Attrition of the Gods: Book 1 of the Mystery Thriller series Gods Toys.

by P. G. Burns

  “Why on earth would someone offer up their kid?”

  “The Djinn have recruited many human followers over the years by offering fortune, fame or whatever they desire in return for service and sometimes their own children. Simeon said I would be surprised how little a price some humans put on their own kin. This is what he believes lead men to coin the phrase ‘selling your soul’. Some followers are deluded and believe they are following a higher being, but most are just greedy.”

  “No decent father would sell his child,” says Shane, moving his rook.

  Leo is happy Shane is showing so much interest, even if he knows most of it is feigned.

  “Checkmate,” says Shane.

  Leo shakes his head; he barely gets going in their chess games nowadays.

  As Shane leaves the table, Leo notices that a couple of new inmates have joined the wing today. One is a small white male who seems very effeminate, the second is a large well-built black man who sports the long full beard that can be associated with Islam. Leo knows he is paranoid but any new inmate could be a plant from the Djinn to complete the task Errol and Bird had started. Who better to kill a Jew than a Muslim? Leo calls Johnny-No-Legs over to enquire about the new guy. No-Legs looks at him in disbelief.

  “That’s Robert Price. The media call him ‘Al Qaeda Bob’, don’t you read the papers?”

  Leo reads papers from back to front, just not the sort of papers that give people titles like “Al Qaeda Bob”.

  “What’s he in for?” asks Leo.

  “He’s the guy that was out in Syria training with the ragheads. He was arrested getting off a plane, they say he was plotting a terrorist attack over here.”

  That wasn’t exactly true: No-Legs had merely read the headline and filled the rest in himself. Robert Price, aka Al Qaeda Bob, was born in Coventry, England. He grew up on the Painter’s Corner council estate. Robert was pretty much like every other British kid on the estate, in and out of trouble but nothing too serious.

  When the a family called Mustapha’s arrived they were the first Muslims on the estate and were often taunted and called “Pakis” as they walked down the street. Robert was as guilty as anyone else in not being very welcoming. Robert never steeped to the depths others did but he did join in the laughter when jokes were made. Then his life and views changed.

  He wasn’t even aware of the eldest daughter, Rain, until she turned up at his secondary school. Rain was special. Although she wore the traditional headscarf associated with Muslim girls, she never acted as Robert imagined Muslim girls did, or in fact any other girl. Rain played football, she was funny, and, boy, was she pretty. Robert expected a lot of ribbing from his friends when he began dating her but to his surprise they all seemed happy for him and probably a little jealous.

  Soon Rain was accepted among many on the estate and it followed that so was her family. The main problem for their relationship was their parents. Rain’s father was not a strict Muslim but he did attend the mosque and she feared he may insist that she stop seeing the non-Muslim black boy. Robert’s mother was of West Indian descent and was a strict evangelist who attended Mass at least three times a week. She had nothing against any other religion but hoped her boy would meet a nice Christian girl. However, after a few months of grief, both sets of parents relented and accepted the couple. Rain never tried to persuade Robert to convert to Islam but after three years together he asked her to marry him and volunteered to convert, suggesting it might soften the blow for her family. Robert’s mum had passed away so there was nobody to upset at his end. Personally he was not at all religious but he was respectful of Mr and Mrs Mustapha, Rain’s parents. So when he took the decision to convert he studied at the mosque and learned as much as possible about the Quran. Still, he would have to admit, it was his undying love for Rain that motivated his worship and not his belief in either Allah or Muhammad.

  Everything was great. Rain fell pregnant within a year of the couple’s marriage and Robert had found full-time employment driving buses. A very normal life.

  Soon after they announced the news of Rain’s pregnancy Mr and Mrs Mustapha asked her to come with them and visit her grandparents in Algeria before she became tied to a family in the UK. Robert had heard his wife mention disruption back home in Algeria but he wasn’t really aware that the country was at the peak of the worst civil conflict in recent history.

  Regardless of this, the Mustapha’s travelled home to visit their relatives in Rias, a small village outside Algiers. On the second day they were away Robert tried to call his wife but was not too disappointed when she didn’t answer. She had warned him that her village had barely entered the twentieth century so not to expect technology to work there.

  The ITN news never actually mentioned the Rias massacre. The first Robert heard about it was when Imam Shahid from the mosque called at the door.

  “As salamu alaykum,” Imam Shahid greeted him.

  Robert hated trying to speak any Arabic, even this simple greeting. “Eh, Alaykum err s-salam,” he replied, hoping it didn’t sound too wrong.

  “May I come in?” asked Shahid.

  “Yes, yes, of course. I’m sorry about the mess. My wife is away this week in Algeria.”

  Robert showed the Imam into the house, worried that he had been reported for not fasting last Ramadan or the times he may have had an alcoholic tipple.

  “Hussein and Ariadne have also gone,” he added trying to make small talk. “They have gone to have our baby blessed by the village elders back in Algeria. It’s tradition apparently.”

  People of authority had always made Robert nervous and he realised he was babbling.

  “I know,” replied the Imam, his tone very sombre. All of a sudden Robert realised this was far more than a pep talk on how to be a good Muslim.

  The Imam continued. “I am so sorry to be the bearer of such tragic news.” He paused as Robert sat down. “A terrible thing has happened.”

  The Imam held his hands as if to pray and he averted his gaze, then reluctantly re-engaged. His brows furrowed as he bit his bottom lip, preparing to pass on the grave news. Robert’s stomach turned. He somehow knew whatever came out of this man’s mouth next would change his life forever. He wanted to stop him from saying anything.

  “Last night armed gunmen raided the village that the Mustapha’s visited. We have been informed that Mr and Mrs Mustapha were killed.”

  “What about Rain? My wife?”

  For what seemed like a lifetime Mr Shahid looked down at the coffee table. Eventually he looked back up. “It seems the leader of the raid told the others to round up all the pretty women and then shoot everyone else.”

  Robert didn’t have to ask why they would round up all the pretty women. The breath caught in his chest and he began to weep. His beautiful wife, they would abuse her, they would force her to do things.

  “Oh my god, our baby is inside her,” he cried out, rocking and holding his head. “Who has done this? Who are these men?”

  The massacre of Rias village happened in August 1997. Robert would not find the answer to his question until the twelfth of July 2002.

  Immediately after the tragedy that befell Robert and his family, he tried to fly out to Algeria. Obtaining a visa was very difficult; the bloody civil war meant the government strongly advised against UK citizens travelling to the North African state. By the time he arrived, the funeral of his in-laws had already taken place. He tried to find out what he could about the raid. Over eight hundred people were slaughtered from a village, whose population had been barely a thousand. Most of the survivors had packed up and left.

  He managed to speak to two men who witnessed the horrific event. It seemed they had totally different views of what happened. Tariq, a goat herder, watched from a hideout on the hills as what he called Islamic fundamentalists killed the villagers. He overheard the killers telling the villagers it was their punishment for not sending food to the GIA, an anti-government Islamic revolutionary army. But Malik, an
old Imam who survived a bullet that entered the roof of his mouth but stopped short of his brain, told Robert that as he lay down pretending to be dead he saw the men remove their garbs to reveal government troop uniforms underneath.

  But that was as far as he got. The task of finding his wife was near impossible. He could neither speak Arabic nor French and as a Black English man he was on a par with cancer in the popularity stakes. The only place he could have expected any help was her village, which was now decimated and the authorities couldn’t have been less helpful.

  In one of the most sensitive and volatile places in the world he was going round like a bull in a china shop. Frustrated at the lack of help from the police or soldiers at the nearby army camp, he would end up hurling abuse at the unhelpful officers. He was trying to hold it together but the fear of never seeing Rain again was driving him insane. He was changing. His regard for his own safety was diminishing rapidly and he couldn’t do anything about it. Luckily the locals didn’t really understand much of what he said. On the other hand, certain words had entered international tongue and were understood by anyone who had watched a Scorsese movie, so when he called the commanding officer of the barracks “a motherfucker”, he found himself at the wrong end of a rifle butt and had to stagger home bleeding heavily.

  Robert had been in Algeria for four weeks staying in a town called Larbaa near Rain’s village. Life was cheap in this region and no one was looking out for him. Many locals had begun to place bets on how long the ‘big Negro would last.

  He wasn’t stupid, he knew his life was in danger here, but fear was a thing of the past. He simply would not leave until he either found his wife or he found the people who took her. These thoughts constantly raced around his head, knowing that the longer he searched the less chance there was of finding her alive. Desperation was driving him to act recklessly. As time passed he knew his time was coming to a close. The local police had had enough of his accusations. The leaders of the rebel forces had heard how he was telling anyone who understood English that they were a bunch of rapist cowards and the local drug smugglers were tired of his outbursts bringing attention to this small town where tons of South American drugs were stored ready to flood the Spanish and Italian markets.

  When a local villager witnessed him being bundled into the back of an old Volkswagen campervan by three masked men, he ran to the local coffee house to collect his winnings.

  Not that Robert had gone quietly into that campervan. He fought tooth and nail with his abductors, throwing one against the door of the van and taking hold of the second man’s face so he could gauge his eye out. Only the sound of a gun cocking and the feel of the barrel pushed hard against his back calmed his resistance.

  Reluctantly he let them pull a hood over his head and force him into the VW. He attempted to sit up straight, saying nothing as his abductors pulled a string to tighten the sack over his head and tied his hands together.

  A sharp instrument was pushed into his throat and the guttural shouting from one of his attackers made Robert realise that the one whose eye he had popped moments before wanted to kill him there and then. A thump to the side of the head dazed him slightly but it was the blow to his abdomen which left him reeling and gasping for breath.

  He fell to the floor of the vehicle as kicks rained in around his head. Unable to protect himself he gritted his teeth and embraced the pain, promising himself he wouldn’t die, not today. “I must survive until I find my wife.”

  He heard more shouts as if they were arguing between themselves and struggled upright again. They drove off at a relatively fast speed. The panic in their high-pitched voices led Robert to believe that these were young men and not experienced kidnappers. They drove for an hour or so before pulling up. They spoke to him in a mixture of French and Arabic. With his hands still bound and the sack over his head he stumbled out of the van and felt the heat from the midday sun. Half expecting another blow, he tensed his body. One assailant grabbed his arm, pulling him to his knees. Robert began to pray, not from fear but from desperation. Waiting for the sound of gunfire, expecting to be executed any second, he asked Allah to save him so that he could find his wife or revenge her death.

  The sack was removed. Robert’s eyes burned as the sun’s glare hit them. When eventually he could see, he looked around. A man dressed in the robes of a nomad with a large white turban stood in front of him. They were in a desert wilderness. Robert looked him in the eye.

  “What do you want of me?” he growled.

  The man replied in perfect English, a hint of Oxbridge to the accent. “You are causing quite a stir in Larbaa, my friend. Lots of people are not happy to have you around.”

  Robert’s eyes showed no fear. The man looked impressed.

  “Someone murdered my family. They took my pregnant wife. I will not leave here until I find out who. Now, you can kill me if you want but I will haunt that fucking town and I will haunt you, your kids and their kids.”

  He turned and looked at the young men who had brought him here. “And I’ll fucking haunt you little cunts as well,” he screamed, veins exploding out of his temples, his eyes popping out of his head.

  He meant every word. The men cowered.

  “My name is Abu Abdallal,” said the well-spoken man. “I am not going to kill you. I am going to help you.”

  Abu dismissed the three stooges, cut the ropes from Robert’s hands and invited him to follow as he walked. They were in a desert and, although not sad to see the men drive off in the wreck of a van, Robert did wonder how he would get out of there. The man led him to a small mound of rocks where a fire burned and a small animal was roasting. Two large cushions were placed nearby and a woman dressed in a hijab appeared from behind a dune carrying water jugs. The woman bowed to the robed man and poured two cups of water, giving one to Robert and the other to Abu. It was all very serene.

  “Are you familiar with the proverb: the enemy of mine enemy is my friend?” asked Abu.

  Robert looked at the white-robed man carefully. “I’ve heard it. It’s from The Godfather or something like that, isn’t it?”

  Abu laughed. “No its not from the Godfather, but where it’s from is not important. What it means is that we – me and you – are friends because we have a common enemy. The men that attacked the village are traitors. They have sold their souls to the devil.”

  Robert’s heart leaped. Did this man really know who did it?

  “They call themselves rebels and Islamic warriors but they have long since allowed this corrupt government and its Western allies to infiltrate and use them. I am their enemy. I have created a new rebel force, one that will operate with our brothers throughout the Muslim world, one that will infiltrate our enemy’s strongholds. I tell you with grief in my heart that I cannot rescue your wife; my sources have confirmed she is already dead. Murdered.” Abu bowed his head in a respectful pause before he continued. “I promise you this. I will one day stand next to you as judgement is passed on the men that are responsible and you shall have your justice.”

  Tears streamed down Robert’s face as he finally accepted his beautiful wife’s fate. Abu knew the right words to comfort his new prodigy.

  “They will pay, rest assured that we will make them.”

  Hours later Robert and Abu extinguished the fire with a plan hatched. One that would lead to Robert operating as a covert sleeper in the UK, helping to recruit Jihadists from young British Muslims. He would keep his Western name so as not to draw attention to himself. Thanks to Abu and his organisation he would eventually discover the man who ordered the massacre of the village and the kidnapping of his wife: a high-ranking officer in the Algerian armed forces.

  In July 2002, five years after this meeting, Robert presided over a kangaroo court in an Afghanistan cave with this officer and three other captured men. He found them all guilty. With encouragement one of the men finally confessed to being involved in the gang rape of a pregnant villager who was visiting from England. He explained t
hat she died in the back of a van after she miscarried during the rape. Robert felt neither shame nor glory regarding what followed next. As promised Abu was in attendance at the cave. Robert was fiercely loyal to his mentor by this stage and he appreciated the unwavering determination with which Abu had helped him track down the men who had inadvertently changed his life forever. Abu had also guided Robert on what punishment he must carry out.

  “Respect can only grow where fear is installed,” he said. “You must let the world know that no mercy will be shown to those who harm us or betray us. These men have done both and should pay for both.”

  Robert carried out the sentence himself. The cave they were in doubled as a place of execution. Of course the four condemned men all protested and pleaded on hearing the death sentence being passed on them but after witnessing the first execution all they could do was whimper and cry.

  Robert chose Ahmeed Rassam, the captain during the raids on Rias, to be the first to die. Two mujahedeen soldiers removed his robes and dragged his naked body to the hard stone floor. The captain begged forgiveness between prayers to Allah.

  Robert was not concerned that he lacked the technical skill to carry out the penalty: it hardly mattered in the end, the man’s fate was sealed. One of the guards roughly pulled at Ahmeed’s genitals as the second tied a length of binding string around the base, so as to give space from the pubic bone. Even with both hands and feet tied the two strong soldiers struggled to hold Ahmeed when he saw Abu hand Robert a blade and flat stone. Every fibre in the man’s body spasmed and like an eel he thrashed about in a hopeless attempt to get free. Eventually his energy was spent and with a last minute panic he forced his face to the floor and shuffled to Abu’s feet, kissing them as he begged for his life. Abu pulled him back to his knees and fixed him with a stare, which calmed the man. The other condemned men watched Robert tuck the stone under the separated genitals and as Ahmeed’s high-pitched squeal rang out he chopped down on to the target.

  His first hit was not accurate and he only severed the end of his penis. One of the watching soldiers laughed, one of the prisoners gagged. Robert brought the blade down once more, this time hitting all the genitals. The cut was not clean, the parts hung from his body, held there by sinew and skin. The captain witnessed his own castration before passing out. A soldier threw freezing water over his head to wake him so that Robert could take the blade to his throat and began hacking and sawing his head off. The process took over ninety seconds. The blade was purposely old and blunt so Robert had to rely on his weight and strength. Gurgled screams rang out from the three remaining men and Robert repeated the sentence on each one, driven by the anger and pain he had kept close for the last five years. He showed no mercy.