Hassan had paid good money to be in the boot of this car. He considered himself extremely fortunate as he felt each lurch inside the dark, cramped, trunk, as it rocked back and forth. He was no longer on the smooth tarmac of a maintained road, Hassan guessed his smugglers were driving along a dirt track. He could feel every pothole as he bounced around within his claustrophobic compartment like a ball bearing in a pinball machine. Nevertheless he was excited!
He had saved a fortune to work in the United Kingdom. The human traffickers had demanded that he paid £1000 in advance for the privilege. They promised to sneak him into the country and take him to the farm he would be working at. It sounded idyllic. Working in the fields. Given a place to stay. A good wage to send home. The traffickers had said:
"You'll love it, my friend. The people I've sent there never leave. You should be snatching this offer with both hands! Others would sell their souls for an opportunity like this!"
Hassan had bid his family farewell, promising to call once he'd settled in Great Britain. Assuring his parents that as soon as he had earned his first wage packet, he would wire the money home. Tears and hugs were exchanged, but it would only be for a short while. Soon he'd be home again. Hassan paid £500 up front to the smugglers and said he would pay the rest once he'd arrived at the farm.
He would be glad to arrive. His body was stiff from being tucked inside that boot. Listening to the continuous din of rain hitting off the car like a steel drum. He could hardly breathe. The smell of exhaust fumes and his recycled air was nauseating. The only luxury items he'd been given to sustain him was a plastic bottle of water and a packet of sweet chilli potato chips. Nearly bent in two like a pocket knife, Hassan didn't know how it could get any worse?
The car's brakes squealed to a halt. The tires skidding on gravel. Hassan lay on his side, waiting in the dark. He hated being in small spaces. He had always had a fear of being buried alive. Trapped inside a coffin. He had heard stories where people had been misdiagnosed as being dead. He attempted to close his eyes and block out the thought. The whole trip he had feared that they might have an accident and there would be nothing he could do! Desperately scratching at the steel until his nails were torn out of their roots.
Stop it, it's just your imagination. Everything is fine.
He hummed as he listened to the purr of the engine. As he lay there waiting, trying to take his mind off his current predicament, a sudden doubt flashed in his mind.
What if they were not going to England? They could be anywhere!
After all, they could be lying?...
He had given them £500 already, and they knew he was carrying another £500! Nothing preventing them from driving him out into the middle of some woods and forcing him to dig his own grave?
The car door opened. Hassan, listening intently, over the warning chime of the car. Someone inside the car has removed their seat belt.
We must be here. But where's here? The farm? Or deep in the woods with a shallow grave awaiting?
The crunching sound of a heavy foot on gravel matched the groan of the car's suspension. Hassan felt the car lift slightly as a heavy weight climbed out of the vehicle. Nervous, Hassan listened as footsteps circled around the car to its rear. Hassan's mouth suddenly went bone dry as he awaited the verdict…
A bright light blinded him as the boot was opened. The deluge of pouring rain stabbed at his face with icy stings. He squinted as his eyes adjusted. A rough hand grabbed a sleeve on his body warmer and yanked him up off his back.
As Hassan's vision improved, he realised he wasn't surrounded by trees. He could smell the harsh aroma of dung and fertiliser. In the bright amber haze of the security lights he could see the corrugated iron out houses, the circular bales of hay, and heavy machinery. It was a farm. Beyond that, he could see the night sky, blanketed with stars. An empty void that surrounded them. Far from civilization. No one for miles.
'Out,' the gruff voice repeated.
Hassan stumbled out of the car boot on unsteady legs. His feet squelched in boggy mud and manure. Pins and needles were biting into his calf muscles. He rubbed at them, endeavouring to encourage the circulation of blood back into his legs. As Hassan kneaded his weary muscles through his denim jeans, he paused to hear the distant hoot of a barn owl. But beyond that cry of the prowling nocturnal hunter, Hassan thought he heard something else? A muffled cry coming from somewhere out in the darkness…
'You pay now,' the driver barked.
'Not till I see boss,' Hassan demanded.
The driver reached down to his shirt tail and lifted it up to reveal the knife tucked into his waistband.
'No - you pay me or I stick you.'
Hassan raised his hands in surrender, but froze expecting to feel the cold bite of steel from the knife's blade.
It was a booming voice. A jovial voice. A British voice.
The driver dropped his shirt and replied back, 'Delivery!'
'I thought it was,' the friendly voice replied. The man approached them, 'Marvellous! Absolutely marvellous!' A bulky, elderly man carrying an umbrella came into view. He was wearing a dark green waxed coat and shabby cardigan. He had a white beard and grizzled grey hair that was receding revealing a shiny scalp. He had rosey cheeks that seemed more weathered than due to humour. It also accounted for the speckles of broken blood vessels in his face.
'Pay now!' the driver hissed at Hassan whilst casting a weary glance at the elderly man who drew closer.
Hassan, satisfied that he was no longer in danger, took out a wad of cash and handed it to the driver. The human trafficker snatched the money away and briskly walked back to his vehicle.
'Oh,' the old man exclaimed, 'are you sure you don't want to stay? It's a filthy night. Why don't you come in for a stiff drink to keep out the cold?'
The driver shook his head and hurried inside his car.
'No matter,' the farmer shrugged, 'plenty more for us. Come with me. I've got just the thing.' The farmer steered Hassan towards the warm and welcoming farmhouse. But something was making Hassan ill at ease. It wasn't the uncomfortable journey, or the isolated location, nor was it the over familiar farmer with his arm around his shoulders. What unsettled Hassan was the look of fear in the eyes of the armed driver when he climbed into his vehicle. That look of horror had turned Hassan's arms to goosebumps, as he watched the only car for miles speed away…
'The name is Higgins, by the way,' the farmer explained as he led him to the farmhouse, 'Farmer Higgins, but you can call me Billy. Do you speak much English?'
Hassan nodded. In the pitch black of night, the golden glow from the doorway was like a beacon of comfort. He imagined the farm was like a single speck of white on a vast canvas of black. The dim haze from the security lights mounted on the ruddy brick walls of the farmhouse revealed that it was an old building. Once, a chocolate box picture of old England. A place that Hassan had always imagined from old landscape portraits of the English countryside. But the building showed signs of neglect and disrepair. Slate tiles had left a hole in the roof, the windows were filthy, and patches of brickwork were crumbling.
'Are you looking forward to working here?'
'Yes. I look forward to working in your country's air.'
'Good! Well, get yourself in, get yourself in,' Higgins laughed, pushing Hassan firmly through the kitchen door.
Hassan jumped at the loud squawks coming from the crow fluttering in its cage. The cage was hanging next to the door frame, rocking to and fro. Hassan could see himself mirrored in the bird's glassy onyx eye as it blinked at him.
'Alright my lover? Come in,' a woman's voice beckoned, 'don't you mind Seamus, he is a cranky old devil.' The woman was a similar age to Higgins. Hassan assumed she was his wife.
'Better than any guard dog,' her husband insisted with a hearty laugh that she matched.
The elderly lady was sitting in an old rocking chair tucked behind the kitchen table in the far corner of the room. She was sewing up scraps of tea coloured sacking. She was a stout woman with a similar complexion to her husband. Her hair was short, with tight white curls, like a sheep's fleece. Hassan thought she looked hardy, like she had toiled the land with her husband as equals. Similar to the families from his village. A real family farm.
'Bill, fix the man a plate. Make him a ploughman's lunch, you'll enjoy it, dear. It's good, traditional, country food. Pork pie, cheese, pickle onions, and some lovely crusty bread I only baked this morning.'
'Er, thank you, yes,' he replied, standing awkwardly in the kitchen. The ceiling was too low and was causing him to stoop. He didn't really feel like eating but thought it rude to refuse. It wasn't because he wasn't hungry, but it was due to the room itself. As soon as he had walked into it Hassan was hit by an unpleasant smell of wet dog hair that was making him want to gag. He kept his mouth tightly closed and silently gulped air in an effort not to retch. The room was claustrophobic. Filled from the floor to the rafters with knick-knacks; ghastly porcelain ornaments that were chipped, mismatched, and dirty. Stuffed dead birds and critters littered the sideboards and bookcases, covered in dust. Pots and pans were scattered around the room capturing rain drops leaking through the stained ceiling.
'Sit you down,' the Farmer's wife said merrily, 'sit you down.' She patted a chair in front of her at the kitchen table. Hassan sat down at the table with his back to her. He watched Farmer Higgins fix his dish.
'My wife's a dab hand with a needle and thread.'
'Practice makes perfect,' she said, as she pulled a hooked needle out through the bundle of rags she was sewing. It looked like she was stitching old mail bags.
'What do you think?' the farmer asked, pointing out framed needle works hanging on the walls.
'Okay.' Hassan uttered, not due to any language barrier, but because he couldn't think of anything more complementary to say on the stitched sewing by number designs.
'We've thought about selling them to make ends meet. There's not much profit in farming nowadays, you become more and more reliant on government subsidiaries.'
'What crops I pick, please?'
'None,' the Farmer laughed, 'let me get you that drink.'
'No pick? This er, live er, live stock farm?'
'No dear,' the old lady replied, shaking her head. 'We have a few chickens, but nothing like that.'
Hassan was confused and a feeling of unease had been growing in the pit of his stomach. Something sinister in the grim malaise of this farm and its overly friendly owners. He watched as Billy Higgins poured out the drink and set it down on the table.
Hassan glanced from husband to wife in discomfort.
'Oh, drink up my lover,' the elderly woman insisted, 'it's Damson Gin. I made it myself.'
Husband and wife exchanged glances.
A howling wind wrapped around the old farmhouse causing it to groan in the eerie silence. Hassan felt the goosebumps pucker inside his flannel shirt.
Farmer Higgins added a plate of cold meats beside the glass. The smell of malt vinegar from the pickled onions made Hassan screw up his mouth, holding back the urge to vomit. The clawing aroma of damp dog hair was thick in the air around him.
'This farm, Hassan,' Higgins declared, 'is an old fashioned wheat farm.'
'Yes. See,' to demonstrate, Billy picked up an eerie looking doll made from strands of straw. The doll had been weaved together with the spear heads spread at the bottom like a flowing skirt. The doll had no features. No eyes, no nose, no mouth. It was a creepy effigy made of brittle straw. Farmer Higgins displayed it proudly, 'Gladys made this, didn't you?'
'I've always been crafty,' she beamed proudly.
'You need me to reap wheat?'
Both Higgins burst into laughter. The old lady cackled like a witch.
'No, no, no, no,' he said, returning the sinister straw doll to the sideboard. 'Got me a combine harvester for that. Big monster of a thing, cost me an arm and a leg.'
'No me old cocker, I do that,' Higgins smiled, 'take a sip and I'll tell you what I need you to do.'
The couple shared another glance. The jovial farmer released a long sigh.
'Your duties won't entail much work, but it's necessary work, and you'll earn your keep. You see our feathered friend here Hassan? Very intelligent animal! Can solve puzzles, works things out, the crow is very cunning. Back in the old days scarecrows would frighten them off. An old suit stuffed with straw would do the trick, but not now. Those devil's have seen through it. They perch on them now. Mocking them. Use them like branches. Swoop down and peck up the seeds. Very costly. You can lose a fortune due to these pests.'
Higgins deliberately knocked the cage spooking the crow.
'Drink your drink, Hassan.'
The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Hassan remembered the look of fear in the driver's eyes. That wide eye glimpse of horror when invited in for a drink.
The couple exchanged another knowing glance. Higgins stepped forward, looming over him. His smile had vanished. He glowered at Hassan. Hassan clenched his fists nervously under the table. He was confident he was a match for the old man if he decided to get rough. He had more than a few years on the old Farmer. A second or two passed before Billy offered a shrug. He then took away Hassan's glass.
'No matter,' he said, as he poured the Damson gin down the sink.
Hassan opened his mouth to ask another question, when suddenly a shroud was flung over his head! The elderly lady pulled the canvas mask tightly around his face. The fabric smelt of sickly sweet. It was making him light headed. He had reached up to fling it off his face. He clawed at Gladys, digging his nails into her fleshy arms. She was strong and increased her strain on the shroud. Hassan was finding it hard to fight back. He was dazed and was struggling to breathe. The drug coating the material was intoxicating.
Chloroform! It must be Chloroform!
Hassan's hands were seized by Billy and were pulled down onto the table top. All three bucked against the kitchen table as Hassan lurched in an attempt to free himself. But soon the fight went out of him. Before he passed out, he heard the smashing of crockery as his dinner plate hit the stone floor, then all faded into darkness…
Hassan awoke from his dizzy vortex of unconsciousness. He sensed he was outside. His body trembled uncontrollably. He could feel the grating cold air against his cheek. Hassan shivered but was unable to move. He couldn't work it out. He felt paralysed, but when he attempted to move his shoulders hurt.
His head felt like it was filled with treacle, his tongue was thick and furry. He tried to rid the horrid taste in his mouth, but something prevented him from doing this. He endeavoured to lick his lips, but they were sealed and stung. He ran his tongue along the inside of his sore mouth and discovered a criss-cross stitch inside. Thick, coarse, thread had been used to stitch his mouth tightly shut. He murmured in pain as he slowly squinted.
It was a grey and dreary morning. He was in the middle of a wheat field towering over the grain. It was chilly, and as he breathed out through his nose, small clouds of vapour wafted up into the autumn sky. As another icy gust caused Hassan to shiver, he dreamily watched the tall stems of wheat rippled with the breeze. A faint mist was drifting around him like smoke.
As he attempted to move again he felt the same pain in his shoulder. Glancing to his left, Hassan could see that he had been tethered to a crucifix with razor wire. The small sharp blades had shredded through his thick flannel shirt. Blood had seeped into the fabric. As he pulled, the wire tightened, biting deeper into his shoulder causing him to sob.
Wincing in pain, he turned to face the front, trying to work out what he was going to do? His bare feet were so numb and ashen with the cold, he hardly felt the long, rusty nails protruding out of them. Trickles of blood ran down to his toes. The blood weeped a fresh as he attempted to shuffle his feet upon the narrow ledge he had been nailed to.
He raised his head and looked out upon the panoramic view of the sweeping hills and deserted fields. It dawned upon Hassan how hopeless his plight was. Afterall, he was marooned in the middle of nowhere. He wept in muffled silence as the mist began to clear…As the mist faded, Hassan could see more crosses scattered all around him. Some near, some far. They were darted all over, twitching and moaning. One of these scarecrows was only a few feet before him.
This scarecrow was whimpering in distress. Crows had settled upon the crucifixes' cross beams. The wicked looking birds were hopping closer to the weary figure. Hassan could see it was a man. The prostrate figure was exhausted. He could hardly stand. Hassan heard him muffle through his stitched gag. A row of exes across his lips. The limp figure meekly flapped his hands in an attempt to shoo the bird. The crow flinched slightly. But as the seconds passed the bird got more brazen and pecked at the man's hand.
The crow flew away at the jovial greeting.
Hassan glanced down from his cross at Farmer Higgins who was standing below him. The farmer was smiling pleasantly with a double barrel shotgun broken over his arm.
'Originally, I would use that wire on the wrists, but your predecessors would use it to slit theirs. Horrible really. Such a waste. A man can't afford to waste money on replacing workers. The shoulder is much safer, it takes a lot longer to kill from blood loss.'
'I'd hate for you to take this personally, me old cocker. It's only business. Like I said, "Those devil's have seen through it." I can't afford to lose my crop to those cunning crows. That's why I need men like you Hassan to scare them off for me.'
'Mmh,' grimaced Hassan, attempting to argue.
'I know, I know, it would be easier for you to do your job if you could talk. I do sympathise. But we can get the occasional nosey rambler from time to time. It happened once and it got very ugly indeed, so that's why we've got to do that to you. I don't like it, just as much as you don't, but Gladys does a good job! That stitching is lovely and neat, if I do say so myself.'
Angry, he wanted to snarl at his captor, but the painful strain on his lips prevented him.
'I know you're disappointed,' Higgins empathised, 'but needs must, I can't afford one of those contraptions that fire blanks that spook the birds. This was a much more economical solution. Times are hard, Hassan, especially for us farmers.'
Farmer Higgins shook his head as he started to load his shotgun. Hassan's eyes widened with alarm. His muffled protests fell on deaf ears.
'No one can afford to be carried, not anymore. If they're not able to contribute then they're dead wood that needs to be cast away.'
The old man closed the gun, turned, made aim and fired both barrels into the scarecrow opposite him.
A fine cloud of blood evaporated with the lingering wisps of mist. The frail body drooping forward, empty of whatever life was left. Tears streamed down Hassan's cheeks as Higgins pulled out the two smoking cartridges and pocketed them.
'I have a machine that reloads these with pellets. Over the years you save an absolute fortune.'
Hassan raised his head to see a car was racing up the dirt track towards the farm.
'Oh good! Replacements! Perfect timing, wouldn't you say?' The Farmer beamed at Hassan whose face was streaked with tears. 'Cheer up, my friend,' Higgins smiled, 'You were looking forward to enjoying our country's air…Hello!'
Hassan through bleary eyes watched the old man walk towards his farm waving towards the car.
'I'll be right with you! Marvellous! Absolutely marvellous! Come into the house, I'll fix you a drink.'
As Hassan turned away with a heart filled with despair, he saw his future lashed to a cross, covered in crows, pecking at the cooling flesh.
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