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  Glen Krisch's novels include The Nightmare Within, Where Darkness Dwells, Nothing Lasting, and Arkadium Rising (Brother's Keeper Book One). Besides writing and reading, he enjoys spending time with his wife, romance author Sarah Krisch, his three boys, simple living, and ultra-running.

  Feel free to stop by his website to see what he’s up to: www.glenkrisch.wordpress.com

  Refugees

  Robert Mammone

  “The key’s the old man,” Harrison said, setting his coffee cup aside.

  “You think so?” Grace replied, quirking an eyebrow. “I’d’ve thought it was his granddaughter.”

  “Idris? Why?”

  Around them, the cafeteria inched towards the end of the day. Thanks to the chugging air conditioners, humidity clung clammily to every surface. Several exhausted guards sat at a nearby table, tepid coffees sitting ignored on the sweaty tabletops. Faces haggard, their red-rimmed eyes slid unfocussed across the room. Grace heard screaming, the sound distorted by distance, and scowled.

  “This fucking place,” she muttered, then turned her attention back to the folder in front of her. Tapping a photo with her fingernail, she looked across at Harrison.

  “The old man, Khan, he’s a cypher. Everyone in that family gives the impression of deferring to him, but it’s all a ploy, a delaying action. They know as well as we do the situation in Pakistan is deteriorating by the day. Sooner rather than later, the department isn’t going to have any choice but to accept them as genuine refugees. “

  “And Idris?”

  Grace thought about the young woman for a moment. Her dusky skin, tilted violet eyes masked a calculating mind that Grace knew judged her every time they met.

  “We sure as hell don’t have any other choice but to rely on her as translator. This region they’re from, Gilgit, it might as well be the dark side of the moon. Their dialect is unknown, even to the embassy. We’ve no idea what the cultural norms of her tribe are. It makes no sense; she says he’s the big man in charge, but all decisions have to be referred back to her “clan brothers and sisters.”

  Grace shook her head and took a sip of her coffee, grimacing at the oily, tepid taste.

  Harrison sat up, straightened his tie and smoothed back his hair.

  “I’ve got to say, Grace, you’re the easiest advocate I’ve worked with in three years. Usually this would be the point where I’d be tearing my hair out.”

  Grace smiled mirthlessly. “Oh, don’t worry. You bastards in Immigration deserve all the grief you get. Under the Convention, your treatment of anyone reaching our waters is disgraceful.” She waved her hand around the cafeteria.

  “This building and what it represents is just as disgraceful. But it doesn’t mean I have to fight you every step of the way. If their story stacks up, even you lot in Canberra have to let them into the community.”

  “Thank Christ you don’t hate us,” Harrison said ruefully. He glanced at his watch and grimaced.

  “We’ll find out soon enough. Come on, our meeting is in a few minutes.”

  Grace thought about a final sip of her coffee, caught a glimpse of her distorted eye in the brackish water and shuddered. Quickly gathering her papers up, she followed Harrison out of the cafeteria.

  #

  Long ago, after her first few visits to the Centre, Grace decided the part of it she hated the most was the residential wing. Every time she passed through the checkpoint, her pulse would take flight and the tension in the air, already high, wound tighter and tighter. And worst of all, clinging to the unpainted concrete like suffocating second skin, was the sense of desperation. She could almost taste it. And the place was never quiet. Babies cried, women wailed, and men argued without hope. Echoes rang out constantly and lingered strangely in shadowed corners.

  Today, as every other day, was the same. Sullen looking men lounging in doorways watched her with hooded, desperate eyes. Some had the distinct scarring of those who had sewed their lips shut, hardening the community against them. Passing through a bare recreation room, Grace saw children lying on the sweating concrete, toys ignored, staring emptily at the ceiling’s unrelieved grey. Windows laced with thick wire were set high on the wall so that only weak sunlight filtered in. A bird beat itself against one, the muted sound of its frantic fluttering filling her with a tired despair.

  The guard leading them halted in front of a door. The painted metal had “Meeting Room 6” stenciled across it, the angular letters in keeping with the cold, utilitarian feel of the wing. Grace had argued long and hard that meetings should be held outside, allowing both parties to relax in a friendlier atmosphere. The administration of the Centre, contracted out to an overseas security firm, had rebuffed her requests politely, consistently, and ruthlessly.

  “A chance for mischief,” a dour faced woman with hands like a man had told her. “Meetings of this nature need to be in a secure environment, where all participants can feel safe to engage in all issues.” Grace had given up the idea in disgust soon afterwards.

  The door squealed open and the guard moved aside, his blocky face impassive. Grace stepped inside, followed by Harrison. The door shuddered closed with a heavy clang.

  At the far end of a rectangular table sat an elderly man and a young woman. Grace nodded politely then laid out her folder. Settling down beside her, Harrison did the same. The clock on the wall ticked past three.

  “Idris. Mr. Khan. Good afternoon.”

  Idris nodded coolly, while her grandfather watched impassively. Harrison coughed, sat straighter, then bent his head over his folder. He began speaking, summarising the last meeting and the status of their application for refugee status. While he did this, Grace, as she did with every visit, studied Idris and her grandfather.

  The old man was ancient. Long, bony hands, trembling slightly, rested on the table. Grace saw again the horny, yellowed fingernails, stained and cracked with a lifetime’s labour. His hairless skull was lined and seamed like old, sun-damaged leather. Above a hooked nose, rheumy, yellow eyes stared blankly across the table. His withered body was garbed in traditional robes hanging loose across narrow shoulders.

  Despite his obvious age, Grace sensed an old, lingering pride, and sometimes thought she detected a secret arrogance lurking in every quirk of those thin, wet lips. His eyes flick towards hers and she looked away, disturbed by the cool intelligence only partially masked by the cloudy orbs.

  Idris was an altogether different proposition. She sat straight in her chair, her frame seeming to vibrate with a voluptuousness that belied the narrow dictates of her culture. Black, gleaming hair cascaded over her shoulders. Gold rings adorned several of her fingers, the designs in the metal warn smooth with age. She wore a faint, spicy scent, which conjured in Grace’s mind an image of endless rolling plains, swept arid by the sere wind. Her eyes were a striking violet, and Grace remembered the time Harrison had described being caught in them. She’d told him to stop being a horny teenager, but occasionally she too felt that power brush up against her.

  Being in the room with them made her deeply uncomfortable.

  “Grace?” Grace blinked, and realised Harrison was talking to her. Feeling her cheeks redden, she dropped her eyes to her folder, trying to gather the frayed thread of her thoughts.

  “Yes, sorry.” Flustered, she shuffled the papers in front of her. “Miles away.”

  “Perhaps if our case is too much for you, Miss Grace, Mr. Harrison could find us another advocate?”

  Idris smiled at Grace and Grace returned it, if the skinning of her lips back from her teeth could be called a smile.

  “That won’t be necessary, Idris. You should be aware that bringing in a new advocate, under departmental rules, would necessitate the whole process starting again. This would mean, of course, that the last six months of interviews had never happened.”

  Idris glared at her, while her grandfather nodded to himself and mumbled something Grace couldn’t catch. Harrison coughed as the silence stretched uncomfortably.
r />   “I don’t think we need go quite that far. I’m sure everyone here appreciates the position we all find ourselves in.” Somewhere far away, an alarm sounded.

  Iris’s grandfather leaned towards her, his lips twitching. A guttural mumbling issued and Idris laughed, a melodious, mocking sound that set Grace’s teeth of edge.

  “Something amusing?” Grace asked, aware how brittle she sounded. She felt Harrison’s hand brush her own and she glanced at him. His head shook minutely. She pulled her hand free.

  “Grandfather says your fiery temperament would’ve made you perfect for the harem. He says he misses the old days.”

  Grace heard Harrison barely stifle a laugh.

  “I think we should get down to business. Your application won’t process any quicker if we simply sit here exchanging pleasantries.”

  “I…my family are most keen to discover when it will be that we can leave this detention centre. Already some of my cousins have fallen ill. They spend the day in their rooms, staring at the ceiling. Sometimes they weep openly, which shames their wives. How long will your process continue?”

  Harrison replied before Grace could.

  “I’m very sorry that these things are happening to your family. If you provide a list of names, I could arrange a visit from some of the counsellors.”

  “No. We will deal with this in our own way.” The vaguely triumphant look on her face made Grace queasy.

  Idris’s grandfather leaned in again and muttered something. Idris straightened, stung. Her face darkened with anger. She spoke sharply to her grandfather, and Grace noticed her rubbing one of the rings on her left hand. A strange tension filled the air, and Grace thought she smelled ozone.

  The old man’s right hand snaked out and clasped Idris’s hands, the tendons standing out with the effort. The tension in the room soared. Grace watched, stunned, as the old man erupted into a diatribe against his granddaughter. Idris attempted to respond, but he slashed his free hand in front of her face, silencing her. Grace watched her eyes redden, and saw a single tear track down her face.

  The old man went on like this for a little longer, and though Grace didn’t understand a word of it, the tone of instruction and warning was unmistakable. There was a final burst of words, then his hand open convulsively. Her skin bore the imprint of his fingers.

  “Forgive my granddaughter,” the old man croaked, to Grace’s and Harrison’s utter astonishment. “She is full of the pride of youth, and has much to learn about humility. When next we meet, I think you will find her less prideful, and more considerate.”

  With that, the old man stood. Without waiting for Idris, he turned and slowly made his way to the door. Idris remained in her seat for a moment, massaging her hand. Grace saw the venomous look of hate she gave to her grandfather. The old man rapped on the door twice, waited patiently. It swung open, and without a backward glance, he walked out, Idris trailing meekly behind him.

  #

  “I have level four security clearance, God damn it. Muck us around anymore and I’ll see you patrolling the toilets at the nearest McDonald’s.”

  “Easy,” murmured Harrison.

  Flustered, the security guard ran Grace’s card through the handheld again. This time the green light flashed, followed by a tone. The security doors opened. Snatching her card back, Grace stormed through, Harrison close behind.

  A harried looking woman in uniform met them on the other side of the Plexiglas. A curt exchange of names followed, then she led them inside the facility. As soon as they passed into a narrow corridor, Grace heard distant shouting.

  “How long?”

  “Ninety minutes.” Grace looked sidelong at Harrison and hissed angrily. Harrison shook his head.

  “And he’s definitely dead?”

  The woman turned her head without breaking stride. Her eyes looked shadowed.

  “Oh, he’s definitely dead.”

  They continued in silence. Somewhere along the way, Grace realised they had acquired several guards, one in front and two behind. The deeper they went into the residential wing, the louder the noises grew.

  The woman’s handheld crackled. She brought it to her ear.

  “Carson? I’ve got their advocate and the departmental rep. And what the hell did you want me to do with them? They’re here, okay?” She glanced at Grace, who felt the full weight of her loathing.

  “Look, touch nothing in the cell. Well, use your head, man. You’ve got enough muscle there to keep them back. Look, we’re only a minute or two away.” She clipped the handheld onto her belt without another word.

  The group turned down another corridor, and immediately, Grace felt the atmosphere change. Lights had been smashed, and those that remained flickered and fizzed. Her skin grew rough as the temperature dropped with each step.

  All along the corridor, men and women and children crowded in the doorways, staring hostilely at them. Ignoring their glares and muttered curses, Grace forced herself to look straight ahead. She smelt ozone again, then the hint of spice, and suddenly Idris stood in front of them.

  At first, Grace couldn’t fathom the look Idris gave her. On the surface, her face was a mask of mourning. Tears tracked down her cheeks, which were red with emotion. Then, her head tilted up for an instant, and the look of triumph in her eyes sent a trickle of cold down Grace’s spine. Before she could take the measure of that look, Grace saw what lay beyond the open doorway.

  Mr. Khan hung from a belt looped through the vent in the centre of the ceiling. His body twisted slowly, the taut leather creaking in the thick silence. Someone had wound red thread along its length, and Grace conceived an immediate fancy that it was an artery, choked off in the complicated knot jammed under his jaw.

  Grace looked at his face and shuddered. Swollen lips and protruding tongue, bulging eyes like clouded marbles. In the chancy light, his shadow hung on the far wall, each flicker of the fizzing light lending it an eerie life. Harrison laid a hand on her shoulder and she jumped. Angry, and unsure why, Grace shrugged his hand away. Lips thinning, he looked at the female guard standing awkwardly to one side.

  “You’ve taken photos of the scene?” The woman nodded tightly.

  “Then for Christ’s sake, cut this poor bastard down before you have a riot on your hands.” The woman nodded, snapped her fingers. Her men moved with alacrity, and Grace and Harrison withdrew into the corridor.

  Noticing Idris lingering a little way off, Grace approached her.

  “There’ll be an investigation.” Idris nodded, her eyes fixed on the doorway.

  “It will mean a delay in your processing, do you understand?” Now Idris’s attention was fixed on her. The scent she wore seemed thicker, and Grace felt her eyes water.

  “But it was Grandfather who –” She shook her head. Taking a deep breath, she nodded.

  “We’ll do everything we can to help. We will need his body soon. Very soon, do you understand?”

  Grace nodded, aware of the cultural sensibilities at play here. A suicide was one thing, but the last thing the department needed was a riot over delayed funeral arrangements.

  “We’ll be quick and respectful, Idris. You’ll have him back.”

  There was a snapping sound, then men grunting. Grace turned and walked to the doorway, in time to see the guards lay Khan gently on a stretcher. Someone cast a blanket over his corpse, quickly covering his face with a corner. Two guards lifted the stretcher, and hurriedly left the room.

  Harrison moved off a few steps with it, then paused, turning back. Grace saw him looking at her quizzically from the corner of her eyes, but her gaze remained fixed on the far wall. The light above the door fizzed and crackled, making the shadows jump and start like spastic marionettes. A strange fancy had gripped her that one shadow clung to the far wall, clung, and almost imperceptibly, seemed to twitch a little wider.

  “Grace,” Harrison called softly. She jerked, her head swinging around.

  “Come on. We’re going to have to draft a report
for the minister.”

  Nodding, Grace looked again into the room, but the light had failed utterly, plunging the cell into darkness. Cold clutched at Grace. Turning, she hurried after Harrison, walking past Idris who stared at her. Even when Grace turned the corridor, she fought the urge to turn and see if something had emerged from the cell to follow her down the corridor.

  #

  “Have a look at this,” Harrison said. Something in his voice made Grace look up. She came around from her desk and stood at his shoulder.

  An e-mail lay open on his screen, with several attachments at the bottom of a long message.

  “I don’t know what DFAT are up to in Pakistan, but surely someone’s been sampling the local product.”

  Grace pulled up a chair and started to scroll through the e-mail. When she finished, she opened the first of the attachments.

  It was a photo. Grace peered at the time stamp and saw that it was dated from last year. It showed several uniformed men crowded around the edges, all looking at something at the rear of a room. One of the men had turned to the camera, and pointed to whatever it was that had their attention. His eyes were wide, and there was something in the way his mouth twisted that spoke of disgust, or anger, or fear.

  Grace reached for the mouse, magnified the image. It leaped at her, and she jerked back. Harrison hissed in surprise and lent forward.

  Something long lay wrapped within a sheet atop a table. At first, Grace thought the sheet had come unwound, with part of it hanging off the edge of the table. But the magnified image showed it was an arm that dangled free. A thick line of darkness tracked down the length of exposed skin. Unwillingly, Grace followed that line back to the wrapped body, and the dark stain that seemed to spread before her eyes.