The Ferry

Launching the first of WritersMosaic‘s Fiction series

A short story by Saleh Addonia

In the darkness of a winter night, S. runs along a quiet seashore. He stops and stands in front of a ferry with a lowered ramp. He runs inside the ferry’s freight deck. The deck is empty. S. wanders around inside, but swiftly, the ferry ramp closes behind him. The ship wobbles. The ceiling gradually descends, forcing S. to crawl on all fours. There is debris all over the ground including food leftovers and vomit. S. initially tries to avoid it but the more he crawls around, the filthier the ground is, and the more intense and nauseating the smells become. S. tries to cover his nose with his right arm but slips and falls over, with his whole body stretching over the floor. He curses. The overhead lights go out one after another. With the ceiling about to touch his back, S. suddenly sees a small door being opened at the far end with a faint light coming through. S. hurries, heaving himself along on his belly and out to the deck. He finds himself near a shoreline and jumps into the water. Once ashore, S. shakes the water from his hands and brushes down his black raincoat. He looks back at the ferry. S. sees that it wasn’t a ferry but a small boat. It looks like a fishing boat. The boat speeds away into the dark sea.

The sky is dark, but brief flashes of moonlight slip through the racing clouds. The waves crash against the shore with their foam glowing on the beach. S. runs along the beach towards a red light that fades in and out. He halts when he sees two round objects floating on the sea. The objects appear to be two human bodies drifting towards the shore. The bodies surface slowly from the sea. They are two young boys, both wearing yellow swim rings around their waists. Their faces look grey, and they are gasping for breath. They stop near S. and he asks who they are.

‘Revolution,’ says one.
‘Negotiation,’ says the other.
‘Aa!’ S. says, adjusting the hearing aid on his left ear.
‘I was born amidst the civil war. My mother named me Negotiation. It’s been a long journey,’ Negotiation says. He has a round face with a big beauty spot in the middle of his cheek and soft, wet, short hair.
‘Aa!’ S. says.
‘I was born in a dictatorship state. My parents named me Revolution. I ran away. Now I am here,’ says Revolution, who has a remarkably big forehead.
‘Aa! S. says. But then S. smiles nervously, ‘What!’
‘Don’t laugh at us. We are dead,’ says Revolution, shaking off his rounded afro curly hair.
‘No,’ says Negotiation and nudges Revolution, ‘We almost died, but we have survived.’
‘Aa!’ S. says.
“We are alive!’ Revolution shouts.
‘Where are you going?’ S. asks..

‘Dover! the boys yell.
S. looks at his watch. Revolution steps out of the waves, stops in front S. and shouts, ‘Are you in a hurry?!’
‘Don’t shout like that,’ S. says, ‘But yes, I am. I have to attend the Refugees-24-Hours-on-the-boat Festival.’
‘Refugees on the boat!’ Revolution says, takes off his inflatable ring and throws it into the sea.
‘No, no,’ explains S., ‘It is a festival to raise awareness of the refugee crisis and their struggle at home and at sea. The festival will take place from 6am this morning until 6am tomorrow. Exactly 24 hours. There will be concerts, DJ sets, literary readings, and competitions. I am one of the speakers. It will take place on one of the B&O ferries…’
‘B&O! It was our dream,’ Negotiation says, standing next to Revolution, ‘Can we come with you?’
‘No,’ S. says.
‘Why not?’ says Negotiation.
‘Because you are already in Dover.’
‘No, I think we are in Calais,’ Negotiation says.
‘Are you sure?’ S. says.
‘Yes!’ Negotiation says. He pulls his ring down over his skinny blue jeans then tosses it onto the shore.
‘No, we’re in Dover,’ S. clarifies, ‘The ferry starts its journey from Dover to Calais, then back and forth for 24 hours. All passengers will disembark as usual. Only us, the artists, will remain on the boat for the entire 24 hours.’

‘It’s about us and we aren’t allowed in,’ Negotiation says.
‘Do you have passports?’ S. asks.
‘No!’ says Negotiation.
‘Do you have a passport?’ Revolution asks.
‘Yes,’ S. says, ‘A British passport.’
‘How can we get a passport like yours?’ Negotiation asks.
‘It is a complicated process,’ S. says and looks at Revolution, who seems lost in thought, with his head down, ‘What is matter with him?’
‘Ah, don’t worry. Revolution daydreams all the time,’ Negotiation says and nudges Revolution.
‘What do you suggest for us?’
‘Nothing.’
S. thinks. ‘I mean, what is the point of taking you to the festival? You will look like you are a trophy to be paraded around.’
The boys seem puzzled by S.’s words. But Negotiation counters, ‘Can you tell them my story then?’
‘Tell who?’
‘The people on your boat,’ Negotiation says.
‘Write your stories yourselves first. Then I can read to them for you,’ S. says.
‘I don’t know how to write stories,’ Revolution says.
‘I don’t either,’ adds Negotiation.
‘He who cannot tell his own story has no need to be remembered,’ S. says.
‘We don’t want to be remembered. We want help’, Revolution says.
‘Aa!’ S. says.

‘Help us! Negotiation begs. Write our story!’
‘I don’t know anything about you …’ S. says.
‘We can tell you,’ Negotiation says.
‘And your journey?’ S. says.
‘We can tell you about that too,’ Negotiation says.
S. takes a deep breath and looks at them with empathy, ‘Look, I won’t be able to grasp the true nature of your journey, so you must express it yourselves. I am no different than you. In fact, I was similar in age when I began my journey. We have arrived at the same destination via different paths and means and, most certainly, we share the same goals. To write is to express your journey and whatever you have encountered: feelings, emotions, sensations …’ S. looks at the boys, their heads bowed, either listening intently or perhaps having drifted to sleep. ‘As a writer, you cannot and should not trust anyone else to tell your story.’ ’S. lifts them by their chins. ‘Alienate ‘the reader’ to the point where he or she might find you irksome, but only just. That is because the estrangement of this ‘reader’ must be doubled as you are expressing your dreams and nightmares in exile and in a foreign land,’ The boys seem to have lost focus again and S. shouts, ’I hope you carry the meaning of your names!’ The boys open their eyes wide. ‘You will have fun and pain reliving past events from different directions again and again and again. And there is no shame in telling the same story over and over and over, and over … What is painful today may turn out to be a bearable memory tomorrow. Writing comes when you ask: What is happening? What will happen? What happened? You write for the love of truth. Fiction is the closest thing to Truth, even if we struggle to define what Truth is. As Nietzsche said, there is always another mask behind the mask. Similarly, in Kafka’s The Door of the Law, there is always another door behind the door …’

The boys let out a yawn, struggling to keep their eyes open. But then Revolution interrupts, ‘How do we learn to write?’
‘Read,’ S. says.
‘About what?’ Negotiation asks.
‘Anything of everything or everything of anything,’ S. says and laughs.
Revolution and Negotiation look at each other. Revolution scratches his forehead, and asks, ‘For how long?’
‘I don’t know … Maybe 5 … 10 … 20 years,’ S. says.
‘Whaaat!’ the boys groan ‘Will we make … money?’
‘I doubt it,’ S. shrugs, ‘You will live to write …’
‘Ah! Nooo!’ shouts Revolution.
‘What will you talk about on the boat?’ Negotiation asks.
S.points at the lighthouse, ‘There, Time resides. A dove, when I arrived, now howls like a wolf.’ The boys are baffled and look at each other. S. is about to walk away. ‘Can we hug you?’ says Revolution.
‘Yes, of course,’ S. says, opening his arms wide.
Revolution wraps his arms around S. from behind while Negotiation embraces him from the front, both gripping him firmly in a tight hug. Suddenly, S. sees more young boys with yellow swim rings around their waists, coming one after another from the dark, roaring sea. They all shout, one after another, ‘I am Starvation!’ ‘I am Retaliation!’ ‘I am Reparation!’ S. breaks free from Negotiation and Revolution and starts running. They both chase after him. S. stops in his tracks at the sound of an explosion. Turning, he sees Revolution scattered in pieces. Another blast follows, and then Negotiation is torn apart too. S. looks up and down, trying to figure out if the explosives are mines or bombs falling from the sky. But whether mines or bombs, they continue to detonate upon the others, killing them one after another. With that, S. turns and runs for his life.

S. runs along on a beach heading towards a white cliff with a long crack slicing across it. S. hears a loud sound and sees a white object flying towards him. What now? A seagull, S. murmurs. But no, it’s a huge plane, a Boeing. A person in white clothes falls down from one of the wings of the plane and lets out a loud scream when he hits the surface of the sea. The plane flies past him over the cliff. S. keeps on running towards the cliff and sees that what he thought was a crack is actually a black barbed wire fence. And the cliff is an array of white-painted converted shipping containers, stacked on top of each other, forming hundreds of housing units. Each container has three windows. S. stands in front of the fence and looks up. The lights flicker in some of the rooms, revealing, in one window, a silhouette of someone hanging by a rope. S. spots a wood fire burning nearby, throwing its light over numerous colourful tents packed tightly together. Suddenly, all the tents are engulfed in flames. S.’s eyes open wide when he sees a bicycle emerging from the flames, racing toward him. On the handlebars sits a woman, her upper body bare, with large breasts and a pregnant belly that she supports with one hand. A young boy behind her pedals hard, then pulls the bike upwards as if trying to take flight, but they crash into the fence just in front of S., with the woman shouting, ‘Home! Home! Home!’ S. leaps back, screams, and runs away.

S. runs along a street with lorries silently lining the left side. Gasping for breath, he arrives at the Ferry Terminal. S. approaches the Border Force public counter. There are two desks sealed with glass windows, each occupied by a Border Force officer. Queues form in front of the windows. Facing one desk, S. anxiously awaits as the queues swiftly diminish. S. proceeds, handing his passport to the officer. The officer, a well-built man with broad shoulders, leafs through S.’s passport and scans a page while periodically glancing at the computer screen. S.’s legs tremble, his patience wearing thin. The officer finally speaks up, ‘Can I see your ticket?’
‘Aa!’ S. says, leaning his left ear towards the officer.
‘Your ticket,’ repeats the officer.
S. frantically searches his pockets for his phone. Then he remembers the tight hugs from Negotiation and Revolution, and murmurs, ‘Ah! Those fuckers!’ Realizing his phone is missing, S. says, ‘Sorry, officer. I’ve lost my phone. My ticket is on it.’
‘Which ferry are you booked on?’ queries the officer.
‘Aa!’ S. leans in again.
‘Which ferry?’
‘B and O. I am one of the speakers in the festival …’
‘Which ferry?’ the officer responds.
‘Beee and O.’
‘Sorry, Sir?’
‘Beeeee and Ohhhh …’
‘It’s P&O, sir!’ the officer says with a cold stare, ‘No, not without a ticket …’

S. is back on the shore with his hands inside the pockets of his coat. His gaze fixates on the ferry ramp, slowly closing as the vessel begins its departure. The distant hum of drum, bass, and saxophone fills the air. The ferry transforms into a giant float of bulbs and neon in bright hues of blue, green, yellow, red, and white, casting a luminous glow upon the water. Between the lights on the ship’s hull, the words ‘P&O’ emerge. As the ferry gradually drifts away, the dark sky is shattered with sounds of booms, crackles, and whistles.. A burst of fireworks follows, illuminating the sky with the words: ‘WELCOME ABOARD.’

Photo by Rob Taylor

Saleh Addonia was born in Eritrea to an Eritrean mother and an Ethiopian father. As a child and amidst the war of independence, he survived the Om Hajar massacre and migrated to Sudan. He grew up in refugee camps where he lost his hearing at the age of 12. Addonia spent his early teens in Saudi Arabia and arrived in London as a 17 year old refugee. He has published The Feeling House a short story collection in English (Holland House, 2022) and the short story She is Another Country in Italian,  translated by Nausikaa Angelotti (Edizioni Casagrande). His work appeared in the Italian newspaper Il Sole 24 ORE, in Specimen and Zam magazines, and in an anthology, Lucifer Over London. He was awarded a Royal Society of Literature Literature Matters Award in 2021.