Hinterland: A Novel by Caroline Brothers Page B

way.
    ‘How much have you got then?’ says the man. A long-toothed Pakistani, he looks like a door-to-door salesman. A pod of cellphones nestle in the purple satin pockets of his briefcase.
    Aryan has learned not to give any numbers away. ‘Not as much as you’re asking,’ he says. He resists the urge to pat the side of his belt.
    The salesman is undeterred. ‘I will send you my colleague,’ he says. ‘He has a cheaper way.’
     
    A young Pakistani with different-coloured eyes meets them in a metro station with a map. He stands with his back to the wall, on the lookout for any policemen on patrol.
    ‘We go here, to this town, and this is where you get on the truck. This truck will take you to Italy.’
    ‘Through Patras,’ Aryan says.
    ‘Not through Patras,’ the man says. ‘Inland. Fewer controls that way.’
    ‘It looks very far by road,’ Aryan says, looking at the red line of the highway, the backlands in green, the light-blue sweep of coast.
    ‘For you it is better. It is safer,’ the young man says. Aryan is unnerved by the way his blue eye seems larger than the brown. ‘Out of sight of the police.’
    Aryan looks at Kabir and hesitates.
    ‘I can do a special deal for you, since your brother is small. We take many families this way. It is less because we can put more people on board.’
    ‘How many people are you taking?’ Aryan asks.
    ‘A maximum of sixteen. I have two places left so I will do you a special offer, just one thousand two hundred euros for the two of you. One thousand two hundred is a very good price.’
    Aryan reflects. ‘When would we go?’ he says.
    ‘When the families are ready we will go. It’s a matter of a couple of days.’
    Aryan tells him he will think about it overnight.
    ‘Don’t take too long,’ the smuggler says. He introduces himself as Ardi, but Aryan knows it’s a false name. ‘You’re not the only ones wanting to go.’
    ‘Tomorrow I will tell the receptionist,’ Aryan says. ‘He will let you know.’
    Aryan still has one thousand four hundred euros sewn into the lining of his belt. If they use one thousand two hundred euros to get to Italy, that will leave only three hundred and forty-six euros to get them from Italy to England if he includes the money they got on the farm. It won’t be enough. But at least they will be closer to their goal.
    In the morning he asks the receptionist to tell Ardi they accept.
     
    A week goes by before Ardi comes to find them in their new sleeping place, with a group of Afghan boys in Attiki Park.
    The morning heat was already stifling when Aryan had met them, rummaging among the T-shirts in a street market that barrelled through a tunnel of trees. In the lime-green shade of the branches that wove into a cathedral overhead, Kabir had marvelled at the chandeliers of grapes, and the gargoyle faces of the curly-tailed fish.
    ‘You can stay with us,’ one of the boys had said when he realized Aryan and Kabir had just arrived. ‘You can come with us when we go to the church for food.’
    Watermelons were piled in precarious pyramids on the ground. Aryan’s stomach churned as they went past.
     
    Though the boys are kind, Aryan is impatient to leave. He is scared of the police, scared of the boys’ tales, scared of getting stuck again when they have already lost so much time.
     
    ‘Tomorrow morning, early, we go,’ Ardi says. ‘You will meet me by the metro station at six.’
     
    Ardi sits several rows behind them in the bus and doesn’t address them a single word.
    They had hung back as he lined up at one of the windows of the low-roofed bus station, its destinations pressed in blue letters against the glass. Overhead, a pair of unsynchronized fans made half-hearted revolutions in the heat. Old ladies in black perched at plastic tables while the younger women, with prams and revealing tops, bought gnarled cheese rolls and fluorescent drinks for their kids. Busmen and taxi drivers embroidered the blinding day with