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I spend the night in the boot of the Volvo in the car park of a motorway services, southwest of London. It's cold and noisy and they don't make sleeping bags long enough for people who are six-five.
At least with the seats down, there's room to stretch out.
During the night, I dream of Amira, the sick young girl, the others trapped in the back of that truck. They suffocate to death while I tap dance with a crocodile outside the doors.
Bloody nonsense.
I wake up to the smell of soap powder. My hair stuck rigid with the stuff. The rear windscreen of the car drips with condensation. My mouth screams for a drink.
I open the boot to a spotless blue sky.
Sunny but chilly. The sporadic roar of motorway traffic. I clamber out of the Volvo and traipse across the car park to the main servi
