Home Chapter 4: Hope

Abdul was awake early on the morning of his interview with the Home Office. He tried to hard to get back to sleep, but his nerves kept him awake. Eventually, he gave up the effort, and made his way to the kitchen for an early morning coffee, deep in thought about what was to come. He was so absorbed that suddenly he realised he had just half an hour to catch the bus. Hastily, he eat his breakfast, got washed and shaved, and put on the smartest clothes he owned: a grey shirt he had once bought for a work function, and some nice if slightly loose-fitting black trousers. He then dashed out of the house and just caught the bus to Lunar House. It was a very tall building, he thought, looming rather ominously above him.

On entering the building and checking in at reception, Abdul was forced to have his photograph and fingerprints taken. He was now feeling more nervous than ever, and when his name was called he half staggered over to the interview room: however, when he looked up, he saw a smiling man, short with dark hair and hazel eyes and began to feel slightly more hopeful.

"Hello, Abdul, welcome to the Home Office, my name is Fred Hands", he said.

"Hello", said Abdul cautiously.

"Do sit down", urged Fred: Abdul obliged.

"Well, now", said Fred, "this is what we call the screening interview, next week you'll have your substantive interview."

"What's the difference?", asked Abdul, feeling somewhat alarmed.

"It's just that, in the screening interview, we just ask you a few basic questions, it's an overview, basically, of how you came to the UK and why you're claiming asylum, whereas in the substantive interview, we go into much greater detail. Is that OK?"

Abdul nodded. What choice did he have?

"So", Fred continued, still smiling and in the same friendly tone, "please tell me about yourself, Abdul."

"Well", said Abdul hesitantly, "I was born in Mogadishu, and I was happy there at first, but then my dad was killed by al-Shabaab . . ."

"I'm so sorry to hear that", said Fred, abruptly breaking off from the notes he had begun to take. Abdul began to feel slightly warmer towards him.

"But still", Abdul continued, now speaking with greater confidence, "I had a lovely time at home with my mum, my brother and my sister until . . ."

"Until what?", inquired Fred.

Abdul swallowed hard. "There was this woman, called Amina Mattar, she kept coming to our house, and one day, she told me that she would take me to London for a new home and a better life, she gave me details of what she said were family members in London, so she did, she flew me over, but when we came to her house, she ripped up the contact details and made me be her slave."

Despite the traumatic memories he was being required to relive, Abdul spoke quickly and confidently: he knew that he could open up to Fred and be believed.

"What did she do?", he asked Fred. He looked very troubled by Abdul's story.

"I had to work for her and her family night and day", said Abdul, "all the washing, cooking and cleaning, all that stuff. Sometimes I had to work late at night or early in the morning. And if she didn't like what I did, she beat me."

"So how did you get away from her?", asked Fred. He was now leaning forward, his expression full of sympathy and concern.

"I told my form teacher at school, and he fostered me."

"And why are you applying for asylum?"

"I got British citizenship, but it was taken away from me recently when they found out that my name is not my real name, it's the name Amina gave me, so I spoke to my old teacher and he told me to apply for asylum", said Abdul, once again speaking quickly.

There was an awkward silence as Fred finished taking his notes.

"Well", he finally said, "I'm really very sorry to hear that Abdul, it seems like you've been treated really badly, not just the trafficking but having your citizenship taken away when it wasn't even your fault . . . that was so unfair."

"So what happens now?", asked Abdul.

"Well, as I said before", replied Fred, "I'll do your substantive interview in a week's time, and then a decision will be made. I'm sure, though, from what you've said, you will be granted asylum, you certainly deserve it."

Abdul felt a warm wave of relief wash all over him.

"Thank you so much", he said: he spoke so quickly that Fred had to ask him to repeat the words. Fred then smiled.

"Not at all", he said. He stood up and offered his hand: Abdul shook it with gratitude. "It's been a pleasure meeting you, Abdul, and I look forward to seeing you again in a week's time."

Once Abdul had left the office, Fred gathered up his notes, taking care to fold them in half, so nobody could see them. He strode purposefully towards the lift, stepping out on the first floor to make the short journey to the office. Inside were a number of long tables, with a computer and a caseworker at each one. Silently, unobtrusively, Fred made his way to a seat at the very bottom of the office, next to a large window that gave an excellent view of the scenery outside, not that he looked out of it very often. He had been shocked and stunned when he had heard Abdul's story: though he had interviewed victims of torture or conflict before, this was the first time he had encountered a victim of modern slavery. It's just not right, what happened to Abdul, he thought, it's just not right. Fred's compassionate and sympathetic approach to his interviewees was not approved of by his superiors: on one occasion, one of his senior colleagues had told him he was "too nice", while another had patronisingly told him, "Aw, you're so good to our customers, aren't you?", but Fred had never deviated from his view that the Home Office was a customer service organisation that should be helping its clients, not obstructing them.

"Hiya Fred!", rang out an exaggeratedly high pitched voice.

Fred looked up, though he knew who this was. A woman, well built and slightly taller than he was, with a narrow, lined face, was sitting at the computer opposite to his: this was Joan Manion, his line manager. For some reason, she had appeared to take a great liking to Fred so soon after he had started working at the Home Office. One morning, she had come up to him out of the blue to talk to him in a friendly manner: at the time, Fred had still been struggling to find his feet in his new job and had felt grateful that someone senior seemed to like him. Shortly afterwards, the seating patterns had been rearranged and Joan had made sure that Fred would sit opposite her, and would chat to him from behind her computer nearly every day. However, his opinion of her had started to change one day, when she had excitedly told him a story of a man who had tried to bring his wife and two daughters over from the Philippines to live with him in the UK: how this man had tried to convince her that he met the minimum income threshold by claiming to have a second job that did not exist, and then that he had received a promotion, neither of which had turned out to be true. "They have no right to come here whatsoever", Joan had told Fred joyfully, and she had also suggested that the man's wife had "led him on". Though he had been careful not to say anything, Fred had privately been shocked at her total lack of sympathy for the family, and everything he had heard from her since then had only reinforced his view that she was cruel, bigoted and uncaring. In addition, every day she would loudly regale him with tales of her husband and daughter, apparently failing to notice that Fred was not interested.

"Hello", said Fred warily.

"How did you get on?", asked Joan, still in that horrible squeaky voice.

"I had a slavery victim", said Fred: he had been so struck by Abdul's story that he felt the need to get it out, seemingly forgetting who he was talking to. "Poor young man from Somalia, trafficked, forced to be a domestic servant . . ."

"How do you know that?", said Joan sharply.

"Well . . . because he told me, that's why", said Fred.

"But you can't just accept what he says", insisted Joan.

"But he was telling the truth", said Fred, doing his best to control his developing anger.

"How do you know that?", demanded Joan.

"Because . . .", began Fred, struggling to find the right words.

Joan pounced. "See, you can't prove it", she said, with an unmistakable air of triumph. "You need to be rigorous with these people, you need to question everything they tell you. We should only give asylum to those who meet the criteria. You can't just let these people walk all over you."

"So you're saying he's lying?", asked Fred, his voice shaking.

"You should always assume that he is", said Joan smoothly.

"How can you be so cruel?", exclaimed Fred, trying hard not to shout.

"I'm not being cruel, it's our job to stop people coming here, abusing our hospitality. The British people expect us to remove people with no right to be in the UK."

"But you don't know that he has no right." Fred's voice was getting louder.

"You should assume that he doesn't until he can prove otherwise. You should be suspicious of everything he tells you. Assume that he is lying. Most of them are."

Fred could not control himself any longer.

"Have you no empathy?", he shouted. "Do you not care about other people?"

"How can you be so rude?", said Joan, looking genuinely shocked. "Show me so little respect? And all because I told you the correct procedure?"

"It's the way you said it", Fred tried to explain.

"There's nothing wrong with what I said", said Joan. "Now get back to work and type up your notes", she added, as Fred opened his mouth to argue.

The rest of the working day passed uneventfully. Joan chatted on to Fred as though nothing had happened, but he was in no mood to chat back. He also had to endure her boasting to another member of staff - in the most graphic terms - about her fantasy of having sex with a Premier League football manager: "When he knocks, the house rocks!" She declared that she would happily send her husband out of the house should her hero ever come calling, and when it was pointed out to her that the man had a wife, she replied "But she's a home wrecker": the object of her fantasies had apparently been involved with another woman before meeting his future spouse. Fred did his best to close his ears.

Finally, Fred's shift came to an end. "Good night, Fred", Joan called to him as he locked away his files. He didn't answer. He made his way towards the office door: just before he got there, he met one of his colleagues who worked on the late shift, and had a brief but pleasant conversation with her. He travelled down in the lift, made his way out of the entrance into the warm Sun, and headed towards the bus stop.

Barely had he set foot outside the building when he received a voicemail message on his phone. It was from Opportunities, the agency employing him, asking him to get in touch as they had a very important message for him. He wondered why they wanted to speak to him: maybe it was about the fixed-term contract he had been offered. He called the number and a consultant answered.

"Is that Fred?", she asked.

"Yes."

"So you've finished work, and you're going home now?" Her voice was bright and friendly, almost comforting.

"Yes."

"I've got some important news for you, Fred, and it's not good news, I'm afraid."

"What?", Fred started. What on Earth had happened?

"The Home Office has decided to end your assignment."

"What?", exclaimed Fred again. "Why?" These were the only words he could get out.

"It's because you mentioned your work for the Home Office on your LinkedIn page."

"My LinkedIn page?"

"Yes, it's a breach of the Official Secrets Act."

"But maybe if I change my LinkedIn page, so I no longer say I'm with the Home Office, will they give me my job back?" Fred said this more out of desperation than hope.

"I'm afraid they will never give you your job back."

"But why couldn't they at least tell me?", asked Fred. He was now close to tears. When he was a boy, his parents had set up a savings account for him to buy a house in the future, but he had been unable to find a place of his own, and his savings meant he could not claim benefits: losing his job meant he would have no income.

"It's because they think you would have been violent if they had told you to your face."

Fred was now crying freely. "Please, please, please tell me it's all a joke."

"I'm so sorry", was all the consultant could say.

Fred switched off the call. He caught the bus home, still feeling devastated. How could Joan, who had always seemed to like him, have done this to him? He changed his LinkedIn page to remove all reference to the Home Office, and emailed Joan to explain this, and ask if she would reinstate him. The following day he desperately checked his emails to see if she had replied: she had not.

Abdul was feeling very happy as he arrived back at his home. It was all right, Fred believed him, Fred would make sure his application came through. He sat on a chair in the living room. Maybe, he thought, once he was granted asylum, he could bring his family over. How lovely that would be . . .

"Don't run too far, Ali", Mohammed called out to him.

The two older children were sitting on the front porch of the house, while Ali was running up and down the street.

"Why do you always say that?", asked Ali. "You are so boring."

"Because mum says so", Mohammed replied.

" 'Because mum says so' ", mimicked Ali.

"Because it can be dangerous", added Nadifa.

"What, is there a lion round the corner?", asked Ali sceptically.

"Because", said Nadifa patiently, "there are bad people around, people who might kill or do horrible things to you. Please stay where we can see you."

Ali pulled a face, then reluctantly sauntered back towards his siblings.

"You can run up and down, you know, just stay in sight", Nadifa explained, with a slight sigh.

Ali half-smiled and began to run up and down again. His fun was short-lived, however, as he soon heard the voice of their mother:

"Dinner's ready!"

He ambled back towards the house: Mohammed and Nadifa stood up, but did not turn to enter the house until Ali had reached them.

Khadija smiled on all three of them as they entered the kitchen. "Enjoy your afternoon?"

"Ali was being trouble again", said Mohammed.

"I wasn't . . ." Ali began angrily, until he saw the sly grin on his brother's face: then he broke out laughing instead.

"That smells very nice", said Nadifa, as she sat down at the table and glanced at the spaghetti.

"Thanks", said Khadija. "But", she sighed, "it's hard to afford the ingredients these days, ever since your dad . . ."

She stopped abruptly: there were tears rolling down her cheeks. Nadifa stood up and patted her on the back.

"Thanks, Nadifa", said Khadija. "It's just . . . I'm starting to wonder how we'll cope . . ."

Her voice tailed off.

"It's too hot", Ali complained loudly.

Abdul shook himself awake. Those days, back in his old home, the days when he was still called Ali, when he had a mother, brother and sister. Then a thought came to him. He needed to track them down, to find out where they were, see if they were all right. That's what he would do.