The Camion

By D. D. Cairns

This story, The Camion, is based upon a letter published in the Irish Daily Mail in September 2010. Its characters, events and experiences have taken place in actual homeless units both in the United Kingdom and France. The author was upon assignment in London to research a manuscript that he was in the middle of constructing, and needed help from the local community in order to achieve this end. He does find help from the eventual hero of the story, an African man named Wole, who turns out to be an illegal immigrant residing here in New Cross, London, SE14. Our hero Wole, it is to be found, has a complete fascination with anything concerning lorries, which is derived from his economical/environmental upbringing in Nigeria. But a violent incident involving a fellow homeless man, who also inhabits the homeless unit in SE14, sees Wole make a hurried departure toward France, afraid of deportation back to Nigeria by British authorities; but unknown to him, the author is hot on his heels in pursuit. Wole, as the story unfolds, manages to achieve his dream of becoming a long distant lorry driver here in Europe, and also finds the real love of his life in Connie, who happens to be an international businesswoman, and who assists in helping him achieve this dream by sponsoring him into the transportation business. The author too, happens to find love within the story, by falling in love with his French teacher Maud; while extending his research into the use of cultural idiom, which he argues, is better perceived within its philosophical context by an individual's willingness to accept suffering. With this acceptance therefore, comes a closer comprehension to the spiritual side of one's life, and where wisdom and enlightenment may bring the individual into the realms of a more positive, contented and fulfilling lifetime experience. Finally, Wole and the author eventually meet up in a bar in Marseille with some of the story's other characters, yet waiting for them at the end of this story is a twist, and a sting in the tail for one of those characters; but whose tail is waiting to be stung; is it the author's?!

• Language: English
• Publisher: A H Stockwell
• Release date: Oct 10, 2016
• ISBN: 9780722347072

Book preview

The Camion

D. D. Cairns

ARTHUR H. STOCKWELL LTD

Torrs Park, Ilfracombe, Devon, EX34 8BA

Established 1898

www.ahstockwell.co.uk

2016 digital version converted and published by

Andrews UK Limited

www.andrewsuk.com

© D. D. Cairns, 2016

First published in Great Britain, 2016

The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright holder.

An Overview

This story, The Camion, is based upon a letter published in the Irish Daily Mail in September 2010, and can be read as prologue. Its characters, events and experiences have taken place in actual homeless units both in the United Kingdom and France. The author was upon assignment in London to research a manuscript that he was in the middle of constructing, and needed help from the local community in order to achieve this end. He does find help from the eventual hero of the story, an African man named Wole, who turns out to be an illegal immigrant residing here in New Cross, London, SE14. Our hero Wole, it is to be found, has a complete fascination with anything concerning lorries, which is derived from his economical/environmental up bringing in Nigeria. But a violent incident involving a fellow homeless man, who also inhabits the homeless unit in SE14, sees Wole make a hurried departure toward France, afraid of deportation back to Nigeria by British authorities; but unknown to him, the author is hot on his heels in pursuit. Wole, as the story unfolds, manages to achieve his dream of becoming a long distant lorry driver here in Europe, and also finds the real love of his life in Connie, who happens to be an international businesswoman, and who assists in helping him achieve this dream by sponsoring him into the transportation business. The author too, happens to find love within the story, by falling in love with his French teacher Maud; while extending his research into the use of cultural idiom, which he argues, is better perceived within its philosophical context by an individual’s willingness to accept suffering. With this acceptance therefore, comes a closer comprehension to the spiritual side of one’s life, and where wisdom and enlightenment may bring the individual into the realms of a more positive, contented and fulfilling lifetime experience. Finally, Wole and the author eventually meet up in a bar in Marseille with some of the story’s other characters, yet waiting for them at the end of this story is a twist, and a sting in the tail for one of those characters; but whose tail is waiting to be stung; is it the authors?!

I am the love that dare not speak its name.

Lord Alfred Douglas.

Prologue

I, too, am one of the many who have been homeless (Mail) and look back on my experience as an education, a journey, a spiritual awakening.

We walked the banks of the Seine and the Liffey by night and had to face the challenges that mainstream society never offers us, to find adequate shelter, to seek out individuals who are experiencing difficulties that are similar to my own, to find a decent meal, to rest safely.

These challenges are the basic skills we humans have in our survival kit, and it’s great to have to rekindle these natural, dormant, innate emotions and put them to the test.

The charities that operate the hostels are funded by taxpayers, as well as the drop in centres and free dinner places. People are employed full-time and this supports the merry go around or ‘normal living’.

I wouldn’t change my experience of homelessness for the world. I’ve cleaned boats on the Cote d’Azur, and received wonderful generosity from people I never even known.

In my experience of life, there would be untold people ready and willing to give generously to people who are need of something.

D. D. Cairns.

Irish Daily Mail, 21.09.10

Chapter One

A wet house is a term used to describe a homeless hostel where alcohol is allowed to be consumed. In this particular wet house however, there were no locks upon the doors, in fact, anyone could just walk into your room completely uninvited. You could also see signs of physical damage behind some of these doors as well, for many of them have looked as if they had been used as battering blocks for feet and fists in the past in order to vent frustrations. My door handle always felt grubby and grimy upon touch, even after cleaning, it still felt grubby and grimy upon touch. The room always seemed to smell of stale tobacco and dampness, for the stale smoky air hung and hovered like an unseen cloud that clung to every fibre of the wall. Once these walls had been painted in bright light colours, but now had faded drab and dreary, for the walls themselves had been decorated in personalized subjective graffiti. Names, dates and hates, along with other various negative inscriptions, which only personified to me that of troubled minds, of where only one positive inscription was worth remembering. Night times are the worst here in this wet house, because you can hear things at night. For you could just make out the faint sob of sadness, the whimpering of a child, or the sound of lovemaking; you can hear things at night here in this wet house.

Our teacher once told our class, that when men and women go to prison they cry, they all cry, not about the incarnation mind, but about how their lives have eventually turned out; this must be like prison, I have never been to prison before in my life, but still, this must be like prison. The corridors at night times are the worst in some of these places, for they frightened me; I’m a grown man, but still, they frighten me. Disturbed minds can create disturbed emotions, and where sometimes you may see the distant shadows of shady silhouettes dwelling in darkened corners. At night times they seem to play, for these lonely shadows have now exaggerated themselves into grotesque shapes by their exposure to poor lighting, that in turn, throw creepy horrible shadows that sliver and slide down lifeless walls; homeless hostels can be frightening places! Some people see this experience as a journey, ‘You’ve had the good times; now you have the bad.’ A way of getting to know yourself ‘You’ll find yourself in here’; or something spiritual, ‘The more you cut a diamond, the brighter it shines’. Yet, for many of the charity organizations that work our streets, they tend to come from a religious background and so, in turn, run their own individual charities accordingly to their own individual moral beliefs. To me it felt like being lost between two worlds, which seemed to run directly parallel to one another; the world of the needy, juxtaposing that of the needed. A philosophical world, submerged in social idiom and home spun philosophies, which never seem to be fully understood nor grounded, in order to tap into the rich vein of spirituality that weaves its way through them like a golden thread through our own sub-conscious. Outside the window of my room I could just make out the faint conversation of male voices; I was to hear many conversations of male voices here in this wet house.

A pound an hour for labouring work, now that’s absolutely bang out of order, this is 2016 not 1816! groaned Sparky, now trying to steady himself upon hearing such absurdity.

Well that includes food and some drinks Sparks, added Murphy, now trying unconvincingly to do some justice toward the manipulation that was now taking place here in this wet house, what with a smirking grin and the shrug of his shoulders.

Sparky just stood there staring at him blankly, completely unmoved by the suggestion, but most of all, bewildered upon how his roommate could defend such morality. Upon noticing Sparky’s tenseness, Murphy tried to smooth matters over by offering his roommate a swig of his cider, to dampen down the outrage that he could now see rising within Sparky’s blotched complexion.

What drinks would they be then? moaned Sparky tiredly, as he began to gulp down a generous amount of Murphy’s extra strength cider, or more commonly known within this area as the ‘Electric soup’!

Summer had just arrived here to this multicultural street here in South East London, which is hidden away behind tiny parks and leafy lanes, of New Cross, SE14. This particular street is lined and dotted with various beech and maple trees, and where, we see low bricked terraced garden walls displaying various coloured plants, that personify their owners’ own indigenous cultures. The intensive roar of the Old Kent Road seems a million miles away from here, only the odd passing of a lorry, or the rattle of a distant train, breaking bird song silence.

This 1950s terraced house was originally designed with three bedrooms, but had now been converted into six. The house was under refurbishment Mustafa the Turk style, and where the old working kitchen interior had been removed for renovation some five weeks prior, and as of now, had not been replaced. This had given rise to tensions within the household, and so therefore, quarrels had broken out among the tenants, due to the very fact they had nowhere else to cook, or even to clean their cooking utensils after finishing with their cooking. The two Nigerian tenants Rotti and Akeba who occupied the roof space, were both outraged about the total lack of respect that was being shown to them by the landlord, in regards basic human decency, that they felt was not only being displayed to them as individuals, but also toward all the other tenants that were also living here in the wet house in New Cross, SE14. For the two of them saw it that Mustafa the Turk, was not only being disrespectful to them regarding their own individual culture, but also being disrespectful to humanity as a whole, and in the way he treated homeless people in general. They would often argue that if this kind of manipulation was to be carried out in Africa, it would not only be a very dangerous thing for him to do personally, but also have a very negative effect upon the spirit of the community in general. Rotti would from time to time blow his top, and then come running down the stairs screaming and shouting like a man possessed.

If this was in Africa man, if this was Africa, he would be killed man, killed. That Mustafa is a bad, bad man, bad man, no respect, no respect for people! He would then continue to repeat himself over and over again, until eventually he would tire upon hearing his own words, and then disappear back up the staircase mumbling and moaning to himself in regards horrible microwaved food, and all those awful take away meals he was eating. Bad food man - bad food! he would continue, thus, making himself even more irritated and agitated as he went.

His room partner Akebi, upon the other hand, was the complete opposite of Rotti. He was a musician, and had always showed aloofness toward any of the household affairs regarding Mustafa the Turk; yet would from time to time pass comment when walking past Sparky’s and Murphy’s room, when off to a rehearsal or gig or something along these lines. He would just gently tap upon their door if it was closed, and then pop his head around for everyone to see, laugh, shake his head from side to side, and then mutter a few words regarding Mustafa’s lack of respect toward our humanity, and then disappear out of the front door laughing to himself in that familiar high pitched tone, which is so characteristic of many African people when referring to lack of respect.

Mustafa the Turk was ignorant to all the pleas of the tenants living here in this wet house in New Cross, SE14, for him the place offered emergency accommodation only, a bed for the night and nothing more. He ran other ‘hostels’, but they weren’t hostels in the community sense, more in the financial sense. Mustafa would rent accommodation off private house owners, sign a contract, and then turn the house into a homeless unit, arguing that if he rented the accommodation from someone else, then he could use that accommodation for whatever he liked. He would have an agreement with the local outreach centres, who were dealing with the homeless community on a day to day basis, and then pull up in his transit van at that particular outreach centre, and then whisk the people off to his emergency accommodation, which was all ready and waiting for them to move into. Some of the local outreach centres wouldn’t deal with him, others would, but he didn’t care either way, as long as he got the people cleared from the police, and then that person was eligible for housing benefits, then it didn’t really matter to him whatsoever. He would then drive that person personally off to the local council offices, buy him or her a jerk chicken and chips, then wait outside the offices until the individual had signed over their housing benefits payments into his bank account; and then drive that person back to one of the many hostels that he was running, happy and content with the business that he had just accomplished for himself.

The moral argument or polemics about this matter were debatable for some people, but nevertheless, he provided a roof over people’s heads, when there wasn’t a roof over people’s heads, so he didn’t want to listen to all the ethical stuff, for as far as he was concerned, he provided a service, a need, when there wasn’t anything available elsewhere for any of the homeless people. One of the other places he rented was high upon a hill, only the Crystal Palace transmitter topping its summit. The views from here were very calming, for they stretched way out into the Kent countryside, for even the gothic water tower atop Shooter’s Hill could be seen from here, even on a dull rainy day.

This place had various broken windows, one toilet between twenty, a tiny kitchen that regularly saw a queue, a queue that wound wind itself away from its entrance, and then outward and onward toward an old rickety staircase. The residents in this queue held pots and pans in their hands, along with various other cutlery items that were crammed inside of them, ready and waiting for their turn at the stove. The food that they carried was held in plastic shopping bags, which were placed firmly down between their feet. When they had finished their turn at the stove, the remaining food would then be repacked and replaced into secret hiding places back in their own individual rooms.

These rooms saw strangers. These strangers came from all sorts of back grounds; all walks of life. There were people with little family or no family. There were people with addiction problems, and we also saw people with psychological problems. Some of these people had terrible financial problems due to gambling, while others had all the above problems rolled into one. Yet, people still laughed and had fun in this place, for there was a spirit living in here among us too, a communal spirit, an unbreakable spirit; it even had a swing in the garden for the children.

Chapter Two

In New Cross, SE14, there were other people living in this household too. A man called Bob shared a room with his girlfriend Bonnie who never spoke to anyone. They also had a little girl living in the room with them too, I think her name was Maisie, but no one ever really saw her much. This man called Bob had just returned back to the community after doing two years in Her Majesty’s prisons for burglary. He was covered from head to foot in tattoos. Some of these tattoos had been done by professional artists, yet others had been done by friends that he had shared cells with within the prison service, and also too by friends he had grown up with in and around the South London community.

There were girl’s names like Lou Lou and Roxy forever. He also had Millwall FC slogans like ‘No one likes us - but we don’t care’ and other images of jumping growling lions, he even had one crawling up the side of his neck; he was intimidating. He was six foot three with short red rusty hair, and had a dislocated nose, which he had never bothered to get straightened, and spoke in this smoky Bermondsey accent, full of rhymes and riddles. Some say he used to be a prize fighter, but I never really bothered to ask him this, I just listened to him talk from time to time that was all, for they occupied a first floor room next to a man that people in this wet house would call Porky Pig.

Porky Pig seemed to resemble a pit bull terrier not a pig, and was from around the local area. He was even brought up on the street opposite to this one. Porky Pig was by no means fat, but was a very chubby child, so the name stuck with him right through his school days, and then right into his adult life too. His nose had been flattened from many years in the ring, and his eye lids had lowered considerably due to scarring. He was a very clean kept individual, and was of good character, and he knew so many people around the local community it was unreal. Apparently he used to be a scaffold erector until the drink got him, and then he lost his nerve, and also his good character too, for when he did sometimes become intoxicated, he could also become extremely violent as well.

Next to Porky Pig’s room there lived an Italian man, I think he once told me that he was from Milan, but his English wasn’t very good, so I didn’t talk to him that much, for when I did try to talk to him about Italy he got aggressive, and so therefore, I just kept my distance from him as much as I could, for it saved any cultural misunderstandings between the two of us. Sparky and Murphy used to call him Mussolini, because he was balding and had these two amazingly piercing amber eyes, which seemed to see straight through you when you conversed with him. They also said that they thought he was on the ‘pin’ the heroin, but I didn’t think it was the heroin so much, more the methadone, which is a heroin substitute that can cause signs of sweating, as it helps recondition the mind away from the destructive psychological damage that substance abuse can cause. I had never ever seen him ‘goofing off’ before, which generally sees the individual in a sleepy state, as if about to drop off for a nap, but in their reality, they would be in a world of pleasure, amid a complete state of euphoria. He was pleasant enough to his fellow house mates mind, and came and went without causing too much of a problem to anyone really, so everyone just left him alone and at his own devices.

Yet, here in this wet house there was this room, that sat all alone directly above the front door, and we in the wet house used to call this our little box room back in SE14, for it was only wide enough to fit in a small bed, and a few personal possessions, and that was about it really. But in here lived one of the nicest men that I have ever had the pleasure to meet before in my life, so nice, that you could just tell he was from people who were both humble and honest. Whenever he saw me, he would always greet me with a kind gentle smile, and then shake my hand continuously like they do in Africa, just content in bringing me into the warmth of their company. It seemed like an age before he would speak, but when he did speak, it was with so much warmth and sincerity, that it made one feel so secure in his presence. We used to sit together sometimes in his room and talk for hours, he would tell me wonderful stories about Africa, and of the many animals that lived there too, but also, the many lovely stories about the local communities there as well. The stories I liked to hear the most were about the natural order of things such as the food chain, but also about other things, like the interesting cultural sayings of African people.

He once told me, that it would not be entirely unusual to see a bat hanging down from one of your roof rafters in your cube as they would call a room in Africa. But I would just laugh at this however, and then remind him of the Irishman Bram Stoker, and of his fascination with insects, which will forever give bats a bad name here in this part of Europe. But the bats are very welcome down there in Africa he would always tell me, for they attack and eat the mosquitoes after they have themselves finished feasting upon the blood of many an animal, including ourselves that is. Sometimes he would tell me that when at his home, he would just lie down upon his bed late at