The ten of us sat in a line at the United Kingdom border security office breathing in the sweet scent of purified air.

Joy and uncertainty moved through the room. We’re in England! But also, what happens to us now?

Still, things weren’t all bad. After being asked our name and having our photographs taken we were led into a shower block by a middle-aged Arabic woman.

‘If you wish to clean yourself,’ she said, eying up the flecks of dirt, puke, and blood on our skin, ‘Now is the time to do so.’

I stepped into a cubicle and stripped quickly, the smell of diesel and spew began to disappear as I washed. I only allowed myself a moment to enjoy the hot water hitting my skin before I tried to think ahead. We were going to be questioned. I needed a story. A good one, and somehow, I needed to explain that story to Ayamin.

‘Hey Ayamin,’ I called.

She was in the cubicle next to me, ‘What will we say?’ she asked in Arabic.

‘I’ve got no plan.’

For a couple of minutes, there were only the sounds of water running, and we were nearing the end of our showering time when Ayamin spoke again.

‘If they don’t recognise you,’ she said, ‘Then we’ll say you came from Syria as well… You grew up in Damascus in a small townhouse and your parents – no grandparents looked after you until you were sixteen when the three of you were taken by Islamic State. You escaped, with the help of your granddad, fled to the refugee camp in the south of Turkey and stayed there until you met me.’

I nodded, the showers were beginning to turn cold, ‘And from there we can keep our stories basically the same.’

I dried off and threw on the grey top and sweatpants that had been provided for us. The feel of soft clean clothes on my skin was surreal.

We wandered back to the holding cells and sat down. Ayamin leant her head on my shoulder as one by one the refugees disappeared into the ‘interview rooms’.

I asked the woman who’d shown us the showers what happened in the interview rooms.

‘They hear your story, ask questions, then set up a court date.’

I wrapped my arms around Ayamin and closed my eyes for a second. The shower had left my muscles feeling like jelly. We’d been on the road for months. I almost fell asleep as she curled into me.

It took two hours for them to reach us, by that time all the other refugees had been interviewed and taken somewhere else in the building.

A muscular security guard came into the waiting room. He mumbled to the woman looking after us who raised an eyebrow then walked over to Ayamin, ‘It is time to go.’

Ayamin sat up and squeezed my hand, ‘I’ll see you soon,’ she said.

I nodded.

****

I was left with the tall muscular guard who’d come in. At first, my thoughts were consumed with Ayamin but as time went on, I started to get uncomfortable under the man’s gaze.

I waited for an hour, then two, and I had nothing to do except bite my nails. Ayamin had been in the interview room for too long.

I tried to breathe deep as the muscular guard’s radio flared to life, he mumbled something into it which I couldn’t catch and then walked over to me.

‘Time for your interview.’

I followed him down a long grey corridor to a stainless-steel door. Through the door sat an immigration officer. Leaning against one wall was the woman who’d shown us the showers, she was the only one in the room who seemed to have any emotion.

The man pointed to a chair opposite him, ‘Sit down.’

I sat. The chair was slightly warm – it hadn’t been long since Ayamin had finished. There was a steel table between me and the officer. On it sat two glasses of water.

‘Tell us your name,’ the officer said.

‘I’m Danny,’ I said, then turned to the woman, ‘Do you mind if we use Arabic?’

She translated it for the officer who just shook his head, ‘Danny Frey, we know who you are, we know you’re wanted by the police, and we know the story you made up in the shower. Don’t waste our time. We’re here to listen to your story and decide how best to deal with you, don’t try to lie to us, don’t try to mislead us.’

He waited for a response from me, I just sat there, any hopes I had slowly sunk away.

The man leaned in a little, ‘Why did you leave the refugee camp Danny? And why are you trying to get back to England?’

I stared at his face, gaunt and hard, he’d probably done the same job hundreds and hundreds of times.

‘I have a short answer and a long answer for you.’

The man snorted, ‘What’s the short one?’

I looked towards the door, and felt the edge of the seat.

‘There was a girl.’

Behind him, the Arabic woman laughed. The officer was suppressing what I could only assume was a smile.

‘And the long answer?’ asked the man, a little kinder this time.

‘The long answer…’ I picked up one of the glasses and took a sip, ‘The long answer begins in England.’