Strange Tide Page 2

  So can you not go around making matters worse? Take a tip from my ex-wife. Whenever you start to feel passionate about something, eat an orange and do the Daily Mail crossword.

  A word about the chain of command. All investigations must come to us via the City of London HQ in Love Lane. Cases can only be opened once we’ve received full clearance from Leslie Faraday, their public liaison officer. I know he’s an utter tool but he has his uses, so try buttering him up a bit. Dan, that means not pretending to be Chinese when he rings your direct line. You can’t do the accent and it just sounds racist.

  STAFF BULLETINS

  All right, some housekeeping. Our dustman – sorry, disposal operative – has complained that he lost his fingerprints after handling something one of you left by the back door in a Tesco bag. I know I told you to use bags but this one leaked after eating its way through the carpet tiles outside Mr Bryant’s office. I saw Alien, I know how these things turn out. Acids, combustibles and other toxic materials don’t go into the sinks or the bins. And certainly not down the toilet, as Colin discovered last week to his discomfort.

  You’ll notice we are now down to a staff of nine, but if everyone works a bit harder we can make up for the shortfall caused by Jack Renfield suddenly leaving us. I understand we were planning to hold a little party for him, but he’d already cleared out his desk and left before anyone had a chance to sign his card. Perhaps he had a train to catch. Or he simply didn’t like us. Maybe Janice would care to explain what happened, and why she returned his staff card by attaching it to my desk with a nail-gun.

  The two Daves are staying with us for another month because the first floor still has too much electricity. If you want to use the light switch in the upstairs toilet make sure you’re wearing rubber gloves.

  There’s some kind of a tomb in the basement. If anyone knows what an eight-foot box with symbols scratched all over it is doing down there, could they come and tell me? It’s probably just an old electrical substation, but until we know for sure I don’t want you calling up any of your weird contacts. We can do without druids dancing around it burning herbs and singing in funny voices.

  After the banking riots some of you had the nerve to put in expense claims for fire-damaged uniforms. This is a crime unit, not Top Shop. No one expects you to look good. Look at me: I’ve resigned myself to living in unironed shirts until I get married again.

  Dan Banbury tells me we’re to be issued with tablets. I told him I thought it was about time as I’d finished my ex-wife’s supply of anti-depressants, but it turns out he means electronic notebooks. Why you can’t use pads and pencils is beyond me. But then, most things are these days.

  I’ve decided we should take turns choosing films for the PCU’s Saturday Night Cinema Club. Meera’s choice, The Assassination of Trotsky, wasn’t exactly a thigh-slapper, so this week’s film will be one of my favourites. Carry On Up the Khyber will start at eight p.m.; bring your own snacks. No kebabs this time, Colin.

  The fumigators will be in during the week as we have an infestation of cockroaches that’s even worse than Crippen’s infamous flea outbreak. I’ve been assured it won’t smell any worse than Mr Bryant’s pipe. Speaking of whom, Mr Bryant isn’t feeling very perky at the moment. I’ve asked him to take some time off and he has agreed to take it easy until he gets – that is – if – er . . .

  (Pause.)

  I’m sure we all hope he makes a full recovery, although at the moment I don’t think he knows whether it’s Christmas Day or Marble Arch. Still, all good things come to an end. Let’s show him how well we can manage without him until I can find a replacement.

  ‘I’m sure he didn’t mean it like that, Arthur,’ said May. ‘Don’t do anything to him that you’ll regret.’

  In the meantime, just get on with your work, and remember I’m the king around here from now on, so no funny business.

  2

  WATER & FIRE

  Several years before Boadicea sat on a wall in King’s Cross, and several oceans away, a more desperate situation was unfolding off the Libyan coast.

  Freezing water, icy sky; it was so dark that Ali could not tell one from the other. There was no breath of a breeze. The glassine depths mirrored the universe. He tilted his head to one side, and thought for a moment that the world had turned over. There was no sound but the faint creak of wood and here or there a cough, a rustle, as someone stirred in uneasy sleep. Those awake kept silent, such was their fear of discovery.

  Only Ali Bensaud made a sound. He shook his head and whispered, ‘It’s taking too long. Why won’t he run the engine?’

  Ismael Rahman shrugged. ‘He says his company doesn’t give him enough gasoline to make the round trip. He is lying. He’s pocketing the money.’

  Ali passed his friend the Russian vodka bottle that had been refilled with bokha. Ismael took a swig that caught in his throat. He wiped his mouth. ‘I keep thinking it was wrong to run away.’

  ‘Half of bravery is running away, brother,’ said Ali.

  ‘But my business is in Tripoli. To leave my homeland—’

  ‘What is homeland?’ Ali shook his head. ‘I have no loyalty to Libya. My parents are Armenian. My name is short for Alishan; that’s a traditional Armenian name.’

  ‘You tell me this once a day,’ said Ismael. ‘But you’ve lived there all your life—’

  ‘Yes, and now I will live somewhere else. I will make it to England and be more English than the most English man alive.’ His grin shone in the dark. ‘I will make so much money that we will wash in it. You know why? The English are Britons, and where did they first travel from? Armenia! Libya is your homeland, not mine. What is left for me there?’ He shifted closer, lowering his voice. ‘The Martyrs Brigade is using missile launchers on its own people. You’ve seen such things with your own eyes. I have a clever tongue, but how many more times could I get caught by the militiamen and talk my way out of it? My own father threatened to turn me in. You know this to be true.’

  ‘You put all those things online, Ali, you kept a diary for everyone to read,’ said Ismael. ‘I warned you often enough.’

  ‘Yes, and perhaps I was wrong to do so. What’s done is done. Sooner or later they were going to come for me. My luck was all used up, brother. This was the only way. What other option did we have? All will be well now. We’re going to a land where people don’t even bother to count the things they own. We’ll look out for each other, just as we’ve always done. I will look after you. We will be well, insha’allah. Now try to get some rest.’

  ‘How can I sleep?’ Ismael moaned. The gunwale was digging into his back. ‘We should have been picked up by now. There are NATO boats out there, and American Navy SEALs.’

  ‘They’re looking for oil-runners,’ Ali reminded him, ‘not a bunch of people trying to get to somewhere with a McDonald’s. We’re not important to them. Let me take your mind off such things. Want me to show you a magic trick? It’s a new one.’

  But Ismael shook his head. Even Ali’s sleight-of-hand games couldn’t help him relax tonight.

  They could not sleep; their excitement was too great. They sat side by side with their chins on their knees, and an itchy grey blanket that smelled of engine oil wrapped around their shoulders. There was no coastline. There was no horizon at all. No world existed beyond the overcrowded cargo vessel with the silver jellyfish on its hull. The boat had been freshly painted and had looked smart enough when they first saw it from a distance, but it was much smaller than they had been led to believe, and was barely seaworthy. It had no lifeboats, no radar, no crew except the captain and his mate. They had cut the engine to conserve fuel and now they were adrift.

  The escape route ran from North Africa to Greece and Italy, but since the start of the crisis the borders were closing up across Europe. The EU’s border security force was now planning to line the Greek–Turkish frontier with a reinforced steel fence, and Israel was talking of doing the same with its Egyptian border in the Sinai Desert.
Until recently it had been possible to effect an easy entry through Spain’s Moroccan enclaves, Melilla and Ceuta, then everyone tried to leave from the empty, unpatrolled coast of Libya. The thirty-hour boat journey into Italian waters was undertaken only by the truly desperate. The migrants were still being rescued by the Italian coastguard, but even as they were scooped from sinking boats twice their number were lining up back on the shore, ready to risk their lives. All bets were off; it was now a matter of praying for protection and getting out of countries like Libya and Syria any way you could.

  Ali had an advantage over the others. He had been taught English by a teacher from London and had been his favourite pupil. The teacher had presented him with a pack of cards and the first of many books on magic; they provided cheap amusement for a boy with no money. He’d promised to take Ali to London one day, but had eventually gone home on the advice of the British Foreign Office. He’d left behind a young man with an unquenchable thirst for a culture he had never experienced.

  Ali studied the slope of the deck. The little cruiser seemed to be listing. Even though it wasn’t running, the engine was leaking gasoline and the smell made them feel sick. Eventually Ismael dozed with his head on Ali’s shoulder. Ali stayed awake making plans for them both.

  Shortly after daybreak the mate opened the water can and those who could rouse themselves gathered to drink, but he warned them that after noon today he would start charging for containers. Although Ismael had managed to sleep for a while he now felt disoriented and only half-awake. Ali was far too alert to settle. The blue nylon bag at his feet contained all he dared to bring on the journey. Finally he could no longer stay still, and took water around to those who were too tightly wedged into the corners of the boat to move.

  The night had been surprisingly cold, but the refugees were kept warm by their mass and number. They remained most tightly packed together at the stern, which offered better shelter, but the vessel was sitting too low in the water. Ali had seen the danger even as they were being transferred from the mother ship that had brought them beyond Libyan waters. He wondered what they were carrying below decks to weigh the boat down so much, but knew it was dangerous to ask.

  It was two hundred miles from the coast to Lampedusa, the first Italian territory they would reach. They had each paid a thousand dollars to the passeurs, who had promised them that the French-registered boat would have a satellite phone. The plan, as they understood it, was for one of the passeurs to call a relative on the rocky island, who in turn would alert the coastguard. Lampedusa meant ‘rock’ and ‘oyster’ and ‘torch’, which perfectly summed up their destination: a closed-off cliff with a beacon that led to a new world.

  But things had gone wrong; there was no phone on the boat, and the vessel’s plank deck was so rotten that Ali found he could leave deep depressions in it just by kicking down with his heel. Nobody seemed to be in charge, least of all the captain, who had been drinking the whole time. There was no food on board. Several of the Eritreans were sick and unable to rouse themselves. Those around them tried to move away from the pools of infected vomit but there was nowhere to go.

  Ali had the sense that they were drifting, waiting for someone to find them. Surely there had to be a better plan than this. On his surreptitious inspection tour he had seen one yellow rubber life raft stowed aft. It was the only one, and absurdly small for a vessel this size, better suited for a boating lake than an ocean, but still he thought about stealing it.

  ‘What if the Italian navy refuses to pick us up? Look what happened to the last boat.’ Ismael stroked the silver crescent moon he wore on his neck-chain, something he had always done when he was anxious, ever since they were children. ‘They know boats like this come over and wait to be rescued. What if—’

  ‘If you’re so worried why don’t you just jump overboard and swim home?’ Ali snapped, worn down by his friend’s fears. ‘We both chose this. There’s no going back and nothing we can do, so there’s no point in complaining now.’

  Ismael knew that his friend was right. They were closer than brothers, having spent their entire lives together, playing outside Ismael’s father’s camera shop, going to watch football matches in the stadium that was now used for public executions. Ali had always been the showman, the silvered-tongued charmer, the one with drive and brains and ambition. Ismael had been happy to walk in his shadow. They were family to each other. But there were few loyalties left behind them now, only fear and suspicion, and as the West hardened against them in uncaring ignorance it was time for everyone to help themselves and get out while they could.

  ‘Besides,’ said Ali, ‘your brother made it, didn’t he? You must have the same strength.’

  ‘Zakaria left seven years ago,’ said Ismael. ‘He promised to send money. There has been no word from him in the last four years. He is dead to me.’

  ‘You can’t say that. You share his blood.’

  ‘Then if I’m of his blood why wouldn’t he help us? Why didn’t he get in touch?’

  Ali had no answer for this, and stayed silent. By his reckoning they had now been in the boat for forty-two hours. They had no food left and very little water. There was still no sign of land.

  He looked between the supine figures hugging their sacks of meagre belongings. The yellow rubber raft lay just ahead of them, under the bench, unnoticed. The darker-skinned Africans had been forced to pay more for the trip, and were stowed below deck. No one had seen them since they were transferred on board.

  Just before dusk the weather suddenly changed. Where the sea had been aquamarine glass it was now opaque and stippled, then black and swelling. The wind rose and cloud cover swept in with the speed of someone unrolling a carpet across the sky. There were no moans of fear from the almost two hundred souls within the boat, only an unnerving silence and stillness as the passengers grimly clamped their jaws and waited for the storm to pass.

  No rain came, which Ali knew was good because the clear air kept them visible. As the night descended once more, he raised his head and searched the horizon for the lights of Lampedusa. If they made it there, they could get to Sicily and the mainland beyond. He feared that the few older ones on board would not have the strength to make the journey.

  The boat began to creak alarmingly, as if it was trying to pull itself in different directions. The sea looked like a great table that someone was trying to tip over, first this way, then that. As they pitched and rolled to steeper degrees, the refugees started to stir and then scream. A sudden commotion exploded near the bow. The vessel was taking on water. Ali tried to stand and see what was happening, but was thrown to the deck.

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Ismael. ‘Are we near the shore?’

  ‘I don’t think so. They’ve seen something. Maybe another boat.’ He slapped his friend’s shoulder. ‘Mare Nostrum.’

  The Mare Nostrum project had been set up to provide air-sea rescue for refugees, and to halt human trafficking from mother ships in the waters around Sicily.

  The Eritreans and Somalis were sitting separately from the Syrians and Libyans, and now an argument broke out. The mate shouted a warning at them.

  ‘They’re saying it’s a naval vessel,’ Ali confirmed. ‘Somewhere over there.’ They both tried to rise and search for lights but the storm-swell forced them to wait for a view.

  ‘There, to the left,’ said Ismael excitedly. But the lights of the vessel were too far past them. The ship hadn’t noticed the little craft. In a few moments it would be too late and their chance would have slipped away . . .

  Warmth and yellow light suddenly bathed the refugees’ faces. The mate had doused a blanket in petrol and set it alight. He was waving it wildly above his head. Burning pieces detached themselves and showered the passengers.

  ‘Is he mad?’ cried Ali. The cargo vessel stank of gasoline, which was stored in unstoppered plastic drums near the engine. Some of the men were trying to snatch the burning blanket away from the mate, but only succeeded in spreading th
e flames.

  The explosion sent a ball of fire into the sky and blew out the entire port side of the vessel. Nearly everyone seated on that side was doused with fiery meteors and sent into the water.

  The boat had moments left to live before it capsized. Ali and Ismael tried to help the older men and women around them, pulling them to their feet, but a palpable terror was spreading through the passengers. Already the craft was starting to sink. Many more were pitched into the sea on top of one another.

  The deck was now sharply angled. Chunks of burning wood were raining down on them. Below Ali, a woman in a flaming blanket stumbled into the water. As the boat shuddered and rolled over, Ali dived in and grabbed at her, pushing her burning clothes beneath the waves to extinguish them, but he was too late; she floundered for a moment, then disappeared beneath him. A single cork sandal returned to the surface.

  The craft groaned and whined in its death throes. A great steel panel smacked into the water beside him, shearing its way to the depths. It didn’t seem possible that the vessel could have broken up so quickly. There was now a danger of being pulled down with the wreckage.

  Ali still had his bag. Looking for Ismael, he saw the yellow life raft flop into the sea. No one was swimming to it; they hadn’t realized that it could be inflated by pulling the painter out of the CO2 canister and yanking it. He tried to see if Ismael was still on the boat, but now the vessel was standing vertically and sliding down at an incredible speed. Moments later all sign of it had gone. Refugees were clinging to pieces of burning wood. Many were quickly lost from sight.

  The water was cold but not unbearable. When Ismael and Ali went fishing they often stayed wet until they returned home, and barely felt the bitter chill. For the journey they wore light hooded sweatshirts, cut-off jeans and trainers, but the Somalis wore long brown cloaks that were impossible to remove once they were waterlogged, and the heavy fabric dragged at their limbs, pulling them down even faster.