One mile off the mouth of the river Swale, where it joins the Thames estuary, Gavinder slipped over the stern of the yacht and, grasping the painter, placed a tenuous foot into the dinghy. At the moment he chose to transfer his weight the rubber boat bucked, pitching him headlong into the water. He gasped and spluttered his way to the surface, somehow maintaining his grip on the thin rope. The cold sea penetrated his jeans and tracksuit top, chilling him to the point of pain. Taking a grip of the dinghy’s bow he heaved his slim frame over it, tumbling in a heap onto the sagging bottom of the unstable craft. He remained prone, coughing up the last of the salty liquid that threatened to invade his lungs. Above him the overcast night sky was visible beyond the rubber walls of the dinghy. Waves slopped over the sides, adding to the puddles that formed around him and the black plastic clad cylinder bonded to the small craft’s bottom membrane. Tense and shivering from the cold he fought his nausea, now worsened by the exaggerated movement of the smaller vessel.
‘Gavinder, ce va?’ a voice called. ‘You are okay?’ The words were heavy with a French accent.
Unable to catch his breath enough to speak, Gavinder raised his fist and waggled an extended thumb in acknowledgement. He thought he heard a wry chuckle in response.
There was a sudden change in motion as the dinghy was set adrift. The yacht was bearing away; he heard the mainsail crack as it jibed onto its new course. It would continue up the Thames to make landfall at St. Catherine’s Dock in the city of London. There, it would clear customs. If tracked by radar, its passage would not show any stops, nor was he on the crew list.
Gavinder eased his head over the gunwales; already, the yacht was only visible in the darkness by its stern light. He knew that, on board, the crew would be pumping up an identical dinghy and strapping it to the cabin roof to replace his one. On arrival, all would appear to be as it had been when they had left France.
Looking to his left he could make out the low, dark shape of the Kent coast and, ahead, the higher and closer bulk of the Isle of Sheppey. The rising tide would sweep him between the two landmasses and, when the time came, he would paddle ashore up a creek to the rendezvous and safety. He groped around in the bottom of the boat and found the plastic bag secured there. Opening it, he felt, inside, the familiar shapes of a torch, a plastic bottle of Evian water and, most importantly, a bailer. After a while, despite the addition of more salt water from the occasional high wave, he lightened the vessel enough to keep it dry. Due to the weight of its cargo, if swamped, it would no doubt sink to the bottom. Its valuable contents would be lost, or, worse, recovered by a fishing boat and handed to the authorities.
Wretched and still shivering he took a drink and looked around. The tide was doing its job; he was now between Sheppey and the mainland. Above him and to his right, he could see the lights of the Hartferry Inn. To his left, the mainland coast, a distant blackness without habitation.
The yacht skipper had told him that, if he paddled at a steady pace from this point towards the far shore, the tide would carry him along to his landing point. He should make landfall within the hour. He sat astride the cargo, reached down and dragged the single paddle out from its Velcro retainer. With several strokes on his right, he turned the bow towards the distant shore. Digging the paddle in one side, then the other, he propelled the boat forward. It was necessary to put in occasional extra strokes to his right to keep the correct heading. He gained momentum and settled down to a steady rhythm.
After a while he started to appreciate the cool breeze. It cut through his wet clothing and dissipated the heat from his straining muscles. The lights of the pub slipped away to his left and, although the land behind him receded, the opposite shore did not seem to get any closer. He realised that he was alone, not a living thing in sight, just the wind, the waves and his precious cargo.
He used to enjoy being alone; that was one of the reasons he had taken up cross-country running whilst at school in Kent. Once away from the pack, he was able to set a remorseless pace, eating up the miles, losing himself in his own thoughts and oblivious to fatigue. However, this was a different kind of solitude. He was surrounded by an alien environment, without the option of stopping and going home, or any chance of rescue, should he succumb.
Trained hard at the camp in Pakistan, his slim body rippled with a tight musculature straining against his light brown skin. However, he had never learnt to cope with fatigue in his upper body the way he could with his legs. He felt the first burning sensation in his upper arms and pectorals as the lactic acid built up. The shore seemed a long way off.
Pushing this from his mind, he turned his thought to better things. Once he had completed his mission, he would be taken to London and then to Erith and home. He had not seen his parents in three years. Shortly after his recruitment at the age of seventeen, he had been sent to study Islamic culture in Pakistan and now he was almost home. He imagined the greeting he would receive. Hugs from Mother, a handshake, maybe even a pat on the back, from his father. All the family, his brother and sisters, cousins, aunts and uncles would come to his parents’ little corner shop for a party to welcome him home; a hero of Islam.
He scanned the shoreline; it was closer now. Glancing at his watch, the luminous hands showed it was almost four o’clock; he had been paddling for an hour. By this time he should be close, looking for a signal from the people on shore to guide him to the right creek and blessed relief.
No doubt, the tide had carried him far enough along, but the wind was holding him off. He dug in with the paddle blades, pushing harder and faster; glitters of phosphorescence sprang from their impact. His muscles screamed for relief, but on he ploughed. His left leg felt numb and a cramp had set into his right. The wind had freshened, chilling his sweating face and whistling in his ears; its salty tang stung his eyes and nostrils. He put his head down and paddled for all he was worth. Every ten strokes or so, he raised his eyes, searching for the signal light. He was sure he would be swept past.
The shore came closer; he could see the undulating edges lapped by small waves against the almost-black mud. Darker creases appeared where creeks and rivulets emptied into the estuary, the rising tide filling their recesses. Grasses that topped the mounds were visible now. He could smell the rotting vegetation and oily pollution of the salt marsh. Still he swept on. The current carried him faster than walking pace. Not daring to stop paddling, he peered into each creek as he passed; no sign of life. He must have overshot. He decided to get ashore anywhere he could, tie the boat and go to look for them on land.
Three short flashes; one long. The signal! He headed towards it, his flagging muscles burning with every stroke. As the boat turned in the current, his efforts only seemed to slow his progress. He was being swept away. He fumbled for the torch, turned it on and shone it at the light. They responded with the signal again. He tried to send the reply; his numb and puckered fingers could hardly feel the flash button: ‘two short, one long’. They turned their torch in his direction; they had seen him and started to signal again. The last short flash cut off as a muddy mound occluded the beam. Gavinder returned to paddling toward the mouth of the creek. He felt a jolt as the back of the boat struck the mud; it spun around and came free again. He grabbed the painter and rolled headfirst over the side. He struggled to the surface and, probing with his feet, found the soft and yielding bottom, his head barely out of the water. Each wave lifted him, threatening to topple him over. He struck out up the steep, muddy slope to the shallows, at last throwing himself onto the sticky black mass of the shore.
He lay there, gasping for breath. His eyes stung, his head pounded and his whole body ached. The dinghy floated alongside him, the painter tugging at his raw hand. After a while, his pulse slowed and he became more aware of the cold. He summoned the last of his strength and struggled to his feet. He was standing waist deep in water and calf deep in mud; his right leg bent almost double, with his left stretched out in order to stand upright. From this stance, he lurched forward towards the creek, dragging the dinghy. He was at the point of collapse when a light appeared above him.
‘Here he is,’ said a deep, unfamiliar voice. ‘Fetch that rope.’
Other voices muffled replies. A rope slapped down into the water beside him and two men in waders slithered down the steep bank
‘It’s okay, boy, we’ve got it now.’ The painter was eased from his hand.
Gavinder closed his eyes, too tired to help or care. With the rope secured under his arms, he was dragged up the muddy slope. Aware of being carried and dragged, pushed and shoved, he was eventually bundled into the back of a van. Wrapped in a blanket over his sodden clothes, the exposed skin of his hands and face burnt as the warmer air replaced the chilly wind. Feeling safe, at last, he fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.
A sharp blow to the forehead jolted Gavinder awake. He was still in the van, which had pulled up sharply. As it pulled away again, he slid back across the metal floor, along with an assortment of hard, metal objects loose in the load space. He tried to see what they were, but it was so dark he could hardly tell if his eyes were open or closed.
The vehicle’s motion became more erratic. It was obvious they were in town now after the early morning drive on the motorway. He tried to brace against the side, jamming himself into the front left corner of the space. His whole body ached, his head throbbed and, touching his tender forehead, his hand came away sticky and wet. He was covered in foul-smelling mud and filth, drying and becoming stiff in some places. It made him so nauseous that vomit burnt in his throat, but he managed to swallow it back.
The journey continued uncomfortably, then ended with a sudden screech of brakes. He heard the front doors open and close. The van moved slowly on down a steep slope and stopped. The engine noise died away and the rear doors were thrown back. Dazzled by the daylight, he covered his eyes.