Chapter 2 – Official Meeting
Half an hour had passed as Petra and the others waited for Immigration proceedings to begin. She glanced at the official, attired in the short black jacket that appeared to be gathering information on the latest applicants for the interviews, but in actual fact was deliberately delaying matters; a tactic Petra recognised - meant to cause psychological distress among the asylum seekers. So things were repeated ad-nauseum by these Government officials. The young woman sat on the bench unmoving, barely taking notice as others joined her. An eerie calm descended over Petra as she resigned herself to whatever fate awaited her. Whether sanctuary in the UK or rape and murder in Belarus was anybody's guess. Raising her eyes in the direction of the interview table, Petra found herself staring into the man's eyes and her breath caught and she trembled, as if a mild jolt of electricity coursed through her body. He stopped mid-stride and their eyes held for several moments that seemed to last an eternity, until she averted her gaze and hugged herself.
Heathrow was enjoying the refugees discomfort immensely, with something akin to arousal. He pretended to rifle through the files on the desk in front of him and talk with the other Immigration Offiicials and guards at the same time. A guard carrying a beaker of steaming coffee approached Heathrow and offered it.
"Thanks, pal", he winked. Turning back to face the assorted throng in the dock area, he made to sick at the desk and his eyes met hers. He was breathless for a moment that lasted a lifetime, or so it seemed. Her photo didn't do her beauty justice. It didn't even come close. Unfamiliar feelings rose from his core and threatened to overwhelm him. Those feelings merged into an internal storm, which stopped his breathing – a mixture of sexual arousal and terrible pity. Heathrow had the urge to race over to her and take her in his arms and kiss her and kiss her and... He was jolted back to reality by a scalding pain. A minute amount of coffee had inadvertently spilled onto his hand. Irritated he slammed the beaker onto the desk, steeled himself and sat down. The Immigration Officer was ready.
Time passed agonising slow, at least for the remaining refugees. Petra gazed straight ahead, her eyes straying against her will to the dark haired man conducting the interviews. Her mind wandered, acting as a buffer against the harsh conditions in which she found herself. She daydreamed about the dark haired man ; what would it be like to be with him, close to him, to be touched, to be held, to be ... Now it was Petra who returned to reality, and the cold. The man's voice was audible, even amongst the general hubbub and mournful murmurs of her fellow refugees. He spoke contemptuously to the ragged, filthy fellow in the Spartan wooden chair before him – the first one to have an audience with him.
"We are clean in the United Kingdom!", Heathrow's voice rose with fury, "We are disease free and we take pride with our hygiene."A pause, a glare, then "Your application for asylum is denied" Petra watched as Heathrow motioned to an armed guard standing nearby.
"Take this piece of shit away before I throw up!" The elderly man was seized roughly from the seat and manhandled to the exit. Petra knew the unfortunate old man, who was well known in Bexhill for having a severe body odour problem would be shipped out on the buses that departed the camp with monotonous regularity. With certainty, Petra knew he would not be here tonight. Where would he be? Most probably rotting in a mass grave, she surmised. At the thought of his, she was gripped by a low terror. Oh, God, almighty! What would happen to her if she were deported back to Belarus? Dark hair was in an evil mood now, not even having seen the second interviewee. Her face tightened and she cursed Smelly Man and was instantly ashamed.
Heathrow angrily rose and strode toward the exit absolutely enraged. How dare they? How dare they? The administrators of Bexhill ought to lose their jobs over the lack of control they had over the everyday activities of the internees. The old bastard who sat before him smelt like he had showered in ten years. Disgusting! Well, he would deport every one of these 'people'back to their hovel countries. Heathrow raised the two-way radio to his lips about to give his executive order then paused. He smiled coldly. No, he'd interview the girl in the green dress first after morning tea. Then – he would purge them.
A hellish hour and a half before anyone else was interviewed, almost drove Petra over the edge. She had difficulty holding onto her sanity as it was – or so her tortured mind communicated to her, as she walked around the dock area. The weather in Bexhill wasn't improving, in fact it got colder. Despite this, Petra moved slowly toward the refugee exit. Inside was much too stifling and she breathed the fresh air gratefully. She leant against the building for support. Attempting to stand straight, Petra almost collapsed in a heap, if not for an elderly woman, another refugee who caught her and aided her inside for the next round of interviews.
Across the wide room, Heathrow stood with his officials and guards conversing in hushed tones. He turned and faced the dock area, his grey eyes scanning the room for her. He watched as Petra entered, assisted by the crone. So why aren't you helping her? An inner voice asked. He had no answer, and it was his turn to feel shame.
One of the other IO's sidled to Heathrow's side, a reedy little man with thinning hair and sneaky eyes; Heathrow took an instant dislike to him "We call her the dyke of Bexhill", my God, Heathrow thought, even his voice was reedy "she's notorious among the young ones"
Heathrow spun to face him, eyes blazing, ",,,,and you haven't actioned anything yet?"Disgustedly, Heathrow shoved him aside and approached an armed guard "You!", the guard stood to attention as Heathrow barked orders "That old crone. Take her out the back and put a bullet in her brain!"
The guard hurried to do Heathrow's biddng. The old woman was marched away. Minutes later a distant gunshot was heard. The old woman's life was extinguished by a nine millimetre bullet.
Petra Herczegova met Heathrow Woodford in an official capacity at exactly 11:00am on 4 November 2025. Her fate was in his hands. Heathrow regarded the girl, who was obviously frightened. His eyes travelled over her body as she approached. Quite nice, under that non-descript dress. Slowly, carefully she lowered her pained, freezing frame into the chair, wincing. Seconds later, the interview commenced.
"Reason for coming to the United Kingdom?', his voice, flat, devoid of any emotion, posed the first question – always the first question
"Please", her voice was thin, soft, on the verge of fresh tears Ï...I come safety. I have no home in my country. War. Family dead", her eyes downward as she responded.
Heathrow's eyes never left her face. He toyed with the idea of approving her there and then, but decided to exert a little more pressure. Steeling himself for the next phase in the process, Heathrow set his features into a grim determination.
"Look at me", his voice rose an octave. Petra's eyes met his cold grey ones, and he began speaking again, slowly deliberately "War? Family dead? Do you know how many times I hear that? That means nothing to me, nothing to my country", he leant back in his chair, "you've got ten seconds to give me a better reason than that", he shifted position again, moving close to her otherwise this interview will be terminated and you will be on the bus by lunchtime! Talk!"
Petra's bottom lip quivered. It was now or never. Painful as it was, she had no choice but to detail the massacre of her town.
"...so you see, I am a witness to atrocity. If I'm sent back, they will kill me", her hands were now extended in supplication across the desk as she sobbed uncontrollably "Please, please don't send me back. I beg of you. I –beg – you"
Petra fainted from sheer exhaustion, both mental and physical and had to be taken to the infirmary. Heathrow was left sitting at the desk in a state of shock. His feelings were betrayed by a badly shaking hand as he signed her approval papers.
He closed his eyes. She was safe.
