Cold Island

By Max Hertzberg

Britain is divided, and Mara is on the wrong side

1989, the Berlin Wall opens. The upheavals in her homeland are an opportunity for Mara—free to travel, she comes to Britain, falls in love and never leaves.

2016, the UK votes to leave the European Union, and once again, Mara is at the centre of a changing world.

She's built her life in Britain: she has a wife, a career and a cottage in the countryside. But now Mara worries she'll be forced to return to a Germany she no longer knows.

Faced with bureaucratic inflexibility and administrative failures, Mara needs to prove her right to remain. But do the events of her first years in Britain hold the key to whether she'll be allowed to stay?

Cold Island explores the personal cost of Brexit

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wolf Press
• Release date: Nov 15, 2018
• ISBN: 9780993324772

Max Hertzberg

After the experience of the East German political upheaval in 1989/90 Max Hertzberg became a Stasi files researcher. Since then, he has also been a book seller and a social change trainer and facilitator. He is currently working on COLD ISLAND, a novel set in the near future of a post-Brexit UK (available autumn 2018) Visit the author’s website for background information on the GDR, features on this series and its characters, as well as guides to walking tours around the East Berlin in which these books are set. www.maxhertzberg.co.uk

Book preview

COLD

ISLAND

Max

Hertzberg

Wolf Press

Meet Boris

1

The car floundered through mud, sleet tracing the beam of the headlights. At the end of the track, a woman watched, rucksack slung over one shoulder, immune to the thin cords of rain that twisted down her face and tunnelled below the collar of her parka.

She’d spent the last few days shivering in the ramshackle bothy up on the moors, subsisting on Marmite sandwiches and rainwater heated over a primus stove. A shelf of foxed books had provided the only entertainment—she’d found Animal Farm there, a book censored in the East Germany of her childhood, thus attaining an almost mythological status in her mind, but which hadn’t come her way before.

She’d also used the time to cut her hair, but never satisfied with the end result, had sheared off more and more until all that was left was a short bob. Her head felt light, she could walk more easily, she had lightened the touch the land had on her. A bottle of brown dye completed the styling and, looking in the mirror, she realised she due a new self-identity.

Her hair had been buried on the moor, just a hundred yards from the bothy. She’d checked each window before leaving, careful to avoid any approaching ramblers or estate workers, but in the sleety rain there was little chance of encountering another human in the empty uplands. So with a rusty spade she sliced into the thin layer of soil, striking rock within inches. She scalped a tussock and laid her past in the earth of England.

When she got back, she changed into dry clothes and stood by the window, staring out into the emptiness. The radio she carried around with her chirruped, a burst of static, then: ETA twenty minutes. A final look out of the window—dusk was falling and it was already dark inside the hut—then she packed Animal Farm, her sleeping bag, the scissors and the empty bottle of dye.

When the car stopped, she put her rucksack on the back seat and climbed into the front.

Good night for it, said the driver with a welcoming smile. I’m Boris.

As the car started back down the track and onto the road, the woman held out her hand for Boris to shake, but before he’d had a chance to take his own hand off the steering wheel she’d had second thoughts. She pulled back, wiped the dampness from her forehead and looked out at the blackness beyond the windscreen.

I’m Mara, she told him when they reached the gate at the end of the track.

Boris didn’t reply immediately, his focus was on the night outside, counting darkened buildings and fluorescing traffic signs.

We’re coming up to a main road, he said eventually. I’m going to pull over so you can get down in the footwell in the back and I’ll cover you with a blanket.

Mara looked at him in surprise, the glow from the dashboard lit ruddy cheeks, a face built for laughter, but now so sober.

We don’t need a fugitive sitting up front when we hit civilisation.

Welcome to the Den, I’m Boris, said the person with a mass of messy dreadlocks tied up at the back of her head.

Boris? Mara was confused. She looked over her shoulder to where Boris, the Boris that had brought her, stood in the doorway.

We’re all Boris here. The one with the dreads laughed. If it helps, you can call me DJane Boris and the other one, he’s Transport Boris.

Everyone calls me TB, the first Boris chipped in.

Should I be Boris, too? Mara wondered.

You can be whoever you want to be. DJane Boris pulled her further into the bungalow.

I’m Mara, thanks for your help-

C’mon, enough of the introductions. You must be starving? Let’s sort you out with some food.

DJane and TB disappeared down a long hallway, assorted coats, scarves and gloves on pegs down one side, a closed door opposite. The smell of cooking drifted down the corridor and Mara felt her eyes moisten. To be in the warmth, hot food waiting, friendly company—these were the basic comforts of life that she’d not expected to miss so much.

Mara followed the Borises to the kitchen and stood in the doorway, watching as TB began rolling out flat circles of dough. DJane stirred a huge pot on the range.

Can I help with anything? Mara asked.

Sit yourself down—you’ve got a visitor. DJane pointed a wooden spoon towards a table behind the door. In the flickering light of a single candle, a face watched Mara.

She sat down opposite the face and stared at it. What are you doing here?

I once knew a girl, the face said. She was great, real fun to be around. That girl was good for me-

Beth, what are you doing here?

She was German. Just like you.

I don’t need to hear this. Mara’s voice hardened.

"It was a long time ago, feels like centuries. Actually, now I think of it, it was last century when I met this girl. 1994. She was called Mara."

Will you shut up? It’s not story time! Mara looked over her shoulder at the Borises, but they were politely busying themselves at the stove.

1994

2

Whenever Mara thought back to her first days in this country, when she allowed the fingers of her mind to scoop through the arid sands of memory, she would settle on that first meeting with Beth, cheeks bright with daubed spirals, a third eye glowing in the centre of her forehead, smudged after eight hours in the cells. It was the grin that was so remarkable, a lopsided smile that drew attention away from the face painting and the D-lock strung around her neck.

Beth was wearing the grin when she saw Mara waiting. They’d seen each other at the road protest site, but never actually spoken.

How do, lass? asked Beth in what might have been a comedy Lancashire accent, but which in this small town passed for normal.

Mara pushed herself off the wall and held out her hand for a shake. Beth eyed it suspiciously for a moment before throwing her arms around the other woman.

Thanks for waiting for me, it’s horrible in there, you’ve no idea how nice it is to see a friendly face! Did anyone from camp give you my key?

Mara took the key out of her pocket and handed it over. Once Beth had released the lock she hooked her arm through Mara’s and started marching down the road, towards the camp. What’s up? Cat got yer tongue?

Mara wasn’t sure how to answer, she was still confused by so much in this country, still getting to grips with how people interacted here.

I’m gasping for a cuppa, hope they’ve got the kettle on the fire. What’s been happening anyway? Did I miss anything?

Cops came on site last night. Said they were looking for a runaway teenager. Mara stumbled over the words, glottal stops slicing her sentences. We told them to fuck off.

You’re the kraut? Beth stopped and scrutinised the other woman, as if appearance alone could betray nationality. You are, aren’t you? You’re the one everyone has been talking about. Beth shifted gear again, pulling Mara with her, subject of foreignness effectively closed. Let’s pop into Sainsbury’s, I could do with using a proper loo.

It was their first conversation, Beth rabbiting on, enjoying the high of being released after a night in the cells. Something clicked between them that day. In the years to come Mara would wonder whether the pair of them realised at the time that neither had shown her true face, or whether the realisation came much later. Beth had less confidence than she pretended, she smothered her insecurities with words; Mara felt handicapped by her poor English, which forced her into a passivity which back home she wouldn’t have allowed herself.

Mara waited outside the toilets, hoping nobody would challenge her presence. She knew she didn’t fit into the antiseptic white and orange of the supermarket—she was marked as alien by the smell of woodsmoke that clung to her stripy top that was grey with dirt, by her hair matted with twigs and last year’s leaves. And by Beth’s D-lock cradled in the crook of her elbow.

But she needn’t have worried, the local residents were supportive. They gossiped about the ‘eco-warriors’ and brought food and building materials to the camp under the trees. A woman bustled past, arguing with a shopping trolley that was dragging her to one side. As the trolley made a lunge at Mara’s legs the woman gave her a wink and a ten pound note while her husband looked on, face dark with parsimony.

When Beth came out of the toilets the relief showed on Mara’s face.

What’s up?

Mara showed her the tenner and told her what had happened.

Nice one! Beth snatched the money and headed towards the aisles. Come on, let’s grab some White Lightning—could do with a drink after being banged up all day!

When they got back to the camp, Beth shinned up the ladder set against the wall of a cottage. Mara hadn’t been in the building before, it had always seemed so busy and she’d preferred to stay in a bender in the woods on the other side of the lane. Now she followed Beth through the first floor window and into the dusk of the unlit rooms. The floorboards had been taken up, and while Beth danced over the joists, Mara had to take a moment to let her eyes adjust.

The window she’d just come through was the only one that hadn’t been boarded up and she was backlit by the setting sun. The pink rays of day’s end shone on the walls, picking out bright paintings and slogans but leaving what remained of the floor in shadow.

Are you coming? Beth shouted from deep inside the cottage.

Mara picked her way over the joists and loose boards, stopping in the doorway to think about a chalked message she found on the wall. No rules, just respect!

The floorboards in the hall were still intact, as was the light fitting in which a dim bulb burnt. Through another doorway to where Beth was sparking up. She turned as Mara entered, throwing back her head and expelling a lungful of aromatic smoke. She held the spliff out to Mara, her eyes glinting like snowflakes in moonlight.

Come on, chill a bit.

Mara accepted the spliff, taking a puff while she squatted down. Beth took the D-lock and placed it on the floor next to a boy with a tufty beard and weedy hair to match. He watched the spliff jealously, impatient for his turn, his fingers rubbing in anticipation.

Mara made him wait a few more seconds, holding the burning tip in front of her, listening to the seeds crackling. She finally handed it over and turned to Beth, who was grimacing at the acidity of the cheap cider.

What did you get nicked for?

Locked on to a JCB. Beth laughed and passed the bottle of cider to Mara. First of all the driver was all, like, yeah fine, time for a break anyway. Got his newspaper out and had a gawp at page three. So we had a conversation about objectification and patriarchy, but he wasn’t enjoying that so he fetched the foreman. Beth got the spliff back and took a hit before continuing. Foreman was shitting himself, didn’t know what to do. So he goes over to the portacabin and radios the pigs. Took them nearly an hour to work out that they didn’t have to cut the lock off me. All they had to do was unscrew the bumper!

Did they charge you with anything?

Beth eyed Mara for a moment, pinching the spliff between forefinger and thumb, then she shoved it in her direction.

Nah, it was just breach of the peace. Hot bit?

Mara shook her head and the joint, now just a smouldering roach, went back to Tufty.

The bailiffs and cops arrived the next morning. They ignored the benders in the woods and surrounded the cottage, arms linked to prevent anyone from getting into or out of the fortified squat. Mara prowled the edge of the cordon, ignoring cops and greedy cameras, scouting for a gap between the men with their yellow vests and plastic helmets. She knew it was a waste of time, the ladder had been drawn up, barbed wire and a mattress closed off the window she’d climbed through the night before. Even if she got through the line of sheriff’s men she’d never manage to get into the house.

Mara crossed the road and looked back at the cottage. From down here she could see Beth lying along the ridge of the roof, her arms and hands buried under the tiles. It looked like she was locked on; they’d need bolt croppers, maybe something even more heavy-duty to get her off. Mara wanted to be up there with her, she wanted to be the support team for her new friend.

She turned back to the woods, through the gap in the wall where Tufty sat, arms linked with a few others, vaguely planning to prevent any machinery from coming in to the woods.

A tableau, Mara thought, lines drawn, immobile. Activists in the house and on the roof; police and bailiffs encircling the building. But the impasse was only temporary—a clanking grumble could be heard from down the road and the forces of law and order bubbled out to take control of the narrow lane.

Get up the trees! There’s trees still unprotected! Tufty was shouting, spittle flecked his bum-fluff beard and his eyes were pleading with Mara, please save a tree.

Keeping a wary eye on the police cordon that had grown and solidified just a few feet away, Mara vaulted over the line of hippies and ran to the nearest mature tree. She struggled up the wide trunk, snapping off twigs as she went, adrenaline lifting her from the ground and into the boughs.

She lay along a branch no thicker than her thigh, just out of reach of the ground, feeling her heart bass-lining through the wood.

As her pulse slowed she lifted her cheek from the smooth bark, sparing a glance for the police. They were pressing themselves into the hedge as an excavator lumbered around the corner, tracks clawing the tarmac as it swivelled to make the sharp curve. Clouds of greasy smoke burped from a pipe and coated the guard of honour. She waited uneasily, watching the human in the barred cab, waiting to see which levers would be pulled. Right for the house, left for the under-defended woodland.

The beast drew closer, the creaking of its yellow limbs growing distinct against the ceaseless roar of its iron heart.

Left or right?

Mara held her breath, focussed on the driver. There were people in the house, they couldn’t knock it down, not with everyone in there?

The beast lumbered closer, drawing level with the gateway to the woods, the boiler-suited Tactical Support cops crowded the row of cross-legged protestors.

A grinding, the pitch of the clanking rising, the excavator shuddering as the tracks slowed and halted. The puppet master pulled a lever, pushed another, the body of the beast swung round to the right, its arm rising high and deliberately lowering into the roof of an outbuilding, the bucket delved without discernable effort through the tiles, shattering slate into dark shivers that skittered to the ground. A wall collapsed, brickwork powdering under the force of the yellow arm.

To the beat of the heavy engine, the crashing snares of the collapsing building and the cries of the protesters, Mara pulled herself up against the tree trunk. Her tree was linked to others by fine strands of blue rope and a few feet further up a palette had been lashed to branches. Ignoring the throbbing of her heart, louder than any yellow machine, Mara hugged the tree, feeling for branches with her feet, climbing one limb, then another, not looking down, concen­trating on the bark an inch before her face, edging towards the platform above.

Mara! Are you up there?

Mara’s head peeked over the edge of the platform before retreating again, tortoise like, behind the lip of the pallet.

Chuck us a rope!

A timid hand appeared, feeding a coil of blue polyprop over the edge. The end of the rope wound its way lazily through the air, rippling its tail as it fell. Beth tested it with a couple of sharp tugs, then pulled herself up, gripping the knots between feet and knees.

What you doing up here? Beth asked as her head appeared alongside the palette. Her grin slipped as she took in the sight of Mara, lying on her tummy, white face pressed against the coarse boards, fingers gripping the edge of the flimsy structure.

Oh dear, how are we going to get you down?

The Den

3

After Beth left, Mara sat in the shadows, eating her dinner while the Borises chatted. They’d positioned themselves discreetly at the other end of the table, giving her space.

The curry was good and it should have been all the better for being the first decent meal Mara had eaten in nearly a week, but she shovelled it in, forgetting the chapati that lay on the table by her plate, cooling and hardening.

When the worst of her hunger had been stilled, Mara stopped eating. She looked at her plate, fork clenched in hand.

TB noticed and asked if she was OK.

Mara shook her head, still staring at the remains of the curry in front of her. The Borises shared a glance, wondering what to do.

Is this about Beth? I’m sorry if I did bad inviting her over … TB looked uncertain, maybe wondering whether he should be apologising, but didn’t know what for. I thought it would be nice-

You got any alcohol? Mara interrupted, finally looking up.

Sorry, nothing in the house, replied TB.

Where’s the nearest pub?

About a mile and a half down the hill, why? By the time he noticed DJane’s warning look it was too late, he’d already answered. He blushed, looking down at his half-eaten tea.

We can’t let you go there, said DJane Boris. I’m sorry.

Listen, this last week has been shit for me and to be honest, I wasn’t ready to see Beth right now. So after all that, I could do with a drink, yeah? Mara glared at DJane Boris, daring her to say no a second time. It was unfair of her, she knew. These people had taken her in, were hiding her and she felt bad about making demands, but not bad enough. You can come with me, or wait here. Your choice. She shifted her attention back to TB. Down the hill, you say? So I just go down the lane, past the barn where you left the car?

TB got up and went into the hall to put his coat on. What? he said to DJane Boris, who was still glaring at him. Nobody round here knows her and if we don’t go with her then she’ll go by herself anyway. Which do you prefer?

Mara followed TB into the hall and put her jacket on. DJane brushed past her, reaching for her coat.

This is such a bad idea, she said. So here’s some groundrules. One: we leave before curfew. And two: you don’t talk to anyone, you don’t order any drinks—you keep quiet. If there’s any talking to be done, we do it.

Mara nodded and DJane held the door open for them.

They walked in silence, Mara concentrating on her surroundings. The moon hadn’t risen yet, the only light came from stars that speckled a clear sky. Frost tinged the air, sharp enough to tweak Mara’s