Flotsam and Jetsam

Trigger warning: Death of child and racism

Flotsam and Jetsam

‘Okay Stanley, you’ll be live on air as soon as you hear the beep.’

 ‘Thank you,’ Stanley muttered into the receiver and curled his toes inside his slippers. Brillo, his West Highland Terrier, stirred in his basket as the rain continued to drum against the back door. Stanley looked up at Jake’s photo, the frame of the picture catching the glare from the glowing fireplace. His grandson smiled down at him, a shadow on his chin betraying a hint of stubble.

The title card for Good Morning Sussex flashed across his TV screen accompanied by the show’s jingle. As the title card disappeared, the camera swung across a studio set. In the middle of a horseshoe shaped settee sat Vincent Forde, his blue suit catching the gleam of the studio lights. He flashed a smile at the incoming camera. 

‘Welcome back, everyone. Before we continue our show, here is our quick quiz question. If an item or a piece of cargo is accidentally thrown overboard from a ship, what is that item referred as? Is the answer a, flotsam or b, jetsam?’

As Vincent repeated the question, Stanley shrugged off his cardigan and took a deep breath to quell the nerves building in his stomach. 

‘Our quiz question is rather fitting, actually. Yesterday evening the Prime Minister finally outlined the finer details of the country’s new asylum plan. Under this new plan any asylum seekers or immigrants who arrived across the Channel in small boats or by any other means, will be sent to Witbourgh in South Afica for processing.’

The screen changed to a helicopter’s camera footage over the English Channel. In the middle of the frame, an RNLI ship bobbed alongside an inflatable dinghy crammed with bodies. Stanley watched as a wave rocked both boats, foam and spray peppering crew and passengers.

‘Just to remind you, last year it is estimated that fifty thousand migrants entered Britain illegally. Just last night another fleet was spotted trying to reach our shores. Let us not kid ourselves, there is a foreign armada invading Britain. Nigel Farage, who we will be speaking to in just a moment, has previously accused the Royal National Lifeboat Institution of running a migrant taxi service. Ah, here we are.’

The screen changed to a member of the lifeboat crew’s body-worn camera. Stanley found himself looking down at a boat of migrants all wearing winter coats and life jackets. A woman closest to the camera screamed and clutched her wailing child.

The screen returned to Vincent in the studio. ‘Before we speak to Mr Farage, however, we've asked you, our loyal viewers, to ring in and tell us what you think. First of all we have…’ Vincent paused as someone spoke into his earpiece. ‘Stanley from Eastbourne. Hello Stanley. Can you hear me?’

The phone in Stanley’s hand beeped.

‘Yes. Yes, I can hear you.’

Stanley watched as his name and location appeared on screen. ‘What do you think about the whole situation, Stanley? Do you agree with the protesters calling this new plan by the Prime Minister cruel?’ Vincent smirked. ‘Tell us a bit about yourself.’

‘I used to work in the Navy, Vince. I worked in the Navy for thirty years. When I left I became a bus driver in London but now I’m retired.’

‘And you live in Eastbourne, right on the south coast. Oh dear. Sounds like you’re back on the front lines, eh? Tell us what you think about the Migrant Crisis.’

‘What I think we should do is simple. If we find them in the Channel we tow them to our beaches. We put them on our shores, line them all up…’ Stanley rose from his chair, ‘and then we shoot them all. Bang!’ 

‘Oh er… I don’t think-’ Stanley watched as Vincent floundered on screen, glancing off camera. ‘I don’t think you can say that on live television, Stanley. I know that we-’

Stanley tightened his grip on the phone. ‘Shoot them all. I’ll do it. Someone has to, don’t they? But everyone’s too scared. One of them immigrants-’

A dialling tone erupted from both the phone and the TV. Stanley watched as his name disappeared from the screen.

‘We er… must apologise for that. There are still some things you can’t say on the telly. Ofcom will be in touch with us, I’m sure. I don’t think - do we have time? Do we have time for our next caller? Okay, it seems we're going into another ad break. We’ll be back in a few minutes.’

The show’s jingle played as the screen cut back to adverts. Stanley allowed himself a sigh before placing the phone back onto the receiver. It beeped an acknowledgement and Brillo stirred in his basket. 

‘Showed them, didn’t I boy?’ 

Brillo’s only response was a snort.

Stanley glanced down as the phone began to ring, his daughter’s name flashing back at him from its screen. Grinning, he raised the phone back to his ear. 

‘Sue, were you watching? Did you see what I did?’

‘What the hell were you thinking?’

‘Saying the truth. Someone has to. Did you hear what they said on the news before me? Over fifty thousand of them last year alone.’

‘Dad, do you know what you’ve done? You’re trending online!’

‘What?’

‘People are talking about you online.’

‘So?’ Stanley said but he fetched the iPad Jake had given him last Christmas from its home in the ottoman. He loaded the internet, typed in Good Morning Sussex followed by his own name. 

As Susan prattled on, Stanley opened a website Jake had mentioned once called Twitter. He scrolled through an endless supply of comments as both his TV, and his daughter’s which he could hear from the phone, started an advert for washing up liquid.

‘What does the number sign mean, Sue?’ Stanley asked, cutting across her tirade. 

‘What?’

‘The number sign. I think it’s called a…a hashtag? It’s in all these tweet things. Most of them agree with me.’

‘No, Dad-’ Susan’s cry was so loud that Brillo woke with a start. ‘Dad, the whole country thinks you’re a racist old man.’

‘If being correct means being called racist then so be it. You can’t defend them, anyway. Not after what they did to Jake.’

He looked up at Jake’s photograph. They had used the same photo for the order of service. He remembered Susan bursting into sobs at the front of the church as the coffin was lowered. Stanley couldn’t pronounce the name of the driver who had run Jake down. When the police explained that the man had entered the country illegally and would be deported back to wherever he came from, Stanley had asked the question he knew his daughter had been afraid to.

What’s stopping the man from hopping on the next boat back to England? 

The police, as far as he was concerned, had failed to provide a satisfactory answer.

‘Don’t be stupid. What would Jake say if he could see you know?’ Susan spat, ‘he’d be disgusted with you-’

‘He’d be delighted at me, fighting the good fight. Your mother would think so too, if she were still with us.’

He smiled at the thought of Maggie and Jake, reunited in Heaven, looking down at him. The image was shattered as Stanley became aware of his daughter’s fury sounding from the telephone once more. He lowered the setting on his hearing aid.

‘Right,’ he said when she had paused for breath, ‘I need to take Brillo for a walk now that it's stopped raining. Before the beach gets too busy. Call me back when you’ve come home from work. Ta-ra.’

Without waiting for an answer, he hung up the phone. 

*

By the time he had exchanged his slippers for walking boots, hooked Brillo’s plastic bowl and flask to his belt hoop and attached the lead, the rain had stopped.

The wind, however, had not. 

‘Only a short one today, mate,’ he said to Brillo while locking the front door. His coat flapped like a loose flag but Brillo seemed oblivious to the wind and Stanley allowed the dog to lead him towards the beach.

When they arrived the waves, as grey as the sky above, were flinging themselves at the pebbles as though attempting to drag them back into the sea. Two seagulls, rendered stationary in the sky, flapped helplessly against the air current, their cries sounding along the desolate beach. Stanley winced as the cold air buffered his face and regretted not wearing the scarf Maggie had knitted for him the year before she passed. She had loved the beach when it was empty...

Stanley tightened his coat and shuffled on. 

A black mass rested on the pebbles. 

Stanley stared at it. God, it’s one of those bloody migrant boats, isn’t it? 

The boat reminded Stanley of one of the inflatable dinghies he had used in the Navy during training exercises. The wind beat at the beached craft as though encouraging it to take flight across the pebbles. Shredded rubber rippled out from its sides, reminding Stanley of bunting. Salt water dribbled onto the rocks below.

Brillo sniffed the air and tugged on the lead. Stanley followed.

Remembering Vicent’s comments about the armada, Stanley looked out at the horizon half expecting, and fully hoping, to see a border patrol or RNLI ship. The sea was empty save for the gulls who had settled in the water.

‘H-hello?’ 

Lowering Brillo’s lead, Stanley navigated his way over the pebbles and towards the stern of the boat. A gash ran across the bottom of the deck, allowing sea water to accumulate inside. A deflated life vest clung to the remains of an engine. Aside from that, the craft was empty save a white trainer barely visible under the inflated bow of the boat. 

Stanley stared at it.

‘Oi, can you hear me?’ 

The body concealed beneath the rubber did not answer. 

Stanley swore. The beach was still empty. Brillo sniffed at the boat and looked up at him.

Stanley stepped onboard the stranded vessel and the little air that remained inside the boat escaped with a hiss that reminded him of a deflating bouncy castle. Supporting himself on the remains of the engine, Stanley extended his leg and prodded the trainer with his boot. 

‘Oi. Can you hear me? Hello?’

The trainer jerked. Its owner shouted in a language Stanley did not understand. He watched, unable to form words, as a boy crawled out of the cramped space. 

The boy’s T-shirt and jeans were drenched, sending goosebumps along his chocolate coloured skin. Blood trickled from a cut hidden somewhere in his hair. 

He’s the same height Jake would be if he was still with us, Stanley thought as he saw the beginnings of a beard on the boy’s face. ‘You er… alright, mate?’

His own words echoed back to him. We put them on our shores, line them all up… and then we shoot them all. Bang!

Stanley felt his heart thud as the boy spoke again, this time scouring the vacant beach. The boy tried to stand but his legs failed to support him, the wind knocked him into the side of the boat, causing it to shift under their combined weight.

‘Easy, easy.’

The boy began to shout, his voice bordering on frantic. 

‘You’re alright, mate. You’re alright.’

The boy either didn’t listen or, most likely Stanley thought, didn’t understand. Brillo barked and the boy recoiled in terror.

God, he’s never seen a dog before.

Stanley pulled his phone out of his pocket as the boy began to wail. 

‘Nine, nine, nine. Which service do you require?’ 

Stanley paused. ‘Ambulance. Ambulance please.’

As the operator forwarded his call, Stanley unhooked Brillo’s bowl, filled it with water from the flask and offered it to the boy. 

Flotsam, Stanley realised as his call connected. The answer that morning had been flotsam.