IT'S just before 4.45am when the big bus from London drops the last of its human cargo round the back of Stockton High Street; if they know the phrase at all, the frightened family of five will be hoping that this is indeed the darkest hour before dawn.

They are the people whom the Shadow Home Secretary would send to some distant, unnamed and doubtless godforsaken island, their worldly goods now piled in big carrier bags on the pavement outside the church hall.

It would be hard to suppose, but easy to hope, that it is all a dream.

Roused from its slumbers, a disgruntled dog barks briefly. Nothing else stirs, not even the phrase about out of sight and out of mind, though it'll be up and doing before long.

Another five asylum seekers, hostages to fortune and now awaiting what the Government calls dispersal, the word itself as chilling as the October night air.

Ruby Khan's four daughters are 17, 15, eight and seven. They have fled Pakistan, says Mona, because of a violent husband and father.

"He is not a good man. Our lives were in danger. We had no rights there because of our father and because we were women."

They arrived in England on July 9, put up in emergency accommodation at a "hotel" in London. No one can remember the name of the hotel. It sure as apples wasn't Grosvenor House.

The bus had left London at 9pm, dropped another 18 asylum seekers in Newcastle before heading back to Stockton. Most Tuesday mornings for two years, the parish church hall has been the dropping off point for what is now known as the Tees Valley.

The Khan family have been offered accommodation on the Lakes estate in Redcar, one of 150 houses which Redcar and Cleveland council now reserves for asylum seekers. If they turn it down, the support stops; the Lakes estate represents being thrown in at the deep end.

The reception committee, for "welcoming committee" seems somehow inappropriate, comprises Adele McAllister from the council and three parish church members - Carolyn Smith, Julie Masterman and a churchwarden who asks not to be named, a pity since she is both passionate and articulate.

That they may not be a welcoming committee does not, however paradoxically, mean that they are not welcoming.

"The bottom line is that they are people who deserve a bit of dignity, a bit of respect, whatever the reason they are in this country," says the churchwarden.

"Look at the mother. Look at the bewilderment on her face. They don't even know where they are; they haven't come to Stockton because they want to be in Stockton.

"Most of them go to houses which are void, which can't be let to anyone else, green shutters over the windows where ordinary people don't want to live any more."

"There's plenty of politics about, but at five o'clock in the morning, this job is about people, about making those little girls feel not quite so desperate as they must."

The parish church has been actively, thoughtfully and compassionately involved - "We walk a funny line; 2,000 years ago, there was a family kicked out of wherever and ended up in Egypt" - but is aware that not everyone shares their concerns. Stockton houses many asylum seekers of its own.

"This is a gritty Northern town and a lot of people are reluctant to change. There is no doubt the face of Stockton is very different from what it was."

A euphemism, surely? "There's bound to be antagonism because the issue isn't understood. Central Stockton is an area of horrific deprivation anyway, the substance abuse the worst in the Tees Valley, a lot of people not in a good situation.

"If you aren't in a good situation and you see change, sometimes it's misunderstood."

The large hall into which the Khan family is ushered is very much less than luxurious, the decor unequivocally hideous. There's a cup of tea, a bag of soft toys, some magazines.

Adele fills forms, describes the day ahead, talks of the asylum support team, of benefit and maybe even the benefit of the doubt. There's also a map of Redcar: you are here.

There'll be a taxi at 7.30, Adele adds, to take them to the council offices in South Bank.

The worst cases, she says, are the single men. "Sometimes all they have is a single small carrier bag. It can be pretty desperate."

Julie promises they'll like it, tells the youngsters they'll have to have buckets and spades. "Have you been to the seaside? It's beautiful, really nice."

Mona speaks English for her subdued, silent mother, Farah's feeling unwell - hardly surprising after a bus ride from London to Stockton via Newcastle - and has a camp bed put up.

The church warden finds a damask sheet. "That's the Church of England for you," she says.

Mehak and Saba, nice little kids, are given an informal tour of the early 18th century, Grade 1 listed church, where bags of clothes and toys, out of sight as well, now occupy the choir stalls.

"They've been praying to God," says Julie.

"Which god?"

"Our God, of course," says Julie.

The churchwarden says it's not how people imagine the Church of England, not much like the pomp and circumstances of the Bishop's enthronement the Sunday previously. They hope eventually to set up an asylum seekers' drop-in centre.

"I sometimes wonder what the norm is. Whatever it is, I don't think we're it.

"It just feels like they're deliberately moving them about at night. It's just so symbolic: if anyone's around at this time in Stockton, they'll be up to no good.

"The difficulties these people face are staggering. If we can only make them welcome for a few hours here, at least that's something."

By 7am, the family are all fitfully asleep, roused 40 minutes later when the mini-bus breaks off from the school run to take the asylum seekers on the last uncertain leg of the first perilous part of what may or may not be the beginning of a new life. Dispersal.

They emerge silent and shivering into the morning. The rudest awakening may yet be to come.

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