In the dusk is a sea monster, bulky, black and rubbery, glistening in the remnants of the light. It is almost still, as if waiting for a prey.
A fellow waves the crowd on board, taking the last of their money. At this the youngest of our crew, Paul, averts his eyes. It’s superstition: if he doesn’t look maybe this voyage might be uneventful.
More ragged travellers arrive. The fellow squeezes them on, extra bucks for him and his criminal smuggling network. He doesn’t care if he’s endangering people. He gives one of those on board a GPS, saying in English, ‘north west’.
We set off for a long night catching crab and lobster off Boulogne-sur-Mer. Within an hour we get a mayday call: a vessel is in trouble. We rush to assist, as do other fishing boats in the vicinity.
It’s the rubber dinghy, ripped apart: it must have collapsed under the weight. People are flailing in the choppy water. My brother, Gérald, and I haul somebody into our boat. She’s about fifteen – Eritrean? Round her neck is a plastic wallet inside which is her phone. It begins to ring. We try mouth to mouth resuscitation and pumping her heart manually, while the phone busts our ears with its urgency. It must be a relative. ‘She’s dead,’ I tell Gérald, who is alternately pushing furiously and shouting at the phone, ‘Shut the fuck up!’
I leave the girl – Gerald is now in tears – and Paul and I tug an adult from the sea. He is dead too, nothing we can do.
We go back to Boulogne with the bodies. We won’t fish tonight, the crew are in shock. My brother is upset, the death may haunt him for a long time. I try to be calm, I’m the skipper.
On the quay forms lay under white sheets; I count eleven. Nearby some rescued children are wailing – perhaps for a lost big brother or sister. We stare, feeling useless. It’s difficult to take in.
A fellow who works in the port, Pascal, says to me, ‘They think England is El Dorado. Determined to reach it they are. They speak English see or have relatives there. Got this notion that you just hop across the channel, get your freedom, find work without papers, everything easy-peasy. Frigging idiots! How can you put to sea without adequate safety precautions? Idiots!’
Gérald and I go home in the car. He’s silent until out of the blue he says, ‘She reminded me of my Thérèse.’
I’m blank as I drive, except for this rubbery bobbing image in the darkness of my mind. Then I ask myself: what was the monster I witnessed? Was it the monstrous greed of people traffickers? Was it the monster of desperation that blinds you to risk?
‘This is becoming a regular occurrence,’ I say to Gérald. ‘We might have to fish others out in the future.’
Gerald gapes absently, corpse-like, and mutters: ‘Somebody’s precious daughter. Just like Thérèse she was.’
