Guantanamo Boy

by Anna Perera

  “What about, er . . .? Have you seen—um . . . No, never mind. See ya later, yeah?”

  “Bye.” Eshan walks backwards down the road, doing crazy rapping gestures with his fingers, shouting, “East is East!”

  Khalid stands for ages outside Nico’s door before walking up the path to knock for him, but there’s no one in and he sets out for home sad and disappointed. Wondering if he ought to go via the road leading to the school on the off chance he might bump into Mr. Tagg. Then he can find out what forms he needs to apply for college or whether you have to be an old lady to get in without any exam certificates.

  But when Khalid arrives home there’s a surprise waiting for him. As if he’s read his mind, Mr. Tagg’s in the kitchen talking to Dad and puffing a cigarette out of the window.

  “Welcome home, Khalid.” The scruffy, wild-haired history teacher in jeans, red shirt and brown leather jacket stubs the cigarette out on the chipped blue plate Dad’s given him.

  “Thanks.” Khalid looks at his teacher standing there by the sink, nodding and smiling, genuinely pleased to see him, and becomes embarrassed, self-conscious and shy—suddenly fifteen again with no idea what to say.

  “I kept the letter you sent me.” Taking a worn page of scribbled writing from his jeans pocket, Mr. Tagg hands it to him and Khalid’s eyes dart down the page, shocked to see the letter had actually reached him, immediately recognizing the words and sentences from that day in his tiny cell. The strange sensation of reading it again speeds him back to the darkness and distress that caused him to write it. When at last Khalid glances away from the crumpled page, he catches the concerned look on Dad’s face and pulls himself together by faking a huge smile.

  “Thanks. I was thinking of asking you about sixth-form college,” Khalid says with a gulp. “I want to get my exams.”

  “I’ll be more than happy to help,” Mr. Tagg says, nodding.

  “Great. I suppose it won’t be easy, though,” Khalid guesses.

  “I’ll have a word with the principal. Can’t see why there would be a problem. Unforeseen circumstances and all that.”

  “Yeah. OK, well . . . er, thanks!” Now Khalid’s really smiling.

  “And thank you very much on behalf of my family, Mr. Tagg,” Dad chimes in.

  Sitting back down to finish his large mug of tea, Mr. Tagg looks thoughtful for a second.

  “My pleasure. There’s only one thing I ask, Khalid. Will you come and help me do an assembly on that awful place you’ve been? There’s a lot of anti-Muslim feeling building at the moment and we want to keep the school and Rochdale free from that kind of sentiment.”

  “Yeah. Why not?” Khalid grins. “I’m up for it.”

  “We hate terrorists as much as you do,” Dad agrees.

  It’s not until two days later that Khalid catches up with Nico, who’s running to get through the school gates before the bell goes, rap music spilling from his earpieces. Khalid can’t quite make out the words but Nico’s clearly enjoying the strong bass beat.

  “Hey!” Khalid jumps in front of him. Overwhelmed by the wideness of Nico’s shocked smile as he rips the plugs from his ears, tries to lift his old mate Khalid in the air. But Khalid’s too tall for him now and they both crack up.

  “Kal. Kal. Kal.” Nico makes do with bouncing him round for all to see. “Mam said to stay away until you’d settled back in. How’s it been, me old matey?” Finally he lets him go.

  “You’re about to find out—I’m doing the assembly with Mr. Tagg this morning!” Khalid laughs.

  “Aw no, his assemblies go on for hours. Do you have to?” Nico sighs, grinning from ear to ear.

  29

  ASSEMBLY

  “And now, this fine young man, Khalid Ahmed, who’s been to hell and back in the last two years, has agreed to read out the letter he sent me from his cell in Guantanamo Bay. It was the only one among the many letters he wrote to me that arrived here for me to read. As you know, Guantanamo Bay is situated on the south-east corner of the island of Cuba . . .”

  A group of teachers behind him shift in their chairs. Some with drooping, tired faces and untidy hair look half asleep, while others with eager eyes and polished shoes lean forward to listen.

  Finally, Mr. Tagg stops talking and nods for Khalid to get up from the seat at the side of the stage, which causes him to stop fiddling with his shirt cuffs and break out in a nervous sweat.

  Scraping his chair back, Khalid looks down at the sea of faces watching him walk towards the microphone, the letter in his hand. Breathing heavily, heart thumping faster the closer he gets, Khalid becomes irritated with himself for shaking so much as he grabs the microphone. Seeing most of the kids he used to play football with all looking up at him now as if he’s a hero, thinking because they know him they understand what he’s been through, Khalid is suddenly put off. And all the time he’s scanning the crowd for Niamh’s pretty face, longing for it to jump out at him. To see her is all he wants now, her brown, wavy hair flicking up from her neck. The memory of her smile hypnotizes Khalid for a second, blanking his mind completely. Now, two long years later, someone who looks a bit like her is smiling up at him from the front row and he knows she means nothing by it because she isn’t Niamh.

  Mr. Tagg rushes to the microphone to cover for him while Khalid’s heart and mind are lost in the memory of Niamh’s pretty face—an image that has helped him make it to this point.

  “Ahem. One. Two. Yes, it’s fine. Go ahead, Khalid. Go on, lad. Speak.”

  Then Nico, in the back row, suddenly cheers. Everyone turns to look at him, which makes Khalid laugh and gives him a moment’s pause before he starts.

  “Dear Mr. Tagg,” Khalid begins shyly, voice trembling. “I thought I’d let you know why I didn’t finish my history coursework.” A raucous laugh rises from the hall resulting in a sudden burst of confidence. The second the noise dies down, Khalid clears his throat and lays into the letter again.

  “It’s a bit of a long story and beggars can’t be choosers, as the man said. I asked my dad to fill you in about all the lies they’ve made up about me here so I won’t go into that now. But I know one thing—even if I am an evil person that doesn’t mean someone has the right to try and drown me by hanging me upside down and pouring water down my nose. They’ve beaten me. They’ve kicked me. They’ve bolted me to the floor like an animal. They’ve kept me awake night after night. Almost burst my eardrums with loud music. Some are suffering worse things than me, they’ve been badly damaged in so many ways you don’t want to know, and my cousin Tariq is here too. They’ve put the finger on me for no reason is what I’m saying and I’ll never understand why.”

  A rumble of murmuring and spate of shuffling fill the hall as kids twist in their seats to catch every word. Shock, horror, disbelief passes over their surprised faces while Khalid takes a quick breath before continuing.

  “Hurt is hurt. Harm is harm. Bullying is bullying. What everyone wants is the same thing—kindness. I’d like to see more kindness when I get out of here, because I’m sick of hearing about bombs and seeing pictures of people dying and terrorists doing this and that. I’m just a kid who wants to get A-levels and go to uni and make something of himself. I don’t want to hang around waiting for someone to give me anything, but I do want to see the snow blowing over Rochdale again and get a game of footy going down the park with my mates. That’s something I dream about every day locked up in Guantanamo. I hope you can help me get started again one day, that’s if they ever let me go.

  “I know one day, Mr. Tagg, you will ask me what I’ve learned. Well, if I could advise anyone out there, I’d say the only way to prevent violence is to stop being violent, stop thinking nasty thoughts about other people. Stop hurting other people. Stop lying and cheating. How come the world doesn’t get that? One day I’d like to go to Mount Snowdon in Wales or to the Lake District or out walking in one of those pretty villages with nice stone cottages in the Dales. I’d love to have that freedom. But you know what?
I haven’t got the nerve to go there because people might stare at me and the woman in the shop will maybe get her husband to serve me because she’s scared.

  “There’re woods and streams and fields and nice places in England my family have never seen because people are so suspicious of anyone who looks different. When people do that, I shrink up, trying not to look like a wacko. I hide my face by pretending to find a shop or pavement that’s interesting.

  “I’m writing this because I would never have the nerve to say this stuff to your face. Yeah, and sorry about not having spell-check and that to do this properly. Bet you a million pounds this won’t get to you at the school anyway. By the way, you ought really to stop smoking. I’ve seen you light up two cigarettes before you get to the main road.

  “I’ve been a regular blatherer, I know. Sorry. I just want to get back and stop in my house, eat some decent food and see my mates. I suppose the main thing I’ve learned is that hatred changes nothing. It just adds to the hatred that’s already there. The person who’s hated has the choice to ignore it, while the hater is always overtaken by his violent feelings. So who’s the loser? It’s the person who hurts every time, who lies and cheats, and I’m never going to be like that, because then I’ll have learned nothing.

  “Yours sincerely,

  “Khalid Ahmed (10G) (from two years ago)”

  The minute he finishes, the hall erupts with cheering and clapping. Nico starts whistling, then shouting, “Close down GUAN-TAN-AMO!” And then another burst of cheering, clapping, whistling and foot-stomping breaks out. Rocking the school hall until everyone joins in. Even a few of the staff.

  “Close down GUAN-TAN-AMO!” The sound hits the roof, bouncing off the walls as Khalid returns to his seat. Shaking. Mr. Tagg anxiously flaps his hands to calm them, while proudly nodding at his former student.

  “Well read, Khalid. Well done. Thank you!” But his voice is drowned out by another burst of stamping feet.

  “Words aren’t enough,” Khalid whispers. Tired of everyone getting high on their own righteousness. Refusing to allow his heart to swell in case he starts sinking. In case he starts forgetting how to let go. Something no one else in the room will ever understand. How can he be blown away by the sound of their chanting? Their words are too far outside the hell he suffered.

  Leaving the stage with Mr. Tagg’s arm round his shoulder, Khalid catches sight of a pretty girl smiling at him. A picture that lights up his mind for many days to come.

  Hour by hour, Khalid jumps back into ordinary sounds. The crackling TV. Humming washing machine. Aadab singing. Chit-chat in the kitchen. Back into ordinary colors: green socks, red cars, Mum’s purple cardigan on the chair.

  Back into light and shade from the living-room windows and lamps that turn on and off. Mobile phones. Ordinary pleasures like a fridge full of food. And ice trays. Taps with water available at any time. Shops with chocolate and lottery tickets. And every dinnertime the kitchen smells of fresh food made with love.

  Khalid walks through Rochdale not as he used to do—like someone who belongs there, head high, hoodie hanging off his shoulders—but like a dignified shy young man in black jeans and blue T-shirt who looks at the pavement more than he should. Nervous he’ll trip over or bump into someone or, even worse, get shouted at.

  Today Khalid takes the time to stare at the new laundromat that occupies the space where Nasir’s greengrocer’s shop used to be. He digs his hands in his pockets, sparking the memory of standing there wet through after helping that female jogger get her phone back from the steroid heads. How Nasir had offered to give him his old fleece jacket and warned him about what was happening in Pakistan.

  Where is he, Nasir?

  Now, instead of cabbages and grapefruits and the sound of rain on a green canvas roof, all Khalid can hear is the swish of soapy washing machines. He watches a blue plastic basket of clothes being filled by a factory woman in white overalls who waves at him suddenly, then waddles to the door.

  “Thought it were you, lad. Recognized you from telly and the Rochdale Evening News. They want shooting, that lot, after what they did. You don’t look owt like a terrorist, any fool can see that. Bloody ’ellfire.”

  “Thanks.” Khalid shuffles from foot to foot. “Don’t suppose you know what happened to the bloke who used to have the greengrocer’s here?”

  “Yeah, lad, I do.” She grins. “It were a while ago someone put a petrol bomb through his letter-box and almost burned the place down. Lucky the bloke and his family were out. They were at the hospital because the wife’s friend was ill. He moved out the area soon after. Some say they went back to Pakistan. Poor devils.”

  Khalid nods and walks away, deeply saddened. Nasir’s kind face stays at the front of his mind as he heads down to the high street to see what else has changed, before pausing at the newsagent’s on the corner to buy some chocolate. Khalid takes his place in the queue behind a teenage girl with long hair and a pierced eyebrow. Dressed in short skirt and thigh-high boots, she throws three magazines on the counter. Adding chewing gum and a packet of Pontefract cakes as an afterthought.

  “Just a minute, I’ve got the exact money here—somewhere.” Scrabbling noisily in her deep leather bag, she brings up a handful of coins and a bent cigarette.

  Fascinated by the tattoo of a chain around her arm, Khalid doesn’t at first notice the sudden whiff of sweet perfume behind him.

  “Hiya, Kal. Didn’t you see me?” Niamh taps him on the shoulder. “I was in the pet shop next door looking at the parakeets when you went past.”

  Stunned, Khalid freezes. All the color drains from his face. Wearing white cut-offs and a yellow sparkly jumper, Niamh looks nothing like she used to. Her hair’s cut short in a bob and she’s overdone the gold eyeshadow a bit. He remembers her face quite differently. She’s pretty but not in the amazing way he thought she was. Now she’s too skinny and he’d never noticed how fake her smile was before.

  “You were great in assembly,” Niamh says. “Wasn’t it cool when everyone started shouting? I was like, hey, Kal deserves this. Gilly was like, ‘But he must have done something bad, otherwise why did he end up there?’”

  Khalid gazes at her face. At her pale green eyes. At her fluttering eyelashes and smudged mascara. At the pink lips he’s dreamed of kissing over and over again.

  “You OK, Kal?” she asks.

  Khalid trembles. “I, um. I was . . .”

  Stuffing the magazines into her expanding leather bag, the tattooed girl gawps at him, then Niamh, before hurrying past.

  “What do you want, lad?” the newsagent asks, staring at Khalid’s tranced-out face as if there’s a strong possibility he’s going to remain frozen like that, blocking up the counter forever. In the end, Niamh takes his arm.

  “Come on, Kal, let’s get out of here.”

  Together they cross the road, with the foul smell of exhaust fumes in his face.

  “Anyway, as I was saying, we all tore into Gilly because she said that about you.” Niamh smiles. “And I went off her soon after, because she tried to snog my boyfriend. Can you believe it? Some friend she turned out to be.”

  Boyfriend? Did she say boyfriend? Khalid’s arm shoots forward. He grabs a black railing to steady himself. The roar of cars dies away. A deadly hush falls on him.

  “I think you need to sit down.” Niamh frowns. “There’s a bench over there.”

  At that moment an empty black bin bag catches a puff of wind and blows past them down the street. Cars roar past once more and Khalid remembers he’s here at home in Rochdale. Not dreaming. Niamh takes his elbow and leads him to the bench outside the pharmacy.

  “Sit down. What’s on your mind, Kal? You look ill all of a sudden,” she says.

  “Nothing,” Khalid says. But then something deep inside him remembers all the hours he spent wishing he’d said things to Niamh when he had the chance. And now he does. But the words won’t come.

  “What is it? You can tell me,” Niamh says.
r />   “Well, s’ppose I was thinking, yeah?” Khalid starts.

  “And . . .” Niamh nods. “Go on.”

  “Well, er . . . I guess I, yes, I always liked your buttercup painting and, er, I like you. Always have done.” He can feel his face blushing slightly, but he doesn’t care. He’s said it now.

  “Aw, thanks. I really like you too, Kal, so that’s great, isn’t it?” Not taking the hint at all. “If I wasn’t going out with Josh Parker, I’d so def be into you. So I would.”

  The hammer blow to his heart lands so hard and fast, Khalid doubles up in pain, coughing.

  “You are in a bad way.” She grabs his arm. “Do you want me to go in the pharmacy and get something?”

  “No. I just got a tickle in my throat. No problem.” Clutching his chest, Khalid points to the sports shop. “I’m going in there. Need another cap. Worn this one to death to hide my hair growing out.”

  “Let’s see . . .” Niamh watches him hesitate for a moment before revealing his crazily stumpy black hair.

  “It’s not so bad, Kal.”

  “Too right. Thanks. Later.” He jumps up to duck quickly inside the shop’s glass doors and, holding a palm up to make sure she doesn’t follow, waves her away. Khalid walks over to a rack of red and black caps, shaking his head with disbelief.

  Niamh’s going out with that total idiot Josh Parker?

  The guy who lost them the league match against Burnley because he can’t even kick a ball straight? How can she like him? Didn’t his sister, Jacinda, tell the whole class he twists her arm so badly she says anything to make him stop? Anyone going out with that loser needs to get their head examined. Fast. About to try on a cool black cap because the spotty shop assistant is watching his every move, Khalid loses track of himself—of the shop, the cap in his hand and the gormless assistant.

  An overpowering weakness forces Khalid to perch on the edge of the gray display board before he passes out. Lifting his right hand, he tries to click his fingers. Click them in front of his eyes. But he’s shaking all over. His hand won’t keep still and he can’t breathe. A streak of sunshine on the edge of a gold kit bag catches his eye and two plump jinn dart out from the flickering light with big smiles and sugar-white teeth. Khalid’s throat tightens and sweat pours from him. He’s in such a state of panic he doesn’t notice Nadim and Sabeeh, his old friends from primary school, on their way home from the mosque. Khalid doesn’t see Nadim running his eyes over the new half-zip shirts and black-and-white sneakers in the window, then suddenly stare in more closely and beckon his mate to take a look at Khalid, trembling and shivering. Two shop assistants standing warily close by.