Refugee
Migel Jayasinghe
It is windy and raining hard as usual for the time of year. The two
men rush inside the café for 'fair trade' coffee.
"I still don't know your name?"
 "You call me Archie ... ok...! Don't know why... but people laugh
when I say my full... my real name."
"Well, what is your name? You know I won't laugh at you."
"Oh, eh... It's Archimedes."
"I see ...good name - famous. I didn't laugh, did I?"
"You... nice man. Not like others."
"Okay Archie - you said you didn't like talking about the past. Like
... what happened back home. Is that still the case? Are you still
reluctant to talk about what happened?"
"What's the point man, all bad ... terrible ... not like here ...
cops, prison, torture. Want to forget. Only good thing was football.
Just a few good years... Hopeless... Can't play no more."
"Why can't you play football now?"
"No way ... my leg bad ... bad pain - after ... all that."
"Oh .. I see... I'm sorry... You settling ok, otherwise?
"Settling..? Settling... no proper job yet."
"Remind me, what have you been doing recently?
"Not much ... two hours week visit mentally ill guy. Go shopping with
him. Earn few bob as volunteer."
They keep chatting. Kind of get to know chat with Archie replying to
questions put by the other guy, Mike.
It is still raining.
"Another coffee?"
"I get it ... ok?"
Archie shuffles across to the counter; raises two fingers.
"Two more coffee... please... How much?"
"You can have refills free."
"Yeah? Cool! You hear that Mike? It's FREE!"
Archie gets back to his seat. The waiter follows him and pours more
coffee into the two mugs. Mike only wants his mug half filled. He
grimaces, drops a lump of sugar in the mug and stirs. It is now less of
a downpour and more of a drizzle outside, but the wind has not abated.
Litter lifts and shuffles in unruly clumps across the East London
street.
"Archie, you speak good English. Very trendy."
"Thank you Mike, you very kind. This is what I picked up as refugee
in this country."
"Hm..! So ... what do you do with this guy you see? Two hours a week
you say? Talk much?"
"Not for a long time. Suddenly, he starts... then, chat ...chat ...
chat. Most times we go to post office, cash giro ... then shop at Tesco.
Walk back. Two hours gone. I go home to my digs."
"Ah! Now I remember, Vanessa, your Centre Director, you know... she
told me you ought to have helped Raman decorate his flat."
"Yea, paper wall, carpet floor, she say. She finds some money, but
Raman must put half money - that's the deal."
"So, what happened?"
"Nothing. Raman lazy. He don't want nothing. He like zombie."
"Why do you think he's like that?"
"Medicine. Injection every month. He say reduce. They say he need
more. Nobody listens to him!"
"Well I'd have thought that the shrinks know best. What can you do?
They say Raman is schizophrenic, whatever that is. He must take his
medication."
"Drugged to eyeball!" Archie slaps his forehead with both hands.
"Has he got friends, relations?"
"In India... maybe. But parents dead. They brought him over when 12
year old, he tell me."
"In this country he is lucky. He gets welfare benefits as a
permanently ill, disabled man."
"Don't know about that ... not much of a life, has he? He say he
liked very much working - minicabbing. He say he definitely not mad...
never mad!"
"Okay. ...minicab driver, was that what he did before he became ill?"
"Oh yea, about ten year before, he tell me he bought brand new car,
cash, because he sold shop in midlands and come to London. Share of
family shop - something like that."
"Did he really? Who would have guessed ?
"They burned it. New car. On the estate here. His woman, English?
Irish? whatever. Sleeping with other men. Set them up to it. Insurance
don't pay. No way to earn money. He go mad."
"He had a wife?"
"No marry. Living both together. One son, he say. Don't see over ten
years. Don't care."
"Well, he had good reason to go mad."
"Mad sure, but no crazy. That's what he say. He never crazy."
"He went to job centre ask benefit. He pay no tax. No dole, they say.
No money. Nobody care. So, he go mad - angry - at job centre."
"Did he?"
"Just shouting loud he say, but no violence, he swear."
"What happened?"
"They call police. He keep on shouting. Say to police, you can't
arrest me. What charge?
"then...?"
"Cops take him away to police station. He ask where you taking me?
They say, You"ll see. They tell him we can make you 'psycho'. Raman
don't understand. They take him to hospital.
Krishnan six-footer. Panjabi - big for Indian. His ancestor in
British Army, won Victoria Cross medal - I see picture."
"They sat on him - five coppers. Doc give injection. He knocked out.
Then, everyday injection - injection. In hospital bed for one year.
Hostel after that, two year more, now at last he got council studio
flat. Alone, he has no one. He given up."
"Oh well, at least he's now got the state hand-out he asked for in
the first place, hasn't he? Even more lolly now, I suppose. And, don't
forget, for the rest of his life."
The two men both drain their coffee cups at the same time.
The rain has stopped completely. The refugee and his counsellor leave
the café, still talking. The detritus in the London streets around them
keep piling up. |
