Abdul was feeling happy as he strode into Lunar House for his substantive interview: even the photographing and fingerprinting didn't seem so bad this time. But then he heard his name called out, and he was startled: that wasn't Fred, that was a woman's voice. He made his way to the interview room, and he saw a woman with harsh lines on her face, and a forbidding expression. Abdul's stomach clenched: something told him this couldn't be good.
"Where's Fred?", he asked.
"Never you mind", said the woman repressively.
"But he did it last time, and he said . . ."
"It doesn't matter, I'm doing it this time", she said. "Sit down."
She pointed to a chair. She had the air of a teacher rebuking a naughty pupil.
Abdul very slowly lowered himself onto the chair.
"Has anything happened to Fred?", he inquired, though he knew what her answer would be.
"We're not here to talk about Fred, it's you I'm interested in. Fred's an irrelevance."
"Who are you, then?", Abdul blurted out.
"Don't you take that tone with me, when I'm the one who'll decide if you can stay in this country. My name is Joan Manion."
Abdul was silent.
"So", said Joan, in a businesslike voice, "where do you come from?"
"Somalia", said Abdul.
"How did you come to the UK?"
"I was tricked into coming . . ."
"Tricked? How?"
Abdul felt her tone was unnecessarily sharp.
"I was only a boy, and a woman who kept coming to our house told me I could have a better life here, but when we arrived, she made me into her slave."
"How long ago was this?"
"15, maybe 16 or 17 years ago . . ."
"You can't remember?", demanded Joan, a triumphant expression on her face.
"It's just, it was so long ago, that . . ."
"Surely you should be able to remember when something like that happened?"
Abdul looked down at his shoes.
"Nothing to say", said Joan. "I see you've been caught out."
"Please", begged Abdul, "I'm telling you the truth."
"So", said Joan, "if you are telling the truth, maybe you can tell me what this woman did to you."
"She made me work in the house all day, and beat me if she didn't like what I was doing."
"What did she make you do?"
"Everything, she made me cook food, wash the dishes, wash her children, make the beds . . ."
"And pick up the milk every morning?"
"Yes . . . no, sorry . . . she didn't make me do that . . ."
"Caught you out again!". Joan sounded positively thrilled.
"Please, I just . . ."
"Never mind that, let's get back to my questions. How did this woman punish you?"
"She would beat me . . ."
"On what part of the body?"
Abdul stared at her.
"Answer the question", ordered Joan.
"Mostly on my back, sometimes my backside and thighs."
"Could you show me?"
"Show you?" Abdul was horrified.
"Show me where she hit you, to prove you're telling the truth."
"Well it was so long ago, that they will have healed by now."
"Again no evidence", said Joan.
The interview continued in much the same vein, with Joan challenging everything Abdul told her: at one point, she even asked him if he could produce his father's death certificate to prove that he had been killed in a terrorist bombing.
"So", said Joan, when she finally reached the end of your questions, "you say you're from Somalia."
"Yes", said Abdul.
"Isn't that a safe country?"
Abdul's mouth fell open as wide as it could go. A safe country?
"Are your family still there?"
"Yes". Abdul just managed to get the word out.
"So why haven't you tried to go back there? You have a home there"
"My home is here", Abdul insisted, quietly but firmly.
"I will decide that", said Joan. "I think you're being very unfair on your family, not trying to rejoin them."
Abdul had nothing to say to this.
"See", said Joan for what seemed like the hundredth time, "you've accepted my point. Well, that concludes our interview. You may go."
Abdul could not wait to leave. He felt humiliated. He had done nothing wrong, and yet she had made him feel like a criminal. Why had she treated him like that? And what had happened to Fred, the one who had been so kind? He supposed he would never know.
Several agonising weeks passed before the letter Abdul had been dreading came through his letterbox. It read as follows:
"Dear Mr. Harbi,
Having carefully considered your application for asylum, the Home Office has found that you have no claim. As such, we will be taking action to remove you from the UK."
Abdul let the letter fall through his fingers onto the floor. He ran to the living room and curled up on the sofa, as though that would protect him. He was shaking with fear. He had never thought he would be treated like this by the country he had made his home. When he went to bed that night, he struggled to get to sleep, worrying over what was soon to happen to him.
He was woken suddenly by a loud crashing noise. Startled, Abdul sat up in bed.
"Immigration!" boomed a loud, ominous voice from downstairs. Abdul froze. He could hear a thundering noise on the steps, getting ever louder and closer. Then, in an instant, two burly men burst into his bedroom.
"Out of bed! Now!", shouted one of them.
Abdul did not move.
"Get out!", shouted the other. Very slowly, Abdul, still in his pyjamas, pushed himself off the bed.
"Now get dressed!", shouted the first man.
As much as he hated the thought of undressing in front of these men, Abdul did not dare disobey. As soon as he had hastily put some clothes on, he felt two rough hands grab him, one on each shoulder. They dragged down the stairs and through the front door: Abdul briefly noticed that one of the hinges had come undone. Outside, it was still mainly dark, with only the merest streaks of sunlight penetrating the gloom. These thoughts had barely passed by Abdul's head when he found himself thrust into a black van and forced to sit on a wooden bench, with the two officers on either side of him.
The van sped off. Throughout the journey, Abdul did not dare speak, nor did the officers speak to him. Suddenly, sooner than Abdul had expected, the van ground to a screeching halt. The officers grabbed Abdul again and forced him out of the van. Ahead, he saw a rather dull, modern looking building, looming ahead; nearby, he heard frightening sound of planes taking off. He was marched through a door and into a reception area, where, after giving his details, he was informed that he had arrived at the Harmondsworth Immigration Removal Centre and that his flight would depart from Heathrow in a fortnight's time.
As the plane lifted off the tarmac, the young boy felt a tremendous sense of excitement. He had never even left Mogadishu before, and now here he was, off to London, the most exciting city in the world - or so she had told him. A city of dreams, a city of opportunities - he could hardly wait to get there.
"Are you looking forward to arriving in London?", Amina asked him.
Ali nodded excitedly: it was all a big adventure.
"It sounds like a great place", he said.
"It's the best place in the world", she replied, smiling at him. "Once there, you'll never leave."
"Not even to see my mum, Nadifa and Mohammed", inquired Ali, looking up into Amina's face.
"I'm sure they'll want to come over and join you in time", she reassured him.
Ali enjoyed the flight immensely. It was so thrilling, to be high up in the air, while everybody else was down below. He and Amina chatted endlessly about what he would do in London, what school he would go to, what playgrounds he would visit, where they would go for walks.
All too soon, the captain's voice was heard over the PA, announcing that they should fasten their seatbelts as they were coming into land at Heathrow. Amina turned to Ali, and there was a greater seriousness in her voice now.
"Now, Ali, have you got your ID papers with you?"
Ali showed them to her. Then he asked her a question that had been troubling him.
"Why does it say Abdul Harbi on the papers?"
"That's the name that you'll need in London", replied Amina, not missing a beat.
"But why", Ali asked.
"It's just easier that way", said Amina.
"Is there someone called Abdul Harbi?"
"Yes, there's another little boy called that, but not to worry, he'll never know about it."
"But it doesn't seem right", said Ali cautiously.
"It's the best thing for you", said Amina, in a tone that made it clear to Ali that there was no use arguing. She held out her hand. "Just give them to me."
Ali did so.
"Good boy", said Amina: as she said those words, Ali felt a bump underneath him - the plane had landed.
They caught a taxi from the airport, and soon they arrived at a nice-looking red brick house. Ali was feeling very excited as he got out of the car. But once the taxi had driven off, Amina ripped up his papers.
"Why did you do that?", protested Ali. "You said that I would need them."
"Not any more", said Amina. She was smiling again, but it was not the warm, caring smile she had used when on the plane. "You'll be working for us", she pointed to the house. "Cleaning the house, washing the children, cooking the meals . . ."
"But that's not . . ."
"I don't care if that's not what I said, that's what you're going to do".
Amina grabbed the stunned Ali by the scruff of the neck and forced him inside.
Abdul tried to shrug off the memory, but it was not easy as that was the only time he had been on a plane.
Two staff from the centre escorted him to his cell, making jokes about smelly Africans and how Abdul was as dirty as his skin: Abdul had still not washed or shaved that morning. Once the guards had left him, he dashed to the shower, and felt the cool, refreshing relief of water flowing over his body. Back in his cell, he shaved, and then made his way to the canteen for a belated breakfast.
Abdul soon found he did not like his new home. It was not a happy place: the guards were openly disrespectful towards the inmates, calling them lazy illegal immigrants, and loudly speculating about the supposedly crime-riven places the detainees had come from. Every other day there seemed to be an inmate taken to the infirmary for a self-harming incident. At night, Abdul found it hard to sleep, as there was always someone crying out in anguish in a neighbouring cell. He was allowed to browse the Internet in the library, but when he tried to get onto the BBC website - his most trusted news source - he found that it was blocked. On another day, after overhearing another inmate mentioning an Amnesty International report about the treatment of asylum seekers in Britain, he tried to access the Amnesty website, only to find that was blocked too. He was also permitted one-hour of exercise a day: there was also a gym but he preferred not to use it. Life just seemed to moved very slow, like watching water drip down a wall.
A week passed: it was another week to go until Abdul was due to the bundled onto the deportation flight. Visiting hour had arrived, but as Abdul had no family in Britain, he just sat, bored, on the edge of his bed.
"Oi! Harbi!"
He looked up: a guard was standing in the doorway.
"There are two people here to see you. One of them's a complete weirdo."
Wondering who would be visiting him, Abdul silently allowed the guard to escort him to the visitors' room. He was made to sit at a table, and was stunned when he soon saw Sam and Heather approaching him. Sam was wearing a suit and women's trousers, while Heather was wearing a lovely blue dress with red flowers.
"How's things?", called out Sam.
"Not so good", muttered Abdul, as Sam and Heather drew level with the table and sat themselves down.
"Are you OK, Abdul?", asked Heather: she fixed her eyes on Abdul with a concerned expression. Despite himself, Abdul could not help feeling pleased that Heather was looking at him.
"I'm surviving, I suppose", he said, in a surprisingly cheery voice. Then, suddenly, something dawned on him.
"How do you know I'm here?", he asked.
"We went round to your house three days ago, to see you", explained Sam, "but found you weren't there, obviously."
"So", added Heather, "we put two and two together, realised it must be something to do with the Home Office . . ." There was a note of disgust in her voice as she said those last two words.
"So we guessed you must be in immigration detention", continued Sam, "so we rang up all the centres in London, to ask after you, it was only last night that we found you were here, we've had to hastily book time off work to see you."
They smiled at Abdul: he managed only the feeblest smile in response.
"So what happened to you?", asked Heather anxiously.
"What do you mean?", inquired Abdul.
"I mean, how did you end up here?"
Abdul sighed, and told them the whole saga of how Andy had advised him to apply to the Home Office, how Fred had been kind at his first interview, only to be replaced by the horrible Joan at his second, and how his claim had been rejected.
"How awful!", exclaimed Heather. "How stupid that teacher was, trusting the Home Office. And how typical that when someone there is kind, they get someone else for the second one." Anger was clearly building up inside her.
Sam shot Heather a shrewd look. "All right, Heather, but getting angry isn't going to help Abdul", they said. Heather looked embarrassed.
"Anyway", said Sam, "on that subject . . ." They pushed a piece of paper towards Abdul: written on it were the words "Clarkson & Partners", and a series of numbers.
Abdul eyed the paper warily.
"What is that?", he asked.
"It's the phone number of a law firm that helps victims of trafficking", said Sam. "They'll be able to get you out of here, and appeal against the deportation order. Heather spent all last night on the Internet trying to find a law firm like this, and she was almost shouting for joy when she found it." Sam smiled at Heather, who allowed a brief smile, part embarrassed, part proud, to cross her face. Abdul felt a strange sensation of happiness. "Really", Sam continued, "you could have done with them in your Home Office hearing."
"Are you sure they'll be of help?", asked Abdul.
"Well, if you don't try, you won't find out, will you?", quipped Sam: Abdul had to smile at this.
"Seriously, though", said Sam, "don't give up, you've got a good chance of winning your appeal."
"Or you will if the system isn't completely screwed", said Heather.
Desperate to think about something else for a change, Abdul asked Sam and Heather about their home life, and the rest of the conversation passed by cheerfully. When it was time for the visit to end, Sam shook Abdul's hand.
"Good luck, Abdul", they said, "I know it'll come fine in the end."
Heather hugged Abdul, somewhat to his shock. "Keep fighting the bastards", she whispered fiercely.
"I will", Abdul breathed back.
Heather smiled, and she and Sam then waved goodbye and turned away. Abdul watched them go - straining to keep a view of Heather for as long as possible - and then, tightly clutching the piece of paper in his hands, he ran to to the phone room, and hastily dialled the number Sam had given him. After a 20-minute wait, the call finally got through.
"Hello", said a woman's voice on the other end. "Can I help you?"
"Yes", said Abdul breathlessly, and he quickly spilled out his situation: several times she had to ask him to pause.
"OK, Abdul, thanks for telling me this", said the lawyer, when he had finished. "My name is Paulette Coleman. From what you have told me, you seem to have a very good case to be granted asylum."
"But what can you do?", asked Abdul
"I can apply to the courts for an injuction", said Paulette.
"And what will that do?"
"It will put the deportation order on hold, so you won't be on the plane next week, and we'll be able to appeal and get you granted asylum."
Abdul could scarcely believe what he was hearing.
"Is that really true?", he asked.
"I assure it is", said Paulette.
"Thank you so much", said Abdul, and without awaiting her reply he put the phone down and sped back to his cell. At last, some real hope.
Abdul was lying on his bed feeling depressed. Today was the day: in just two hours' time, he would taken from the centre to the airport nearby, and would be on a plane for only the second time in his life. What had happened to Paulette and her promise of help.
"Harbi!"
It was the same officer who had told him of Sam and Heather's visit. Abdul sat bolt upright: what, was he going to be taken away already?
"There's a phone call for you. Some lawyer apparently . . ."
Abdul darted all the way to the phone room: he felt both excited and fearful.
"Hello?", he said into the receiver.
"Is that Abdul?", asked Paulette.
"Yes."
"How are you feeling?"
"I'm worried, I'm supposed to be taken away in two hours."
"Well", said Paulette, "I have some good news for you."
"What?", asked Abdul. He thought he knew what it was but did not dare imagine it.
"I've got the injuction. You won't be on the plane, and I'll be coming round to see you tomorrow to plan your appeal."
"Really?", asked a disbelieving Abdul.
"Really", said Paulette: Abdul thought her tone rather flat for someone who had just saved her client from an unjust deportation.
"Well, thanks", said Abdul. "I just wish I'd known about you earlier."
"Well never mind", said Paulette. "What matters is the here and now. I'm looking forward to speaking to you tomorrow. Goodbye, Abdul, and enjoy the rest of your day.
"Goodbye", said Abdul, and he replaced the receiver.
Abdul left the phone room and made his way to the communal area, feeling happier than he had done since he had lost his job. In the communal area, the radio was playing: he heard snippets of a speech by the Home Secretary, talking about "lefty lawyers", "stopping deportations at the last minute", "working with the Labour Party" and "frustrating the will of the British people".
