Sign of the Cross by Thomas Mogford Read Free Book Online Page A

which could be rolled into a rucksack, but this was an enormous white marquee, four-sided with a lofty, pitched roof. Similar tents stretched beyond; it might have been some kind of trade fair, but for the torn canvas and stink of human faeces. ‘How many inmates are there?’ Spike asked.
    ‘They’re not inmates; they come and go as they please.’
    ‘How many?’
    ‘Seven thousand at the last count.’
    ‘And the population of Malta is . . . ?’
    ‘About four hundred thousand.’ Zahra glanced over at Spike as she walked. ‘None of them wants to be here, Spike. They’re all trying to get to Italy. They get blown off course.’
    ‘It beats prison, I suppose.’
    ‘That comes first. Between six weeks and a year in detention on the other side of the island. Then they get temporary visas and are moved to the tent camps.’
    ‘How long can they stay?’
    ‘However long it takes to assess each case. Some get deported, the lucky few get EU passports.’
    ‘What are the criteria?’
    ‘I thought you were the lawyer.’
    ‘You were my only immigration case.’
    Zahra looked down at her shoes, then continued. ‘If they’re economic migrants, they usually get sent home. If there’s a war going on in their country, or a famine, they’re classed as refugees and can stay. The Germans have been taking some –’
    ‘The Germans?’
    ‘In exchange for Malta supporting them in the EU.’
    Spike saw a cat’s cradle of washing lines strung between the tents. ‘Must be a lot of wars on at the moment.’
    ‘The Arab Spring.’
    ‘Still?’
    ‘The deportations are expensive. You need to charter a plane, enlist two security guards per migrant.’
    ‘Who pays?’
    ‘Maltese taxes.’
    ‘Hence the protests at your office?’
    ‘The economic climate doesn’t help.’
    They came into a forecourt with a Portakabin at one end. Three cars with Maltese plates were parked in front. ‘Wait here,’ Zahra said.
    Two separate camps adjoined the car park, one where Spike had seen the football players, another from which a tall woman in a headscarf was exiting to join a line of youths outside the Portakabin. An older man appeared by the queue, swaying as though drunk. He stumbled up to the youths, who ignored him, except for one who shoved him in the chest when he came too close. Still rocking back and forth, the man began to focus his attention on Spike, then wandered unsteadily over. ‘ Fonu ,’ he said, moving from foot to foot. An open wound festered in the corner of his mouth.
    ‘Just English or Spanish,’ Spike said. ‘A bit of Italian.’
    ‘ Té-lé-phone ,’ the man said in a French accent. ‘I call to Mali. For my mother.’
    ‘He is sick,’ one of the youths called over, then made a pelvic thrust, to the amusement of his friends.
    Spike delved into a pocket. ‘What’s the number?’
    The sight of the phone seemed to sober the man up, and he reached out a hand. His left thumbnail was uncut, curly and opaque.
    ‘I’ll be back in twenty minutes,’ Spike said, passing him the phone. ‘Keep it brief.’
    Zahra was standing in the Portakabin doorway, the sack of clothes gone from her shoulder. ‘I hope that was pay-as-you-go,’ she said as Spike climbed the front steps.
    A worn-looking supervisor sat behind the desk. He said something to Zahra in Maltese; her reply suggested she’d already mastered the language.
    ‘You wanna visit the female camp?’ the supervisor asked Spike.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘ID.’
    Spike handed over a Supreme Court of Gibraltar security card. The supervisor slammed it in a drawer without a glance.
    ‘Has he received medical help?’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘That man.’
    ‘For syphilis?’ The supervisor gave a laugh. ‘It comes and goes.’
    ‘But a doctor –’
    ‘Yes, yes,’ the supervisor said. ‘The doctor is here each night.’ He snatched up the phone, coughing into the receiver. A young North African sat in a plastic chair at the edge of the cabin, paper form wilting in one