Free Breach by Olumide Popoola

angel.
    ‘Always, I wanted to go to London,’ he’d told her the night before, wrapping her up in his arms. ‘One guy in our village went to London when I was a small boy. After a month he sent a letter. You know how it is in a village – everyone gathers round to listen to the letter. He says he is in London and it is very good there. I ask my father, “Daddy, what is London?” Of course, he doesn’t know but he tells me it is a place of angels. And from that time it is my dream. London.’
    ‘Oh dear,’ Julie had said, thinking of her own father. ‘Please don’t expect angels.’
    Muhib had turned aside, out of her embrace, to cough. A deep chest-rumbling cough. She’d stroked his head.
    ‘Is only the smoking,’ he’d told her. ‘Only for now, Julie, only in the Jungle. Too much stress here. I will be a new person when I get to London.’
     
    ‘What are you going to tell your dad?’
    ‘Jesus, Marjorie, is that all that you care about?’
    Julie slams the passenger door, presses the lock andjams herself against the window, her knees against her chest, her boots on the dashboard. Marjorie is vile. Her father is vile. It’s his fault. He poisons everything.
    ‘I hate you,’ she shouts as Marjorie slides into the driver’s seat.
    Marjorie ignores her, swipes her hair behind her ears, checks that the packet of Gauloises is in the van door and turns the ignition. Half an hour? Forty-five minutes? Then she can light up on the deck of the ferry. Except there’s traffic. Honestly. Who expected Calais to have a rush hour? Will Julie leap out of the car at the traffic lights or anything daft like that?
    ‘Why are you doing this?’ Julie asks her.
    ‘I told you.’
    ‘You made up that shit about danger, didn’t you? You just want to get me away from Muhib.’
    ‘Seems to me he’s the one who got away, darling.’
    Julie kicks the dashboard. Then she bursts into tears. Marjorie is right and she hates her.
    Why am I doing this, actually? Marjorie wonders. Am I protecting Julie or myself?
    The motorway approaches the slip road to the Jungle and Marjorie accelerates. Julie twists round in the passenger seat to look down at the ragged encampment. Where is he, in there? Is he thinking about her? Today was grim, really, not finding him anywhere, wondering if he said those things to other girls.
    Maybe I should turn around, Marjorie thinks. Poor kid, her heart is breaking.
    He can find me if he wants to, Julie thinks. That English guy wrote down my email.
    I probably am selfish, Marjorie tells herself. It’s just so much easier when I come on my own.
    She strives so hard for justice, Marjorie does, but she can’t figure out what’s fair here. Historical forces are so much easier to judge.
    I’ll find him on Facebook as soon as I get home, Julie thinks. It’s a mistake, it’s all a mistake. As soon as he emails me, I’ll get a ticket on Eurostar and come back on my own.
    She glances over at Marjorie. She wants to hurt her.
    ‘I’ll tell Dad he was right,’ she says. ‘They’re all liars and cheats and we must keep them out of our country.’
    Marjorie glares at Julie through narrowed eyes. Soft-spoken Marjorie, but she can shout when she wants to. ‘Like hell you will!’
     
    Muhib holds one foot, then the other, under a tap at the washstand. Cold air, icy water. He cleans between each toe, one after the other, a ritual as familiar as breathing. As familiar as the tiles round the well in the courtyard at home. As familiar as his mother. And his younger brothers. He can almost hear the creak of the rope winding the bucket up to the surface.
    He splashes his face, twists his finger fast in each ear, shakes his head. Drops of water fly. He’s hungry but hehas no money, so he’ll line up at the ashram for a plate of something.
    Some guy is drumming outside the tent and a small crowd watches three men dancing to the drum. Two are volunteers, one is a refugee. Other volunteers are videoing the dance on