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It was cruel, barbarous, inhumane. No, it was pure evil .

Viyan Bashur stood in the claustrophobic space, staring down at the thick layer of ash beneath her feet.

She longed to be out of here, partly because of the terrible danger you put yourself in, standing inside this lethal contraption, but mostly because of the hideous scene in front of her.

This mottled sea of grey, punctuated with the odd flash of dull silver, an earring or ring that had survived the intense heat, was all that was left of Selima.

The thought made Viyan’s head spin, even as her heart burst with grief.

She had known Selima for over two years, encountering the young mother on the very first day of her own imprisonment.

Viyan, then fresh off the boat and exhausted from her arduous journey across Europe, had been reeling, shocked that the trust she’d put in the traffickers had been so cruelly betrayed.

Selima, more experienced than her, with a canny eye for how life worked in this awful camp, had taken Viyan under her wing, keeping her out of harm’s way.

Perhaps it was because they were both Kurdish, perhaps it was because she recognized a fellow mother, either way Viyan had been profoundly grateful for her protection and support at one of the most distressing points of her life.

The rules of the camp were strict, the imprisoned workers forbidden from talking to each other, from forming any sort of friendship, so Selima had taken a great risk in protecting Viyan, the latter regretting now that she’d never sufficiently expressed her heartfelt gratitude for Selima’s covert acts of kindness.

Selima was not made of stone, of course.

She too had found life in this camp intolerable.

And in the end, she had snapped, making a sudden, desperate bid to escape.

Viyan hadn’t witnessed it, she’d been detailed to work at the abortion clinic last night, but she’d seen the aftermath, watching in horror as her poor friend was dragged to the incinerator.

The threat of a fiery death had often been invoked by their captors, but Viyan had thought it was just a stunt, borne of a desire to provoke and humiliate them.

Now she knew different – the frantic, agonized screams of her friend still ringing in her ears.

Pushing the hideous pile of ash towards the door, Viyan was suddenly gripped by a terrible sense of foreboding.

Would this scene be repeated in the future, with her as the unfortunate victim?

Was Viyan staring at her own future right now?

The thought made her shiver, tears pricking her eyes.

The notion that she would never see Defne, Aasmah and Salman again was unthinkable and yet this had been Selima’s fate, her family consigned to a lifetime of wondering what had become of their beloved mother, so why not her?

Leaning heavily on her broom, Viyan felt breathless and dizzy.

The dire transformation in her fortunes was too disorienting to process.

For many years, she’d had a good life. A nice home, a loving husband, three healthy children, even the makings of a career, having trained to be a primary school teacher.

Then the great earthquake had struck, devastating her entire region.

Overnight, she had lost everything. Mercifully, her children had been pulled from the wreckage, but her husband had not been so lucky.

There had been no time to bury him, no time to grieve however, Viyan desperately tried to keep her baby, her daughters and her ailing mother safe, as they were transported to a refugee camp on the border with Syria.

Perhaps it was because they were far from Istanbul and thus out of sight of the national government.

Or perhaps it was because they were Kurds.

Either way, aid had been painfully slow in arriving, other regions seemingly favoured instead.

Slowly their situation had grown intolerable, Viyan having to beg, steal and borrow just to put rice in her family’s mouths.

The change in their situation had been calamitous and threatened to cost them their lives, disease rife within the overcrowded refugee camp.

With no hope of their house being rebuilt and no means to support her family, Viyan had made the fateful decision to risk all by attempting to make it to Europe, paying the traffickers the last of her paltry savings to smuggle her into the UK, leaving her children in the care of her elderly mother.

They had promised her a job, prosperity, opportunities.

The reality had been very different, Viyan and the other workers becoming little better than slaves.

Would her captors ever honour their agreement to release her when she’d paid off her ‘debts’?

Or would they work her until she was broken in mind and spirit?

Was it even possible she would end up in this incinerator, screaming for mercy as the temperature soared and her skin crackled and blistered?

Swallowing down her horror, Viyan re-doubled her efforts, desperate now to be out of the grim metal cylinder.

Gathering the ashes of her friend neatly into a pile, she swept it briskly into a large grey bin bag.

She was careful, considerate, but still flecks of ash crept into her eyes, her nose, the young mother wiping her face angrily with her grubby arm.

Desolate, hurting, Viyan nevertheless persisted, eventually sealing Selima’s feathery remains in the bag, before hurrying from the appalling machine.

Outside the fresh air was invigorating, Viyan pausing for a moment to drink in the strong sunshine, something she’d seen too little of since her fateful decision to leave Turkey.

But then she spotted one of the guards looking at her with naked hostility, his hand resting on the butt of his handgun, so she hurried on her way, crossing to the huge metal waste containers at the rear of the site.

Carefully mounting the rickety staircase, Viyan eventually made it to the lip of the container.

She’d already secured her mask over her mouth and nose, but it made no difference, the stench making her gag.

The container was nearly full, weeks of medical waste and human tissue lying bagged and dumped inside, creating an aroma that could only be described as unholy.

It was no place for her friend, or any human being to end up in, but fearful of being disciplined for idleness, Viyan uttered the shortest of farewells:

‘Goodbye, sweet Selima. You will live on in my thoughts and prayers.’

Gently she lowered the bag into the container, before wiping away a tear.

Would this be her final resting place too?

Raising a shaking hand to her face, Viyan rested her index finger on the small, turquoise moon tattoo on her chin.

She’d had it inked shortly after the birth of her eldest, the traditional Deq marking signifying hope and optimism for the future, and she pressed her finger hard on it, praying feverishly for redemption, for salvation, for deliverance.

But her prayers died on her lips almost as soon as they were uttered.

There was no hope here.