Breach Read Online Free PDF Page B

wouldn’t look me in the eye.
    They left. Of course. Back to the camp.
    Late that afternoon, my friend Marianne called, as she does most days. Conversation is best, I find, when there’s no real news, only jokes and memories and random reflections. But Marianne wanted to talk about the refugees and the camp, of all things. What a mess. How would Calais ever get rid of them? She’d seen on Facebook that very day, she said, photographs of a fire in the camp. ‘You can’t blame Calais locals,’ she said. ‘It must be very trying. Maybe this is the only way to get rid of them – smoke them out.’
    From high on my wall, heroic Grand-père looked down at me from his frame. ‘They’re human beings, Marianne,’ I said. ‘And when was this fire?’
    ‘Today! Right now, I tell you.’
    I said goodbye and pulled on my coat. The sun was already setting along the low, flat horizon as I drove, one of those absurdly riotous sunsets that my tourists like, crimson streaking into fuchsia. Today, though, it put me in mind of flames. Or blood.
    I knew exactly where I’d park – outside one of the factories a few streets away from the camp. My unconscious had perhaps been rehearsing this journey because I did not hesitate. I saw no fire engines, though, no flames, no French vigilantes. I strode up to the storefront, to enquire of the shopkeeper who’d waved at me before.
    ‘Many fires in the jungle,’ he said. ‘Today, I hear it is a gas bottle exploding.’
    I nodded. Beside his shop, the pup tent was zipped up. It was even smaller than I’d remembered.
    ‘Well, I’m here now,’ I told the shopkeeper, ‘so I might as well go into the camp.’ As if he cared. I bought a bottle of water from him. It cost more than at Lidl.
    ‘I am looking for a Kurdish family,’ I said, and he directed me towards the area where, he told me, Kurds had their shelters and tents.
    ‘Ask there,’ he said.
    No one paid me any attention as I walked. Not the volunteers, speaking English, French, Dutch and German. Not the police patrol, like Lego figures in bulletproof black, four and five abreast. And not the refugees, walking in twos and threes up and down the rough tracks. I passed a set of taps on a wooden stand and noticed one man in particular among those gathered there to wash. He’d rolled his trousers up his fat legs and was holding a large naked foot under the cold water. I shivered. Where on earth did Nalin wash here? Where did she go when she had her period?
    I caught snatches of language, none familiar to me, bar the volunteers’ chatter. I passed many more stores and also structures labelled cafés and I saw the spire of a home-made-looking church behind a wall.
    ‘Kurds?’ I asked people. ‘Kurds from Syria?’ And they pointed me onward: ‘Turn right over there.’ I passed a marquee where Hare Krishnas seemed to be handing out food. People stood around with bowls, a few women and children along with the men. What would Marianne say, I wondered, if she could see me now, in the almost dark in the refugee camp? OrLuc the plumber, glowering from his brother’s house nearby?
    Omid was surprised to see me, when a neighbour showed me to his particular shelter and I knocked on the door. I could see him hesitate. He wanted to send me away, but Nalin came up behind him and drew me into the square box of a room. I left my boots at the door, with other boots, and sat down on the floor. It was like being inside a slow cooker, the sides lined in that silver astronaut paper, like tin foil. Grubby backpacks hung from nails on the walls and more bags were piled in a corner, out of the rain. Sitting cross-legged against the far wall was a bearded Englishman.
    ‘This is Murray,’ Omid said.
    ‘I am Eloise,’ I told Murray, reaching over our socked feet to shake his hand.
    ‘Eloise,’ Nalin repeated. She’d never heard my name before.
    ‘Murray will help us to get to UK,’ Omid said. ‘To join our mother.’
    ‘Oh, that’s