The next instalment of Esha Ex, a novel-length work of new fiction, updated daily. For more details click here.
“Kader Dock Authority,” said a mechanised voice that gave off silvery half-echoes. “Make yourself known.”
“Kader Dock Authority,” said a mechanised voice that gave off silvery half-echoes. “Make yourself known.”
I didn’t move. After a few seconds the same voice said the same words. I crept out. I had a long distance to walk, every inch of it under the hard eyes of the two men who now stood along the back curve of the boat. Two men were in ordinary sailing work gear: crusty jumpers and baggy oilskin trousers. One of them held the megaphone. The other held a long, thin black gun.
The chain stalled and the barge gave a tough jerk which knocked me off my feet. I immediately heard a gunshot which broke a glass by my shoulder.
The megaphone spoke again.
“That was your warning. Put your hands above your head and proceed forward slowly towards myself.”
I did so. We were stopped in the middle of the Kader and other boats were passing on either side.
I got to the edge of the barge, spooked by the foot or so of water between us. The sailors reached over, pulled me across and dumped me in the bottom of their boat. One of them began,
“You know what we do with stowaways?”
His words were soaked up by the quick, loud whirr of a siren, squeezed out and rapidly quenched. Bumping alongside us was a tall white boat, its fibreglass edge several feet above our own. Everything on the ship was white, except for the three green rubber rings slung across the side and green anoraks worn by the five or so women and men on board. The white boat cut into our space, casting a shadow.
A woman came to the end of the white boat and called down,
“Good morning.”
The sailors grunted in response, barely turning towards her.
“We’ve had a call from a gentleman, dockside, about a young woman on board,” said the woman. “We’re here to pick her up.”
“That – is an illegal – stowaway,” said the older sailor, pointing hard at me.
“I’m not,” I said.
“That’s fine sir, we’ll handle it from here,” said the woman, cordial and steely.
Her team put a slatted, three foot wide ramp across the two boats.
“It’s okay,” said the woman in an over-gentle tone, “you’re safe now.”
She and the other green anoraks were smiling and nodding.
“For your own safety, come aboard,” said the woman firmly.
I turned back and the two seamen were standing shoulder to shoulder, arms crossed. I gripped the ramp and hoisted myself up.
“Don’t look down,” said the woman. She and a younger man were standing on the other side holding their hands out to me. Scummy black water licked up the sides of the two boats.
“I’m not standing up,” I said, crouching on the thing, holding onto the edges.
“That’s okay. Just inch along,” said the woman.
I got to the end of the ramp and they helped me off it. Without asking I helped them take the ramp down and strap it inside the boat. The woman went to address the sailors again but as soon as the corner of the ramp was off them they outstripped us, working the engine until it made an ugly, strained sound.
“They’re getting away,” I said.
“It’s fine. Let’s get you inside,” said the woman. She led me down some steps under a shed-like structure in the middle of the deck. “We’ve got the boat registration number and we can get copies of their transit papers from the dock officials and trace their route.”
“What were they going to do?”
“You can imagine.”
“What if nothing comes up on your checks?”
“Everyone has a record.”
The inside of the boat was spotless, and I was so dirty. I put my hand on the wall and it left a clear black set of fingerprints. At the bottom of the steps was a strangely furnished room. There was a soft carpet, a sofa facing two slightly higher upholstered chairs, a low table with books on it. But the other half was like an office. There was also a red box full of children’s toys.
“I’m Devika Menon. And this is Riven,” said the woman, indicating the young man, who had also come down. “He’s training with us.”
“Hi,” said Riven, nice and nervous.
“You can trust him,” said Devika.
They sat down in the two chairs and leaned towards me as if anything I said to them would be interesting.
I sauntered to the toy box and, while they watched, took out the first thing I touched. It was a much-washed flannel duck. I held it at arm’s length. When I was young at the orphanage we didn’t have soft toys. I let it fall back into the box.
“I’m Esha Ex,” I said. Riven took a notebook and a mini pencil out of his anorak’s front pocket and wrote this down in tiny crooked handwriting.
“What are you doing?” I said.
“I’m sorry. We have to. This is all confidential,” said Devika. “We’re a charity group. The Lotus Project.”
“What do you want from me?” I said, refusing to sit down. I felt afraid and mistrustful.
“Just… to help,” said Riven.
“Why?”
“Just – in case you need it,” he croaked.
“Do I seem like I need your help?”
Devika watched, taking it all in.Somehow I had backed myself – literally – into a corner, and was standing in the tiny gap between the toy box and the sofa.
“Do you all live on this boat?” I said.
“No, it belongs to a very kind donor,” said Devika, “a very famous pop star who’s been affected by the issues we deal with. She got in touch with us and asked what we needed and we said if there was some way we could get on the water, to intercept river craft, it would really help us. Our offices are in Binar West, on the other side of the city from the dock, so we’re following the river quite a way down.”
I sat on the sofa – Devika and Riven exuded strong approval of this - and noticed that behind the desk was a narrow hospital-type bed with a length of wide tissue paper on it.
“What’s that bed for?”
“Emergencies.”
“What emergencies?”
“Trauma. We sometimes meet very traumatised individuals.”
“Who are you people really?”
“We run a safe house and provide service for at-risk young people,” said Devika, “we were contacted by a gentleman, a driver going to the docks. He said he saw a young woman being taken against her will, signalling to him.”
“I don’t have any money,” I said. “So I can’t take your services.”
“It’s free,” said Riven.
“You mean the Family’re paying you?” I asked.
“No, there’s no government grant for this type of service,” said Devika.
“Then how do you survive?” I asked. That was the one and only question of my life, the thing I was constantly wondering about others and myself.
“Donations,” said Devika. “You can put your feet up, if you like. We’ll be there in about ten minutes or so.”
It was only then that I really noticed that the boat was in motion, smooth and steady and pop-star-gift expensive. My eyes were getting heavy.
“Were you patrolling the river?” I asked.
“No. We sometimes do that, but if we did it regularly then traffickers would know how to avoid us. It’s better for us to investigate cases in a more strategic way. There’s a blanket under one of those cushions.”
“Huh?” I said, and my voice already sounded groggy and submerged.
“We should nearly be there. I’ll check,” said Riven, jumping up and going up the stairs on his long, skinny legs.
Devika stood up and said,
“Would you give me permission to check your temperature? Nothing complicated – I’ll put my hand on your forehead for a moment.”
She perched on the coffee table, looking at me closely. I felt her soft and neutral hand covering my forehead for a moment. I murmured,
“Don’t. I’m dirty.”
“Don’t worry about that.”
I fell asleep for a second, only to be jolted awake when the boat stopped.
“Ready to go up?” asked Devika, who was back in her chair.
I followed her back up to where the other green anoraks were gathered, each one more bright-eyed than the next. They all said hi to me. It make me squirm to think that they might be telling themselves what a worthy day they were having, rescuing another dreg like me.
The boat nosed between two poles coming out of the water. This part of Binar, the west, was nothing like the docks. The buildings were made of soot-blackened red brick, crammed close together in blocks separated by thin alleyways which led straight out of the water, up slimy steps. A few other boats were moored on either side of us.
“Those are water taxis,” said one of the anoraks. “In Binar anyone can own one, as long as they get a license-”
“And give enough of a kickback to the police,” I said.
She laughed, but cautioned me,
“We should be careful what we say around here. The street patrollers are out. They look out for pickpockets and stuff, but they do tend to keep their eyes and ears open and report back on anything ‘interesting’ that’s said. It’s all part of one network after all.”
“And it ends with the Family,” I nodded.
We all got out and walked in single file along the alleyway for a minute or so. I craned my neck up at the tightly packed buildings on either side. There were narrow, but deep.
“These are old workers’ homes,” said Devika. “Tenement blocks. More than a century old. There were waves of contagious illnesses here, water-borne and airborne, and to do with the overcrowding. The place got a bad name and a lot of them were abandoned. It became, not just a slum, but what we call high risk: high unemployment, high alcoholism, gang problems, low schooling, low opportunity, low expectation, high domestic violence.”
At the end of the alleyway was a small, paved square surrounded by high buildings in all sides, with other alleys leading out of it.
“That’s our door, there, “ said Devika, pointing. “We don’t have signs up.”
“My stomach’s turning over,” I said.
“It’s travelling on water,” said Devika. “Let’s wait a moment.”
One of the anoraks produced a flask from her rucksack and poured me out a hot, sweet tea. She gave me the little cup with a smile.
“I’m Gita,” she said, surprising me by taking the cup when I’d had a few sips, and drinking from it herself without wiping it.
One of the other anoraks opened the main door to the Lotus Project and some of them went inside. I saw a staircase, a reception desk behind thickened glass and a short passageway leading to a closed door. I followed everyone inside.