Force of Hate

3 FORCE OF HATE GRAHAM BARTLETT For all those who come in hope. May we not let you down. I always tell authors that the story and characters must come first. With that in mind, this is a work of fiction, hence some structures, titles, locations, even some police procedures, have been modified to serve the story and the characters for your enjoyment. Contents Title Page Dedication Epigraph 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 Epilogue Acknowledgements About the Author By Graham Bartlett Copyright 1 It took all Ajee had to suck in the faintest breath. The lung-crushing stench pervading the impossibly tight fissure she’d wedged herself into tempted her to succumb to suffocation. This was the third, or was it fourth, leg of her month-long escape, hidden in pitch-dark trailers. This was meant to be the shortest yet but had cost her tenfold the other trips, but she’d been told it was worth it. The other journeys, nestled among boxes of offal and seafood, had been unbearable but nothing as revolting as this. There was barely room to blink; the sweat and halitosis of the fifteen or so other migrants seeped into every pore and tainted every gasp of air. It made her wonder whether the job, apartment and papers she’d been promised would be worth it. Ajee had sensed that they had cleared the port. She’d learnt to read the list and rattle of the lorry’s stops and starts and knew they were now on the open road. The crossing had been rough but nothing like the open boat across the Aegean Sea from Turkey. The smugglers in Dieppe had told them the journey through England would take three to four hours before they would be dropped off to meet the uncle who would look after them. So why were the brakes hissing so urgently now? And why had the lorry swung so sharply that she had to brace against the walls of her hollow? Even though she couldn’t see them, the other stowaways’ unease rippled through the trailer. A few panicked voices were hushed by others demanding silence. It was probably nothing. A broken-down car? A closed road? It would be fine. After all she had been through on her 3,000-mile flee from the city – and people – she loved, why would it all end now? Then, voices. Official. Muffled but definitely police. Or customs. Soldiers? She’d learnt English whilst studying for her nursing degree at the University of Aleppo so managed to pick up a few words, and they terrified her. Ajee shuffled away from the crates, praying she was moving to the edge of the trailer not deeper into its core. She had no idea whether this was the smartest or dumbest thing to do but instinct drove her on. All around others were doing the same. She listened carefully. As she touched the lorry’s canvas walls, the voices became clearer. ‘Can we have a look in the back then?’ ‘Mais oui, officer,’ came the reply, a little too loudly for Ajee’s liking. Her heart trembled and beads of sweat bubbled on her brow. Footsteps. She must be low down as they’d sounded right next to her, yet faded off to her left. They’d be heading to the back doors, she guessed, so she must be close to the cab. Low, on the front left side, she decided. Perfect. She fumbled in her right-hand jeans pocket. Empty. Oh no. Her left. Oh, please don’t say she’d dropped it. She’d guarded that knife since Istanbul. Having fled the would-be rapist, she’d paid fifty dollars she could ill afford, and now for the first time she needed it. She frantically frisked herself, then, as if Allah was watching over her, remembered the hidden pocket in the lining of the gilet she’d found in France. She heaved a silent sigh of relief and squeezed the cold metal to her calloused palms. The clank of rods and locks being unbolted snapped her back. Panic was now all around her as her faceless counterparts scurried around. She dared not add to the mêlée by shouting to them to stay still. She knew the game was up. As the doors were wrenched open, the bright morning sun floodlit the trailer. The reek of bodies and fear must have hit the police officers as they beamed their torches around the cargo. ‘Stay where you are,’ came the shout, then, ‘Charlie Bravo 34, urgent. Charlie Bravo 34, can we have back-up on the A27 westbound by the Amex Stadium. We’ve stopped a lorry full of migrants.’ It was now or never. Once more police arrived, she’d be done for. All those months, and wasted dollars, running from everything she knew. For what? She had to run now, and take her chances, or she’d be sent back to certain death. She flipped the blade open and stabbed at the canvas. The knife snagged and nearly flew out of her hand, but she gripped it tighter and with all she had, slashed downwards, just enough for her slim frame to squeeze through. Someone was heaving themselves into the back, shouting, ‘Stay where you are.’ She banked on only two police and surely one would be guarding the driver, so the other would no doubt be focused on those closer to the doors. She pulled herself up and glimpsed the outside through the tear. A narrow pavement gave way to green fields trimmed with hedges. No police. Euphoria and panic drove her as she shouldered her way through then leapt onto the tarmac. In three strides she was at the chain-link fence, and in one bound over it. She risked a backward glance to see the police