Ellen Wiles - The Invisible Crowd

‘You haven’t seen the film, have you?’

Yonas shook his head.

‘Fine. Anyway, if you’ve got the rest, the correct answer would be yes .’

‘Yes,’ Yonas echoed.

‘Because if you talk we are all going to get into trouble. Do you know the meaning of the word trouble?’

‘I do.’

‘Good. If you imagine to yourself the worst possible kinds of trouble, then you’re on the right track.’ I don’t need to imagine , Yonas thought. ‘So, blend in. Don’t get yourself noticed. Keep yourself to yourself. Understood?’

‘Understood.’

Uncle got off the desk and began to pace around the room. ‘Good. You can stay for a trial week. You will do a mixture of work. Construction, cleaning and such like. You will get forty quid a week cash in hand from me, for working however many hours I tell you to work, normally around eight hours a day, for six days per week. In return you get to live here and sleep here for free and I give you work clothes to wear – which it looks like you need right now. If you want to leave I need two weeks’ notice. Agreed?’

‘Agreed,’ Yonas said immediately. He fought with the corners of his mouth to stop them from smiling.

‘Right. Here’s a tenner to tide you over.’ Yonas took the note and held it gently between his fingers as if it were pressed from gold. He imagined telling Gebre: Only day three, and I’m already in the money, with a real job, and a place to live! Was Gebre wishing he’d followed after all? Or was he still cursing Yonas for abandoning him and Osman?

‘Any questions?’ Uncle asked.

Yonas thought for a second. ‘What’s the film?’ he found himself asking.

‘The film! Oh. Well, I’m not giving it away that easily. You can ask the others. There’s a TV in the living area, so if it’s coming on I may let you know. Now, scarper. I suggest you prioritize a shower.’

UK IMMIGRATION SHOCK 150,000 ILLEGAL IMMIGRANTS ENTER UK EACH YEAR, SAYS WHISTLEBLOWER EX-HOME OFFICE BOSS

I will take one espresso macchiato, and two spoon sugar. Okay three, just today.

So, you wanna talk about Professor Jojo! Haha, yeah, that’s how I call him, but when I first met him in street, Professor was like opposite word I would think of, okay, I had to even hold my breath, like he smell of shit mix with rotten fish and mouldy cheese in big bag of rubbish when you leave too long before taking outside. You got my point. But when I am looking closer I am thinking: Wait. Nice smile, tall, cheekbones, huuuuge fro all matted and disgusting like rats living inside – but with a proper wash it’s gonna look good! I am even getting a little fantasy…

I can talk about it now, with you, no problem. But back when I meet the Prof, no way. I am so much hoping for another gay to come to live in warehouse, you cannot believe, but I can’t say nothing. I mean, I came to UK because everyone said London scene is awesome and people easy-going compare to rest of Europe – Romania anyway – so I think, okay, maybe there I can be me. But when I arrive I cannot even get work to pay rent, not even think about going out, clubbing, all that. I mean, London is so expensive, so, so, so, SO expensive, it’s not even true. Even room size of small cupboard in shittest area is too much money. So after some time I was living with a load of straight, immigrant guys in warehouse. I mean, not even proper house – this big, old place where they used to repair cars, with one big room out back full of mattresses. Some guys living there even more gay haters than back home. Russians especially. So I try to keep secret, and in case they guess, I am always try to be comedian, so they will like me for being that guy who is making everybody laugh. Problem is, then they start to really like me and wanna hang out, and they like going to pull women, so I have to make excuse. Once I even went out and pulled three women just to make point and get them off my back. Ugh. It’s like I just snog my sisters.

So anyway, Uncle tell Professor Jojo he can stay, and I show him spare sleeping spot – I mean, it is only mattress, okay, but he look right into my eyes and say thank you … like it is biggest favour anybody done him ever in his life, and he lie down, hands behind head, with biggest smile you’ve ever seen. He start saying something about leaving jungle, with like fox and snake kissing dove or something crazy like that, ending up in city with bed to sleep on… I have like no clue what he is talking about, but he tell me it was just a poem he remember, so I applause him and tell him that has got to be first poem anyone ever said in this place, but maybe if he want to fit in with guys here he better rein it in, and also, if he want to be friends even with me, he got to shower, like right now.

He jump up and ask if shower was with hot water, like that would be impossible , and when I said yeah of course, his face lit up like he just got papers from Home Office. I say I can lend him razor and I show him bathroom. He go to look at himself in mirror, then turn to me and his face is angry . I’m thinking, What did I do? He ask if I have scissors, and I’m like, Uhhh, is he gonna stab me or what? But I get them from kitchen. He take and say thanks, then start to chop at his hair like weeds! Just chop chop chop and throwing big lumps down toilet, I mean – I was still imagining it all brushed out ready for dance floor, so I’m like, ‘Wait, please, my friend, keep some!’ But too late. He smile little bit and tell me, ‘My hair needs new start, like me.’ I tell him, ‘Okay, fine, but you can’t leave it all messed up like that. I can cut properly for you. I am cutting everybody’s hair in warehouse – I do yours for free first time. But I am not even touching your head until it’s had, like, three shampoos, okay?!’

When he came out of shower, he smell normal, and his face look so different with no beard, fresh and kind of fragile. But his body super-skinny, like bamboo stick. And his hair! There were tufts sticking out like clown, and now it’s been washed, I can see it’s not fro exactly, like looser curls, soft for touch.

So, I make him coffee in red Malteser mug and tell him to sit so I can start trimming, and we talk. Actually, it is me doing most talking at first. I try to ask him what he’s been doing, where he’s from, stuff like that, but he’s not saying much, just asking me more questions back. And I like talking, you know, so I keep going, but after some time I say to him, ‘Hey, it’s your turn now!’ But he just laugh and say oh, long story, he’s just happy he made it here, then ask more about me. And I get that. I mean, lot of guys in warehouse have shit lives before and not like to talk about past too much, especially if they don’t know you yet. So I just tell him about other guys and about work for Uncle and living in London. And for some reason I am already feeling easy with him, like, you know, he listens , and not everyone does that, right? And he’s sounding interested, he’s making jokes even… and then it just slips out. That I like guys.

I stop. I’m like, oh shit, shit shit shit, I kept that secret for so long, and now I just told to some new guy I don’t even know, who probably hates gays, or is gonna tell. I feel super-nervous, and my hands start shaking, I’m thinking I’m gonna accidentally stick scissors in his scalp. I mean, you know, he seem nice enough, but most straight African guys in warehouse don’t like gays from what I hear – but I am still hoping he will say, like, ‘Oh my God, I’m gay as well!!!!’ Haha. Actually he just say ‘okay’, you know, just ‘okay!’, like it’s just one small thing about me, like my favourite colour, like he is totally cool with it. So that was big, big relief.