Peace Amongst Darkness
Chapter 1 - Appointment
The day was cold and overcast, throwing the buildings of Bexhill Refugee Camp into sharp focus. The buildings were inhabited by the sorry denizens of Bexhill; those that the United Kingdom had refused sanctuary. Within one of these buildings, a beautiful, slender, young woman named Petra Herzcegova lived. Petra was five foot six with shoulder length, ash blonde hair that framed a small oval face and intense hazel-green eyes. Those eyes were haunted as twenty-three year old, Petra exited the building and walked toward the Bexhill's reception area to keep an appointment with another in a long succession of Immigration Officers, all of who, so far, she had found unsympathetic so far. Petra was terrified of the meeting and wondered morosely what would come of this. The last IO was so unpleasant, just stopping short of name calling. Petra stopped and gazed into the distance; her eyes unfocused; going back in recent time, only eight months ago:
Somewhere in Belarus: A day, just like today. The enemy came, and rounding the entire population of her village in the town square at gunpoint, marched them to the church, forced them inside. Petra, her mother, father and brother were jostled amongst the throng of screaming, yelling people toward the church which was normally a place of peace and joy, that now loomed before her. All the while, their enemies beat at them with clubs, and rifles urging them on. Petra and her younger brother, though terrified, observed their immediate environs, the trucks and assorted vehicles of the enemy. She had no time to properly count how many as she found herself stumbling into the church, almost falling over a pew. People, everywhere ran, yelled and screamed, as more and more were piled in. The next terror filled moments that went on forever – the fire. The stench of burning human flesh; pain filled shrieks of those burnt alive...
Tears ran down Petra's face as she remembered the deaths of almost every person in her village; save for herself, Peter, her brother, and another boy. To this day she had no idea of Peter's whereabouts, but prayed every day for his safety. Peter, who taught her how to hot wire a vehicle and basic mechanics and how to operate a firearm – and she was a very good student t. The three of them had escaped the church without being detected by the grace of God; it being a matter of good luck than strategic planning.
Petra had reached the Reception Area which was manned by soldiers. Approaching the building slowly, she drew her shawl around her shoulders. The bottom of her ankle length hunter-green dress was mud stained and her flat shoes that stuck to her frozen feet were caked with it. A soldier, who was stationed outside the main entrance doors, motioned impatiently toward her with his carbine. Hesitantly, Petra drew near, just near enough to be heard, for this particular soldier had a penchant for violence against refugees and wasn't particularly bothered by gender.
"I have an appointment. My name is Petra Herzcegova", her voice was so soft as to be almost inaudible.
The man came slowly toward the girl. He was around thirty with narrow dark eyes and a mean face with a thin cruel mouth. This one was prettier than the others, he thought to himself, damn shame that, but it didn't alter the fact she was a foreign dreg and the sooner the IO's deported her sorry arse back to where she came from, the better.
"Righto, get in here, slut!", he snarled, prodding her in the back as she passed him. Petra almost fell down the step, maintaining a shaky composure as she entered the waiting area and sat on one of the uncomfortable benches in the dim large room.
Two kilometres away a, silver Toyota Camry travelled the English countryside toward Bexhill. The car had a single occupant – a man, aged forty-one, heavyset, with a round cherub face, still handsome, framed by short dark brown hair, glittering grey eyes and thick lips. He wore a crisp uniform, consisting of a black jacket, white shirt, tie, dark trousers and complimented nicely by shiny black shoes. A photo ID card lay face up on the passenger seat bearing the man's name and Position: Heathrow Woodford –Senior Immigration Officer. Above his photo, the insignia of the Immigration Department loomed – the UK entity responsible for sending countless refugees to their countries of origin and their deaths. Heathrow was in a buoyant mood this morning, the warmth of the car notwithstanding. Throughout his career with the Immigration Department, he himself was responsible for declining the majority of refugee's entry into the UK – in fact he took delight in deporting them. His grey eyes flinted and his face hardened in anger while he reflected on the influx of foreigners in the course of the last decade or so: draining the UK's resources, the cause of higher taxes for the British people and the acts of terrorism. Fucking bastards! Heathrow inadvertently accelerated, almost coming to grief with a wandering sheep.
"Fuck!" he swore. Stopping the car, he pulled over for a moment to collect his thoughts. Turning, Heathrow glanced back over his left shoulder at the animal he nearly hit. The sheep ba-ahed at the car indignantly. Annoyed, Heathrow seriously contemplated alighting from the car and shooting the animal right then and there, but re-considered and pulled out onto the road. Due to increasing violence, select civil servants were permitted concealed firearms under laws passed by Parliament.
In the Reception building, Petra waited with the other unfortunate refugees. She reflected she hadn't provided the full details of the massacre of her home town, so it came as no surprise the Immigration Officers were unsympathetic; after all, how many were claiming asylum due to war and civil disturbance in their countries. She gazed miserably through the entrance, to the overcast day outside, her mind wondering. She didn't register Heathrow's car drive in to the compound.
Heathrow parked the vehicle and alighted checking his watch. He walked leisurely toward the building, lighting a cigarette as he did so. The same soldier who ushered Petra and the other refugees into the holding area greeted him cheerfully.
"Haven't got many for you today, mate", he said handing Heathrow a manilla folder. Heathrow opened the folder and scanned the files therein, pausing to stare at the file marked: Herzcegova Petra Annika. He gazed at the passport sized photograph. Remembering where he was, Heathrow straightened and addressed the soldier.
"OK, let's stretch things out for these fine people", his handsome face broke into a smirk. Rearranging the files, he spoke "I'll see this bloke first; and her I'll see second", he earmarked Petra's file and gave the soldier a meaningful look. The soldier understood and grinned back.
To Be Continued..