He finishes and turns to find another man walking towards him, his hurried steps announcing the need for the corner.
No alarms sound, no bells or klaxons. The men wake when they like, rubbing eyes, stretching, scratching. They seem to gravitate towards one of the blocks. Aaman treads carefully, manoeuvres to observe, waits. Men leave the block with cups and bread. He joins the growing queue. The man in front smells acrid. Aaman folds his arm across his face. Inside the block there is an internal window with a hatch. They shuffle by, each receiving a cup, and a grubby hand offers something that looks like crumbly bread. The man in front snatches his piece and eats quickly and it is gone before he takes his cup. Aaman is hungry and eats slowly. He steps to one side, out of view. Watching the big men return for seconds and, after a while, the window is boarded before the line is all served. Those not served do not complain.
The day settles into the expectation of nothing. They are weary before they begin, bored before sleep has left them. Men in twos and threes but mostly in groups of five or more squat on haunches, knees in armpits, waiting for the heat of the day to build and the inevitable overcrowding in the shade of the blocks as the temperature soars and the sun burns. Aaman keeps to himself, watching and learning about his surroundings. No-one approaches him.
The day progresses slowly. One of the guards in the tower comes out and stretches. His arms clasped above his head, his mouth wide, he leans backwards, showing all the signs of being equally as bored as the prisoners. There is the sound of a vehicle on the road, and the guard unclasps his hands and points to it and turns to talk to another guard who also comes out stretching, crucifixed, in the sun. Lungs filled, limbs limbered, they stand, side by side, arms across bulletproof chests, discussing the vehicle, which changes down gear and grinds to a stop.
A scuffle. In the yard corner, like rats skirmishing. A Russian is pushing an Albanian. The Albanians gather. Back their man. The Russian puffs out his chest. Towers, to show his size, but backs off. Boredom returns.
Some areas of the yard still have shade. These areas are taken by the big rats. The big rats stand. Out in the sun squat the Indians and the Pakistanis. They are used to temperatures of over thirty-eight degrees. Aaman does not notice the heat of the sun. The temperature had often reached fifty when he used to work on the land with his father. He nods if the Pakistanis look to him, but he does not join them. A single man can sit where he likes.
The two guards on the tower nonchalantly take out their guns and stand ready. Aaman looks around to find the cause of their caution. There is a stirring by the huts nearest the gatehouse. A whisper runs through the yard. One of the Albanians pulls one of the Indians up by his arm. The Indian looks surprised but does not protest. It is the man who was worried about his wife awaiting his return in the next village. He is pushed by the Albanian towards the gatehouse block. The other Indians stand to ask why they are taking him. The Albanian’s answer is heard by those nearest him. The remaining Indians are pushed towards the block that leads to the gatehouse. Aaman stays quiet.
The Albanian who has taken the lead role returns to the yard and looks around. He organises the rounding up of a group of Pakistanis. The compound then turns on his neighbour, each looking for an Asian, a moment of power. The man next to Aaman nudges him and Aaman walks to the block, shrugging off his escorts.
Huddled by the door that leads to the reception building are the Indians and Pakistanis, Afghans, and one Uzbeki. There are several armed guards at the door. They do not enter the compound. They wave the group through with their guns. Aaman keeps to the middle of the group. The door shuts behind them. The men left behind cheer and jeer and bang on the closed door.
None of the guards speak to them. They re-house their guns in low-slung holsters, momentarily standing like cowboys, enjoying the perk. They chat for a while with the gatekeeper and the gate guard. Aaman understands the words ‘Indians, easy, simple, good.’ His Greek has not improved since taking the job with Juliet. He wishes he had learnt more. He cannot dwell on his lacking; the tension within the group has ignited his fear.
“Please to tell us what is happening?” he asks a guard without becoming visible from the group.
“English!” The guard laughs and turns back to his conversation, ignoring the question. They say their goodbyes, a slap on the shoulder here, a handshake there, and four of the guards herd Aaman and his group to a waiting van. Grilles at the windows, smelling of piss and cigarette smoke. Aaman wonders if he smells; the man in front does.
The van rattles as it starts, the clutch shrieking its reluctant consent. The journey winds along small roads, and the truck sways. The other men try to predict the outcome of the journey. The consensus is Fylakio, a large detention centre near the Turkish border. Those who have not heard of it grow fearful. Those who know are resigned. The road grows straight. The truck falls into a rhythm. Aaman sleeps.
He wakes with a start to someone banging once, very hard on the side of the van. He orientates to a cacophony, horns blaring, people shouting, the drone of heavy traffic, motorbikes buzzing, and the van no longer moving.
He thinks to ask the other people how long they have been stationary, but he cannot see the point. He waits. They all wait. One says he needs to pass water; the others shrug. It is hot. Another says he is thirsty; the others do not bother to shrug. They wait. Aaman drifts in and out of sleep. There is a smell of urine.
The van door opens and a guard beckons them out. They are at the back of some building. Aaman blinks, adjusting to the light, and a force in his back propels him towards the open door. They totter down the corridor into a stairwell. Several other police have appeared. The police laugh as if the day is a joke. They beckon one of the group, one apiece. Aaman is chosen by a tall man who has his black uniform bomber jacket and white shirt open to his waist. His hair is lank and his fingers yellow from smoking.
Aaman is pushed into a room by the tall guy’s baton. The room is pale green. There is a metal table and two plastic chairs. The tall policeman sits heavily and indicates for Aaman to sit. He has a form and a pen. He takes out a cigarette but does not offer one to Aaman. He lights it, picks tobacco from his tongue and begins.
“Name?”
“Aaman.”
“Surname?”
“Aaman.” Aaman’s face is rigid.
“Aaman Aaman?”
“Yes.”
“Ox Aman!” A Turkish phrase of exasperation. The guard rolls his eyes. “OK. Are you here legally?”
“No.”
“Have you any papers?”
“No.
“By coming to Greece without papers you have committed an illegal act. You have twenty-four hours to either get papers or leave the country.” The tall man stands, opens the doors and indicates that Aaman should leave.
“I don’t understand.”
“You have twenty-four hours to leave the country or get papers.”
“I can go?”
“Yes.”
“Can I ask something?”
“Yes.”
“Where are we?” Aaman is standing but has not made a move to leave the room.
“Athens.”
“Thank you. Can I ask another thing?”
“What?” The tall man is shifting his weight from one foot to another, ready to close the door after them.
“How am I supposed to leave the country with no money and no papers?” Aaman walks out of the room.
“That, my friend, is not my problem.” He closes the door and walks off down the corridor, leaving Aaman alone. Another policeman who passes him points to the exit sign. Aaman walks out onto the streets of Athens. He has been in custody for two days.