A Returning Journey

The lorry juddered to a halt, shaking Khalid's body so vigorously, he thought his bones might come loose. Over the rumble of the engine, he could hear voices. Then a boot scraped across the floor and all of a sudden, white light was spilling through the gaps beneath the trailer.
"Come on," said a voice, "out you get." Khalid looked across at Amal, his body wedged in the darkness.
“Move, then,” he muttered.
The tarmac was greasy as Khalid dragged his body over it to face the guards. Their caps cast shadows across their faces under the floodlights, but Khalid could see they weren't in a sympathetic mood.
“You want to get into trouble?” said one of them, jabbing Khalid in the stomach with a black baton. He took the hit and leveled his gaze squarely at the guard’s chest. Meanwhile, Amal was squirming nervously next to him.
"What's the matter?” said the guard, shifting his attention. “Thought you'd get a free ride?” The baton thudded against Amal’s ear with a muted slap. Another blow landed on his shoulder and he cried out. He lifted his arms up and the officer kicked him in the leg. Amal staggered, but stayed upright. That’s something, thought Khalid.
The guards grabbed them both by the shoulders and marched them away from the quayside where a vessel loomed in the shadows. A line of lorries trailed away from it with hunched-over drivers staring blankly out from dimly-lit cabins.
When they reached the main gates, Khalid caught sight of the cranes and their blinking lights towering above the dock. Suddenly, he remembered the cranes he saw when he first arrived in Algeciras. They looked so similar that for a moment, he thought he had stayed on the ship for too long and ended up back in Tangiers.

 
“I want to go home,” mumbled Amal, dabbing at a bloody nose with his sleeve. Then his little body began to shake as the tears came.
"Well, you can't,” replied Khalid. “You know what happens if you do." Something tried to burrow its way into his mind, but he blocked it out. He couldn't stop the faces of his mother and father from materialising though, their expressions laced with scorn. Amal sniffed hard and looked about, defiantly. “Where are we going then?”
They started down the road towards the seafront, past groups of people who huddled on the parched bank, eyeing up vehicles. Khalid looked for a familiar face, but their gazes travelled through him, seeking out a rattling lock or a nod from a sympathetic driver.
Then a voice called. Khalid looked and saw Fadel squatted over a tree root. A cigarette burned between his fingers.
“When did you get back?”
“Yesterday.”
“What’s with the hair?”
Khalid shrugged. “People look different over there.”
“Who you with?”
"My brother, Amal." He wiped furiously at his eyes.
“This is Hasan,” said Fadel, tilting his head to a scrawny kid in a grey tracksuit next to him. “He’s from my village.”
Fadel passed round the cigarette and Khalid took it, observing the smouldering end like it was the tip of a sharp knife. “You’re supposed to smoke it." Khalid pretended to inhale before passing it back.
“What did you do there?” asked Fadel, smoke drizzling from his mouth.
“Farmwork, mostly. Sold some things.”
Hasan leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You should have done what my brother did and marry a Spanish woman, then you can get any job you want.”
“No, you can't,” replied Fadel.
“I'm telling you. When we make it, you can come and stay with us. He’ll get us jobs.”
“Where does he live?”
“Madrid, I think.”
“How will you find him?”
Hasan stared back, resolutely. “God willing."
"What about you, Khalid?" asked Fadel.
“I had an apartment for a while.”
Hasan nodded, eagerly. “I want a penthouse. And a garage for all my cars.”
Fadel flicked the butt to the ground and smiled. “I can live with that.”

 
The chatter of voices and ringing cutlery was the first thing to hit Khalid as they arrived on the promenade. The smells reached him soon afterwards and pangs of hunger jabbed at his stomach.
"You shouldn’t smoke," said Amal, frowning.
“So?”
“Mum wouldn’t like it.”
“She’s not here, is she?"
Amal scowled even more and Khalid saw his eyes glisten under the brilliant lights of the restaurants.
"So, you remember what I told you?" he said, quickly. "If you forget what to say, just hold out your hands, like this.” He made a bowl shape and Amal copied him. "Ready?" They crossed the road and approached the tables where tourists lounged amongst steaming dishes and elegant platters. That was the first time Khalid felt it; a beating in his chest and a thinning of the air around him. He clasped the wall of the restaurant terrace, wincing as knives on plates became harsh and voices were suddenly threatening.
“What are you doing?” asked Amal.
“Nothing,” breathed Khalid.
“Hey," called Fadel from down the street. “Forget it. They don’t give us shit anymore. We’ve got a better way.” Clasping his chest, Khalid followed the pavement until he came to a dingy side road lined with refuse bins that cut between the buildings. Hasan was crouched amongst the rubbish. A piece of cloth hung from his hand.
“Want some?” he asked. “It makes you brave.” He pressed it to his face and drew in a breath before passing it to Fadel who took several. Even in the shadows, Khalid thought their eyes looked larger.
“Get ready to run,” said Fadel, with a rubbery grin. He sauntered up the lane to a metal door that was ajar. Light and voices poured out. Fadel inched it open and slipped inside. Moments later there was a shout and he reappeared with a stick of bread and an armful of fruit.
Then they were all running.

 
“What does it say?” asked Amal, looking at the dim shapes scrawled on the wall.
“It’s just people’s names.”
“The ones who made it, you mean?”
Khalid nodded.
“Does that mean yours is there too?” Khalid ignored him and took another bite of bread, but his mouth was too dry to chew it.
Along the beach, fires were starting to come to life and silhouettes of men gravitated towards them like nightly spirits. Amal stared wide eyed at the flames.
“It’s not safe to be with the older ones,” said Khalid.
“Why?”
Khalid looked across at the driftwood shacks next to the seawall, their polythene sheets flapping in the breeze. Shame prickled at his knees.
“It’s just not.”
"Don't worry about it,” said Fadel. "Hasan's a regular."
"What?" Hasan's mouth dropped open.
Fadel chuckled. "Hey, you want to make some money? They'd like you, Amal."
Khalid shot a glare his way.
“So, how long did it take you to find work?” asked Hasan, tearing at the core of an apple.
Khalid tried to think back, but already it was a blur. Buses, fields, faces with no names all melded together in a patchwork of moments. Only the part where they came to take him away was still vivid as a photograph.
“Hey, what's up with you?”
Khalid's chest begun to rise and fall again and the thumping rose up almost to his throat. Meanwhile, images flashed across his vision of police uniforms and the city street that had spiraled beneath him as he dangled from his apartment window.
“I know what happened,” said Fadel. “That’s why he came back with the long hair. Too much dick.” Fadel laughed out loud and Hasan hurriedly joined him.
Khalid lay back on the sand, taking in gulps of air. “Hey, don’t get comfy, “said Fadel. “We’re going over the wall in a minute.”
Amal sprawled next to him, eyes almost shut. “I don’t like it here," he murmured. "How long do we have to stay?” But Khalid didn’t answer. All he could do was stare at the blackwashed sky and dig his fingers into the sand, willing for it to pass.