Strategy 2030

Fiction

by Stephanie Wilson

The noise drew her back to the window. In the darkened garden, beyond the fence, she could make out movement, shadowy figures, one low on the ground, the inhuman cries echoing in her ears. She reached for the phone, knowing deep down that she should have done this months ago. It really wasn’t anything to do with her. She justified her indifference. But it had gone too far now. She saw one figure standing over the other, raining blows to the body, the shrieks now too loud to ignore.

          “999 emergency. Which service do you require?” The call handler sounded bored and impersonal.

          “The police, oh please god, get someone here, he’s killing him...”. Her voice sounded reedy and thin to herself. If only she had acted sooner.

          Hassan lay on the ground unable to move. His attacker kicking his body, hitting him with a metal bar. Hassan tried to mouth words, but he knew he wouldn’t be understood. He’d been pulled from the cold, damp garage where he was kept. The man who took his money and forced him to work in the sweatshop was shouting, red-faced and angry with spit on his lips. Hassan didn’t know what he had done wrong. He tried to do everything he was told. They said they would kill his sweet Maryam and son if he didn’t. That he would be turned over to the authorities who would send him back. Where, they never said, but the threat was enough.

          Hassan kept very still, the cries died in his throat. He saw through the blood in his eyes the village where he had been born. He saw Maryam, his beautiful wife and Rashid, his son. Rashid, still a baby when Hassan had spoken with his wife.

          “I need to go; I have to secure a future for us and there is nothing here any longer. The crops fail and the rains flood us every year, what can we do but move away?”

          Maryam had listened. She had cried but she knew he was right. Times had changed. It was getting harder to survive and, with a baby, it was only going to get more difficult.

          They spoke with their families who agreed to raise the money for Hassan to go to Britain. It was a good place, he would make money and then, Maryam and Rashid could join him. They would send money home to repay the generosity shown to them. Life would be good for all of them. But life was anything but good. He was exploited by the traffickers who stole his money. They got him into Britain illegally and they kept him. He was forced to work to repay the cost of his “safe” passage.

          The man stopped momentarily, winded due to his vicious attack on Hassan. Hassan didn’t move. He hardly dared breathe in case the assault started again. He looked up at the house beyond. It might as well have been on a different planet, he was never going to survive this. He thought he saw a small movement at the window, the slightest twitch of the curtain. But the pain drew him back into himself, oblivious to anything but the searing agony.

          The police car drew silently up the road and parked away from the property. The two officers signalled to each other to make a move. Backup was on the way with an ambulance. A second car arrived, the officer going to the house next door. As she opened the front door, she knew it had been her business all along.