Journey’s End

 

  I had been so grateful of the job when I came here.  It was a godsend. I had arrived on a numb, wintry evening in this unfamiliar land; I Safin Mansoor had travelled the length of Europe to get here, but I saw no Coliseum, no Champs Elysees and no Parthenon.

   The blood-sucking smugglers had demanded the rest of my money and belongings before they would let me hide in that stinking chicken lorry. In my possession nothing more than: 10 Euros in my sock, my cousin Khushtar’s address in Dorset, and a well thumbed photo of my dear Komali and our beloved son Aaban.  My cousin had heard of some cash in hand work at a petrol station. 

 I went to meet Faisal the manager. He stood there surveying me, ogre-like; wheezing and sweating, eyes scrunched with disdain. In-between spitting out bits of paan, he said ‘There is cleaning and painting work to be done bwai, five pounds an hour, take it or leave it.’  Yes, thank you sir, I so v-very grateful.’ I replied in my stuttering English.  Faisal cleared his throat and pointed towards a ladder and a bucket.

  The wage was poor, but I did not think twice. As I wore away my fingertips, cleaning and scrubbing the stanchions of the petrol station, my mind was elsewhere.  I thought of my home; Chittagong, and the snaking tributaries of the river Karnaphuli, on the banks of which stands my fishing village.  I dreamt of Komali’s bright green sari and her contented smile on our wedding day.  I dreamt of Aaban, hearing my voice and coming to greet me, I can see his tiny hands searching the air to steady himself on my legs. I imagine that the fish have returned to the river. I imagine that there are no floods in my homeland. I imagine that my son can see the full shimmering beauty of the river.    

As I worked, Faisal and Sunni the cashier, stood at the counter, serving the steady procession of people filling up their cars. I felt Faisal’s eyes burrowing into my back as I went to and from the office with fresh buckets of water.   I was shaken from my distant thoughts by Faisal’s rasping voice: ‘Bwai, come here. I have a shelf that needs putting up. Can you do it?’ I nodded my head, glad for the chance to give my frozen hands a break from the scrubbing.    ‘I can doing.’

Faisal berated me for my English ‘You Bangladeshis are so ill-educated. This is why you will stay poor.’

  ‘Yes sir.’  I swallowed harder than usual.

  He took me into the small outer office and shoved the shelf and some tools into my hands.  Faisal then went into his office and closed the door.  As I worked I could just about hear his voice on the phone. He was hissing loudly in Pashtun.  Now this was a language that I spoke and understood well.  I had learned it from an old Afghani whilst working on an oil rig in Turkey. I strained to hear properly and edged closer to the door.

 ‘I tell you Ashok, I am worried; a police officer was in here asking if I knew why our garage appears on so many customer’s statements that have had their cards cloned.  I swear at one point, he looked right at the camera in the ceiling.’

  Worried that he would catch me eavesdropping, I quickly moved away.  I continued to put up the shelves, making sure they would clatter to the floor with the slightest provocation.   Faisal then came out, glared at me, and then went over to the safe in the corner of the room. I busied myself checking the shelves were straight with a carpenter’s square. There was the beeping of the keypad on the safe, and then Faisal turned to me with narrowed eyes and menace in his jowls.

   ‘Are you watching me Bwai?  You…you…make me uncomfortable.’

My back stiffened.  ‘Finished.’  I said. 

 I lowered my head and carried on putting away the tools. When I was back working outside, I saw Faisal sloping across the forecourt; muttering and chewing his paan, on his way home for his usual afternoon sleep.

I did not know it then, but this was the last time I would see Faisal the manager.

  I found somewhere to sit and eat my lunch, and slipped into my usual dream. Sunni the cashier came out and told me the shelves had fallen down, so I finished my lunch and went to fix them.  I had already made up my mind what I was going to do.   Once in the office, I got to work. With my heart feeling as if it would burst through my chest at anytime, I wedged the office door shut with one of the fallen shelves, and headed straight to the safe. 

My hands were shaking so much, I thought I would put in the wrong numbers and all hell would break loose.  Carefully I put in the numbers that I had seen Faisal push in the mirror-like surface of the carpenter’s square… and then I waited.  The safe’s mechanism started to clunk, the barrels withdrew: I opened the safe door and stuffed what I hoped would be enough money into the waistband of my shirt.

  With trembling hands, I hurriedly and ineptly put the shelves back up. I wondered if they would stay up long enough for me to walk out of the door.  On my way out of the office I glanced up and could just make out Faisal’s camera embedded in the ceiling.  I was just about to walk out of the front entrance when I heard my name.

       ‘Safin…come here….’

I turned to see Sunni’s worried face beckoning me over. This was it.  The game was up.

  ‘I am sorry to tell you this’ he said ‘but Faisal has reported you to Immigration.  They are coming for you tomorrow.  I’d disappear right away, Safin.’

  Trying not to collapse with relief, I thanked him, walked out of the station and quickly down the road. 

  That afternoon I firstly sent a Money Gram, then made a call to the police and told them they may be interested in a hidden camera in a certain petrol station. I then handed myself into the Immigration Department. 

  Ten months have now passed since that day, and I am still locked in a dirty room in my pre-fabricated prison, or ‘Immigration Removal Centre’ as they like to call it. Although I am stuck here, I know, one day soon, I will be going home. My cousin Khushtar tells me that Faisal has been charged with conspiracy to defraud, and another charge of theft from the safe.

   Komali sent me a letter saying Aaban’s operation worked well and he can now see again. He has started playing cricket with the other children from the village. Also, she tells me that the local eye hospital has the full stock of eye treatments that they needed, thanks to an anonymous donation.

  Please do not judge me too harshly, Faisal had it coming. As for the petroleum company, their petrochemical plant, seven miles up the river Karnaphuli, is the reason that the fish have all left.

  Sometimes you have to give karma a helping hand.