Chasing Freedom Home (Malinding) Read online

  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 sideligh
ts, 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.’

  ‘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.