Ellen Wiles - The Invisible Crowd

Yonas screwed up his eyes. Rashid had told him just the other night how Aziz and Petros had threatened to string him upside down once, because he’d demanded to know when his debt would be paid off. Yonas had seen the technique used in prison; when they did it to Abraham, another political prisoner, it made all the veins explode in his eyes and forehead, turning him into a bloodthirsty monster. More memories bubbled up. Being whipped like an ox while lugging stones in the heat; his head being pushed into a bucket of water until he saw sparkles and was sure he was drowning; and, the worst, the helicopter position…

‘I am sorry, I will never do it again, please, I am sorry,’ Osman was sobbing, even as the rope was being tied, even as his thrashing body was left to swing from the branch like a pendulum.

Aziz barked to the rest of them to get to bed, and walked implacably towards his den, as if they’d all just wish each other a pleasant good night and settle down.

‘You’re not just going to leave him there?’ Yonas said. He dumped his sleeping mat and ran towards Aziz, grabbing his arm. ‘Look at him, he’s only a kid, he’s been punished enough – you’ve probably broken all his toes!’

‘Get. Off. Me.’ Aziz snarled the words, wrenching away. Then he plunged his hand down into his shirt, fumbled awkwardly for a minute somewhere above his gut, his face reddening with the effort, until he pulled out a pistol, black and shining. So, it did exist. He lifted it slowly, and advanced a step towards Yonas. ‘You do as you’re ordered,’ he said. ‘I’m the one who decides punishments around here.’

Yonas stayed still a moment, feeling oddly calm. This was it, one way or another – there was no way back now. No way he could live any longer under this bastard’s orders. Torture was the main reason he’d fled all the way here – it wasn’t supposed to happen in the UK! And he wouldn’t take it. If Aziz didn’t shoot him first, he would be out of this place, by tomorrow morning at the latest… It occurred to him that he had never stood so close to Aziz for so long before. He took in the saggy eyelids, the tousled eyebrows, the beige, blotchy skin, the browning teeth. This was a man who was disillusioned with life, who seemed to have no family and no friends, who lived in shoddy enough dwellings here himself, and whose sole aim seemed to be to wield the little power he’d been given. Yes, he was capable of shooting. But he probably didn’t want to. None of the other workers were saying a word in Yonas’s defence, but he could feel them all, silently rooting for him. Yonas turned away from Aziz, and started to walk back towards his sleeping mat, expecting any second the sound of a gunshot, searing pain. None came. But instead he heard another strangled sob from Osman. Fury bubbled up, and he turned back to Aziz again. ‘So string me up there instead,’ he challenged in an unnaturally loud voice. He felt everyone else go still, and wondered what the hell he was doing.

Aziz looked confused for a second, then laughed snidely, took a handkerchief from his pocket and began, ostentatiously, to polish the muzzle of the pistol. ‘Since you asked so nicely, I will string you up, as well , next to Osman. . . if you say one more word . I’m giving you a chance, here. A last chance. If you’ve got any sense you’ll shut your mouth, and get to bed.’ He didn’t sound entirely convincing though – a bit like a cross parent who has just refused to tell another story but is now conceding. Yonas told himself to stand his ground a few moments longer. Aziz put the handkerchief away, and then, remarkably, his shoulders seemed to sag as he tucked the gun back into its pouch and looked away. ‘Right, Petros,’ Aziz said, ‘give the kid five more minutes, then if he apologizes – like he means it – he can come down.’ With that, he went into his den and slammed the door.

A couple of the others came over and patted Yonas on the back, but he was still seething at their collective gutlessness. ‘Come on, Petros,’ he said, ‘make it a quick five minutes’, and was met by an unsurprising glare. But about two minutes later, Petros summoned a few of them outside to support Osman’s body while he cut the rope, then slouched off.

They carried Osman inside, laid him down gently on his mat and gathered around. He seemed to be unconscious. Was he dead? His eyes were bright red, devilish, his face greyish-purple and blotchy, his skin cold to the touch. Salim grabbed his wrist, held an ear to his chest. ‘Yes – he’s got a pulse!’ he said. ‘Osman?’

But Osman didn’t utter a sound. They all began tenderly stripping him, and putting on dry clothes. His feet were swollen and bloodied, and a couple of his toes pointed in odd directions. Yonas reached out to try to straighten them, which must have been agony, but Osman barely reacted. After a few minutes he coughed, as if he were coming to, but he still didn’t seem to be hearing anything they were saying, just closed his freakish eyes and groaned a little.

‘You will be okay,’ Yonas told him. ‘A friend of mine came through the same thing.’ Tenderly, they wrapped him in blankets.

‘We can keep an eye on him during the night,’ Yonas offered, and he and Gebre put their mats down either side of him, and lay down, both facing him, like anxious new parents caring for a baby. Yonas began humming a lullaby his mother used to sing. It didn’t seem to have any effect on Osman, but made Yonas feel a bit calmer. Gradually, the skin of Osman’s palms warmed, and eventually he took a long breath, like a sigh, that turned into a husky, open-mouthed semi-snore.

A while later, when it sounded like most of the others were asleep, Yonas leaned across and whispered, ‘Gebre, that was the last straw. We’re out of here, tomorrow morning. I’ve got an idea. Involving rubbish. It might be genius. You just need to follow me outside when I say, okay?’

Gebre was silent. He wasn’t asleep though – Yonas could see his eyes glinting in the moonlight.

BARE-FACED CHEEK: FURY AS GERMAN NUDISTS ARE ORDERED TO COVER UP AFTER A MIGRANT SHELTER ARRIVES NEAR THEIR LAKE

Long black, please, extra shot, extra hot, no sugar.

So, this Mr Kelati of yours. Well. I wouldn’t say I know him exactly, but what I do know is that he managed to sneak into this country and turn my life into a train wreck. Talking of trains, that’s where I first came across him, joyriding – though he didn’t exactly look joyous. Look, I’m sure he’s had a tough time of it. I don’t doubt that. But so do thousands of others. My point is that asylum seekers should go through the proper processes if they want to live here, not sneak in illegally and then use public transport without paying and work tax-free and do God knows what else. Otherwise we can’t know who genuinely deserves protection under the Refugee Convention. Which is very unfair to all the genuine refugees. As well as to British people. That’s my opinion. I know, I know: you don’t want my opinion, you want the story.

So, I was with my campaign manager, Alice, en route back to London from Grimsby, where I was Conservative candidate. It was a while before D-day, but you need to start canvassing early: a fact Nina, my wife, struggled to understand. I know it’s not easy looking after a child by yourself, but I would usually only go off for a few days at a time, which lots of mothers manage fine, and Nina is as capable as anyone – except her anxiety was taking her totally off piste. She’d started claiming she couldn’t cope and I didn’t care enough and I was never around and our abysmal parenting was going to ruin Clara’s life. Which was baloney, but she wouldn’t listen. I told her we could pay for some extra childcare if we had to, and she should try going back to her CBT therapist, but she bit my head off. I said she should at least spend more time on her painting, which she says is her best therapy; the problem is she gets herself into a catch-22 situation whereby she needs to go to the studio but is too stressed out to leave the house, and blames it on housework and childcare, even on the days Clara is in nursery.