by Anna Perera
Soon Khalid’s dressed in the orange suit. Hooded. Then the shackles are ratcheted tight. The chains drag as the door shuts behind him.
“They’re moving me, Tariq!” he shouts, knowing it’s not worth whispering now.
“I heard. Don’t worry, cuz. Goodbye,” Tariq answers softly.
Shocked by the sudden intake of his cousin’s breath, a terrible feeling of loneliness and isolation overpowers Khalid as he clunks and stumbles, hooded and despairing, past Tariq’s door.
“I won’t forget you!” Khalid yells. Broken in two by the sudden realization that he doesn’t know when they’ll see each other again.
Emptier than he’s ever felt before, Khalid’s led to what he thinks must be a van. A van so hot the smell makes him feel faint. Leaning forward on the hard seat to stop himself from passing out, he is aware of a new, rock-hard ache of frustration stirring in his scrawny stomach.
The van pulls away slowly, traveling for a short while before stopping. The guards remove Khalid’s hood to reveal a face drowning in sweat mixed with a veil of tears. Leading him from the van, one guard starts hiccuping as they arrive at an area crammed with wire cages full of men.
Rows of cages with bundles of men confront Khalid. Only this time they are all talking at once through thick mesh walls. Everyone turns to greet Khalid by shouting, “Salaam.” Slightly smaller than the previous kennel, the second to last cage is Khalid’s new cell. Covered in criss-crosses of sunshine, it’s open to the sky and the patch of blue gives Khalid the strange feeling of hot metal on his head. A small compensation for the constant chatter in Pashtu and Farsi that surrounds him, which he can’t understand. Everyone here is older and livelier than him and, more importantly, none of them is his cousin.
Harry must have asked for Khalid to be moved out of isolation, not realizing he’s far more alone here, surrounded by men he doesn’t know, than he was in the cell next to Tariq. Wishing desperately he’d remembered to mention him, Khalid sits in the corner, holding his knees. He peers through the wire at the men on either side of him and the man opposite, who’s quite clearly staring back. Khalid ignores him.
A guard wanders by with cups of sunshine reflected on his black boots. Each perfect circle slips like a gold coin to the pale earth as he walks, bringing a moment’s magic to the dreary scene. Every so often the man to Khalid’s right looks at him and mutters what sound like a few kind words, if only he could understand them.
There’s a more relaxed feeling here. Remarkably, men are not shouted at for talking to each other, and many chat openly with the guards. Others seem to enjoy waving to each other for no reason. But none of it brings Khalid any comfort. He can’t understand their arguments but many seem to be about the Qur’an because they turn pages to point at certain passages then hold the holy book close to their hearts. Khalid watches them but the pent-up emotion he feels for forgetting to mention Tariq to Harry dominates his brain. Contorted by the agony, Khalid starts sinking again and drifts in and out of the constant chatter in his mind.
Only this time there are too many distractions.
After watching the faceless man to his left hang his sheet on the wire mesh to give himself privacy when he uses the toilet, Khalid gets his nerve up to go to the loo, washing himself in the small bucket of water next to it.
It’s hard to describe how much this constant racket is getting on his nerves. Resting his chin on his knees, he gazes at the splashes of diamond-shaped light on the steel floor and wishes the jinn would take him back to his old cell.
In early evening, a vulture flies overhead. Then another before the sun sinks in the sky. When the call to prayer comes, Khalid stands up and stretches, walks around the cage, before the man opposite waves at him to unroll his towel. The hollow clatter of a guard’s rifle being moved round his body distracts Khalid for a moment before he does what he’s been waiting for. Gets down and prays at last.
The voice broadcasting the call to prayer across the camp sounds much nearer and louder than ever before and soon his echoing prayers are whisked away into the darkening sky. A sky Tariq cannot see.
First thing the next morning, to Khalid’s surprise, he’s taken for interrogation again. His ankles are tied to the rings cemented on the floor and a familiar sinking feeling sets in. Two military-looking men in casual white shirts and beige trousers smile, pretending to be his friends. The one who’s nearest starts the whole thing off.
“Harry Potter, have you read that yet?”
“I’ve been learning Farsi. Fascinating culture. Do you know anything about it?” the other man asks.
They try a bit of chit-chat, but Khalid’s been through this too many times by now. Finally, they fire the questions they want to ask at him.
“What do you know about al-Qaeda?”
“Who have you spoken to from al-Qaeda?”
“I’m not saying anything about anything without my lawyer here,” is all Khalid will say, aware he’s talking like a character from some TV legal drama.
The first man sighs. “You do want to protect your family? When you help us, we’ll help you.”
“I’ve got nothing to say to you liars. I’m going to sue you for millions of dollars when I get out of here,” Khalid threatens them instead. Feeling good about himself until the thin one leans in angrily, pink nostrils flaring.
Then he takes his hands out of his pockets and folds his arms to show he means business, so Khalid shifts in his seat to show he means business too. “I’ve got a lawyer now.” And slowly whistles. Whistling like he’s never whistled before, making it impossible for them to continue. A small payback for all the hours they haven’t listened to him, a small payback for causing his family so much distress.
Eventually the guards take Khalid back to his cage and this time he feels he really has, at last, got one over on them. His confidence grows at a rate of knots at the thought. Tariq would be proud of him. If only he could tell him, or at least get a message to him.
Over the next few days Khalid’s taken for interrogation several times. He soon works out that’s the reason they’ve moved him here. But just like the last time, the interrogators soon learn they’re getting nowhere. While Khalid becomes an expert at half whistling, half singing, tapping his feet to every beat he knows. Starting with Eminem and 50 Cent. He hopes the Americans know the words, because every pissed-off expression he spots on their faces makes him think of his dad. Now his dad knows he’s here and so do loads of other people; it makes Khalid feel he’s protected and gives him the confidence to stand up to them.
This morning, trying hard to disguise how angry he’s getting, one interrogator calls the guards after only two minutes of Khalid being in the room.
“Yeah, get fed up with me, because I’m so fed up with you,” he tells them as they take him away.
Back in the cage, Khalid sits on the floor under a shifting line of passing clouds to write a long letter to Mr. Tagg. Imagining him reading and sympathizing with every word Khalid writes, an exquisite feeling of rightness pumps up his desire to tell the world how he feels, to explain what his life here has been like.
Hearing some real rap now would just round things off, Khalid thinks, smiling. But no event here is a harmless one and soon the familiar feeling he’s going to have to pay for his rude behavior starts pressing down on him. As the long hours draw out and the last prayers end, he begins to lose faith in the idea he’ll ever get out of here. What are they waiting for now? What is Harry doing?
When night falls, the men begin calling goodnight to each other in many languages and Khalid starts to worry they’ll come for him again before morning. The sound of barking dogs being walked the length of the perimeter fence adds to his restlessness. As he closes his eyes, arguing the toss with himself as he always does these days before finally drifting off to sleep, a damp, rotting smell creeps over him. Reminding him of the two frogs Aadab once ran in with from the garden, holding the croaking things up to his nose.
“Say hello t
o them. Go on!” she begged.
“Ergh—they stink. Get them out of here,” Khalid said, and she burst into tears. At the time he didn’t much care, but now the memory of her sweet little face crumpled up and crying breaks his heart in two.
26
HOT SHOTS
Khalid thinks the worst when the heavy-built guard with eyes like moons stops outside his cage before the first prayers are called, rattling keys. His hair, still damp from an early shower, smells strongly of almonds and he seems in a bad mood.
“Your head’s covered in baby hair, dude,” he says.
“Done for, am I? How sad.” Khalid rubs the thin clumps of hair on his head to check they’re still growing. “What’s up, then, eh?”
“You get your things,” he adds. “And cut it.”
“You’re moving me back. Great!” Khalid grabs his sheets of paper and pen, unsent scribbles, postcard and precious letter from Dad. Then his Qur’an, quickly checking the cage for anything he might have missed. Oh yeah, his flip-flops.
“We ain’t got all day.” The guard tries to hurry him up, without any luck.
“Hang on, what did I do with my flat-screen TV and iPod?” So glad to get out of there, Khalid’s larking around, busy pulling apart the diamond-shaped wire to prove he’s left nothing behind. One man starts waving and laughing at his antics.
It’s only when they’re outside the cage that Khalid, his arms full of papers, begins to realize something strange is going on.
“You forgot the shackles,” he tells the guard. “You’re going to get into trouble now.”
“Is that right?” He smiles.
Walking normally is something Khalid’s only done inside his cell or that time he went to the hospital because of his ear. Unable to do more than three and a half unrestrained steps in all from one end of his cell to the other since he came here, he’s pigeon-toed now.
Khalid manages to nod goodbye to each man as he goes past with his small steps, walking weirdly like an old man. They greet him with affectionate salaams and questions in various languages, wondering where he’s going without his chains. The same thought occurs to Khalid, but all he can do is wave and try to concentrate on not tripping over as he’s led to a nearby block, put in a small room and left there.
“Hey, there’s no water in here!” Khalid yells as the guard clicks the lock shut. The sound of heavy boots fades away, leaving him with nothing to do but sit on the blue chair, his stuff in his lap, and wait for someone to come.
With no air conditioning, the room is hot and sticky. Khalid stares at the desk and chair opposite him and listens to the sound of a door opening and closing. More footsteps. Trucks starting up outside. Dogs barking. The call to prayer begins. Surely they’re not going to leave him here for much longer without water? The more he thinks about it, the more convinced he becomes that he’s been brought here because Harry has demanded to see him. And if he has been told to bring his stuff, they must be taking him to another block afterwards. Maybe they’re playing another psychological game with him. All Khalid knows is he’s thirsty. There’s been no breakfast or lunch and the chair he’s sitting on is made of rough, itchy material that feels like carpet. The next time he hears footsteps, Khalid jumps up to bang on the door.
“Hey, where’s my water? Where’s my water?”
The door opens at last. A female soldier with deep-set dark eyes passes him a warm plastic bottle and then an amazing thing happens. She nods, saying, “Sorry, you should have been given this earlier this morning!”
Unbelievable.
Khalid is so flabbergasted, he takes the bottle and just stands there staring at her. No one has ever, ever, ever said sorry to him since he was kidnapped. Except for Lee-Andy, of course. That one time, yeah.
When the door closes and he sits down to drink, Khalid also realizes, for the first time, that he might, just might be getting this special treatment because he’s got a lawyer to hear his complaints.
It’s past midnight when two guards come to take him away. One scoops up his Qur’an, papers and pen, the other clicks the shackles into place with unnecessary force. Khalid’s eaten nothing since yesterday and he’s feeling dizzy from the heat, so he doesn’t care where he’s going, but he’s shocked they’ve taken all this trouble merely to walk him ten paces down the corridor to a room similar to the one he’s just left.
Only this time two hot-shot American military men in smart uniform are waiting for him.
“I’m Major Donaldson. This is Major Leeth,” says the first man, holding out a palm to introduce the more important-looking man standing beside him. Both eye Khalid as if he’s another nuisance they can’t wait to get rid of, while the guard at the door watches his every move.
“We’re here to tell you, number 256 . . .” Major Donaldson pauses.
Khalid shivers. What? What?
“You’re,” Major Leeth butts in, “yes, you’re going home!”
“What?” Khalid swoons, going hot and cold at the same time. Overwhelmed as the length and breadth of Rochdale flashes before his eyes. Is this for real?
“You’ll be given a bag for your things. Follow the guard.” Major Donaldson nods.
“That’s all you’ve got to say?” Khalid narrows his eyes. “That’s the lamest thing I’ve ever heard.” This idiot is clearly a robot. He’s no use as a major, that’s for sure. “How come you’re letting me go all of a sudden? Are they going to put me in prison in England? Go on, tell me!”
“Let’s just say you’re no longer considered a threat,” Major Donaldson replies.
“You’re the threat, mate, not me. I’m going to sue you for all of this. Just so you know,” Khalid says.
“I think you’ll find you were never arrested,” Major Leeth tells him, smirking.
“No, that’s right, I was kidnapped, wasn’t I? You suckers better apologize for torturing me.”
At this, the guard grabs his shoulder to push him outside.
“Wait. I need to say goodbye to someone first,” Khalid begs. “Please can I?”
“Take him directly to the exit gate.” Major Donaldson hands the guard a sealed brown envelope and closes the door.
“Thanks for nothing!” Khalid yells, elbowing the guard away. Two years’ worth of anger in his eyes.
“Hey, man,” the guard says, trying to calm him down, not quite understanding. He raises his eyebrows. “Be OK, you’ll see.”
“Yeah, if they’re telling the truth.” A number of conflicting emotions pass through Khalid as they walk out of the building. What are they up to now? Where’s he going? How’s he going to get home? Will anyone believe him? The idea of no longer being bound by shackles, barbed wire, soldiers, feels too frightening to imagine. Free? What does that mean?
Day after day he’d pictured being back in Rochdale—at home with his family and friends, at college, with Niamh even —but he’d never actually imagined walking out of here one day.
“I don’t know where to go. I haven’t got any money.” Khalid shudders.
“You’re not done yet.” The guard smiles. “Don’t worry.”
“Look, will you do me a favor?”
This time the guard eyes him suspiciously. “Depends what you want.”
“Find number 372. Tell him about me going. Say I won’t stop trying until he’s free too. Will you do that for me, man?” Khalid begs, desperate to let Tariq know what’s happening.
“Sure, no problem.” The guard eyes the dark clouds scudding across the black body of the night sky, anxious to avoid Khalid’s gaze. A wall of distrust divides them as they walk across the floodlit base, making dusty footprints on the path. Past concrete buildings and soldiers going about their business. Along a row of parked-up trucks and barking dogs, razor wire rattling in the breeze, then a sudden flap of wings from a bird overhead.
The smell of binned sausages outside the kitchen quarters as they pass by reminds Khalid of the kebab shop at home on Roland Road. He salivates suddenly at the thought of
lamb doner being sliced from a vertical cone into pita bread with tomatoes, lettuce, onions and chilli sauce.
Sparking the memory of Mikael at the counter, shouting, “I love you. I love you,” to a fistful of oozing bread and Tony Banda with his hand out for his special vegetarian order of chips, tomatoes and Cheddar cheese in pita bread with chilli sauce and mayonnaise.
“Leave some of that mayo for me,” Nico warns.
Half crazy with nerves, a hungry hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach, Khalid follows the soldier inside another building, where three men wait for him. And before anything happens the shackles are unclicked and dropped on the floor. One man fingerprints him, the other hands him a navy T-shirt, socks and jeans. The last guy points to four pairs of blue sneakers on the table.
Without a word, Khalid’s fitted with old-man, high-waisted jeans and a baggy T-shirt. Clothes more suited to a chunky American than a skinny kid. The sudden whiff of denim makes Khalid think of the pile of clean folded clothes Mum lays on his bed each week. Every time he used to pull a face at her for coming in without knocking. He’ll never do that again. He imagines being at home in the kitchen, being helpful, extra nice and respectful as he breathes in cinnamon and cloves from the apple tart she’s made before going off to work. When she pulls up the hood of her white rainproof jacket, he’s going to rush to find the umbrella for her and open the door to her smile.
He’s going to get up early to clean Dad’s shoes and surprise him by twisting the lid back evenly on the Kiwi polish. Tell him, “It’s OK, Dad, when I’m rich I’ll look after you. No worries.”
He’ll be grateful to walk his sisters to school instead of complaining it’ll make him late. And he’ll tell Holgy he’s the best footballer out of all of them, which he is.
But then Khalid’s worst fears are confirmed when another soldier turns up with new shackles hanging from his arms.
