Balzac of the Badlands Read online

  ***

  ‘The lorries come through together but are separated in traffic. Not sure where. A guy on a motorbike at Dover is supposed to follow but can’t track both.’

  ‘And?’

  ***

  And the smell repellent folds into the darkness. His darkness. His forehead, raw and bleeding, settles into its pain. His pain. He tries again. And again. Blood. Hair. Skin cells. Spirals. Follicular tags cause them to drop and spin like sycamore seeds. His garden.

  ***

  ‘The motorcyclist follows the first lorry. Phones us and says it’s on time. We force the lorry off the road as it’s passing a service station. It pulls into the approach road, we drag the driver out, tie him up, throw him in the back of the van. Then we get jumped.’

  ‘By who?’

  ‘I don’t know. English maybe. Some of them. But I can’t be sure.’

  ***

  Unknown creatures crawl around her feet. Strange how much of the world is a mystery to her. The names of flowers, weeds, plants, trees.

  ***

  ‘OK. The police find the other lorry abandoned. They find traces of raw smack but they also find a few people puking their guts up cos they’ve ingested balloons filled with heroin. Doesn’t make sense. What the fuck is that all about? Why wasn’t we told about this?’

  ‘Don’t know, boss.’

  ***

  The knot in the stomach, the loosening of the bowels. The gape of her mouth, childlike in wonder, then a dark hole of shock, now a gripped refusal to act. The smell of the earth. Have they followed her? Did they know? Is she safe? Is she? Dad?

  ***

  The four look at each other and then back at Ozan.

  ‘Whoever planned to smuggle them here is not interested in cheap fucking labour. No. They are more interested in cheap fucking smack and are fucking greedy. Why not just smuggle the shit in the lorries – people trafficking is pocket money.’

  ‘Does that mean…?’

  ***

  There it is. To my left. Like somebody tearing cotton sheets. Faint. But it’s there. I see it. A large tank, maybe for surplus diesel, or water, rolled against the far wall. It looks like one of those old World War II bombs occasionally found in the Thames.

  ***

  ‘The ones in hospital are the lucky ones. There are about 150 people out there about to suffer a plight worse than cockle-picking. Whoever planned this is gonna split them open like figs.’

  ***

  I run my hands over the tank’s pitted body. The feel of its skin sets my teeth on edge, grainy, wet, the outer layer crumbles, dusts my hand in a sharp henna red.

  ***

  ‘Why take the chance to smuggle drugs?’

  ‘They’re already chancing it, idiot,’ Ozan says, ‘they probably didn’t have a choice. I expect it’s how most of them paid for the journey. Shit!’

  ‘But why is your mate sniffing around?’

  ‘Bad luck. Sarah’s father employed him to look for her, then he went missing. Sarah must’ve seen something.’

  ***

  And I can hear scrape, scrape, scrape. I kneel down and knock on the metal shell.

  ***

  ‘It was her idea to use the yard, I thought she knew what she was doing.’

  ‘I thought we knew what we were doing. Great. Fucking great. Whoever it is is fucking serious. Shitloads of smack and on top of that people smuggling heroin hijacked not by us but by another fucking gang who obviously knew about the shipment. Knew more than we fucking did, that’s for sure. I thought it was just the people.’ Ozan closes his eyes.

  ***

  Tears drip through the gag on to Mr. Beckford’s lips. A noise. His brow is bloody. He uses what little energy he has to move back and forth, scraping the metal sides with whatever comes in contact with them. Nose. Brow. Chin. Hurry, it says. He tries to cry out, scream, but the grunts and squeals are lost in the gag’s mass.

  ***

  ‘Whoever arranged the smuggling must be pissed off,’ Dîlan says.

  ‘Pissed off? I’d say. We’re talking 160 people smuggling a kilo each at least. That alone is… Well, we’re talking millions… not to mention whatever else was on the fucking lorries.’

  ‘Wouldn’t they have had the lorries followed? I mean, for that amount…?’

  ‘Yeah. Yeah. You’re on to something there. Now the Badirkhans are out of business, there is only one firm with the clout to pull this off – the Eaveses – and if it’s the Eaveses, we’re in big trouble. But who ripped them off, for fuck sake?’

  ***

  What if they’ve returned? What if it’s the bearded man? Would he exchange pain for confinement? He’s not sure. He blinks as the tears sting his eyes, so petty compared to the torture his body has endured. He would exchange this. For anything. For anything. There’s a lid on the top of this thing – like you see on a submarine.

  ***

  The flowers bob their heavy heads and she nods in time, tired, wanting to stop. To start again. Forget the day. The hours. Begin again yesterday.

  ***

  I try to unscrew the lid but it tears the skin off my palms, pokes needles of rusty metal into my fingers. Shit. This isn’t going to budge. I take out my mobile.

  ***

  On her own. Now. An insect crawls in the web between her middle and ring finger. She waves her hand and watches the creature fall to the ground, a brief flutter of wings, then off, up, lost in the sky. Dad?

  ***

  ‘I think I’ve found him. Get back here.’

  ‘–––-’

  ‘Not now, H. Just get back here.’

  ‘May I be of assistance?’ H asks.

  ‘How the…? Never mind. Give me a hand shifting this.’

  We take a grip of the lid, twist it to the left, hear the metal screech and wail. H’s face is bright red and he’s blowing like it’s his hundredth birthday. We ease off and stand back.

  ‘Fuck!’

  ‘Patience, my boy. Patience and application. Again.’

  We both climb on to the tank, kneel either side of the lid, grasp it, the metal burning into our flesh, and we try again.

  ***

  There’s a flapping of wings.

  ***

  A sigh. A cry of fear and release. The little differences between here and there confuse him. He feels the space shake as something climbs on top. He hears voices. Their presence seems to weigh upon him, as if they are crushing the air out, out of the confinement, as if his time is up because they are here.

  ***

  They are not here, she thinks. She would have seen them. Heard them.

  ***

  ‘Put some fucking effort into it,’ I say to H, who is now reddening to the point of supernova.

  ‘–––-’ says H.

  ***

  That noise. Like a ship on a slipway screeching into a sea of glass and blackboards. He moves his head down and into his shoulders.

  ***

  ‘OK. This isn’t working.’ I look around. On the floor, poked into the corner of the building is a pile of old rags. I jump down, run over, collect them up, and bring them back to the tank. The rags are oily, reek of damp, they look like old overalls.

  ‘Here, use these to grip the sides. You know, like using a tea towel to open an old jar of marmalade.’

  ‘I get the science,’ H says.

  ***

  She stands. Dizzy. Not eaten for a while, she thinks. So far. Yet not. She watches a plane fly overhead.

  ***

  H and I take a rag each and we wrap it as tight as possible around the lid, twist the ends to tighten the grip and turn, our muscles exploding with effort. Our faces con tort, collapse into themselves, strain, strain.

  ***

  Hundreds of people confined in a machine of metal and plastic – waking now as they descend towards Heathrow. She raises her hand and covers her eyes to watch the plane’s progress.

  ***

  Fffffffwwwwwwrrrrrggggggrrrrrrkkkksssssscc
ccccrrrrriiiiii! The lid gives and turns. The noise making us both look up and away as our ears ring with the raptor-like harshness – the roar and caw.

  ***

  Strands of light through russet darkness. Rapturous air through his own stink. Then a splash. Air. Then he’s drowned in it. Consumed by relief, he shudders, voids his bowels again, listens to the swallowed breaths of his saviours.

  ***

  ‘Fucking hell,’ I say, as we reach into the darkness to pull Mr. Beckford from the stinking tank. I gag and turn away as if to vomit. I feel H’s reassuring hand on my shoulder as we fumble the trussed body to the ground. I can’t help myself and have to back off as H pulls out his Swiss Army knife and cuts Mr. Beckford’s bonds. His underpants, covered in shit, piss, and blood, gathered around his thighs. H pulls them up, wiping his hand on the dirty rags. Mr. Beckford’s head lolls on the cold concrete, his forehead a mess of cuts and gashes, dark with rust and grime. With his gag taken from his mouth, Mr. Beckford whimpers and drools. I find it hard to look at him. H wipes Mr. Beckford’s mouth with a handkerchief.

  ‘What do you reckon, H?’

  ‘Hospital. Nearest.’

  ‘What about the police?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Ambulance?’

  ‘The Mermobile.’

  I call The Mermaid, tell her to drive into the loading bay. H and I lift Mr. Beckford, who is losing consciousness, and carry him on to the deck. The Mermobile does a rather professional about-turn, spraying gravel up and under the lorry. I put my hand up to prevent The Mermaid getting out of the car. She unlocks the back door, pushes the near door open. We lay Mr. Beckford on the lip of the bay and I jump down. H rolls Mr. Beckford on to my shoulder and I fireman-carry him to the motor. H jumps down, runs ahead of me, opens the far door and kneels in the doorway. I sit Mr. Beckford down on the seat, let him fall into H’s waiting arms. The stink is unbearable and I have to step back, my hands on my knees, dry-retching. The Mermaid is unperturbed.

  I run round and get in the passenger side. H cradles Mr. Beckford’s head on his lap.

  ‘North Middlesex,’ I say as The Mermobile wheel-spins out of the yard, narrowly missing an oncoming police car that slams to a halt, backs up, then emits that awful noise like a million tainted babies.

  ‘Shit,’ I say.

  ‘No problem,’ says The Mermaid as she slaloms us through the streets as the police car fights the one-way system along the Hale.

  ‘How’s he doing?’ I speak into the rear-view mirror.

  ‘Contusions, severe bruising, broken tibia by the looks of it.’

  ‘Who the fuck did this?’

  ‘Professionals.’

  ‘Looks like it. Mind that fucking bus!’

  The Mermaid gives me the slit-eyed stare that always reminds me of Nicole Kidman looking through a letterbox.

  ‘Let’s hope he can tell us something. What about Mrs. Beckford? She hear anything? And why were you calling my name like I was a lost retriever?’

  ‘Mrs. Beckford’s scared. She wants us to go see her.’

  ‘Why shout? Why not call my phone?’

  ‘You normally ignore it when you know it’s me.’

  ‘Meredith correctly accuses you of neglect, my dear Balzac.’

  I look up and see the mess of architecture that is the North Mid.

  ‘Shut it, the pair of you. Right, we’re here. H, you stay with Mr. Beckford. Me and The Mermaid will go see Mrs. Beckford, give her the not-so- good news.’

  We pull into the car park. No sign of the law on our tails. H runs, well sort of, into Reception and comes out with two nurses and a porter manhandling a trolley. Between them, they lift Mr. Beckford on to it, and wheel him towards the entrance. H, batting questions, strides into the hospital as if he is James Robertson Justice.

  My mobile – again. ‘Ozan. You remember something?’

  ***

  She crouches in woods, bleeding. The dank musty smell of the trees, so different from the oily reek of the city.

  ***

  ‘Yeah. Er, I remember seeing Sarah day before yesterday. She popped in to ask about something. Yeah, after she was supposed to have gone missing. You know how it is, this place is open all hours, I lose track of days. Any luck?’

  ‘No. We found her father. Stuffed in some kind of tank. Some geezers are looking for Sarah.’

  ‘Did he say anything?’

  ‘No. He didn’t know, did he? He hired me to look for her, remember?’

  ***

  The motorways girdling London. As the lorries drive west, she looks out through a hole in the vehicle’s metal side. Buildings rush by, a blurry orange, their solidity made liquid with speed, her teeth chattering, not with cold but fear, the people she is travelling with thrown against boxes, huddled against crates.

  ***

  ‘Look. I think you might be in way over your head. I think this has something to do with the Eaveses.’

  ‘The Eaveses? What the fuck would they want with a fundraiser for a refugee charity? What, they’re all fucking off to Marbella and want political immunity?’

  ‘Balzac, listen. Give me a couple of hours and I’ll try to straighten this with you. In the meantime, let it drop. Where are you?’

  ***

  Heads bob against the rhythm of the truck, low murmurs, stifled sobs, the smell of days unwashed, the penetrative stink of inner organs, bowels, bladders, stomachs.

  ***

  ‘I’m on my way to Sarah’s parents’ house to see her mother.’

  ‘Tell the police what you know and leave it, ’ Ozan says.

  ***

  What is she doing here? What is she doing here? She looks around. She looks around.

  ***

  ‘I want to see this through. Mr. Beckford deserves more than a perfunctory Q&A by the busies. Look, if it gets any hairier, I’ll give them a call.’

  ***

  Last night. A black slime creeps up from the shining tarmac, oozes, climbs, and she doesn’t see it. Or, rather, she does, but in her naivety it is something pristine, good. Safe.

  ***

  ‘Call me if you find out anything.’

  ‘You’re not telling me everything, Ozan. Come on, spill.’

  ‘Not on the phone. Come to the club later.’

  ***

  Swooping in front of the lorry, the van driver slams on his brakes, hard, he falls forward in his cab and then rears back into his seat.

  ***

  Ozan flips shut his mobile. What the fuck is going down? He should’ve taken the information from Sarah and acted on it alone. No need to involve her. But it was her idea to use the haulage yard to disperse the refugees, safer and easier than doing it on a busy North London street.

  ***

  Where is the tail? The car riding shotgun? The escort? There is none. The men hiding in the back of the white Transit following are not needed, or so they think.

  ***

  Bored with pushing papers and making phone calls, she wants to do something – to make her feel like she is really helping. Now this.

  ***

  But why didn’t the Eaveses have the lorries followed?

  ***

  The doors open and she finds herself stumbling out into the night. The lorry, angrily purring, looms above her. The lorry driver, snatched from his cab, is thrown to the floor. He clasps his hands behind his head as if it is the natural thing to do.

  ***

  It isn’t like the Eaveses to slip up on something that obvious. He doesn’t want to involve Balzac but Balzac has contacts. Balzac knows his way around. Balzac is mates with Mikey.

  ***

  One of Ozan’s men takes the keys from the cab and opens the lorry’s back doors. He shines a light in and tells the occupants to stay where they are, to remain quiet, that he is there to help.

  ***

  Ozan throws his head back and laughs. Everyone else joins in, looking at one another, wondering why they are laughing

  ‘What a
fucking day,’ he says, the laugh now lost in the room’s heavy atmosphere.

  ***

  The white Transit idles on the slip-road approach. The hinges let out a protesting scream as the doors are closed; the noise covers the sound of approaching cars.

  ***

  ‘What do you want us to do, boss?’ Dîlan says.

  ***

  Two black SUVs elbow their way either side of the car carrying Sarah. A spotlight shines into their faces and then there is shouting, loud cracks, pops. Gunfire?

  ***

  ‘Ask in the community about any new people. They must have family here. Try the hospitals. If you find any of them, ask about Sarah. When they last saw her. What she said. Anything. All right. Get to it. Phone if you get anything concrete. If not, meet back here in two hours. No later.’

  ***

  Someone grabs her and hoists her on to the lorry, closes the door, yells at her to get to the back, keep down, stay quiet.

  ***

  When the door closes and the club is empty, Ozan takes a bottle of Coke from the fridge and drinks it down in one. He looks at his phone, willing it to ring, and for it to be Sarah.

  ***

  The doors muffle the sounds coming from outside. Other bodies crushed in with her, huddled together, men and women, young and middle-aged, their eyes show dark rumours of hope. As the lorry starts up and moves back on to the motorway, Sarah watches in the fading light as slowly those dark rumours are extinguished.

  ***

  Grand Parades, Green Lanes, North London, Ozan shakes his head. The people he wished to save forced to smuggle drugs in exchange for freedom, most of them missing; a young woman also, her father beaten.

  ***

  Knifing through the truck’s clattery acoustics, she hears two sharp pops, intimate, final.

  ***

  He picks up the eight-ball and places it back on the green baize of the table. Then quiet.

  ***

  Then quiet. The back door opens and a torch plays over the huddled mass. A man’s face – European, pockmarked, jowly.

  ***

  He’ll have to make another phone call. Ozan takes his mobile phone from his back pocket.

  ***

  She has never seen him before.

  ***