Chapter 1: Deported
The Border Agency van rolled through terrain, green and familiar. Through the misted windshield, the rumple of the hills in the west made me think of Brynmawr. The sight of them made me pine for my friends at the goat farm. I wondered if I would ever see them again in this life. Not that I was expecting to die anytime soon. It was even worse. I was being deported.
Turns out, you need a special visa to work in the UK or to even stay in country beyond six months. I knew all that. I just hadn’t bothered with the formalities. I never expected to stick around Cwm Gwyrdd farm as long as I did.
As one who commuted regularly between the realms of life and death, the whole idea of visas struck me as ridiculous. Earthly borders were a meaningless abstraction. No one needed a stinking passport to visit the brink of Hell, and there were certainly no limitations on how long you could stay.
Showers pissed down through clouds layered in sheets and wisps, burnished in every possible shade of silver and gray. I studied the road signs for familiar names. Neither Crewe nor Nantwich rang a bell. But I was getting all excited over nothing. We were probably nowhere near Brynmawr. The hill was just a hill.
It wasn’t like we could just drop in for tea, anyhow. I was in custody. My itinerary was in the hands of Mr. Osborne and Hank, the middle-aged, mustachioed Border Agency guards tasked with getting us out of the country.
I shared the back of the van with two Jamaican guys, Frankie and Rudolph. None of us were considered a flight risk so we weren’t handcuffed or anything. I don’t even think they carried any weapons beyond their cans of mace. They were basically a glorified, one-way livery service.
I considered making a run for it. What stopped me was my failure to imagine a single positive outcome. If I ran, I wouldn’t get far. The UK was a freaking island for Pete’s sake and I had no cash on me, whatsoever. A stunt like that would only delay my deportation a couple of days and ensure that I was transported out of the country under much less amiable arrangements.
Still, the idea tempted me. How nice would it be to have one last meal at Cwm Gwyrdd farm.
***
Hank proved quite the Leonard Cohen fanatic. He had kept a ‘best of’ compilation running on continuous loop ever since we pulled out of York. I had never paid much mind to this Cohen guy before. Everybody knows ‘Hallelujah,’ from Shrek if nothing else, but I had managed to go through life completely unaware that he had written anything else.
The guy can’t sing worth a lick. The last thing I expected being force-fed his stuff in the back of this van was to be turned into a fan, but that’s exactly what happened. Those brooding lyrics and melodies bored into my brain as surely as Fellstraw.
This kind of thing probably happens to every lame-ass, lovesick kid, but there were moments I was convinced those songs were written about me and Karla. She and Isobel were the ‘Sisters of Mercy.’ Her old chamber in Root was where she, like ‘Suzanne,’ fed me tea and oranges that came all the way from China. And even though it made no sense whatsoever, the third time through the cycle he had me believing that I was the guy with the ‘Famous Blue Raincoat.’
Frankie coughed and tapped Hank on the shoulder. “Mr. Henry, sir, could you please put on something more cheerful?” said Frankie. “I mean, anyting. Even Tom Jones. Elton John. The white boy here looks like he is about to cry.”
“This is my van and I am the driver, thank you very much,” said Hank. “You two can listen to whatever you want once you’re back home in Kingston.”
