Home Chapter 6: Freedom

But as soon as Abdul got back to his cell, his optimism drained away. He remembered how hopeful he had been after his screening interview at the Home Office, and look what had happened there. Could he really trust anyone in a position of authority? He also could not forget Paulette's tone: she had sounded rather detached and unemotional. Did she really care enough to fight his case? But, he supposed, he had no option but to trust her.

The following afternoon, as Abdul was in the exercise yard, an officer marched up to him, and said, rather abruptly:

"Harbi, some lawyer is here to see you."

Half hopeful, half wary, Abdul allowed the officer to lead him back inside the building: as he did so, he heard a plane taking off. The officer marched smartly ahead, and Abdul had to struggle to keep up with him. He wondered if she would see him in his cell, or in the visiting room, but, instead, found himself being led well away from the parts of the centre that he had grown wearily accustomed to. They clambered up a set of stairs that Abdul had never used before, and (it seemed) climbed all the way to the top of the detention centre, before the officer finally stopped.

"There you are", he said, gesturing.

Abdul looked past him, and saw that he was pointing through a bright red door to a large, comfortable looking room, filled with armchairs like the one Abdul had at home. A woman was sitting in one of the armchairs: instantly, Abdul knew who this must be. He slipped past the officer and into the room. As he approached her, the woman stood up and offered her hand.

"Abdul Harbi?", she asked.

She was a black woman, tall with crinkly hair and a solemn face, holding a large notebook. Abdul nodded and shook her hand, still feeling wary of her.

"Pleased to meet you, I'm Paulette", she said, in a stiff voice that did nothing to encourage Abdul. "Do sit down."

She gestured to the chair next to hers. Abdul complied.

"Now", said Paulette, "can you please tell me your story."

Still wondering if she would turn out to be like Fred or like Joan, Abdul told her everything: about how he had been trafficked, how Andy had rescued him, how he had been sacked by John, and all about his dealings with the Home Office. Throughout his story, he kept his eyes on Paulette, but, much to his disappointment, her expression remained unchanged.

"Thank you for telling me this", said Paulette, once he had finished. "I can tell it's been very hard for you . . .

"You don't", Abdul blurted out.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You have no idea what I've been through", said Abdul, all in one breath. "You don't know what it's like to be me, you've never had what I've had."

Paulette's eyes narrowed.

"In fact, Abdul", she said, her voice creaking, "I do know what you've gone through."

"What?", exclaimed Abdul. "How . . ."

"Because", said Paulette, "my mother came here from Jamaica 60 years ago, she was just a little girl at the time. She was here with no problems for so long, but then one day, seven years ago, she was sacked from her job because she didn't have the papers to prove she had a right to be here."

"Why didn't she?", wondered Abdul.

"Because when she arrived it wasn't necessary", replied Paulette. "But then the Home Office changed the rules, as part of what they called the hostile environment. They told her she was an immigration offender, they locked her away in a place like this, and told her she would be sent to Jamaica, a place she hadn't been to since she came here."

"So was she sent away?", asked Abdul.

"No", Paulette replied. "Luckily, I spoke to some of my colleagues about her, and they were able to help. The Home Office in the end had to admit they had been wrong, and she was given leave to remain."

"Is your mum all right?", asked Abdul.

"No", said Paulette. "She died of a heart attack just two months after winning her case. I'm sure it was the stress that killed her." There was an unmistakable bitterness in her voice.

Abdul had nothing to say. If anything, he thought, Paulette's mother seemed to have had it even worse than him.

"Believe me, Abdul", continued Paulette, perhaps sensing what Abdul was thinking. "I've fought the Home Office countless times, I know what their culture is like. They even once put my name on a list of so-called lefty immigration lawyers, which they handed to the press, and I got a barrage of death threats and racial abuse."

"But can you get me out of here?", asked Abdul.

For the first time, Paulette's expression changed: she was now wearing a reassuring smile.

"Of course I can", she said. "We can appeal to a special immigration appeals court. From what you have told me, you have a very good chance of winning your appeal. But first, to get you out, we need to get bail for you. Do you know anyone who could afford to pay for you?"

"Yes", said Abdul. He was now feeling a lot more hopeful now. "Andy would."

"Your old teacher?", asked Paulette. Abdul nodded.

"OK, then", said Paulette. "Could you please tell me Andy's address and phone number."

Abdul did so: Paulette wrote the details down in her notebook.

"Thank you, Abdul", she said. "As soon as I've left here, I'll go back to court to ask for bail. If you get it, I'll lodge an appeal against the deportation order."

"When will the appeal be?", asked Abdul.

"I can't say, sadly", said Paulette. "I have no power to determine these things, but hopefully, it'll be as soon as possible."

She stood up and offered her hand.

"Good luck, Abdul, it's been a pleasure to be introduced to you, and I will do all I can to help you stay in this country."

Abdul shook her hand warmly. The left the room together and walked down the stairs, where they said their goodbyes. Though slightly disappointed at having missed out on his exercise, Abdul ran back to his cell full of hope. All his doubts about Paulette had now vanished.

"Harbi, that woke lawyer is on the phone."

Abdul dashed all the way to the phone room and grabbed the receiver: it was two days since his meeting with Paulette.

"Hello?", he said.

"Is that Abdul?", came Paulette's voice.

"Yes", he replied breathlessly.

"I have good news to report: the judge has granted you bail."

"Yes!", shouted Abdul. Then, feeling somewhat embarrassed, "Thank you."

"That's nothing", said Paulette. "You'll be released tomorrow, on condition that you wear an electronic tag and live at the house of Mr. Andy Bourne. You will also be subject to a 10pm curfew."

"Can't I go back home?", asked Abdul.

"Unfortunately, no", said Paulette. "No one will rent a place to you at the moment, because of your immigration status. It's all part of the hostile environment, I'm afraid."

"What, even if I tell them I was trafficked . . ."

"Yes", said Paulette, sounding sorrowful. "They'll go by what the Home Office tells them: if they did rent to you, they could be fined or even go to prison. So unfortunately if you tell them you are a victim of trafficking, they won't believe you."

"They won't believe you", jeered Amina.

"Why won't they?", asked Abdul.

He was crying: his back was raw from the stripes Amina had inflicted on him after she noticed he had left a handful of stains on the children's clothes.

"Because no one would believe a silly little boy like you", she sneered. "Compared with me, a volunteer at the Somali Community Centre, or Hassan, an imam."

"I'll still tell them even if they won't believe me", insisted Abdul.

"If you do", said Amina in a menacing voice, "you'll never see your family again."

"Are you still there, Abdul?", asked Paulette.

"Yes", said Abdul quickly, doing his best to shake off the awful recollection.

"Are you OK?"

"I'm fine, just . . ."

"I don't mean that, I mean, are you fine with the bail conditions."

"I am."

What choice did he have?