Incognito
 
Chapter 1
 
Completely hidden by a rough, grassy mound, Henri Duvall had a clear view of all that lay before him: a hard-trodden path along the perimeter fence; a kilometre of dry, sandy earth, interspersed with odd tufts of weeds; search lights, intermittently illuminating the flat terrain and shadowy outreaches within their scope; and hope, intangible but real.
 
Henri’s ears twitched: a quiet snapping of dry wood had caught his attention - a slight rustling of summer’s parched leaves; then, silence. He waited for more - sounds that could incriminate. The thought of success engorged his veins with pride: he could almost hear those words of praise echo in that still evening air. ‘A job well done. Procedures followed. Vigilance, paid off.’ Just hang on’, he whispered to himself; the blighter would come his way, soon.
 
He inhaled deeply the fresh, autumnal air. Ah! He could see the outline of a body. Adrenalin started to flow freely; he could barely contain his excitement. Predatory instincts took over. Game, set and match – just be patient. He wanted to pounce, but knew that all could be lost.
 
This is it! Prey is now standing. Get ready to run. Prey takes a look around; scans the vicinity, weighing up the threat. He thinks that it’s clear. He’s going for it, unaware that Henri is alert; charged up. Prey has barbed wire cutter ready; damp hands grip it tightly. Quick intake of air to steady nerves. Now! Don’t hesitate. Run!
 
Henri gives chase – with some difficulty: he’s not as young as he used to be. He trips; he’s fallen over his own feet. The blighter’s cutting the wire; he’s starting to break free, squeezing his thin frame though the spiky hole. The covered head turns round, sees Henri, gasps; panicking, he catches his jacket cuff on the steel enemy. He tugs at it, but it’s hard to release. Henri, back on his feet, runs like a madman. He gets there, lurching like a frenzied, wounded animal at the blighter’s foot; a well worn boot comes off in his hand. He grabs at it again, holding on for dear life.  His fingers clench the bone so tightly that the victim lets out a strangled cry. But Henri’s strong; he doesn’t weaken his grip. The prey tries to lash out with its feet, tiring slowly; he’s fuelled by desperation and fear. He grabs at a stone that is within his grasp. Belly down, it’s hard to twist properly and so chuck it with force. It catches Henri near the eye, but does no harm. A heart-wrenching wail explodes into the night; its discordant notes ring out, landing heavily on Henri’s delicate emotions. He’s torn. He’s confused. What should he do?
 
Henri shuffles up the body, pinning it down so it’s well and truly trapped. Then he carefully, still in control, turns it over. Eyes meet eyes. He pulls off the balaclava which covers the menace. The face of a child is exposed; the eyes of a frightened, traumatised human being lock into his. The boy, he thinks, is about the same age as his son, Jean Paul. Now, it is Henri who is shocked. He jumps up, takes another breath as the boy also gets to his feet and, as if throwing the fish back into the water, frees his catch. Henri runs off, back to his lookout. He just could not do it: the price was too high. Henri’s life had just turned a corner.
 
 
 
 
Chapter 2
 
Frederick, known to his friends as Freddie, darted away; when a safe distance had been made, he turned his head back towards the man who had freed him. His face registered surprise. A smile emerged as he began to understand what had happened. Perhaps, he would be all right, after all; perhaps, he would make it to England. Filled with new hope, he looked ahead, instinctively surveying the immediate terrain. He ran deftly, silently, towards the nearby embankment which he knew would lead to his next challenge. There, almost hidden by streams of lorries laden with cargo, and the odd car, truck and land cruiser, was a tunnel: The Tunnel. Nervous, exhilarated, desperate, he moved forward - his body crouched, animal-like.
 
Earlier, Freddie had been separated from his group: he had been forced to retrace his steps at the start of the advance, having dropped his wallet – virtually all he possessed – after tripping over some raised tree roots, obscured in the night light. He would surely catch it up, but for now, he was on his own. He had no time to think about his friends or their fate. This was his one chance, and he felt that luck was on his side. This was a chance they all had to take, a chance of freedom, of being able to create a future for themselves and their families.
 
His mother had not faired well since the death of her husband, Ivan. With two older sisters and a younger brother, Freddie felt responsible for the whole family. At fifteen, he had been prepared to work – even a meagre wage would have kept them alive, but the job that he had managed to hold down for the past six months had suddenly come to an end: staff cuts had to be made because demand for the factory’s toys had fallen. Despite queuing up endlessly at factory gates, virtually begging for employment, no other work could be found. He had been given no choice, but dreams were still part of his young mind and with them, he carried his prayers and his hope. He would find a way through these unchartered seas of life.  
 
Scurrying, dodging search lights, going forwards, tacking, diving, he descended the slope near the stretch leading to the train. He had a vehicle within his sights. Earlier, he had watched the dark blue Land Cruiser being inspected; it was now so close now to the tunnel that another inspection would surely not occur.
 
He secured all his belongings and clothing so that nothing would drop off or catch on anything that could betray his whereabouts. His breathing was erratic; he was convinced that he could be heard; every nerve was alert, sensitive to the smallest sound.  This was the moment. He unravelled the specially sewn net, permanently attached to the back of his jacket, which would carry him on the final stage of this dangerous journey. He thought of his sister, Kathryn, who had secretly made it: no one else at home had been privy to his plans – it would be better that way because his determination to go was so great that he had not wanted his dearly loved mother to restrain him. He remembered looking back at her as he had said goodnight on that last evening, knowing it would be a while before he could hug her again. He breathed deeply, trying to steady himself and stifle the silent tears that were falling down his muddy face, smearing it as if he was truly in a soldier’s camouflage gear.
 
The Net was a good invention: they had tested it out several times at home and it worked well. But now, even though he had practised fixing it many times to abandoned, broken-down vehicles, this was the real thing. He knew he could be suspended in it, and remain still. Kathryn had even sewn in a small plastic air pipe, in case his mouth had to come into contact with the vehicle’s undercarriage, preventing him from inhaling fairly clean air. He freed the four straps, and foothold, that could be tied onto the metal work, and held them in his hands, ready. He did not want to trip over them - though anxious, he could not afford to make even one mistake. He kept thinking of home; he was doing this for all of them, for all the people he loved. This fuelled his courage.
 
Freddie, thankfully small, lithe and slim, would be able to perform the next act skilfully. Houdini would have been proud of him, as he moved and contorted his body underneath the unsuspecting Land Cruiser. Scanning quickly, he had raced towards the dark blue shape; he had crawled under it, wriggling and squirming like a worm trying to break through the soil. He had knotted the straps securely, feet first, providing a hammock-like sling. It was done. He did not really have to look at his handiwork, but an inspection, using a small light from the torch attached to his sleeve, reassured him that he would be safe. The rest he would leave to fate.
 
Almost instantly, the Saviour edged forwards, moving ever closer to the embarkation point. He was now only minutes away from the train’s entrance; in perhaps less than one hour, he would be free.
 
Freddie sighed, containing any sound, having learnt the fragile difference between survival and entrapment. He knew he would be one of the lucky ones, and he was right. On the cold, noxious journey along the dark road, peppered with fear and hope, he found the brightness of security lights in England almost heavenly.
 
He had almost reached the end of a very long passage to a new life, a life he could share with those he had left behind. There were just a few more steps to go.
 
 
 
 
Chapter 3
 
Meanwhile, back in France, Henri tossed the events of the night over and over again in his head. He had failed in his job: commissioned to prevent illegal refugees from travelling to England across the Channel, he had willingly let one go. And a child at that – a boy! What was he thinking! Firstly, would the boy make it? Would he be safe? Where had he come from? What had made him leave his home – wherever that was? From his heart, he wished him luck. Henri was a good man; he just had a hard job to do – one that often made him feel bad. The boy’s face, his look of need and fear, yet grim determination, had imprinted itself on his mind. He took it back home with him on that September night. The following morning when he saw Jean Paul at the kitchen table, tucking healthily into his breakfast, he thought of the boy and how he would probably be starving hungry and cold, dirty, and poorly clothed. What would this new day hold for him? Had he made to the sandy shores of freedom and opportunity? A heavy weight of guilt and concern started to affect his conscience. What could he do to alleviate this growing pain? He felt more trapped than the boy he had set free. Something had to be done, but what?
 
 
 
 
Chapter 4
 
Freddie’s body, tense and rigid from crossing the Channel, became still more tense as the Land Cruiser drove slowly off the train. This was a crucial time, a time at which he could be caught, seized, thrown into custody, and sent back to Sangatte. Many of his friends had been found, even though they had tried all sorts of imaginative and clever ways of hiding. He hoped that the sniffer dogs would not come near; they would surely get him. He prayed for the second time that night. It seemed as he was in virtual darkness, dazzled only by menacing search lights; blinded too by the main beams of the lorry behind him.
 
He had to wait for the right moment, but did not really know when it would be safe to untie the straps, drop down on to solid ground,  and stealthily creep out from under the Cruiser and run like a maniac to an unknown hiding place. He had to rely on instinct and move decisively – any hesitation could cost him dearly.
 
His heart pounded madly as he heard the voices of several men – English - approach the Saviour. He could see, in the light thrown randomly around him, industrial looking boots, with turned up trouser legs: security staff. A thin light danced about, causing him such violent trepidation that he felt he would be heard. He thought that he would blow up. More footsteps; louder, more insistent voices; more feet; more torches. What was wrong? Had he been seen – of course, the Frenchman – he must have let them know. They were on to him. Paranoia took over. He closed his eyes, squeezing them tightly shut, trying to imagine that this situation was not real.
 
Suddenly, one voice became even louder than the rest. It was the lorry driver, angry and aggressive. The feet paced towards the transport at his rear. Doors were slung open, crashing – metal on metal. There was movement, scuffling. The loud voice was French; he could even make out some of the words: ‘Pas moi! Pas moi! Non. Non!’ This had to be his moment: with all this noise and commotion, he would be able to escape. Freddie, through agitated and extremely afraid, lowered himself silently. He gathered the straps, burying them into the redesigned pockets of his now grease-stained, black jacket.
 
With everything carefully tucked in, he inched out cautiously, belly down, snake-like. His legs were stiff and ached. He could not make any swift movements. He looked around, surveying the area, looking for a direction in which to run when the time was right. He could see a solid structure to his left; it was a sand store – not very big, but large enough to hide him on the first dash. And it was near. For a split second, there were no lights on his immediate area. He could hear the garbled voices of the Cruiser’s passengers; inwardly, he thanked them and then made his advance towards safety. He was cat-like, crouched low, and steady; he went unnoticed, black on black: nothing lit him up, nothing gave him away.
 
He rested for a minute, hidden behind the sand store, and then cut the barbed wire fence that was positioned only one metre from where he sat – scaling it could have been dangerous. As he climbed through, Henri’s stunned face came to mind – one day, he would seek him out and thank him. He made a firm promise to himself; he really meant it. Rolling down the steep bank of rough ground at the other side of the fence, he wanted to shout and scream. During these last few hours, his emotions had been so suppressed that he wanted to explode with relief, to redress this time of enforced silence. Of course, he could not.
 
He again looked around for somewhere to hide. In the distance, he could see a glut of spindly trees and bushes, illuminated by the light from a nearby farmhouse. Though cold in the fading summer air, he lay under a dense bush, exhausted, and still quite afraid. His fear played no part in that first night on British soil. He kissed the ground. Tears flowed from his eyes. Relief and hope warmed his exposed flesh. This was a night that he would never forget for as long as he lived. This would be a story to tell his children, but one that in the foreseeable future would need to be kept quite secret. He still had another mountain to climb, but nothing would defeat him. He had love on his side. Freddie stared up at the star-laden sky, closed his eyes, and dreamt he was floating on Aladdin’s magic carpet. Morning would bring a new adventure. He felt ready to tackle anything that came his way, such was his courage. Sleep took over, arresting him, preparing him for that new day. Nothing disturbed him. He was quite alone. He was safe.
 
 
 
 
Chapter 5
 
The next morning, as sunlight broke through a cloudy sky, Freddie lay sleeping and undiscovered. Throughout the cold night, his body had remained motionless through exhaustion; he was desperately hungry, but somehow, almost subconsciously, he knew that, he was gathering strength: such is power of the human spirit.
 
Meanwhile, back in Calais, Henri walked briskly into his office. His stride was confident; he was a man with a mission. But, as yet, to him that mission was unbeknown – he just knew, deep down, that there was something he had to do. He knew only that it concerned the events from last night.
 
‘A bunch of lads from somewhere in Eastern Europe tried to get through on a lorry,’ Claude stated. His voice betrayed an element of pride. They had done their job well: the hopeful immigrants had been caught. Immediately, Henri thought of Freddie: had he been one of them? ‘How old were they – do we have any other information?’ Henri hoped that Freddie had not met opposition twice in one night: he wanted him to be free.
 
‘The risks they take! One got electrocuted on the train. He got killed. What makes them do it? How bad must their lives be?’ Claude sounded annoyed by their actions, yet quite confused.
 
‘They must be desperate, desperate,’ Henri replied, somewhat subdued.
 
Until yesterday, he had felt frustrated by the constant policing he had to do – this type of surveillance work was tedious; something, he had not joined the service to do. Most of these people were not real criminals – they were just trying to get by, make a better life for themselves. What would he do if he was in their situation? Of course, their reasons for trying to get into another country illegally were many and varied: he knew that some had been tortured or persecuted by their governments or people in power; he knew that some were hated because of their religious beliefs; some could not survive at home because there was little or no work, but they were not all good people, either. Some he had come across were involved in despicable practices, such as supplying cheap labour for businesses, for which the immigrants would be paid next to nothing – kept virtually as prisoners in their new country; they would cream off the profits and become rich and tyrannical, controlling their workers in a sinister and immoral way. Young girls were also smuggled in, lured by the prospect of a better life. If only they had foreseen what that life would involve – he could not bear to think about it, but he was prepared to take action. Henri wanted to do what was right; most of all, he wanted to stop the criminal gangs from exploiting innocent and vulnerable people. And the boy, where did he fit in? Where was he now?
 
At that moment, Henri would have been comforted to know that Freddie was waking up, basking in the warm sun’s rays and immensely hopeful about his future. He had a smile on his face, and the heart of a lion. He even had a few squares of chocolate left to see his on his way!
 
 
 
 
Chapter 6
 
Helena, Freddie’s mother, brushed the tiled floor of her kitchen. She swept the dirt into a small pan, and threw it into the bin. She reorganised the few ornaments on display, dusting again, the newly-dusted shelves. She opened the windows wide to release the stale air. The weather was still full of summer, and a warm breeze brought with it the fragrance of the roses that covered the outer wall of her apartment. She was sad. She was anxious and afraid. Freddie had gone; he had left her a note, promising to return as soon as he could. But he had things to do. And he loved her and his family. He had even left them some money – not much, but whilst he had been working, he had syphoned off a tiny amount each month, knowing that it would be needed in the future. How right he was!
 
He was a good son. His bright and breezy personality would be missed – how he could make them laugh, even when times were hard! She had not picked up the signs; though, suddenly now remembering that last evening, he had held her gaze for just a moment too long. That was his goodbye. Oh, when would they hear from him?  A single tear fell; bucket loads had already fallen, but they had not brought him back.
 
Kathryn had told her about his plans, but insisted that she could not have stopped him from going. At least, by helping him, she had made him more safe, and better prepared. He would come back: he always kept his promises. For now, they would have to struggle on.
 
Kathryn, unlike Freddie, was a strongly-made girl, with a good physique – she had inherited it from her mother’s side; Freddie was older than his appearance suggested and, though fifteen - nearly sixteen - he could easily pass as a fourteen year old. But he made up for it with his common sense and advanced maturity – losing a father did that to a family; Freddie was the oldest son and knew what he had to do.
 
Their apartment, though fairly plain and meagrely furnished, was nevertheless, very clean, and tidy. Full of warmth, it was a real home, in which, the family’s love permeated every nook and cranny. In any case, most of the families around here were poor – they were not exceptional. Many of the fathers had left, travelling to neighbouring countries to find work. Sophia, her friend, had been lucky: the whole family had been relocated to Berlin with the bank. Most had to stay. War had ravaged the landscape. Tension was still in the air. Though only 45 kilometres from a sophisticated Dubrovnik, the border separating Croatia and Bosnia was still on fragile territory. She had even heard rumours that more trouble was brewing. But they had to get on; at least, their sewing and dress-making skills were useful; at least, they brought in some money, though barely enough on which to survive. But they would never give up; they had each other and they had friends, too. Freddie would not let them down; she knew it from the bottom of her heart.
 
 
 
 
Chapter 7
 
Freddie eventually got to his feet, though he continued to remain cautious: he was still quite near the Tunnel. Today, he would need to get as far away from it as possible. London would be his destination, for in a big city, one could hide – perhaps, even find work.
 
He had a map with him, which covered the south east, and London. He would start busking in a town en route, but not here in Folkestone – that would arouse suspicion, causing him to get picked up by the police. He brushed his clothes, removing all evidence from the night’s bed: twigs, leaves, insects and mud. He was on his way.
 
Country roads led him through villages and across fields. He found a shallow stream in which to wash and bathe – the cold did not bother him, as he wallowed in its gentle, soothing waters. They helped to heal his bruised and torn skin. He was enchanted by the green grass and heavily cultivated patchwork of land. At home, much of it would be left unsown, parched by the hot summer’s sun and devastated by war. Here, everything looked perfect: there were old, tumbled down buildings, not buildings torn apart by bombings raids and gun fire.
 
He went into a small shop and bought biscuits, bread, and milk. He needed to spend his money carefully, as he had very little. As he walked, he scoured the ground for coins that had been dropped or lost; he was amazed at how much he had found. One of his friends had given him some, too; in fact, he wondered where they were now, but he did have an address in London, at which they had promised to meet up, in case they got separated. It was well known to people from his country, although he had only found out about it on his travels through Italy.
 
Freddie looked dishevelled, and lost, even though there was a spring in his step. He knew that people studied him as he walked by, but had to keep his nerve. In a city or town, he would not stand out as much. He made it to Dorking, sleeping in bus shelters, resting on grassy verges, and hiding in woodland. He had travelled far and now felt desperately lonely – how he needed someone to talk to!
 
In the city centre, he found a spot on which to sit and earn a few coins from busking. This had been a part of his plan, but he had to rely his pan pipes – anything else would have been too cumbersome to bring. But he played a great tune – a gift he had inherited from his father. Tears welled in his eyes as he started to play; memories of home flooded into his mind. He looked sad and wistful; passers-by could hear his pain, as soft, and sombre melodies filled the air. He was well rewarded for his efforts. Perhaps, he would have enough for a train journey. If he did they same thing tomorrow, he could buy some new clothes. He was overjoyed. He could feel his father’s presence, helping him on his way.
 
 
 
 
Chapter 8
 
Henri studied the images of the illegal immigrants who had tried to leave France, heading for Folkestone, over the last few days. They created a new file for each one and many, having been caught once, would always try again. The young boy was not amongst them, so perhaps he had been lucky. He would put in for a transfer; this job was getting to him, making him uncomfortable and irritable. He realised that what they were doing was wrong, but knew that their actions were often triggered by desperation. Could he do anything to make things better?
 
‘Claude, did I tell you about the boy that I nearly caught the other night?’
 
‘No, you didn’t. You can’t catch them all – some are so slippery,’
 
‘But he was just like my son, Jean Paul. He was young and alone. What on earth was he doing out there? It can’t be safe.’
 
Claude glanced at Henri. He could tell that he was upset. They had come across this situation before. Children were too vulnerable. The world was a minefield for them, especially when they couldn’t speak the language and were travelling penniless.
 
‘I wanted to stop him, but knew he’d end up at Sangatte. Then, he’d try again. I wanted to tell him to go home, but I didn’t know why he was running.’
 
‘I don’t know how we can help them - maybe he was going to ask for asylum. I’m sure they’ll sort him out.’ Henri was clearly unconvinced, but said no more. Having a son of similar age had really made the boy’s dilemma affect him badly. One couldn’t get too involved; one had to keep a distance or the job would not get done.
 
 
 
 
Chapter 9
 
Freddie arrived in London. Waterloo Station was bustling with people. He was just one in a thousand. He looked around, shell shocked. Which way should he go? Of course, he had the address – perhaps, he that should be his first port of call. In broken English, he struggled to make himself understood.
 
‘St Martin’s Field?’
 
‘Jump on the Jubilee Line, mate – that’ll get you there!’ cried a man in a uniform. Freddie was not sure that he had understood the directions, but he headed towards the underground trains, towards which the man had pointed.
 
He was swept along with a tide of busy people; they all seemed to have a purpose, but their faces were not expressions of happiness. Many looked as he felt: tired, lost, alone, pensive. On the underground towards St Martin’s Field, he studied his companions in more detail. Many had their eyes closed; some read, oblivious to the crowds around them; others stared directly ahead, frightened to catch the glance of another. Where did he fit in?
 
As soon as the train reached his destination, Freddie leapt to daylight and planted himself on a patch outside the subway. He started to play his pan pipes; the tune this time was bright and lively - lower notes sustained, and interspersed with batches of high, bouncy sharps. The bemused commuters turned towards him, clearly enchanted by the ragged young boy, with an unusual
 
gift. He made enough money to last a few more days.  Now, if only he could find somewhere for the night. He needed to get going before the sun went down.
 
 
 
 
Chapter 10
 
St Martin’s Field, Number 349, did not exist. He paced up and down, searching for any door that looked hopeful. He checked the paper – perhaps it had been wrongly written. 348? 849? Disappointment shot through his heart. Where could he go? Sleeping rough was his only option.  He had a blanket with him, and a little bit of food. He had enough money for a hot burger, chips, and coffee. This would set him up for the night. Tomorrow was another day.
 
He just did not know where to lay his sleepy head. Darkness fell, more quickly than he had expected. In doorways of shops, under bridges – anywhere protected from the wind - he found vagrants settled for the night. There were men, women, and animals – even children. He joined them, but got moved on several times: even lost people found their own space, possessed and claimed their own piece of cold, inhospitable concrete. How he wished he was back home in his warm bed, safe and not alone. What was Kathryn doing now? And Petra? What about his lovely mother, and Anton? He would make things better for them; he just needed time.
 
He wandered about the streets, eventually coming across Covent Garden. He was struck by a huge, antiquated construction which seemed to house shops, cafes, and a small market. Gigantic steel girders, panelled with dirty glass, allowed light to penetrate through; the atmosphere was lively and warm. He decided to find some place to shelter there – at least he would be protected from wind and rain. The dark clouds which daubed the ever darkening sky surely signalled rain. But where could he go? He certainly did not want to be found in case of getting moved on again.
 
He made up his mind: he would stay around the building, looking for a safe haven, until it was very late; then, in some quiet spot, he would take refuge and hope that he could rest there, undisturbed.
 
At a café down some stairs, he marvelled at a group of musicians – highly skilled – who played for the people who sat at tables, eating, drinking, and talking. He knew that he could be one of them. Money was being collected for them in a hat. And the customers were generous! He watched as pound coins clinked upon other coins, making a heavy gain. Upstairs, in the vicinity of the building, he stumbled upon more entertainers – peculiar people, completely covered in a gold paint, who did not seem to move; he saw magicians, fire-eaters, clowns, and portrait artists. Even at this time of the day, it was vibrant. He knew what he could do to pass the time away until nightfall: play his pan pipes.
 
He needed to find his own space, away from the others. He had already found out what happened if you try to encroach upon another person’s territory! He decided to go just inside the building, where many people entered. He laid out his blanket and woollen hat, and began to play. His music was alive, full of his homeland memories: open fields, hot summer sun, exploding bombs, the love of his family,  climbing trees, catching fish, baking bread, sitting by the glowing embers of a winter’s fire and listening to the stories of old people, and of the friends he had made and lost. His soul was transported to another level, way above the struggle he was currently enduring.
 
Passers-by stopped to listen as this young boy played. The sounds he created wafted into everyone’s heart, as if they, too, shared his thoughts. Coins came toppling in, though until he had finished playing – almost 30 minutes later – he had been quite unaware of the effect he had produced. With eyes closed, this scruffy, fair haired kid, had not read their faces; had not witnessed their generosity, but now, he was stunned to the core. How could he, a simple pipe blower, earn so much? At home, this could not have happened. He felt so blessed. But Freddie was being watched. In the crowd which had formed, a pair of eyes stared menacingly at him. He was not alert to danger, because until now, in his travels, he had met only good fortune and kindness. What lay ahead?
 
 
 
 
Chapter 11
 
Freddie stuffed the money into his pockets, scooped up his blanket and hat, and smiled as he courteously thanked the people around him, trying to sound as British as possible. He felt as if everyone knew who he was – that he had no right to be there; that the police were on to him; that he was a criminal, with a backlog of crimes that he had committed. He started to panic, even though he knew that his behaviour was irrational. He skittered away from the scene, blending into the shadows like a chameleon. But, the eyes, still fixated upon him, were in pursuit. They followed his every move, not once losing their prey.
 
Freddie knew where he was going to hide. Earlier, he had identified some tall, green refuse bins. They were neatly arranged in a corner, away from the main walkways. They had already been emptied for the day, so he knew that no one would find him. One night there was all that he needed.
 
He was so tired. It had been a busy and eventful day. As he closed his eyes, hundreds of images flooded his mind. He wanted to see only black, so that he could rest. Before too long, he surrendered to sleep.  He lay there huddled up, swaddled in his friendly blanket; comforted by the hope which still filled his heart. But he was not alone. Another breath came in close, invading his space. Gloved hands tried to release the blanket that was gripped closely against his chin, keeping out the cold, dusty air. Freddie stirred. He was disturbed, but continued to sleep. The hands moved more aggressively, impatient to gain the cache. Freddie’s eyes sprung open. He instinctively kicked the scoundrel away, landing a heavy boot in his stomach. He heard the victim wince. Freddie jumped his feet, his body now in a fighter’s stance, ready to take on the enemy. A figure, quite slight, smaller than him, came to his feet. Their eyes met. To his horror, it was a girl; she looked older than him, but so pathetic. A tear started to fall down her face, stained with grime; she was desperate, too. Two fragile people stood there, not speaking. He pulled out some coins and offered them to her. Hesitantly, she claimed them.
 
‘Thanks. I’m sorry – I shouldn’t have’ Her voice was croaky and timid.
 
‘OK, ‘Freddie offered, trying to remember some appropriate words. ‘Enough? You, OK?’
 
‘Can I stay with you, for now? I won’t harm you. I just need help.’
 
He nodded. His instinct told him to trust her. Together, they snuggled under the scrappy piece of wool. Shared body heat kept them warm. Had he found a friend? Who was she? What was her story? Perhaps, tomorrow, he would find out.
 
 
 
 
 
Chapter 12
 
They were abruptly awoken.
 
‘Oy, you two – outa here. Hop it!’
 
They had been found by a cleaner. They scrambled to their feet, gathered the few possessions they carried, and fled.
 
‘Where to?’ she asked, now breathless as they descended the steps at the back entrance. Surprisingly, she was expecting him to lead the way.
 
‘Name?’ Freddie enquired, trying to sound friendly, being cautious and defensive had been vital for survival, so it was difficult to let his guard down, to be relaxed.
 
‘Jo – short for Josephine,’ she replied. ‘Where, now?’
 
He was taken aback, because he was used to looking after himself; this girl, Jo, seemed more confused, and insecure, than he was.
 
‘Well – uhFreddie,’ he said, coyly, pointing at himself. ‘No much English – jus’ a little.’
 
‘Where’re you from, then?’ Jo asked, more confidently, now that she had some advantage.
 
‘Bosnia, near Dubrovnik.’
 
‘Never heard of it. Why’re you here? You look too young to be travelling alone.’
 
‘I have 15 nearly 16 years,’ he stated, proudly, as if it explained everything.
 
‘I heard you playing the recorder – last night, in Convent Garden; it sounded beautiful.’ Sheepishly, she added: ‘You made a lotof money. I had none. Thought you’d be able to get some more. I’ve no chance....’ She did not properly finish her line.
 
Freddie stared at her, intently, trying to work out what she was saying and to make sense of her gibberish. What should he do now? He liked the way she looked: she had a small rounded face, freckles, a tiny nose, and sparkling eyes, which seemed to light up as she talked.
 
‘I know somewhere we could go – somewhere we’d be safe. I’ve been there for months – with some others. They’re ok, honest. ‘
 
He knew that he had to trust her, so he followed her up many roads and side streets, until they came to a row of garages, which backed on to an apartment block; it reminded him of home and yet, it was seemingly less friendly. Broken bottles, wrecked cars, and other debris littered the whole area. Some of the windows on the lower levels of the block had been boarded up. Faces peered out discreetly from behind drab-looking curtains. He felt intimidated, exposed.
 
‘Are you sure? It’s ok, really?’
 
‘Yes – it’s fine, don’t worry. Just follow me.’
 
She went round to the back of the garage block, clearly familiar with the place. She opened a door which led into one of the garages. Inside, there were seats, a sofa, cushions, thread-bare mats, empty bottles, and a make-shift bed, on which slept a rough-looking boy.
 
‘That’s Ben,’ she whispered. ‘He’s a friend – the best! You’ll like him.’
 
‘But, me?’ Freddie knew he was invading someone else’s space. Would he be made welcome? He was nervous. Jo invited him to sit down. She gave him a bottle of lemonade. He then realised the extent of his hunger and thirst. He drank the lemonade as if, without it, he would die. She produced a packet of biscuits. He was overcome by her generosity. It was such a relief to find kindness. The city had not been hostile, but he was alone and fearful. He was a stranger, and he had entered the country illegally. But he meant no harm. And his stay would only be temporary: returning to his homeland was all he hoped for – he just wanted to earn some money – to see his family through these hard times until more work could be found at home.
 
Ben was stirring. Asleep, he had not been a threat. As he focussed on the intruder, he eyes bored into Freddie’s heart, which silently, had started to pound quite violently. Freddie felt the urge to back off and run. Jo reached for his hand, sensing his fear; she gripped it tightly, rooting him to the spot. Ben suddenly jumped up. Jo put out her hand, defensively, almost pushing Ben away.
 
‘Calm down, Ben – he’s alright. Don’t worry. He just needs a break. He’s one of us.’
 
‘I’ve told you not to bring people here.’ Jo was defiant; she seemed unbothered by Ben’s outburst.
 
‘Sorry,’ Freddie volunteered. ‘I not be here. My fault.’ He pulled out some coins from his deep jacket pockets, as a peace offering. They were greedily accepted  by Ben who stuffed them into his money belt after counting them: two pounds – that meant bread, milk and jam. ‘Thanks.’ The atmosphere lightened. Freddie made for the door. ‘No, don’t go,’ Ben said, his voice, less aggressive.’ If Jo says you’re ok, you’re ok. Sorry about earlier. You know how it is.’ Freddie did not know how it was, but over the coming months, he would surely find out. But at this moment in time, a new friendship had been made. With it, hope grew.
 
 
 
 
Chapter 13
 
Calais seemed a lifetime away. For Henri Duvall, it was still alive in his mind; he could not rest properly; his memory of that young boy’s fear tormented him at night, and disturbed him in the day. He started to make enquiries. He wanted to find out more about the people who traversed his country, en route to hope. He was lucky: he lived in a free country; he had a job; his son had a future. The Duvall family was united; they had each other; his son would never have to run for his life, for his freedom.
 
He looked at the faces of the captives that stared at him from his office wall: people from a myriad of countries and cultures – Afghanistan, Poland, Slovakia, Hungary, Bosnia, Iran – people, human beings, with many different stories to tell. Sangatte was barely a refuge; it held just a fusion of frustrated, desolate individuals – all like caged animals, desperate to break out. But how could he, one man, really help? The Authorities were trying to help, but the problem was insurmountable. If they closed Sangatte, as indeed they had threatened to do so, what would happen to these victims – because that is surely what most of them were or had become?
 
At work, he had become quite a talking point. Henri Duvall, for some reason, had become a changed man. But the solution to his dilemma was still to be found.
 
 
 
 
Chapter 14
 
Freddie read the advertisement that had been neatly written and placed outside the restaurant window: ’Wanted – reliable staff for general duties. 30 hours per week. Good rates of pay.’ Freddie should have been optimistic. This was a reasonable job for an unskilled worker. He could get by with the knowledge he now had of English. But he would have to wait and see. He looked at his reflection in the window; he swept back his hair and straightened out his clothes. He put a smile on his face and a sparkle in his eyes. He was good at this part. He knocked firmly on the door – assertive, confident. A small, Chinese man opened it.
 
‘Hello! What can I do for you?’ a quiet, friendly voice enquired.
 
‘I come about the job. On the window. You need staff? I am a very good worker. Experience,’ Freddie offered in an equally warm tone.
 
The Chinaman stared at him intently, trying to read his expression and to make sense of Freddie’s pleading eyes – that truth he could not hide.
 
‘You worked before – in restaurant?’
 
‘Yes, many times,’ Freddie answered eagerly.
 
‘Why you want job? Where you come from?’
 
Freddie was immediately defensive.
 
‘Bosnia.’
 
‘No – I mean last job. Why you leave?’
 
They were still standing in the doorway, not yet over the threshold.
 
‘They had too much staff – I was new, most new,’ he hoped that sounded reasonable.
 
‘You got permit?’ The Chinaman did not take his eyes off Freddie’s face; one had to be really careful about new employees – he had met several trouble-makers in the past. Freddie did not look like a trouble-maker, but Win Wang Lang was unsure, hesitant.
 
‘Yes – right here.’ Freddie searched for non-existent papers. He had been through this exercise so many times before that he had become a fine actor.
 
‘Must be at home. Can bring tomorrow.’
 
‘Sorry, mate,’ Win Wang Lang said, quietly, ashamedly. He knew the story now: no papers, no permit. The risk would be too great. He had been given a life here in London; he could not take a chance, even though he could see that the boy was good and desperate for work. He had been there himself; he was not a stranger to pain.
 
Freddie left, promising to return with the necessary permit. Both men knew that this would not happen. He walked lazily up the road towards Charing Cross Station. Cutting up the side route, he went over the bridge towards the South Bank Arts Centre, and settled on his usual patch near the river’s edge. His blanket was still a friend; the musical pipe still brought him freedom. Passers-by still threw coins into his weather-beaten hat. His tune had not changed: it was melancholy, and plaintive, penetrating the heart-strings of any listeners who had known sadness or pain. In the distance, he could see huge metal constructions, tall office buildings, boats cruising with cargo and tourists – and it dawned on Freddie, as the lights started to come on, ready for the transition into night, which he would never be able to stay here, in England. Thoughts of home flooded into his mind, as they always did when he played; suddenly, he felt a strong urge to go back – no matter what lay ahead.
 
A smile broke through the lips that created such harmony, as he found a new sense of calm.
 
He had been sending money home, regularly. Of course, times had been hard: he often had no work, but always earned some from the music he created. It was more than he would have gained at home, but he had now reached a crossroads in his life. Like Henri Duvall, he had to turn a corner; which way should he go?
 
 
 
 
Chapter 15
 
Freddie’s mother sat in a chair by the window of her sparse room. She, like Freddie, watched as electric lights came on to meet the growing darkness. She often sat there for hours, praying that he would return. She could not write to him – he had never given her an address, perhaps for fear of getting found out. But he did keep in contact and the money he sent was a blessing. She missed him terribly. The whole family missed him. The factory at which he had worked was now doing quite well; she felt sure that if he came home he would find work. But how could she tell him?
 
Through these lean months, a British woman, Liz Stephens, had helped her a great deal. At first, the community were reluctant to let her become part of their lives; they felt that she did not understand their culture, but it was their pride that Liz had found so hard to break down. Little by little, she had made herself useful. She knew that this was a wounded country. After years of war, and torturing of good people, they found it difficult, if not impossible, to rely on anyone, save themselves.
 
She had become a VSO officer after gaining experience of the social services and welfare departments in England. She really wanted to help. She had watched their suffering transmitted daily on the news programmes. She could not stand by any longer without doing something to help.
 
She had been in Bosnia for about eighteen months, when she decided that it was time to return home. She had tried to make a difference: she wanted to set up systems for helping these people, but received little encouragement from the authorities. It was an impossible task. She wanted to set up a community health centre and organise the local people to support and help each other. They were apathetic, the stuffing had been knocked out of them by the agony war had inflicted; they were emotionally, physically, spiritually, and mentally drained, tormented by the experiences they had endured and all the horror they had witnessed: man’s inhumanity to man; evil unleashed. They were fragile, almost frightened to live; traumatised by the awful encounter with death.
 
However, the future looked promising, as more men gained employment. Slowly, people started to rebuild their lives and fresh new seeds of hope had been sown.  Liz became involved with a very poor family whose son had run away to England. The mother missed him terribly, worried that they had lost him forever. The older sister, Kathryn, had become a real Godsend for her, allowing her to weave her way into the lives of the villagers. She had even become one of the key workers at the new centre. Though they received few resources, she always made the best of the situation – being sensible and practical. She was the new hope for the future. Kathryn was young and life-affirming: she wanted to bury the past and embrace the new day. She was strong, instilling strength in her family.
 
‘Mama, Freddie will be alright – he is alright. Just hold on. And he will come back. You know he’s alive. He’s doing what he can to help.’
 
‘But Kath, why can’t we write to him? I am getting old and tired. I need to see him. Oh, to hear his laughter.you know, I just miss him so much. Haven’t we suffered enough? He’s my son. One day, when you have a son, you’ll know what I mean.’
 
Nothing would convince her that he would return. Her hope was so diminished, so fearful – dare she now hope? And she was ailing; her leg had been badly damaged by shrapnel from a bomb blast; it slowed her down. Losing Tomas, her husband, her lifelong friend, was also more than she could bear. Her children made her keep going: she owed it to them to be strong, but at times, she felt so burdened that even getting up in the morning was hard. Would Freddie come home? Liz had promised to help. Would she succeed?
 
 
 
 
Chapter 16
 
Liz had told the family and Health Centre that she would return to England to try and raise money to assist with their work. They said they did not want her charity, but Liz was undeterred. Furthermore, she had good connections at home; she knew her local church would support her. She also had friends and family who could pool their energies and, perhaps, set up a long-term support network. They could help practically by spending time in Bosnia; they could collect books and medical supplies, too. Liz knew exactly where the villagers’ needs lay – first hand experience was invaluable. If only she could break down their resistance.
 
Liz had promised to look for Freddie. She knew it would be a virtually impossible task, but she did have some useful information. She had photographs. She knew that he had planned to enter England via Calais and Folkestone as an illegal immigrant. She knew that he was sending money to them from London. And he played the tin whistle; in fact, Kathryn had said that he always carried it with him in memory of his father. She had contacts in the Calais and London, having worked in the social services and welfare departments.
 
Liz had said goodbye to her friends on a hot July morning. She waited at Dubrovnik Airport for a flight to Zagreb, and then on to London. Though only a relatively short distance from Bosnia, and her village, the atmosphere here was completely different. This place was bustling with life. Life was less hard. Tourists were in abundance, bringing in with them the fruits of a cosmopolitan world. It was a beautiful city, blessed with an historic walled town, drenched in history and culture. She was determined to spend more time here on her return. For now, getting home was on her mind. Her journey back proved to be easy, but she came into London on a day that was black.
 
London had been bombed by terrorists. The capital was nervous and stunned. She headed for a relative’s house in Wimbledon; it was going to be a base whilst she searched for Freddie. With his mother failing, she felt that getting Freddie home was vital. Her Aunt Janet was always pleased to see her. She knew, too, that she would help her track down this missing Bosnian boy – if it was at all possible.
 
Janet greeted her with a wide, warm smile. She was a woman of about fifty five years, with white curly hair, neatly swept back, and a chubby, round face. Her eyes always met people with a sparkle. She truly welcomed Liz on that sad and incredible day. Janet had a mission, a job to do: helping Liz would be a fantastic opportunity. She had a huge amount of energy, with nothing until now to absorb it.
 
Janet told her about the terrifying and sad events of the morning. Liz had been perplexed by the large number of security guards at the airport; something was clearly wrong. Would they ever find Freddie? If he had been caught up in the tragedy, would he ever be properly identified? How frightening it must be for people like him at this time. Her resolve to find him grew instantly stronger.
 
Would that resolve be sufficient in their new plight?
 
 
 
 
Chapter 17
 
Freddie had been alone in the garage when the loud explosions had gone off. He could not comprehend what had happened, but a cold fear travelled through his thin body. His instinct was to run, to hide, and to bury himself in the specially-made shelter he had built. His ruined homeland came vividly to mind. He was confused. Was he going mad? The sounds he had heard – no, this could not be happening in London! He ran out into the nearby street. People were gathering. Smoke could be seen billowing in the distance. Sirens could be heard. He could imagine the panic taking place.
 
Jo came rushing along the sidewalk, pushing through the crowd until she had Freddie in her sight. She grabbed his hand and pulled him towards the garage. They entered, hugged each other tightly. No words were spoken. They collapsed on to the single armchair. After about five minutes, though it seemed much longer, Jo told him about what she had seen.
 
She talked about people falling out of Aldgate Station, covered in blood; their clothes torn; their screams, wild and desperate, and how they had pierced the unnervingly quiet air. Later – only minutes - there was chaos: people running about madly, others collapsing on the ground, some being supported by passers-by. Police, fire engines, ambulances, and paramedics moved about purposefully, trying to suppress the inevitable panic and near-hysteria. She had not waited there to see more: she had run as fast as her legs could carry her back to their home. Where were the others? Did Freddie know what their mates had been planning for that day? Jo was in a state of shock. Her heart beat frantically; her hands, when Freddie clasped them, were cold and clammy; she had tears in her eyes.
 
Freddie still could not believe it: the details did not fit: this was London, not the Middle East, not Israel, not Iraq. What should he do? He held Jo. He could not speak. He, too, was shaking and afraid. He loved walking the streets of London; he had felt safe there; he had grown to love this place that unknowingly had offered him a temporary sanctuary. What would tomorrow bring?
 
 
 
 
Chapter 18
 
Liz, too, was in a state of shock. She had left one war torn country to find another being ravaged by hate. She thought about this young boy, barely able to speak the language, struggling to get by in an alien city. Where was he now? She left no time in contacting Henri Duvall’s department in Calais: it was her first port of call. She knew Claude Macon – he had working with her in London during her training days. Part of her work had involved helping refugees and asylum seekers to settle in Slough and London. She had been told by her London contacts that he had since returned to France. It was a thin thread, but one she had to pursue.
 
Claude received an e-mail from her. He remembered the earnest Liz, who had been so frustrated at being able to do so little for the people she was supposed to be helping. Many of them were still so traumatised by their experiences that she had difficulty    communicating with them; she longed to understand them. If she could do so, she felt she could gain their confidence; she would become much better at her job. This was the reason for her secondment to Bosnia.
 
Claude studied the words in front of him. Modern technology was a marvellous thing. He had heard about the bomb attacks in London. He knew that such technology was also a very dangerous thing. He wanted to help Liz find this boy, whose family loved him. He should not have fled to London illegally, but he was clearly a good person, whose only motivation was to relieve the hardship of his poor family. He called across to Henri; something had struck him about the boy’s description:
 
‘Henri, that boy you were worried about – you know, the one who reminded you of Jean Paul.. ?’
 
‘ Eh? Oh, yes. Sure.’
 
‘What did he look like? I’ve got a message here from a friend in London; she’s enquiring about a boy who must have come through here en route to England.’
 
‘Let me see,’ Henri replied, more animated than Claude had seen him for ages.
 
‘Yes, yes – that could be him! Wait for the picture. Tell her to hurry up with it.’
 
‘Good idea – I’ll ask her for it.’
 
Liz was delighted by their speedy reply. She was sitting in the London office, just off Marylebone High Street.  It was a hot day, London was quiet. Because of yesterday’s events, many workers had stayed at home. She felt that, with Freddie, there was not a minute to lose. Had he not been through enough already? She scanned through the images on the screen, trying to match up her photograph.
 
When she wandered out in the mid-day heat, she headed for Covent Gardens. This was a place in which she knew musicians could be found, and, more importantly, concealed with make-up and costumes if need be. He could certainly operate here, under the guise of a London street entertainer. She had brought his photograph with her, and presented it to as many people as she could. Had they seen this young boy, perhaps playing some pan pipes? Her search proved fruitless. She returned to the office. Before leaving, she had sent an image through to Claude. She was surprised by their quick response, when she found another message waiting for her.
 
‘Yes, the boy seems familiar. A colleague, Henri Duvall, ran into him last September. He got away, and was not amongst those caught during September. Must have made it to England. Seemed like a good kid – very young. Too young to be crossing on his own. Let me know how you get on. Henri’s very concerned. Talk soon, Claude.’
 
‘Great! Now we’re getting somewhere. He must be here – that’s where Kathryn said he was heading.’ Liz was talking aloud. She was overheard by Mark, a Social Science student who was spending the summer getting some work experience. He latched on to Liz’s comment.
 
‘You sound pleased.’
 
‘Yeah, I am. I’m trying to locate a boy for a family I’ve been working with in Bosnia. His name’s Freddie. I think we’ve had a breakthrough,’ Liz replied, enthusiastically.
 
‘Can I help? Detective Plod at your service.’
 
‘Wow! Yes – if you’ve got the time – I’d be grateful.’
 
Liz filled him in on the details. It would be good to have another brain and another pair of legs. There would be a lot of walking to do.
 
They decided to tour the streets, looking out for beggars and entertainers. Liz had deduced that he can not have been earning that much money, as he did not send that much home. She knew that, without papers and credentials. It would be difficult to get a regular job. Since the Chinese Winkle Pickers’ Case, the government had started to crack down on unscrupulous employers. They were now frightened of getting caught or drawing attention to themselves. Pain-staking work would be needed – there was no other option. Claude had promised to use his contacts to check through police records in London, too. At least, they now had a photograph. How long had Freddie got? They were closing in. Would they be lucky?
 
 
 
 
Chapter 19
 
Together, they paced the walkways of Piccadilly, Leicester Square, Camden, Carnaby Street, Soho, Chinatown, and back to Covent Garden. They tried the popular bridges and railway stations, though getting near them was virtually impossible with all the forensic teams the Emergency Services that were in some of the main tourist areas, like King’s Cross. They wore out the soles of their shoes as they ventured up Kensington High Street and Knightsbridge. They were becoming disillusioned when one of the passers-by they talked to seemed to know Freddie’s face. He was sure he had seen him in Covent Gardens – maybe some months ago, but he remembered he mournful way he played the pan pipes. It had struck him deeply, as he was also a musician.
 
Hope! They felt close. Covent Gardens demanded a return visit.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Chapter 20
 
Liz and Mark split up and, armed with a photograph each, and mobile phone, toured the place, stopping everyone they could. The cleaner recognised him, though he could not be absolutely sure – so many youngsters were found hiding in every nook and cranny.
 
Other entertainers, though most were not out because of the tragedy, also knew his face.  They would have to sit tight and wait. They met for coffee in the café below the stairs – ironically, it was where Freddie had first seen the musicians; when he had first realised that he could survive.
 
Their patience paid off. Freddie’s sad and resonant notes filtered out the noise of shoppers and left behind a tune of beauty. Liz and Mark looked at each other. At that very moment, they both realised that he had been found. His music had captivated them - they felt rooted to the spot.  He played with such skill, creating sounds which plucked the heart strings. Indeed, over these months, Freddie’s expertise had grown. As he had matured and struggled with life, the richness of his music had developed. He was able to give the essence of his being to the tunes that he played. Much of it was original. He certainly possessed a unique gift, which had become increasingly precious to both him and those who loved himlike Jo.
 
Liz got up and walked slowly towards him. He was sitting cross-legged on the ground, near the steps, on a tatty blanket. There was no hat for money. He just played, with tears clearly visible in his eyes. He was totally absorbed, oblivious to those around him. Liz studied him for a while, getting to know the person he was.
 
Freddie was playing for all those people who were alone, who were lost, who had been murdered, who had been maimed, and whose lives had been damaged. He played for his homeland, for the children, for his family. He played for his world, that he saw being destroyed by evil people, created by things he did not understand.  Suddenly, he felt totally alone and afraid.
 
‘Freddie?’ Liz voiced his name softly, clearly. She pronounced it with a Bosnian accent. He looked up, surprised. He did not see a familiar face. She spoke again.
 
‘Freddie, I’m here to take you home. Your mother’s ill. She needs you. Your family needs you.’
 
He jumped up, defensively. Should he run? She put out a hand to restrain him. Mark appeared. He blocked his way, but not in a menacing, threatening way. Complete shock had registered on his face: he turned white. He stood still. Liz put her arm around him and as they walked back to her office, she told him the story of her travels, and of her connection with his family.
 
When they got inside, he collapsed into a chair. Relief overcame him, and he burst out crying. He had to get back to Jo; he could not leave her; she was his best friend. Liz would not let him out of her sight. They all planned to find Jo, and if possible, take her back with them to Bosnia. Even Mark, who had only known them for a matter of hours, was completely drawn in. He, too, would go to Bosnia. He decided that it would be beneficial to his studies. And, as for Henri Duvall – well, he was so pleased that he danced on the tables in Calais, much to the amazement of all his colleagues. But this was hope. This gave them all hope – that eventually good would prevail. The young boy had been found and would be returned to the family that loved him. No more sleepless nights. In fact, Henri had received an offer to work for Amnesty International. A new sense of direction and purpose beckoned him on; the new day truly dawned on that day.
 
Liz managed to get a message through to her Centre in Bosnia. She told them that a very gifted musician had been found, safe and well. They would see him in a few days time. This journey had come to an end, but Freddie was sure that others lay ahead. For now, the book would be closed. But the buds of much love had been opened. Even Mark had Liz had grown especially fond of each other. The back drop of two devastated lands made their friendship even more valuable in the darkness through which it had emerged. Their day had begun.  
 
JULIE HUGHES JULY 2005