Part 1 (2/2)

Milton could relate to that. He had been on gabapentin and oxycodone for years, a c.o.c.ktail to take the edge off the pain caused by the long list of injuries that he had suffered during his career with the Group. He had stopped taking those when he decided that he wasn't going to put anything in his body that might artificially alter the way that he felt. He was going to live an entirely unmedicated life from now on. The occasional ache was a welcome reminder of the things that he had done, and a gentle-and sometimes not so gentle-reminder of his need to atone. And, he had discovered, simple things like long runs, meetings and meditation had the same effect as the drugs.

”How are you managing at work?”

”That's the thing,” Tommy said. ”I'm supposed to be driving to France tomorrow. I've just signed a contract to bring a s.h.i.+pment of furniture over.”

Milton remembered. Tommy ran his own import/export business.

”Do you have another driver?”

”Not for tomorrow.”

Milton wondered whether he should help. Service was one of the central tenets of being in the rooms, and he knew that he could help Tommy.

He decided that he would offer. ”I could do it.”

”Thanks, but that won't work-you need an HGV licence.”

”I've got one.”

”Really?”

”Pa.s.sed it when I was in the army. Used to drive trucks around Salisbury Plain.”

”What about your work?”

Milton had been working in the taximen's shelter in Russell Square until the previous month. ”They let me go,” he explained. ”There wasn't the demand for it to be open nights anymore. Uber is killing black cabs.”

”So you're not working?”

”I'm keeping an eye open. Something will come up. Until then, I've got a lot of free time on my hands. Happy to help. It wouldn't be a problem.”

”I'll pay you,” Tommy said. ”I don't expect you to do this for nothing.”

”Whatever you like,” Milton said. ”Just tell me when and where, and I'll be there.”

Chapter Two.

TOMMY HAD A WAREHOUSE in Hounslow, beneath the Heathrow flight path. He told Milton that they would need to make an early start the next day, so he had risen at four, gone for a thirty-minute run, and then caught the first tube from Bethnal Green.

He arrived at the industrial park at six thirty, just as the sun was rising.

Tommy was preparing the tractor unit. It was an old Scania R480 Topline that looked as if it had already clocked up a good number of miles. Tommy had the bonnet up and was checking the engine oil.

”Morning,” Milton said.

Tommy turned. ”Morning.” He closed the bonnet and wiped his hands on a dirty cloth that he had tucked into his belt. ”We're booked on the eleven o'clock ferry from Dover. You ready to go?”

”Whenever you are.”

Milton went around to the cab, opened the door and climbed up. The interior was showing its age. The upholstery of the seats was battered, the leather cracked and the padding secured in place with cross-hatches of gaffer tape. The floor was scuffed, one of the mats was missing, and a groove had been worn into the carpeting beneath the clutch from where Tommy, or whoever else had owned the vehicle, had rested his foot. A stack of old newspapers and freight doc.u.ments sat on the pa.s.senger seat.

Tommy opened the pa.s.senger door and, using his left hand, awkwardly clambered up.

”She's not much to look at,” Tommy admitted as he swept the piles of papers from the pa.s.senger seat and onto the floor, ”but she's reliable. Never once broken down on me yet. Keys are in the ignition.”

Milton reached down and turned the key. The engine grumbled to life. Tommy settled into the seat and then struggled to fasten his seat belt. Milton waited until he was done, clipped his own into place, and put the truck into gear. He pulled out of the yard and started the journey.

THE TRIP TO DOVER had been straightforward. They had boarded the ferry and it had departed for Calais on time. Milton and Tommy had enjoyed a late breakfast in the Routemasters cafe, and now the ferry had arrived in port and they were ready to set off again.

Milton jockeyed the truck out of the maw of the ferry and set off to the south toward Boulogne-sur-Mer. Amiens was two hours on the A26. The law allowed him to drive for only ten hours a day; they had planned for him to have clocked up four hours by the time they reached the warehouse. He would rest while the goods were loaded, and then they would make the return trip. It meant that he would drive for around six hours in total. They were returning on the overnight crossing, so the clock would be reset provided they made it back to the s.h.i.+p before the end of the tenth hour.

Tommy had left spare time to take into account the possibility of delays, but getting out of the port took longer than it should have. Two hours pa.s.sed before they were even out of the terminal, and Milton was looking at a best case of eight hours behind the wheel to make it back to port. Tommy started to get anxious.

The long queue of trucks was crawling; Milton suspected a crash, but, as they left the facility and joined the main road, he could see that it wasn't that at all.

A crowd of people was cl.u.s.tered around the northbound road. The police and port security were there in force, and the spill over meant that people were on the southbound road, too. Traffic was moving at a few miles an hour.

”Who are they?” Milton asked. ”Migrants?”

”Yes,” Tommy said. ”Trying to get over the Channel. They think it's the land of milk and honey. Suppose it is, compared to what they've got where they've come from. They're desperate to get over. You wouldn't believe some of the things I've seen driving through here.”

Milton nudged the nose of the cab out into the road until a gap opened up for them and they could join the slow-moving queue.

”Calais has changed,” Tommy said. ”I used to love stopping here. We used to call it Beach back in the day. We'd all park our trucks on the front, go and get something to eat and drink, stretch the legs a bit, and sleep in the cab until the ferries started sailing in the morning. We'd never have any trouble. Now, though, you wouldn't dare stop. Some operators don't let their drivers stop anywhere within four hours of here. You know, soon as you get up, you're going to have pa.s.sengers in the back that you don't want. My old lady worries about me whenever she knows I'm coming through here. I'm a big bloke, John, right? You might think I can look after myself, and you'd be right, but I still worry about it. I've seen them go after drivers with knives when they tell them to get out of the back. But it's serious business. If I get caught with one of them in the back, it's a fine. A big one. My margins are already thin. I can't afford to get stuck with something like that.”

The truck in front of them stopped suddenly. Milton braked and brought them to a halt.

”There are thousands of them here,” Tommy went on. ”The French put them into a camp.”

”The Jungle,” Milton said. ”I've seen the news.”

”They come from there, wait by the side of the road, and try to get into a lorry. Some of them go through the tunnel. They get into the freight. I read about one poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d, last week, he tried to cling onto the bottom of a trailer. Fell off, got squashed under the wheels.”

”And you don't approve?”

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