by Anna Perera
“For me it was a game. Just a game,” Khalid whimpers, breathing in a whiff of bad breath on the back of his hand when he jams it in his left ear, which is badly damaged from being blasted by the relentless, pounding rock music in the isolation room. The pain spreads down the side of his face to his neck and is the reason why he can’t sit up to eat the pasta shells in cold tomato sauce, which is turning to solid red glue in front of his eyes.
The tray smells of tin for some reason. Not plastic.
Yesterday, after he was brought back to his cell, Lee-Andy gave him an aspirin. She told him the guy in the next cell is called Tariq and apologized for not coming before but she had to work someone else’s shift in another block because the timetable had been marked out wrongly. “Sorry!”
Today he’s in too much pain to care whether Tariq’s calling his name or even if he’s dead or alive. Feeling worse with every passing hour, Khalid hasn’t seen Lee-Andy at all and it’s nearly dinnertime. Where are the bloody aspirins? There’s no point in yelling for help. They’ll just take him back to the isolation room and leave him there again.
Lee-Andy is his only hope.
The dinner trolley comes and goes without Khalid getting up from the bed to take the tray being offered to him. The guard doesn’t care either way and whistles a silly tune as he slides it back on the metal shelf.
“No water?” the trolley man asks before passing on, unanswered. “Your choice, dude!”
Luckily, Lee-Andy hasn’t forgotten Khalid. When she undoes the door to flood his cell with her lovely perfume, he twists round, spaced out, to face her.
“Eee–gad! Back in two seconds!”
Wherever she went, whoever she told, whatever she did, a miracle happens. Two guards rush to help Khalid, who’s clutching his head and groaning on the floor. Helping him up, they take him outside, unshackled for the first time, across the sun-baked concourse to a building he’s never seen before. Their footsteps patter away down the smooth white corridor of a hospital Khalid’s shocked to discover actually exists. Then he’s led through to a small ward smelling of bleach that contains three other men.
One of the men has yellow tubes down his nose that make him gasp and cough every few seconds. Another is covered in wounds that resemble leprosy sores. While the last man, with sunken cheeks and a deathly pallor, is unconscious on the bed with a drip in his arm.
The guards wait beside Khalid, who moans while trying to remain upright on the bed, not daring to lie down. A military doctor, no more than thirty years old, with deep-set dark eyes and a tight mouth, eventually appears with a nurse.
Abruptly, he tips Khalid’s chin to one side and presses a cold instrument into his ear. Then bends down to look without any introduction.
“Infections spread from the hands. You mustn’t put your fingers in your ears. Not that bad. No reason to keep him here.”
He nods to the nurse. “When you’re ready.” And writes a prescription for antibiotics.
“It was that crappy rock song that did my ears in,” Khalid mutters.
The doctor laughs. “You must have been listening to the wrong stuff!”
A smile passes between them for a second. In the midst of which the half-dead man with the drip in his arm sits bolt upright and gazes round the room. Then sighs as if remembering something and crashes back on his pillow. The whole thing reminds Khalid of a scene from a hospital sitcom on TV.
Not long after, Khalid’s given a glass of water and three pills, one of which is a strong painkiller. Strong enough to allow him to feel almost human by the time he lies down on the narrow bed in his cell.
Facing the stark wall, Khalid rubs the side of his face, not daring to touch his ear after what the doctor said. Slowly, he massages the skin front and back, hoping to ease the pain that’s lurking behind the soreness. He can’t help worrying they’ll forget to give him the next dose of painkillers before he goes to sleep.
“Khalid, Khalid.” He hears Tariq call his name but he doesn’t answer.
This time the demons who stalk him have to step back a few paces, because Khalid has something else, apart from his cousin, to think about as he drifts off.
It was the sight of the man in the hospital with yellow tubes forcing food down his nostrils who’d got to him the most—the rattling gasps he made between breaths as he lay dying, blood on the pillow. There was no one beside him to hold his hand. In fact, Khalid noticed, the doctor didn’t even glance at him when he hurried to the door, which makes him think something’s not right here.
Why did they bother to pay attention to his little ear infection? He’d been in far worse states before and never had any help or been taken to the hospital. The only reason that makes sense is there’s more to Lee-Andy’s intervention than he realized. Were they using her to spy on them by putting Tariq in the next cell? Was that the reason for the chocolate bar? To gain his trust? Well, it worked, if only for a while. But now he’s on to her. Tariq would be too, once Khalid found a way to tell him.
Once upon a time, if ever Khalid fell out with a friend, they would just move on one day. Continue chatting as if nothing had happened. And that would be that. Like when the bell went on the last day of term and everyone started rampaging in the corridors. Yelling their heads off. Foaming at the mouth. Pushing each other out of the way to get out first.
They were in second year, Khalid remembers, and he was trapped by the rush on the concrete stairs with Pete, Nico and Holgy, who turned from good friends to screaming morons in five easy strokes by somehow agreeing to push Khalid aggressively down the steep stairs. Laughing and shouting, they became more determined to get him to the bottom in less than three seconds the more Khalid tried to stall them. Tried to stop them by desperately reaching for the railings and elbowing them off. All of them thundering down like a herd of wild elephants.
The floor began rearing up, was right in Khalid’s eyes as, pushing and shoving, the pace increased and Holgy let go suddenly, leaving him to fall the last few steps, where he landed on his shoulder with a crack. Fracturing it, the idiots. The pain was so bad he yelled for Allah in front of everyone.
After the X-ray, they gave Khalid a pink spongy sling which he wore for six whole weeks and he avoided Holgy for a good few days because he was still angry with him. Of course he hadn’t turned any of them in to the principal—they’re mates, aren’t they? Then, when he turned up at the park on Saturday evening, Holgy started chatting about Rochdale’s 2–1 win, and that was the end of it.
Not quite the same problem Khalid has with Tariq, he knows. The small chance he’ll forgive him just because he doesn’t have the energy to continue hating him begins to form in Khalid’s mind. Hadn’t he decided a long time ago to give up hurting and to forgive those who’d hurt him because he couldn’t bear to inflict or suffer any more pain? He’s seen too much of it. And now, the first chance he gets, he turns away and somehow can’t turn back.
“Khalid. Answer me.” Tariq’s irritating voice feels more grating than ever and Khalid is suddenly consumed by fury. Ignoring him, hands on his head, he listens angrily to the sound of Tariq slapping the door with his flip-flops. Then silence. Khalid lies back on the bed and hears Tariq whisper, “They snatched me from my house.”
Khalid sits up but he doesn’t answer.
“I bet it was the same day as you,” Tariq adds.
“What?” Khalid jerks forward in shock as the door rattles open and Lee-Andy barges in with a handful of pills and a glass of water. Her ponytail swinging from side to side.
“How ya feeling now?”
Khalid mumbles a thank-you and gazes at her unblinking hazel eyes for a sign she’s more than an ordinary soldier. He gulps down the pills while staring at her face.
She looks away, glancing at the floor. Did her hand shake just now?
“Guess those will see you through till morning.” Lee-Andy grins.
“Yeah, maybe. Is Masud in the next cell?”
“Masud? No, his name’s still Ta
riq.”
“Tariq? You sure?” Khalid says.
“Yes, pal.”
“Just checking,” Khalid mutters.
“That’s all?” Unable to return her winning smile, Khalid nods and turns away. Anxious for her to leave so he can talk to his cousin again.
Lee-Andy’s not happy with Khalid’s response and surprises him by leaning her side onto the wall next to him, arms folded, as if they are on the same football team and about to share a Coke after winning a game.
Khalid jumps up. Terrified.
“Whoa!” Lee-Andy jerks forward from the wall, hand raised. “Just being friendly, buddy. No reason to freak out. Just wanted to see if you’re OK.”
Lee-Andy shakes her head to protest her innocence, hurrying shamefaced to the door. “Sorry again.”
Khalid is barely able to breathe straight until she’s gone. Her suffocating perfume in his nose, he listens for the sound of her fast steps padding away before grabbing his heart to hold it in place. Thankful she’s gone. Then, taking a minute to collect himself before pressing his nose to the wire, he speaks to the cousin he’s never met.
“Can you hear me?”
“Yes, yes,” Tariq answers quickly. “I’ve been waiting for days for you. It wasn’t me. I didn’t do anything.”
“They captured us because of the game, don’t say they didn’t,” Khalid says.
“Yes. For them it was a dangerous plot to destroy the West. Someone, I don’t know who it was, told them that. Maybe the new Saudi player. Then they tracked the locations of our computers. They held me in Bagram for over a year. I hope you made up a good story. I convinced them weapons of mass destruction were in my teacher’s cowshed.”
With the sound of approaching footsteps, Tariq pauses. Soon Lee-Andy reappears, waves to him, then nods. Standing with her back towards them. Legs astride, arms folded, taking up as much space between their cells as her slim frame will allow, she obviously means to stay there.
Khalid wonders what on earth she’s playing at.
“Thought I’d waste some time here before I go for lunch,” she mutters. “I’ll cover for you, so you can talk.”
“What?” Tariq and Khalid both ask at once.
“You go ahead.” Lee-Andy swishes her ponytail. “I’ll stand here for a while. Don’t worry, I won’t listen. Nobody will come down the line with me here.”
Khalid doesn’t care if she does listen. He’s got nothing to hide.
“Erm, thanks,” Tariq says. “What were you saying, cuz?”
“Is this OK?” Khalid asks.
“Sure, talk. Don’t mind me,” Lee-Andy answers.
“I still can’t work out why they picked me up,” Khalid begins slowly, not sure Lee-Andy will believe what he’s about to say but glad he finally has someone in authority who might listen.
“I dunno, but I think they thought I was dangerous because they had a photo of me at a demonstration in Karachi. But I just got caught up in the crowd on my way to look for Dad. And I bet one of the aunties’ neighbors got money for making up lies about me,” Khalid says. “When did they come to the conclusion about the game, I’d like to know? There’s so many things I’d like an answer to. I know when they got my confession, which was just a bunch of lies I made up to stop them killing me, they really went mental. Don’t you think it’s weird they’ve put us next to each other?”
“After so much time, over a year since they brought me here? No. No. This is the result of stupidity. Not weird anything, I’m certain. I said your father is a fund-raiser for extremists. I lied to stop them beating and driving me to insanity. Told them many lies about everyone. I’m asking for your forgiveness, cuz.”
“You said that about my dad? You snake. I knew it, you creep.”
At this, Lee-Andy turns round for a second. “OK, I’m going now. Cool it, you guys, or you’ll be in trouble.”
Tariq ignores her while Khalid doesn’t care whether anyone hears them or not.
“At least I admit it to your face,” Tariq says. “They beat worse from me. I’m sorry!”
“Get lost, scumbag,” Khalid whispers. “Don’t you ever speak to me again.”
An empty, cavernous silence fills the space between them all of a sudden. Khalid retreats four paces to the corner of his cell. Head in his hands. Heart thumping with rage. Trying his best to hide from the shapes leaping from the swelling walls.
On the floor now, back pressed hard against the bed, half dazed. His eyes dart round him as if he’s seeing terrible things. Eventually, Lee-Andy interrupts.
“Hey, pal. Don’t mess up. You look like you’re going crazy. Do this for me, will you? Snap your fingers in front of your eyes to stop rolling that horror movie in your mind. If you don’t make plans to stop them, they’ll keep on growing.”
How does she know what he’s seeing?
Khalid does as he’s told. Snapping his fingers a few times. Her words spark an unexpected light which, along with his snapping fingers, causes the walls to fall back to their rightful place. The jinn to shrink. The plank to straighten. Water jug to smash.
Khalid turns his head to smile at her.
“Good job. Wish I had some orange juice to give you.” Lee-Andy walks away with a bounce in her step. More snapping fingers start up close by. The new rhythm is a pleasant addition to Khalid’s own snap-snapping, his own personal rap beat.
“Good night, cuz,” Tariq whispers. “You heard her. She’s right. Don’t mess up. There’s too much reason to cry after what’s happened to us both. If we give in, we’re finished. No life will come to us again. We must find some dignity to see us through.”
“Dignity? Piss off.” Khalid can’t believe the rubbish Tariq’s coming out with. But then he hears him too and deep down inside knows he’s right. Whatever Tariq said about Dad wasn’t meant to be said. It was another last-ditch attempt to stop the pain. Something he understands only too well.
Next day, the sound of plastic spoons echoes down the row. Voices rise every time a disgusting lump of green fish is placed on the tongue.
Khalid’s eaten the banana. That’s all. He can’t face anything else. Leaning on the wire door, he stares at the light, eyes hurting. Standing where he is, doing nothing but listening. With a stillness in his heart he hasn’t felt for a long time.
“I could have died,” Tariq whispers. “But that would have ended the lives of my mother and father and I could not do that. I had a deep feeling I had betrayed them. I died then in a way. I do admit I had a friend who was, I suppose, an extremist. He hated the West for its materialism and lack of belief in God. Yes. Yes. I admit that. But does that make me an evil person because I knew him? Someone whose head must be slammed against walls day after day? So evil they must burn my arms with cigarettes? Does that make me bad because I had a friend like that?”
Khalid is startled by the sadness in his cousin’s voice and a rare feeling of gratitude and happiness spills over him despite almost two years of desperation. Listening to Tariq talk about his depression, his deepest worries, his pain, Khalid feels as if he’s talking to someone he’s never known. Tariq never spoke about his feelings before and now he never stops.
Day after day, Khalid hangs on the wire door waiting for Tariq to speak. A beggar waiting for the small crumbs of comfort his squeaking voice brings.
“Actually, if I’d known then what I know now I wouldn’t have called the game Bomber One,” Tariq says. “I was stupid. I didn’t realize someone would add up two and two and make one million and ten. For certain, the world has gone mad. Yes. Yes.”
Over the next week, Khalid learns just how insane the world has become. Tariq fills him in on what’s been happening since they were captured. Helped by the fact he speaks several languages, including some Arabic, Tariq has managed to pick up plenty of information from the guards in Islamabad and Bagram, as well as from other detainees. His ability to understand politics and make sense of scraps of conversations means he has a lot to explain. A lover of facts,
he’s keen to share the details.
“In March 2003 more than a million people marched in London against Tony Blair’s decision to go to war in Iraq. Ten million people marched all over the world, but I ask you, since when do politicians take notice of these things?”
“Dunno!” Khalid realizes his brain has shrunk to nothing as he listens to Tariq’s larger mind expand on anything and everything. Strangely, the more Tariq talks, the more he doesn’t feel the need to respond. It’s just that Tariq’s got this habit of making him feel not very smart, stupid even. With Ali it was different—he was older and so experienced—but Tariq is only two years older than him.
Like now, for instance, Khalid listens to Tariq greet the guard who’s passing him breakfast.
“Hi, Marvin. How you doing today? How’s the wife and kids? Everything all right back home in Oklahoma, is it?”
“Yeah, bud, thanks for the inquiry. Appreciate your kindness.” Marvin laughs heartily as he moves to pass Khalid his tray. Khalid eyes the stocky guard with distrust. Unable to pretend they’re friends. Unable to behave like Tariq and forget even for a second that this man’s his jailer and he’s an innocent prisoner. Why act like they’re friends when they’re not? It’s just fake.
“He’s not going to do you any favors. Why be nice to him?” Khalid says.
“Hah,” Tariq laughs. “If you understood how much easier these small human exchanges have made my life you wouldn’t say that, cuz. I am practicing English and, of course, I am gathering much information about other places from people like him. For example, did you know Oklahoma is home to sixty-seven American Indian tribes who were forced into relocating there after they were driven from their homes? I found this out from him. And Marvin was the one who helped get me moved from Camp Echo, which is far worse than Camp Delta. Plus he gave me a new toothbrush. And he told me the corn in Oklahoma is as high as an elephant’s eye. One day I will go there and see it.”
