Ball of Confusion

by Ian Black

  The Iraqi is getting that feeling of flogging a dead horse… and now his patience has expired, so after George’s next move Hazma jumps his three remaining pieces in a row and wins the game.

  “You can’t do that!” objects George.

  “I can, I did and I’ve won! Consider yourself defeated!” he confirms, and begins putting the pieces away. “Your strategy is wrong. You’re all attack and no defence.”

  George slumps back in his chair in a disappointed half-sulk, “I’m just learning how to play and you’ve battered me five out of five games.”

  “Unlucky!” Hazma shrugs. “I play to win!”

  “You play to boast,” accuses George.

  Hazma mocks, “If you can’t take the heat stay out of the kitchen!”

  George is confused. “What?”

  “It’s a saying…” Hazma shakes his head, “like, fight fire with fire.”

  Looking more confused, George points to his book on the table, at the picture of the dragon bellowing flames, “Fight with fire in draughts?”

  The Iraqi wishes he’d never said a word, but replies, “You play draughts like that dopey dragon fights. Too gung-ho; you’re all attack. No defence strategy. The knight was a cunning all-round fighter, he could attack and defend. Like me at draughts… cunning; that’s why I won!” His eyes flash a glimmer of delight, smiling eyes, but not his mouth.

  George just shrugs, and stares at the front cover of his book.

  Hazma’s beginning to feel, a bit like a teacher with George; all the explaining about religion, life, literature, and draughts, but there is something playing on his mind, about literature, that he needs to address. “You do know, that dragon, in your storybook. You know it never existed… don’t you, George?”

  “Err, I…” George averts his gaze. “Yeah!” his answer’s not too convincing though.

  Hazma explains, “In your storybook the dragon serves a purpose, as a manifestation of evil.” George looks blank, so he continues, “Evil manifests itself in many forms… which means, it shows itself in many forms. The dragon in the story is an example of evil… Something evil that must be overcome.”

  “I knew that!” states George.

  “And Saint George is an example of something good… which is seen defeating evil.” Hazma stands, and continues, “So, to get to my point… after much careful deliberation, I must actually confess that your storybook does, in the most minor miniscule form, give a very, very basic message similar to certain brief sections of the Koran but in a much, much, much simpler form of course.”

  George beams a broad smile, “Of course!”

  From his bunk, Hazma picks up a hard-backed historical reference book with RETURN TO PRISON LIBRARY stamped all over it. He flicks to a page that he’s previously turned over and continues, “As we know, the dragon never existed… but Saint George did!”

  “Really?” his smile broadens.

  Hazma explains, “I’ve obviously studied my own religion… religiously, and while I was at university I also read up on many other faiths including Judaism, Christianity and Buddhism. To be honest, I found the learning experience and comparisons enlightening, and now I find myself with so much spare time in this God-forsaken place, I took it upon myself to research your Saint George… to give you a better understanding of the man… I must admit, I knew very little about him, but after reading his history I’m impressed by who he was, and what he stood for.”

  George is eager to know more, “What does it say?”

  “Well…” Hazma leans against the cell wall and reads aloud from the book, “according to this… Saint George was born in about 280AD, in Turkey. At the age of seventeen he joined the Roman army and soon became renowned for his virtuous behaviour, his physical strength and great bravery. He had unusually handsome good looks, as his fair skin and blonde hair were unusual to that region… He quickly achieved the high rank of millenary, which is the equivalent to colonel. He commanded a regiment of a thousand men and soon became a favourite of Diocletian, the Roman emperor… During that period in Rome, there was growing unrest amongst its citizens. This was mainly due to high inflation in the economy and the growing influence of Christianity across the region. So the emperor took it upon himself to rejuvenate morale by reviving old Roman traditions, and the original Pagan religion of Rome.”

  Pausing for breath he glances at George, who is riveted. Hazma continues, “The emperor then issued an order instructing that all Christian churches were to be destroyed, and scriptures burnt. Plus any Roman admitting to being a Christian would lose their rights as a citizen, or may even lose their life… Emperor Diocletian quickly gained a reputation for being a cruel persecutor of Christians… Saint George, like many other Romans, was himself a convert to the expanding Christian religion. He deplored the fact that most Christians now feared to be loyal to their God, and consequently took it upon himself to defend the persecuted followers of Christianity; the majority of whom were poor and defenceless… When the emperor learned of this, Saint George was summoned before him to explain his rebellious actions. George bravely denounced Diocletian for his cruelty in a courageous and defiant speech. He begged the emperor to stop his persecution of Christians… but he refused, and consigned Saint George to prison with instruction that he be tortured continually until he denied his faith in Jesus Christ.”

  “THE BASTARD!” George spits out his words, enraged.

  “WHY DO YOU SWEAR THESE WORDS?” Hazma spits back.

  “Soz…” George apologises. “What happened next?”

  Hazma continues, “Well… Saint George endured weeks of prolonged torture and refused continually to denounce his Christian faith… So the emperor sentenced him to death… by beheading.”

  “They cut his head off?” George is disgusted.

  Hazma nods, “Yes… He was executed, beheaded in Palestine… Saint George died defending his religion. He was a fearless man, and word of his bravery spread quickly throughout the Christian faith. He became adopted as a martyr of exceptional bravery. A defender of poor and defenceless people, and of the Christian faith… To this day around the world, the name of Saint George, soldier, saint and martyr, is respected as emblematic of the triumph of good over evil.”

  Hazma closes the book and places it back on his bunk. George sits in silence, thinking for a moment, then with disappointment exclaims, “The emperor cut his head off! So Saint George didn’t win then!”

  “You don’t think he won?” Hazma raises an eyebrow. “He made a valiant stand against what he believed to be unjust. Yes… it cost him his life, but his defiant story taught generations to stand up and defend themselves against oppression… He became a respected martyr, similar to your Jesus.”

  “He’s not my Jesus! I’ve nothing against the bloke, but…”

  “I meant…” Hazma explains, “you’re white and British, most white British believe in Christ, or at least they used to!”

  George admits, “I’ve never been in a church.” Hazma concedes, “Well, okay, I shouldn’t have said your Jesus, but you can see the comparison. Saint George and Jesus were both martyrs.”

  “Fair enough…” George looks down at the floor, and shuffles his feet before asking guardedly, “So… what happened to the dragon?”

  “I told you!” Hazma replies frustrated, “there never was a dragon! It’s an old wives’ tale.”

  Keeping his head down, George replies despondently “Oh!”

  Hazma strokes his beard while pondering, before commenting further, “Saint George had similar traits to me and you…” George’s head stays down as he continues. “We are both extremists, absolutely prepared to die for our cause.”

  George looks up and argues, “I don’t want to die!”

  “You wouldn’t have died for your mother?”

  “Of course I would…” he replies firmly, “but I’ve already killed Maurice now, so I don’t have to die do I!”

  Hazma looks away shaking his head from side to side. He tu
rns to the window, gets up on his toes and looks out across the prison garden.

  George senses his mood has changed, “What’s the matter, Haz?” Hazma stares in silence for a while, then replies quietly, “I was wrong… we are not the same.”

  “You’re confusing me again.”

  As Hazma turns around, George detects that his cellmate’s face bears more intensity than usual, and emotion, as he states passionately, “You are different to me, George, because, you’ve had your revenge… I have not… I need it, for my salvation, and I’ll sacrifice myself to achieve it. My quest for revenge will cease on the day I ascend to Heaven.”

  “Heaven!” exclaims George “Does it even exist?”

  “It exists because it is written,” Hazma snaps back. “That’s another reason why we’re different, I believe in my faith. You, George, are Godless, like most of the Western world… Without God you have nothing… With Allah, I have everything!”

  George puts his hands up in surrender, “No disrespect, Haz, but you’ve done me. This is far too heavy, proper grey stuff now.”

  Hazma disagrees, “There is no grey area here, George, this is fact!” He’s angry now, angry with the world, and with wild eyes rants, “Jesus Christ and Saint George were virtuous, courageous men who died for their beliefs…” and shouts, “SO WHY SHOULDN’T WE?”

  George fiddles with his long hair, curling it around his finger. He doesn’t want to make Hazma angrier by putting his foot in it, saying the wrong thing, so he tries to take the sting out, with a complimentary reply, “Well… that makes sense to me now, thanks, Haz… Why don’t you tell that nice Molly about it… that reporterer lady I told you about, who wants to speak to us? Tell her what you think.”

  The Iraqi moves towards him, menacingly, with intent in his eyes. George stands, unsure what he’ll do next, but the Iraqi snatches a chair, drags it to the window, steps up onto the seat, stares out of the window and mumbles, “I’ve got to get out of here!”

  •

  Chapter: 20

  Governor’s Permission

  Millie opens the door to Larry’s office, to be greeted by a stream of expletives flung in frustration by her fuming boss, “This fucking phone!” He’s holding a brand new iPhone in his hand, which he’s stabbing repeatedly with his stubby finger. “This fucking, fucking phone.”

  “What’s up, Larry?”

  He shows her the phone. “This fucking phone. That’s what’s up!”

  “I gathered that,” she replies. “What’s up with it?”

  He snaps back, “I’ll tell you what’s up with it… every time I press a button on this slippery-slidy glass screen, my fingers are too fat. I either punch the wrong letter or ring the wrong person, or disconnect the call… It’s shit! And every time I receive a call… when I hold the phone to my ear, my fat cheek presses the screen and disconnects the call!”

  Millie sniggers, “Oh dear!”

  “It’s not funny!” Larry exclaims. “My face keeps cutting people off… And last week, I skyped a buddy in the States who said my face was too fat for the screen!”

  She continues to chuckle, “I’m sorry, Larry.”

  “It’s a design fault with the phone… The adverts should carry a warning: Not suitable for fat-faced people… This phone’s discriminatory!”

  He slams the technological wonder onto his desk, before advising her further, “My problem doesn’t end there.” Larry points to the front of his white cotton shirt, stretched across the contours of his belly, just about held together in the middle by an under-pressure line of buttons on their extended cotton limits, and rants, “I’m so fat now, that when I went to get some new shirts… I tried XL… too tight. So I went up to XXL, which was like a fucking tent… and it still didn’t fit… I’m too fat for clothes!”

  Millie holds a hand across her mouth, giggling as he continues, “To be honest, Mills, while trying those shirts on… I was too fat for the cubicle!”

  “Ha!” She laughs out loud, chuckling. “Stop it, Larry.”

  “Fuck it…” he exclaims. “I need to eat. I eat when I’m depressed, and I’m gonna eat fucking loads.” Larry punches the hands-free button on his desk phone and commands, “I want a meatball marinana foot-long sub with everything on it… and I mean everything, all of it, mayo, chilli… cheese… all of it!”

  A timid female voice responds from the speaker, “What drink, Larry?”

  “Diet Coke!” he stabs a button to end the call. Millie is still smiling as Larry settles back in his chair. While regaining composure he explains, “I sometimes enjoy… wallowing in my fatness. It’s a self-harming thing.”

  “You wanted to see me, Larry?” she enquires, and takes a seat.

  “Did I?” He wipes shimmering perspiration from his blood-red forehead onto the palms of his hands. As he does so Millie gets a front-seat view of the drenched underarms of his shirt. He remembers, “Oh yeah, I did,” and leans forward. “I’ve got this for you,” patting his sweaty palms onto a piece of paper, and hands it to her.

  “What is it?” she enquires, not wishing to touch a sweated area.

  “It’s what you wanted… the pass, from the governor at the prison.” He jiggles it towards her.

  She’s instantly delighted, forgets the sweat-factor and snatches the paper, “You got permission!”

  “Who’s the fucking daddy?” he holds his arms out wide, waiting for a reply.

  “You’re the daddy, Larry… Thanks.”

  “Oh yes I am!” he’s proper smug now, but then, on a more serious note points out, “But, the permission is on a proviso that, before you interview the Iraqi, you must ring the number on that sheet and speak to an Agent Williams at MI5.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know, but the Iraqi’s a convicted terrorist, isn’t he?”

  Millie nods her head.

  Larry suggests, “They’ll just want to know what he talks to you about. Ring the man… it may open new avenues.”

  Millie stands. “I will… Thanks, Larry,” and leaves with a spring in her step, scanning the letter’s contents.

  Delighted with his own performance, and happy he’s made Millie happy, Larry reclines back in his chair… dreaming of lunch.

  •

  His business card reads: AGENT WILLIAMS – MI5 (British Military Intelligence Section 5 – the United Kingdom’s internal security and counter-intelligence agency).

  After passing her his card, the intelligence officer takes a seat across the table from Millie at a coffee shop close to CNN’s offices. Williams is smartly suited. He looks and talks smooth as he holds out his hand, “The name’s Williams… James Williams.”

  Millie feels like she’s heard that line before as they shake. Williams then confirms in confident accent-less English, “Your editor, Laurence James, briefed us on your plans to interview Sahar.” He is calm, polite, and looks her directly in the eye. “We cannot currently see any reason to deny access to him, but… you must be aware that all video footage and notes made must be submitted to us for vetting… before you edit.”

  Millie nods, “I understand.”

  “You must also understand…” he continues, “like most extremists, Sahar will grasp every opportunity to push propaganda whenever he can.”

  Millie nods again, “I know how it works.”

  “I’m sure you do…” he nods back, “but I must also warn you… Sahar is an archetypal zealot. With him, expect the unexpected… His persona changes from polite intellectual to frenzied fanatic at the drop of a hat.”

  “Okay. I will.”

  There is a moment’s silence while they sip coffee. Williams uses the back of his hand to wipe milky froth from his upper lip, before continuing, “Sahar is well connected inside the terrorist network… We observed him for a long time before he was arrested, and even though we secured a conviction for bomb making, to coin a phrase, the war on terror never stops… We consider him, and his associates on the outside, a work in progress.”

/>   After another sip, he this time removes the froth by scooping up his bottom lip, then continues, “All information you glean is considered good information, Ms Jones.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Millie smiles.

  Agent Williams smiles back, “Please continue with your interview… I’ll be in touch.” He stands, shakes her hand politely, and leaves.

  •

  Chapter: 21

  Melting Pot

  The following week, George and Hazma’s game of draughts is interrupted by their cell door opening. A guard walks in and reads from a note, “The governor has granted CNN’s American journalist, Millennium Jones, permission to interview you both.”

  “WHAT?” Hazma blurts out, astonished.

  The guard explains, “Some Yankee doodle dolly bird’s coming to interview you, today.”

  “Molly!” exclaims George. “I told you… She wants to talk to us.”

  “YOU DIDN’T SAY SHE WAS AMERICAN!” He’s irate. “I DIDN’T KNOW SHE WAS!” George yells back. He can’t understand the fuss. “She was just a woman to me. She’s dead nice!”

  Hazma seethes, “Can’t you tell an American accent?”

  “NO!” George is frustrated. “What’s your problem now?”

  The guard pipes in, “Is it a problem then? Will you see this Yank or not?”

  Hazma bangs his fist on the table, bolts upright, and in a voice so angry it squeaks, fumes, “She’s American!”

  “Why is that a problem?” asks George.

  Hazma turns to face the window muttering, “That is a big problem!”

  George shrugs at the guard, who shrugs back and confirms, “Well, she’ll be here later…” adding sarcastically, “if that’s not a problem,” winking at George as he leaves.

  George looks over at Hazma. The muttering has stopped, but he’s back up on tiptoes now, and his thousand-yard stare through the window is back.

  •