They told me: pick them up at the station.

A family, two children and their mum.

Some English. The younger boy is crying.

From beneath uncertain, hollow eyes,

The mother does her best to raise a smile.

We go to the place behind the woodyard,

Stuffed with caravans and second-hand beds.

‘Processing.’ That’s what it said on the card.

‘Her husband coming soon,’ said the fat man,

With a leery wink from under his cap.

‘Cheer her up!’ His laugh was scary, bloated.

The older boy asks why there is so much hate.

As I leave, fatso slips me two twenties.

‘For your trouble,’ he grunts. For my trouble?