leading to his re-capture?

‘Get dressed – there’s stuff in the bag. Use the baby wipes to clean yourself. There’s a bottle of water and some bread, if Rachel remembered to put it in. All a bit of a rush. Sorry,’ - as the van started to bump along a very potholed track – ‘sorry; there used to be a proper road along here but the council found it more profitable to trouser the funds than repair the road. Sorry.’ The vehicle bounced violently for a while. He tried to wedge himself in a corner. They moved onto smoother tarmac and the van increased speed. He thought of using some of the water to try to clean himself, but soon gave up. Water was to drink. He located the bag and found the wipes. There were a couple of pairs of trainers and he winced as he tried the first pair; too small. The second pair was loose, but suited his damaged foot. He took another drink of water and ate some of the bread. The van stopped, and he heard the driver’s door open.

‘Stay there, don’t try to get out.’ A gate, or maybe a barn door, dragged open. The woman drove a few metres and stopped again. A light came on. ‘Let’s have a look at you.’

His rescuer, or his captor, twisted round in the front seat and stared at him. ‘Which one are you?’

‘I’m Ed, Ed-Lamin Edwards. Who are you?’

‘Hello, Ed-Lamin. Yes, that’s one of the names we were given. Never mind about me; time for that later, maybe. Now, you have a choice. You’re free to go. Just open the door and go, if that’s your decision. If you stay you do exactly as we tell you – no ifs and buts, just do it. We have to trust you and you have to trust us. Sod off now if you like. At least two
of your group are dead. More maybe. We have a chance for the moment because the hunters are dividing their resources between the four of you still alive. So, Ed-Lamin, your choice. Go, and take your chance. Stay with us and we will try, and I say try – there’s no guarantee – to get you away safely. But, remember this, if you disobey us in anything we will kill you. My husband and child mean more to me than you do. Remember that.’

‘Please, tell me what’s happening? Who are you?’

‘You’ve heard the offer. Stay, or go. If you stay, the obedience starts now. You stay here, in this van, in this barn. You’ll have to wait a long time. It will be at least five hours before we can move. Stay in the van, you hear? Eat, sleep, and crap in the van. We can hose it out later, if need be. When we’re ready, we’ll return and maybe then you can ask questions. I don’t guarantee answers. Good luck, brother.’ The light was switched off, the van door opened and closed again, as did the door of the barn. It was still dark. Why had she called him brother?  Perhaps she was a member of some religious order. He remembered a picture in a history book; a medallion bearing the image of a kneeling chained man. Around the edge was the inscription ‘Am I not a man and a brother?’ What did he know?

Time passed. He stood up, tried to stretch his limbs. He did press-ups. His damaged foot screamed agony. He recited poetry; verses his father had taught him, poems he had learned at school, songs Jane had sung to him.

He took stock: still alive, dressed rather than naked, food and drink available, and, again, alive. Two fellow escapees dead. Could he trust that information?

Could he trust anything the woman had said? Who was Rachel? Her daughter, perhaps, or sister or lover.  Am I not a man and a brother? The black changed to grey and edged into black again. Would she never return? Would she return alone or with a firing squad? What sort of a man sat in the dark, longing for rescue, longing for his family, free to open a couple of doors and walk away? What sort of a man was so spineless that … the door of the barn creaked open. It closed again. The driver’s door opened and the dim interior light came on.

‘Well done, young Ed. It must have been hell. Sorry, but we had to be certain you weren’t a decoy set to trap us. It has happened. You seem to have done exactly as I said. Now, we wait for a few more hours just to make certain there are no hidden Watchers – we have watchers watching for enemy Watchers – talk about tangled webs; then, if all’s clear and we’re still alive, off we go to the next station. You’ll learn more if we get there. When we get there.’

‘Who is Rachel?’ 

‘What?’

‘You said Rachel had put things in the back of the van.’

‘Oh, dear god. I’m getting too old for this. Slip of the tongue. Please, forget it.’ Try as he might, he could not coax another word out of her. She sounded shocked, unbelieving that she had made such an elementary mistake. Rachel must be some one very close to her. Daughter or lover, nothing less. He cursed himself for mentioning the name. They settled down to wait. He sensed his companion suddenly become alert. He strained to listen for some signal, some sign, that events might be moving on. The darkness continued, the silence remained undisturbed, then the engine started; he sensed rather than heard the barn doors opening and she backed the van out of the building. There was a brief pause while the barn doors were closed then the passenger side door opened and a second somebody got in.

Ed tried to see what was happening, surely, he thought, his eyes would have adapted to darkness by now, but the vehicle seemed to be driving blindfold.

They emerged from a forest into a marginally brighter gloom.  They were driving along a switch back road, using only sidelights, between two banks of pine trees. His companions breathed a joint sigh of relief. The man turned in his seat and spoke.

‘Ed-Lamin, we’re out of the wood in two senses. Keep down. It’s important you remain out of sight. This van frequently drives along this road, with either or both of us in it. We’re very rarely stopped. If we are stopped, run like hell. We’re more likely to get a wave from the guards at the cross roads because we often give them a bottle or a few cans. It won’t help if they see you though. Five more miles then we should be safe. You’re coming to stay in our guest house for a few days, OK?’ Ed grunted a reply. It was hardly reassuring. He was on the run, with strangers, as little in charge of his life as when he was a prisoner. He slumped in the back and waited. He felt the van slow to a crawl and sensed the draft from a wound-down window. The man shouted a greeting and somebody replied

‘Thanks for the drink, Andrew’ as they drove past. He now knew two names. The window was closed and for some reason Ed relaxed. The woman spoke.

‘Nearly there. We’ll drive the van into the garage and the garage doors will be closed and locked. Then, I’ll blindfold you and you’ll be led into the house and down some stairs. It really is important that you don’t know where you are. Then, when you’re in your room we’ll remove the blindfold and we’ll all have a little chat. Right, Ed?’

‘Right.’ There was silence until the blindfold was removed. Ed sensed that this wasn’t the first time Andrew and the woman had worked together, and he remarked on it.

‘Can’t tell you that; you’ll just have to draw your own conclusions. What would you like to do first? There’s an en-suite shower room, complete with bidet and basin. You’ve got sandwiches, cheese and pickle and onion. Hope you’re not vegan? That flask’s coffee, or there’s a kettle and teabags on that table. Would you rather have a beer? Whisky?’

‘No thanks, I don’t drink. Water would be good though, please.’

‘No problem – or there’s fruit juice?’

Ed was close to tears. ‘Sorry’ he said ‘I can’t do decisions. I thought they were going to kill me, and then I didn’t know who you people are, or who’s side you might be on. Sorry. I’m not normally such a wimp.’

Andrew hugged him.

‘We’re not in normal times, lad. Go on, freshen up and I’ll get you some orange juice. Lizzie will stay with you. Time we all answered a few questions, I think. Back in a minute.’

The shower ran delightfully hot and felt like a therapeutic delight.  He dressed in a clean tracksuit and returned to the bedroom. The sandwiches sat on a clean white plate, and the orange juice waited quietly in a clear glass tumbler. Three pairs of eyes watched him, three heads nodded as he took the first bite.

‘While you’re eating we’ll talk. I’m Lizzie; this is Andrew, my husband and here’s Rachel, my daughter. The teenager smiled a welcome. We’ve a son, Henry, who is a medic. He’s in The Gambia, working with MRC at Bakau. We won’t tell you where we are but you’ll be safe here, at least for a few days. It’s best to keep moving.’ Ed continued to eat and Andrew spoke.

‘We run a guesthouse. People come, stay for the most part just a night or two – this is not a touristy place – and move on. It’s good because we can move about freely – collecting people from the bus and train stations, sometimes from the airport too. Two airports, really, Liverpool and Manchester. Lots of comings and goings at all sorts of hours. Rachel’s left school and is doing her gap year with us. We had to bribe her.’

‘Dad’s very good with bribes. I’m saving enough to have a second year gap year, when I’ll escape like Henry’s done. Not that I’ve got half his brains; he takes after Mum.’

‘You know a bit about us now. Your turn Ed. Who are you? We think we’ve an idea but we’d like you to confirm it.’

‘I am Ed-Lamin Edwards. I’m Gambian, I’m a Mandinka tribesman. My mother is Alkalo of our village and my father was English, a teacher. His first wife and daughter were killed in a car crash long before I was born. He visited my mother’s village and fell in love with her, eventually married her and I was the first-born of that marriage. I was educated first in the village schools and then sent to England, to Oxford, where I took my degree and met the girl I thought would become my wife. I got a teaching job, we bought a house and then she, Jane, become pregnant. We were so happy. We planned to get married as soon as the baby was born – I wanted to get married right away but Jane’s parents suggested we wait till the baby was born then they would pay for a big wedding – they would bring my mum and my brothers and sisters and half brothers and sisters – my dad had two wives – over here and we would all be together. Then I was arrested. My passport was out of date – that didn’t matter, I was a British citizen anyway, but somehow that didn’t count. I’d lost my job because they said my qualifications were forged and, worst of all, I was accused of rape. They said I’d raped Jane. One day everything was great and we were the two happiest people on the planet, then it turned to hell. I’m going mad. I am mad, I must be. Then I was in prison and they were killing and torturing people, then we were allowed to escape – I think so they could hunt us down – and then you came along and I’m still alive. I don’t know if Jane is alive? I’d just be happy to know that she’s OK? Is that possible?’

‘It may be possible, but it wouldn’t be wise. It’s just what they are waiting for.’

‘Do you know who “They” are?’

‘Ed, “They” are our government. You remember the last election? Who did you vote for?’

‘I spoiled my ballot paper. They were all such a bunch of self-seeking 'phonies. I thought they were no better than a bunch of squabbling playground bullies. I think Jane voted for one of the minor parties her dad supported, but most of the people I know didn’t vote or spoiled their papers like I did.’

‘And her Dad’s party got in? The Purity People’s Party?’

‘Yes, they did. On a twelve per cent turnout. It was a mockery.’

‘We were talking about “They”? That’s the PPP. That’s our government. You have to admit that they are doing what they promised. Out of Europe. Sending immigrants ‘home’, and if they don’t have homes in another country they are being disappeared. That’s what was going to happen to you. Hunted down and killed for sport. The women are raped and killed afterwards. Mixed-race children are sold into sex slavery or worse. There’s actually a law forbidding non-consensual sex under the age of five. It spoils the goods for later intercourse.’

‘Oh, God.’

‘Some escape. Not many; some.’

‘And how do you come into this? Why help me? They don’t sound like people to cross?'

‘They’re not. But we believe slavery and discrimination and torture are wrong. Freedom is an absolute. So we do what we can.’

‘But why? You’re putting yourselves and your daughter at risk. Why not sit it out till the next election?’

‘Could you sit it out? And what’s this next election? When’s that coming along? It’s already delayed for ten years. Believe it or not, this bunch of psychopaths is attracting a lot of support. Walk into any town and you won’t see a black person or hear an African or Caribbean accent. They’ve gone. We’ve heard that now you are the only uncaptured one of your group. The others haven’t really been captured – they’re dead. You are still alive and breathing. You do have a home to return to, if you can get there. We'll try to help you do that. You’re educated, there's a lot of good you can do in your own country, if you get there. That’s what we want to do.’

‘Again, why? You’ve risked your lives already; you’re risking them now, just having me in your home. I can’t get my hands on any money; I can’t pay you.’