Guantanamo Boy

by Anna Perera

This barber flings the chrome clippers in the tin box and replaces them with a black battery-powered shaver. He has no use for creams, soaps or brushes. There’s nothing to ease the attack on the teenage hair on Khalid’s face as the shaver is applied with the same vengeance as the clippers.

  Khalid had never been shaved by anyone else until this prison ordeal began. At home in Rochdale he’d started shaving a couple of times a week when he was fourteen and he was always careful not to cut himself. This shaving feels like another abuse. Three blades thump into his cheek, mangling his chin to pulp.

  At last it’s over. Khalid’s back in his cell. Shivering. Sore. Miserable. The blasts of ice from the air conditioner are turning the room into a fridge. Wrapping himself in blankets and a towel, he crouches on the bed, feeling sad and empty, going through the process of trying to keep warm when actually he doesn’t care.

  Was that really his face? Khalid runs his hand over his chin. It’s not that big, is it? Chins don’t change shape, do they? How come his face is so long and skinny? He knows he used to look better than that. Or maybe he looks peculiar because the tin’s not a proper mirror and that’s why the reflection is odd.

  Struggling to settle his mind, Khalid gazes at the spots of blood on the white towel hanging from his shoulders, then gently explores the bumps and dents in his skull for the secret place where three prickly hairs escaped the clippers. He wiggles the ends, sharp as needles, with the tip of a finger.

  Dinner comes and goes. Still no books.

  “You bet your sweet bippy. Thanks for nothing,” Khalid says, echoing the words of the female guard from this morning. Listening to footsteps fading down the corridor with a faint clack, he knows they’re hers. Doing his best not to stew, or lose his mind because of the lack of fairness or order in his life, he rests his sore head on his hands. Without a pillow, his neck aches. His back aches.

  The smell of the thin foam mattress reminds him of the smell of little Gul’s dolls. Pressing his nose in the damp scent until he turns on his back to stare at the ceiling, Khalid finds the strength to join in the prayers before he falls asleep.

  During the night he wakes up several times with red eyes to look out suddenly as if he’s seen a ghost. He closes them slowly only after he’s checked every inch of the tiny cell. Even his flip-flops. And all the time there’s a shaft of cold air blowing on his bleeding head.

  What would Dad say about the picture at the front of his brain that won’t go away? Probably tell him his life’s wasting away and his big dreams have come down to a park bench and a pretty girl. Sounds about right. She flashes up a lot, Niamh. As if she’ll look at him twice when he gets out of here. As if she ever did. Anyway, who cares? She probably hates Muslims. Everyone else seems to. Why not her?

  She was in his mind just then, but Khalid can’t remember why she ran away—leaving him devastated by the sight of her disappearing back. Wavy hair flying. Oh yeah, he tried to—never mind—that was it. He would never try—not in real life. Not in a million years. No way would he tell Dad about that. And, if by some miracle he did, then Dad would frown, yeah.

  “Tell the young what not to do and they will forget the not and go out and do whatever you told them not to,” he once said to Mum when Aadab was being naughty. Khalid smiles at the memory of Mum chasing Aadab round the kitchen. Chairs scraping the floor, Aadab screaming her head off and giggling at the same time, the bowl of oranges on the table in danger of sliding right off and crashing to the floor. It was so long ago, he can hardly remember what his sisters look like. What the kitchen looks like.

  Khalid turns on his side, moving closer to the wall, not prepared to think about Niamh or his family any more. Setting them aside, because toying with pleasant memories just leaves him more upset, frustrated and exhausted than before. Forcing himself instead to listen to the last clunking of the doors along the row being checked to make sure they’re locked tight. Then to the sound of his heart.

  He knows the books help keep the voices at bay. Make the white space go away. What will he do if they don’t bring him more soon?

  And he did see Ali. There’s no doubt in Khalid’s mind he was there at the barber’s. But he’ll never be certain he really saw Masud.

  The air conditioner starts buzzing out even colder air, chilling Khalid to the bone. Turning the thin mattress icy.

  22

  NEWS

  Khalid wakes up, puts a hand over his mouth and listens to the sound of vomiting. At first he thinks it’s coming from inside his own head. But—there it is again. Wondering what the guy’s chucking up when the breakfast trolley hasn’t even come yet. As suddenly as it starts, the sound of vomiting stops and Khalid turns over. For the last three days he’s been keeping track of the days by scratching a mark on the wall just below his bed. He heard the guard yesterday say, “Happy holidays, Rusty.” So Khalid knows it’s holiday time, but is it Easter? July? Or what?

  It could still be December for all he knows. It’s a little cooler in the mornings than it was a week ago and although there are no winters here, the last time he went for a shower the crisp blue sky reminded him of a day with a sky just like this. When was that? It was December then. So it’s probably January again. When was Eid? When everyone shouted to each other across the wires? Ages ago? Or just recently? When did they bring this lot of books? Was it five days ago or yesterday?

  Khalid wishes he’d started making the marks when he did know what time of year it was. Now all he has to go on are a few scratches that tell him another day is over. Today he decides to find out what the date is when breakfast comes. He needs to know the precise date all of a sudden or he’ll have to keep pacing the room. The sudden clacking of trays forces him to run to the door, rehearsing the question in as few words as possible.

  “What’s the date?” Or, “What’s the date today?” That’ll do it—practicing out loud so he’s totally prepared for his first human contact of the morning. Patiently, he waits to catch the guard’s attention.

  A simple thing, today’s date is something he once took for granted, had easy access to on a daily basis. Could find out in a flash. Now this stuff is a stranger to him. If the guard chooses not to answer there’s nothing Khalid can do.

  In a jiffy, the white tray’s shoved through the hole faster than usual.

  “What’s the date today?” Khalid quickly says, grabbing it.

  The guard ignores him and moves on.

  “What’s the date?” Khalid yells. Blitzed by the sound of clacking trays, spoons and plodding feet, the trolley relentlessly thunders up the linoleum away from him, Khalid yelling, “WHAT’S THE BLEEDIN’ DATE?” If only he had answered. If only—then today would be different. The day would have started with a victory instead of yet another failure. Now the question will go round his head all day long. His chance of standing firm on the cell floor is gone.

  “What’s the date? What’s the date? What’s the date?” Like a mantra. Stifled as he is into repeating the question he woke up with—all day. Getting an answer is his only chance of moving on to another phase of thinking.

  “What’s the date? What’s the date?”

  Saddled with saying the same words over and over again, Khalid’s childlike insistence begins to drive everyone on the row insane until someone shouts from the cell next to him, “It’s the day after yesterday, you dorkhead!”

  You dorkhead? You dorkhead? Only one person in the universe calls Khalid a dorkhead. Disbelief takes over as he grips the wire.

  “Tariq?” Rattling the fence with all his might, Khalid yells, “You’re the dorkhead, cuz!”

  “Keep your voice down,” a soldier shouts. “It’s January first, 2004.”

  “DON’T CALL ME A DORKHEAD AGAIN!” Khalid yells.

  “I told you to shut it!” a guard warns.

  Silence. No other voice rings out.

  Khalid leans in to the wire. Nothing but a concrete wall lies between them but there isn’t a sound. Just the rumble of a shackled man moving past
with cringing steps. The muscular shapes of soldiers go by, hurrying him along, leaving the smell of men and rubber boots behind for Khalid to block out.

  “Tariq? Is that you?” Khalid whispers to a broken link in the fence. “Tariq. Tariq.”

  His hands fall from his mouth as he walks backwards to the bed. Unsure he’s heard right.

  Someone shouted “dorkhead.” Didn’t they? The name didn’t sound inside him. It was out there for sure. Or was it? Then it comes to him, he might have said it. That’s how it happened. Khalid said it himself, because the moment he heard the date—he . . . Or did someone shout the date afterwards? No, no. Or maybe yes. Today might even be . . . what was he thinking? Thinking Tariq is the other side of the concrete wall. How could it be him? Right here, next to him? Why won’t he answer?

  “TAREEEK!”

  “Cut it out, pal,” a woman gently calls. Buying him a moment’s peace before his mind speeds backwards.

  It’s her—leaning forward—on the bed. Niamh, tut-tutting. Her long, wavy hair cascades from the fist she clutches to her head. Anchoring Khalid to the dream, she’ll stay forever—or at least until Tariq calls him a dorkhead once more. Won’t that be cool? He can introduce them to each other.

  But Tariq’s not here and neither is Niamh. What about that? Khalid’s suddenly wrapped in a shudder of pain so strong, he punches the wall to plug his fury.

  “Stop that, pal,” the voice says again. Covering him in a wave of calm, unexpected sweetness that forces Khalid to listen carefully in case she calls him pal one more time.

  “You don’t wanna make things any worse than they are,” she says, with pretty light brown eyes.

  Don’t I? Khalid wonders, shocked by the sudden sight of his swollen knuckles. Quickly he stuffs his hand in his mouth before turning round slowly to see a pretty woman in her early twenties with a reddish ponytail, nice smile and perfect teeth standing in front of him.

  Amazed by the sight, the smell of expensive perfume drifting towards him.

  “My name’s Lee-Andy. I got here a few days ago from my home town, which is a long way from here, near the North Carolina line. Guess you don’t know where that is. Too bad. Want some chocolate?”

  Khalid blinks and manages to nod as she hands him a thin brown wrapper. The more she smiles, the weirder he feels. His eyes widen with shock at the present she’s given him.

  “Let me do that for you. Your hands look pretty sore.” Lee-Andy cracks open the wrapper while he watches in amazement. Is that chocolate smell hiding the fact the bar’s laced with poison?

  “See ya.” Lee-Andy nods. The throbbing pain in Khalid’s hand spreads quickly up his arm as she turns to leave.

  “You forgot to say ‘Happy New Year,’” Khalid says.

  “Oh my, that’s terrible. Didn’t know you guys cared about that stuff.” From the tone of her voice, Khalid believes her. The rhythm of her ordinary, everyday kindness takes him by surprise, shocking him more than the gift of chocolate.

  “That’s OK. Do you know what the man’s name is in the cell next door?” he asks.

  “I don’t, but I can find out for you.” She smiles apologetically. “I’m back here at seven in the morning. Now you stop yelling and hurting your hands or they’ll take you somewhere you don’t wanna go. You hear me?”

  Yep, he hears her all right. The second she’s gone, Khalid sits on the bed and nibbles the chocolate to make sure it’s real. Taking his time to roll each morsel round his mouth and breathe in the sweet smell, he savors the perfection of the rich, smooth taste that spreads over his tongue like honey.

  He’s almost halfway through the little bar when he pulls himself up. Wrapping the remaining squares under his pillow to save for later, he remembers how much he’s taken this taste for granted in the past. Seeing himself munching Fruit and Nut bars, Twix, Flakes, Kit Kats, Galaxy, Bounties, on his way to and from school, without any real appreciation for the amazing pleasure of every mouthful.

  When night comes, the ceiling lights dim slightly and Khalid finally forgets his painful hands. Distancing himself from the noise of someone coughing somewhere and the men calling goodnight to each other in Pashtu and Urdu across the doors, he hears only the high-pitched, squeaky voice of the man he thought was Tariq, who is loudly, too loudly, joining in.

  Listening hard for a sign that might tell him who he is, Khalid knows deep down it can’t be Tariq. It’s highly unlikely they’d put him next door. And anyway, how much can Khalid learn from a strange voice like that? A voice that reminds him of the irritating short beeps of a reversing truck.

  Khalid unfolds the empty chocolate wrapper and presses it flat to his nose. That was nice of her to give him the chocolate. Sniffing the silvery paper hard to stop himself from thinking about Tariq. Not even the memory of his new friend, Lee-Andy, and her small act of kindness, which was a hundred times more uplifting than she will ever know, can alter the deep-seated hatred and contempt he feels for his cousin.

  *

  The next morning when he wakes up Khalid doesn’t feel quite as stupid as he did yesterday. Today he has one small thing to look forward to—a conversation with Lee-Andy, who might just bring him another chocolate bar and tell him Tariq’s not the man in the cell next door.

  After morning prayers, his back to the wire, Khalid waits for the soldier who’s bound to peer in as he walks past, draw closer, pause, then march on. When he’s gone, ignoring the bursting anticipation in his guts, Khalid bangs his elbows on the door, whispering, “You’re the dorkhead. Not me!” His whole life surges into this present moment as he listens for an answer.

  “Quiet, he’s coming back,” the voice squeaks. Khalid listens to the sound of heavy boots striding purposefully towards them. But the dim-witted soldier appears to see nothing more than the image Khalid gives him of a young man standing with his head bowed. Staring at the floor. Fingers gripping the wire. Probably waiting for breakfast. The squeaky voice starts half singing, no doubt to give the impression he’s praying, until the soldier clumps off, then mutters, “Khalid? Is that you? It’s me, cuz.”

  “Shut up,” Khalid says, tears streaming down his face.

  “When did you get picked up? They picked us all up on the same day, I’m guessing,” Tariq says.

  “Us all?” Khalid asks, daring to believe it really is his cousin.

  “Yeah, all the gamers. I heard about the Australian guy in Islamabad when they took me there. Almost killed him, the bastards. It’s best you don’t ask me about his injuries. A guard told me what happened. I bribed him, I’m not ashamed to say, with my gold watch. From my understanding it was that gamer who did us in. He said we planned to bomb the Houses of Parliament and the White House. Can you believe this?”

  “NOOOOO!” Khalid yells, fury rising. The distant sound of footsteps thudding towards him with armfuls of shackles echoes through the clawing noise coming out of his mouth.

  “YOU were the one who set up the links. Only YOU had everyone’s real names and locations. That’s why you didn’t answer me yesterday.”

  “Shush! How could I answer you yesterday? I didn’t know it was you. Even when you called me cuz I never imagined it was you.” Tariq pauses for a moment as if to remember. “How can you accuse me?”

  “Liar,” Khalid mutters.

  “What? It wasn’t until that female soldier said you were asking for my name and she said yours was Khalid that I got it. The guards were listening to you going crazy, and you are completely crazy if you really believe I did something wrong. Now they’re—”

  “No. No.” The door smashes open. Two guards walk Khalid backwards into the wall. Causing him to float out of himself as he knocks his elbows and head on the concrete. Forcing him into the orange suit, the shackles clicking quickly into place like latches. Then they cart him off to a thunder of rap music which blasts suddenly from the single loudspeaker in the corridor to shut the rest of them up as breakfast’s served.

  Shocked by their sudden anger, Khalid strugg
les as they lead him down the row. One or two men bang their doors and shout to show support, but the noise is lost in the breezy rap beat throbbing in his ears. His head is dragged down by the waist chain and the back of his neck starts aching. A new sharp pain pricks his shoulder. As he shuffles along this white linoleum there seems never to have been a time when he hasn’t felt the whole world is against him. That someone’s out to get him. There’s a plot to slice up his life and destroy it bit by bit because they hate his guts.

  The guard beside him is in too much of a hurry, impatiently pushing Khalid outside and across the hard earth. A hot fist on his shoulder, Khalid pauses for a moment to take a breath and stare at the sunlight glancing from the chains like silver bullets across the ground. A light so bright it hypnotizes him for a second.

  “We ain’t got all day,” the guard warns.

  A hundred small pattering steps later—Khalid counts each one—they arrive at a building he’s been to several times before. A building that smells of hard-boiled eggs.

  A door opens. The shackles clink like a handful of coins as they undo them and Khalid looks up to see a room without a bed, or blanket, or water, or toilet, or windows, or lights, or air conditioning. But there is a new black loudspeaker high on the wall that blasts out the same loud, simple rock song over and over again until Khalid screams at the walls for release.

  They played that rap music at breakfast ages ago, now it’s rock music before lunch. What new thing are they up to?

  But this time it’s not so enjoyable. The unbearably loud, thumping bass hammers his head. Chews his eardrums to pieces. It’s not long before Khalid feels he’s going totally insane. Sitting on the floor with his knees under his chin and hands on his ears, he screams and begs for the noise to stop as it drives him back to that crazy place inside his head. Tariq. White noise. The jinn. Again.

  23

  LEE-ANDY

  Now and then, over the next few days, Khalid thinks he hears Tariq calling his name. His cousin’s high-pitched voice cuts through him like a knife while he lies there bent double on the bed, head buried in his arms. The throbbing pain in his ear makes him feel like he’s just been thumped by a stray cricket ball.