Chapter 33: Three Jackals - My Name Is Samim

The next few days at home feel like a time warp. I don’t remember waking up or going to bed. I can’t do homework or play chess, so I sleep all the time. Ayan now calls me Grandpa Samim, and I tell him I feel like one. But when Miss Brown asks me how I’m doing, I lie and say I’m fine. She nods approvingly.

I’m fine, I’m fine, I tell myself and everyone around me. I’m fine, and if I’m fine, maybe there will be no more trouble, and I’ll get to stay.

In my hazy head, the daily interviews with Mr Higgins all blend into one. Somehow these tablets sharpen my memories but fog my thoughts.

Zayn hasn’t spoken to me for ages. Where is he? Where did he go? Why can’t I see him?

As I sit in front of Mr Higgins again, I don’t know what day it is, and I pray he doesn’t ask me. Hiding my tiredness and confusion has become my daily routine. I can’t be any more trouble to anyone. I must finish these interviews and take these pills, get back to school and chess club, and prove to everyone that I deserve to stay.

“What happened next, Samim?” Mr Higgins asks.

“Next, we finally arrived in France.”

France, autumn 2021

Ten hours and twenty-four minutes after we left Rome, our last train shuddered to a stop in Paris. As soon as the metal doors opened, we leapt from the carriage and ran into the crowd. We stopped to catch our breath and looked around. The station was massive, with an arched glass roof, and bustling with people rolling suitcases along the platforms.

It was early morning when we walked out into a grey, cold Parisian street lined with shops, cafés and restaurants.

I paused to take it all in. “Can you believe we’re finally in Paris?”

Zayn didn’t answer. I knew he’d much rather be in Rome than Paris.

Armed with Auntie Taara’s instructions, we quickly found the bus to Calais. Its shiny white paint and soft plush seats were nothing like the rickety buses we had grown used to. We sat side by side in silence as the bus sped along the motorway.

Over the next few hours, Parisian buildings, cars and crowds blurred into neat carpets of crops. Then we saw a flash of blue – the sea! We were close to the port of Calais.

“Uncle Roshan might be here, Zayn. He might be here already, looking for us.” I tried to cheer him up and make myself feel less guilty.

“I hope so,” Zayn said, but his face remained grey and cold, just like the weather behind the window.

* * *

When we got off the bus, we huddled on the sidewalk, unsure which way to turn. Then a man with dark hair walked past us, speaking Dari on the phone. We rushed to him, asking about a refugee camp.

He burst into bitter laughter. “Camp? There is no camp. It’s a jungle! Walk that way.” He pointed east. “You won’t miss it.”

As we trudged along the Calais streets, parks and buildings faded into grim warehouses. People on the streets looked exhausted, their clothes grimy, their voices a mix of languages – Dari, Pashto, Arabic and others. Like us, most were dark-skinned and bony, their eyes heavy with worry.

A trio of young Afghans in wet jackets and mud-streaked joggers approached us. One of them grinned, revealing a gap where his front teeth should have been.

“Nice camera,” he said, pointing at my neck.

I had completely forgotten about the camera. I should’ve hidden it!

Zayn shot me an annoyed look.

“Where are you from?” another guy in bright-green trainers asked.

“Ghazni.”

“And what are your names?”

“Samim and Zayn.”

“Welcome to Calais, Samim and Zayn,” they chortled.

My body tensed.

“Come!” The toothless guy waved at us to follow him. “Come, we are friends now, so we will make you some coffee.”

I looked at Zayn, but he stood still.

“Come on! What are you afraid of?” the guy mocked.

We plodded through muddy roads, tents scattered left and right. Men, women and kids with filthy clothes and wet hair gathered by little fires everywhere, cooking strange-smelling food in metal tins, stewing teas and drying sleeping bags over the flames. Calais didn’t look like the Greek refugee camp. It wasn’t a refugee camp at all. The camp had been demolished years ago, and now everyone who stayed there had to fend for themselves.

“We move every 48 hours,” explained the third guy, who wore a red beanie hat. “Every 48 hours, French police raid the camp, beating us and destroying our stuff. We grab what we can and run.”

A cold dread settled in my stomach.

Every 48 hours, we will be hunted like animals.

Every 48 hours, the police might catch us, beat us and take away our stuff.

Every 48 hours, we will be in danger.

3.14159265…

We passed a group of young men who stood shivering, soaking wet and shoeless.

“Two hours ago, they almost drowned in the Channel,” the toothless guy explained. “The motor on their boat failed and they had to swim back.”

Shivers ran down my spine. Please, God, don’t let me set foot on another boat, I prayed silently.

We stopped by three blue tents tucked away in a small clearing, surrounded by a sea of plastic bottles, rusty tins and other junk. Clouds of green flies hovered everywhere, buzzing over the food waste.

The men brought some dry sticks from the tent and lit the fire. They filled a few empty tins with water and coffee beans and put them on a large metal lid propped up by rocks over the flames. The water in the tins first browned, then simmered.

The toothless guy handed us each a steaming tin wrapped in cloth.

Across from us, a giant bald man sat outside a grey tent, glaring at us, his bushy eyebrows furrowed. A large dog lay at his feet, and the man stroked its short white coat with his shovel-like hand. Cold dread snaked down my spine when he looked at me.

The guy in green trainers noticed me gawping. “Stay away from that man,” he said. “He is very dangerous. He steals people’s money, food and other stuff. No one dares to stand up to him because he is huge.”

I shivered and looked at Zayn. He took a sip of coffee, his eyes fixed on the ground. Worries filled my chest.

“He steals from others, but he’s missing something of his own,” the red-beanie guy chuckled.

Zayn and I looked at him, confused.

“He’s missing a tongue and a few fingers,” he explained.

“What happened to him?” I asked.

“No one knows for sure, but the rumours about that man will turn your hair grey.”

I shuddered, gazing at my steaming coffee. But when I took a first sip, my face cringed in disgust. The coffee might have smelled good, but it tasted like boiled mud.

The guys roared with laughter, and Zayn rolled his eyes at me. My face reddened.

“Don’t worry!” the toothless guy chortled. “In a few days, it will taste like the best drink in the world to you.”

For hours, Zayn and I sat by the fire, listening to the trio telling us the horror stories of Calais. And when night fell, they offered their empty tent for us to stay in. Zayn and I were very grateful.

But neither Zayn nor I slept that night. In Calais, no one did. The order of life was flipped: days were quiet as everyone hid in their tents, while nights erupted with loud voices, angry shouts and cries.

What if we never find Uncle Jalal and Uncle Roshan, and I ruined our only shot at a happy life?

My head was aching from those bitter thoughts.

I pulled the phone out of my bag and messaged Auntie Amina:

I pressed send and hid the phone back in the bag.

As I tossed and turned, trying to sleep, the image of the tongueless mountain man haunted me. I held on to my mother’s bracelet.

3.14159265358…

* * *

The sound of laughter jolted me awake. The smell of burning wood promised warmth, and I crawled out of the tent.

The trio huddled around the fire, as if they never slept, their faces beaming for some reason.

“Good morning, Samim! How did you sleep?” the green-trainers guy greeted me.

“I slept fine.” I stretched my arms towards the flames.

“Would you like some coffee?” the red-beanie guy asked.

“Yes, please,” I rasped, my throat dry from the night’s chill.

He used a towel to pick up one of the tins from the metal lid and placed it in front of me. I held my frozen palms over the steaming tin, breathing in the scents of burning wood and coffee. Zayn staggered out of the tent and slumped beside me, accepting a tin of coffee too. His dark curls, wild and overgrown, stuck out from under his black hood. His face, pale from broken sleep, wore a permanent frown.

Across the clearing, the mountain man glowered at us, his white dog lying beside him.

“Well, we’re off to scavenge for breakfast,” the toothless guy announced, breaking the silence. “But first, you boys owe us.”

Our heads snapped up.

“A hundred euros,” he said, his voice cold and hard.

Zayn choked, spitting coffee onto the ground. “What?”

“Did you really think we’d provide you with a tent, warmth, protection and coffee for free?” The toothless guy’s voice grew loud.

The trio rose from their seats and circled us like a pack of jackals closing in on their prey.