Adnan Khoury walked quickly, head down, avoiding the few people he saw, sticking to the shoreline. His progress brought him into a built-up area. A road sign said Margate. Buildings meant people, which was good and bad. In the distance he could hear shouts, whistles, and chants. He passed a lifeboat station, the doors open, a boat on a trolley. A man in yellow oilskins wiping his hands onto a cloth didn’t give Khoury a second glance.
He carried on for a few hundred yards before pausing at the edge of a harbour, an inner bay protected by a long concrete arm. Here the town opened up. Margate had a shabby appearance. Before him, was a road lined with pubs, cafés, restaurants and, beyond, an amusement park called Dreamland, which seemed to be mainly bright, flashing lights even though it was mid-morning. Then a tall block of flats which loomed like a dirty iceberg.
Now he could see what the noise was about. A protest march making its way along the road. Lots of people, banners held high, words Khoury couldn’t read. Somebody at the front on a megaphone, chanting. The line stretched on back down the sea front. Dotted periodically were fluorescent yellow jackets and uniforms; apparently the police.
Khoury headed along the harbour arm, away from the march. At the far end was a bench. He sat down. While Khoury waited, he thought about his brother Najjar and friend Shadid. What had happened to them after Khoury threw himself off the boat and swum for shore? Najjar had been stabbed, that much he knew.
He could have lost it there and then. The grief he’d been bottling up for the last few hours threatened to spill over. A moan escaped his lips. Khoury glanced over his shoulder to see if anyone had heard. He was alone. Khoury allowed himself a few moments to think about Najjar. He rocked back and forth, arms across his chest, head bowed. Tears ran down his cheeks.
The irony of it all. Najjar had been the kind-hearted brother, always with a good word for people, a helping hand. Khoury was the black sheep. He’d needed to leave Syria. Najjar only came along to protect him, Shadid too, as a family favour. Khoury was desperate to speak with his wife — to see how his little girl was handling her chemo treatments. It had been a week since they’d last spoken. He supposed they were still in hospital. At least they were safe while he was away. And soon, they could join him in England, or that had been the plan.
For now, all he wanted to do was scream. But it wouldn’t do well to draw attention to himself. There would be people after him.
Khoury had to acquire the basics — clothes, food, money — and soon. He needed somewhere to sleep, too. If it was to be the streets, he needed the means.
It took about twenty minutes for the demonstrators to pass. His stomach rumbled. He was starving. Only some stale biscuits in the last twenty-four hours. Luckily Khoury was wiry, not an ounce of fat on him; he didn’t need to eat a great deal to survive.
Once the protesters were just a trickle and the police had gone, Khoury made his way to the road which ran parallel with the sea front. A long line of cars followed in the march’s wake. Pedestrians on the pavements went about their business. None gave him even a first glance.
Margate reminded Khoury of Calais, where there was also a brooding sense of acceptance between locals and immigrants. He’d blend in here, for sure.
He wandered the pedestrianised shopping area, getting a feel for the immediate surroundings. He stole an apple from a fruit and vegetable shop, picking it up from a tray as he passed. When he was down to the core, his hunger awoken rather than satisfied, he selected his first target, a cheap clothing store. He entered through large, heavy doors and mooched the racks of low cost garments. He was pleased to see there weren’t any electronic tags.
First, he picked up a jacket, something long and heavy with a hood. When he was sure no one was looking he slipped it on, alert and ready to run. No alarms were raised. Emboldened, he carried on with his spree, picking up some pants and socks. Upstairs was a food section. He put a few easily concealed items in his pockets; high-energy chocolate bars and drinks. Finally, just before leaving, he lifted a hoodie from a coat hanger and concealed it beneath the coat.
Holding the hoodie under his jacket he was almost on the street when a hand fell on his shoulder.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Khoury turned. A man, frowning at him, dressed normally, not a guard in a uniform. Khoury couldn’t reach his knife; it was tucked away below what were now several layers of clothes. He tried to shrug the hand off, but the man gripped the coat tighter, spun Khoury ninety degrees and pulled him around the corner, away from the store.
“You were lucky you didn’t get caught,” said the man. Khoury had the chance to properly look at him. He was young, blonde hair twisted into dreadlocks. He wore a camouflage army jacket covered in badges and Doc Marten boots.
“You’re new here, right?”
Khoury’s understanding of English was good. In his past life back home he’d been a language teacher in adult education.
Khoury nodded. What was going on?
The young man sighed. “Look, you need to keep your head down.” He dipped into Khoury’s pockets, pulled out the chocolate bars, put them back in again. “Getting done for this isn’t worth it. You’ll be on a boat and back to France for less. I haven’t got much myself, but here you go.” He held up a five-pound note. “Have you got anywhere to sleep?”
Khoury shook his head but didn’t take the cash, dubious as to how the young man would expect him to earn it. But the young man stuffed the note into one of Khoury’s pockets.
He said, “There’s a place called the Lighthouse Project. They’ve got beds and food. Would you like me to show you where it is?”
“Yes.”
“Follow me.”
The young man led Khoury out of the alley, turned, and walked up the slope towards the centre of town. They’d only gone about a hundred yards when Khoury stopped dead. The television in the shop window had caught his eye.
Not wanting to believe what he was seeing, Khoury went up to the window, bumping into a passer-by in the process, sending her bags spilling to the ground. Khoury barely noticed.
He pressed his palms up against the glass as the camera view panned over a building in ruins. Massive slabs of shattered concrete and twisted metal. Clearly it had once been a large construction, now reduced to rubble.
“What’s the matter?” asked the young man, standing by Khoury’s side. Khoury ignored him.
A legend appeared on the screen, revealing the location as a children’s hospital in the rebel-held Idlib province. The Syrian regime, supported by the Russians, had been indiscriminately attacking rebel-held facilities.
Khoury sagged to his knees. There was only one children’s hospital in Idlib. It was where his daughter was being treated. Laila. She would be dead. His wife, too. There was no way she would have left his daughter’s side. They were dead, both of them. Khoury was alone. Tears flowed down his face. He felt a hand fall on his shoulder.
“Bastards,” said the young man.
Something hardened inside Khoury then. His people had suffered so much. He stood, cuffed away the tears. “Please take me to the refuge,” he said. The young man stared at Khoury for a long moment before he nodded.