“Karim!” A finger prods at his forehead. He grits his teeth, forcing himself not to shout at the man scowling into his face. His mind screams. My name is Jay!
Heath pulls his thumb from his mouth. Sitting listening to the grown ups was boring. The men had gone out to make people go home and Mummy and Grandma were too busy talking to each other to bother to take notice of him. Every time he asks a question, they just tell him to ‘wait a minute’ or ‘do some more drawing’. He was bored, bored, bored, and also hungry. He slips out through the half-open door and makes his way to the big room he’d seen when they came in through the front door. There had been boxes of toys stacked up and he’d seen a bike and a scooter leaning up against the wall. His mother’s voice grows smaller and then disappears from his awareness as he makes his way to the boxes. Through the clear plastic he can see cars, dolls, dinosaurs, and farm animals. He reaches up for the lid of the box with the cars. Pushed up against the plastic is a black car with silver wheels and, strapped to it with an elastic band, a remote control. It’s a racing car, just like the ones Daddy watches on the television.
He pulls off the elastic band, turns the car over, slides the switch to ‘on’ and presses the lever on the remote control. Nothing. The car doesn’t move or make a sound. He wiggles the levers. The red light is on so it should work! He picks up the car, checks its wheels, puts it back on the ground and tries again. Nothing. Frustrated, he drops the control and walks across to the bike. It’s a push-along, just like the one he has at home. It’s a bit small, but he can still ride it. He wheels it around the room, going faster with each push, then wheels out into the hallway. Grandma’s voice floats through the open doorway. His mother replies. They don’t even realise he has gone. With a push of his foot he powers the bike forward to the other end of the hallway and knocks into the big door. It edges open. Inside he can hear voices. Perhaps someone who will play with him. His stomach rumbles. Perhaps Baz will be there. Perhaps he has some more biscuits. He pushes the bike forward and wheels it into the corridor.
Khaled holds a finger to his lips to quieten the men, then turns to the child. The black tyres of the yellow push-along squeak against the tiles as he scoots it along.
“Hallo!” Khaled’s sing-song is sweet. The child turns to his voice with widening eyes. “Hallo!” he sings, keeping the child’s attention.
The child stares from across the corridor, unsure of where to look.
“I like your bike. I have a little boy and he likes to ride his bike too.” The boy’s eyes lock on Khaled’s. “He’s just like you.” Khaled knows the drill—get them on your side, let them know there’s common ground, then pull them in. He’s well versed in persuasion and coercion. The boy doesn’t respond but doesn’t shift his eyes either and Khaled knows he has a chance. “My son is the same age as you. His name is Ryan,” Khaled lies. “What’s your name.”
The boy looks up and down the corridor, his small fingers clinging to the handlebars of his bike. “Heath,” he says and pushes the bike a little further along the corridor. The smell of bleach curdles in Khaled’s stomach.
“Don’t go,” Khaled says. “Please.” The boy stops and Khaled smiles. “Can you help me?”
The boy scoots back on his bike level with the peephole. “I really need to go pee-pee. Can you unlock the door? My friend forgot to leave it open.”
The boy doesn’t respond.
“And my son will be missing me. It’s getting dark and he’s scared of the dark.”
“Forget it, Khaled,” Basim hisses. “He’s too stupid to understand.”
“Shh!” Khaled hisses to Basim.
“I’m not stupid,” the boy returns with a defiant frown.
“No, I know you’re not,” Khaled says quickly.
“Huh! They’re all stupid,” Basim retorts.
“Shut up,” Khaled berates.
“I’m not stupid,” the boy repeats.
“Prove it then!” Basim demands.
“You realise you’re arguing with a four-year-old, right?”
“Shut up.”
“I will open it,” the boy states with defiance and steps off his bike.
You’re more stupid than you realise you little idiot. Khaled smiles as the boy reaches up for the key. It turns with a satisfying click and the door releases from the frame. “Good boy!” Khaled presses down the handle. The door doesn’t budge. “Is there another lock, Heath?”
“Dunno.”
In another room a woman’s voice calls the boy’s name. He turns to stare back down the corridor and moves back to his bike.
“No!”
The boy looks back, startled at Khaled’s angry desperation.
“I mean, please. My son is waiting for me. If I don’t get to him he’ll be very frightened. He doesn’t like the dark. You know there are monsters in the dark, don’t you?”
The boy looks suddenly frightened.
“He’s frightened like you are. If you let me out I can go to him. You wouldn’t want the monsters to get him, would you?”
“No.” The boy takes a tentative step to the cell door as the voice calls from him again.
“Quick, open the door before the monster comes.”
The boy scrambles forward and Basim snorts with muffled laughter as the bolt is pushed back. Khaled tries the door again. It doesn’t budge. “What?” he seethes.
“Bolt at top.”
“The stupid kid can’t reach that.”
“Ram it,” Basim hisses. “Quick.”
“Get out of my way,” Hamsa demands. Taking a step back, he raises his boot and slams it against the door. The voice from the other room shouts for the child again, louder now. Ignoring it, Hamsa kicks the door once more with the handle pressed down. It crashes open with the sound of splintering wood and knocks the boy to the ground.
“Careful!” Jay shouts as the boy is thrust back against the wall. His head slams against the plaster and he slides to the tiled floor with a look of astonished pain.
“Why? It’s just a disgusting kaffir’s kid.”
“He’s just a kid. Leave him alone.”
“Grab it.”
Basim pushes past Khaled and reaches for the child, holding it under his arms. “Now what?” he asks as the child begins to struggle.
“He’s our ticket out of here.”
“What the hell are you doing, Khaled? He’s just a kid.”
Crash!
The door slams open and the corridor fills: one man with an ancient rifle and two women behind him. The younger woman screams. A shot fires, shattering the plaster of the far wall. A warning shot.
“Back in the cell,” Khaled shouts and backs up. “We have the child,” he shouts as he steps back to the cell’s doorway.
“Heath! Heath!”
“Show them the child.”
Basim steps forward and hangs the boy over the open doorway. He steps back and Khaled pulls the door closed. Eyes appear at the peephole. Blue and angry they stare into the cell. Khaled stares back then grabs for the child. It squeals as he pinches at its skin.
“Don’t hurt the boy!” The blue eyes narrow.
“Stand back. Let us leave,” Khaled returns.
The blue eyes burn with anger. “Give me the child then we’ll talk.”
“We kill the child.” Khaled’s patience is wearing thin and he grabs the boy’s red hair, sliding his fingers through the locks and pulling at the scalp. The boy squeals in pain. “Let us out of here. I rip his scalp if you do not open door.”
A hand tugs at the boy. “I’ll take him. Let me hold him.”
Khaled bats at Jay’s hand, slapping hard at his forearm. What was wrong with the man? The child wriggles against Khaled, his scream shrill.
“Stop!” The man’s voice shouts then the eyes disappear from the peephole.
“For the love of God don’t let them hurt the child.” A woman’s voice fills the corridor. Khaled smirks. The woman will make sure they were released.
“Throw down the gun.” Khaled demands.
“For God’s sake, let him go!”
Khaled doesn’t relent and continues to pull at the boy’s hair. His screams fill the tiny cell. Khaled laughs. Let them see he means it. He grabs the boy’s clothes and dangles him above the hard tiles. “Let us out or I start. I smash his face. His nose will break first a-”
An anguished cry.
“For God’s sake, Khaled. Stop it.”
“Stop! Please stop.” The woman’s scream rises above the shouting in the corridor. Blue eyes are replaced with green. “Please, please don’t hurt the boy.”
Khaled turns on Jay with a snarl. “What is wrong with you, Karim. This is jihad.”
Jay’s eyes flicker—does he see derision there? Is he still on their side? “What do you care about the kid?”
“Nothing.”
“I told you Khaled,” Basim interrupts. “He is not true.”
Khaled stares at Jay with narrowed eyes, a snarl curling on his lip. He had recruited the boy in prison himself.
“Are you?”
“I am.”
“You know what will happen to you if you turn your back on your faith?”
“I do.” Fear flickers in Jay’s eyes.
Khaled pushes at the younger man again. “Do you care more about this child than about your brothers?” He holds the child high. It squeals in pain.
“No! Don’t.”
Khaled’s eyes narrow. “You have a problem with jihad?”
“No. He’s just a little kid—that’s all.”
“I kill you myself - gut you - if I find you are lying.”
If the boy is having second thoughts he’d better change them back quick. Turning from Jay with a final glare, Khaled steps up to the door and stoops to the peephole. He smiles at the woman on the other side. “I do not want to hurt boy.” She smiles back and a wave of relief crosses her face as Khaled sets the boy down on the tiles.
“Thank you!”
His smile broadens and he holds her gaze.
“It’s going to be alright Heath. Grandma’s here.”
“You look too young to be Grandmother.”
She seems to blush. He strokes at the finger poking through the peephole with his free hand and a flicker of confusion passes over her eyes. He loved fucking with their minds—all the practice on the beaches back home, of the stupid old women who came for holidays, was very useful in getting his own way. He’d lost count of the number of women he’d scammed for money—all of it, well most of it, paid in to further the cause, keep their campaigns alive. The irony was perfect the stupid women paying for their own deaths. And then there were the truly stupid ones, the ones who thought they’d found love on the beach, the perfect holiday romance, with a young man asking them to be his wife, and take him back home. He holds back a snort of contempt. “Now, beautiful Grandma, tell the men to drop weapons. We leave or boy dies.” With his final words he lifts the boy once more and slams him against the wall. His body thuds against the brickwork, right shoulder and head taking the full force.
“No!” the stupid woman screams. She draws back from the peephole and Khaled listens as she shouts at the men. The boy writhes in pain.
“Let them leave. They’ll kill Heath.”
“We can’t let them leave. Sam said-”
“I don’t care what Sam said, let them out.”
The door rattles as it’s pulled open and then forced shut. “Martha!”
“Open it,” Martha screams. The door opens. “Give me the boy.”
“We get out of cell.”
“Get out!” she screams and makes a grab for the boy.
Khaled punches at her jaw, knocking her back against the door’s thick frame. “Wait.”
She pushes herself upright as Khaled ushers his men through the door, alert for any movement. The child swings in his grip though his arm is beginning to ache. At least it has stopped wriggling. The child’s head lolls as he pulls its body to him, a human shield against whatever weapons the pathetic men may have. Taking large strides, he moves along the corridor. The child doesn’t move. Should he keep it as a hostage? It could come in useful until they got out of the town. The child is motionless. He can’t tell whether it is even still breathing. Perhaps the knock against the wall was too harsh? Hostage or not? The body is a deadweight in his arm. Not. Without remorse, he throws the inert body back along the corridor and runs into the sun as it slams against the wall.
Chapter 18
Mohammed slams the car into first and accelerates away from the kerb. The attack on the city hadn’t gone to plan and it had become obvious, once it was too late, that the residents were organised and more than willing to fight back.
Thud!
“Faster!”
He grits his teeth and floors the accelerator. The old engine thrums with an angry buzz but the power just isn’t there. The speedo climbs slowly to fifteen.
“Come on!” he shouts and bangs at the steering wheel.
Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud!
The back window shatters and Daoud screams from the back seat. Mohammed keeps his eyes on the road ahead, the headlights make a narrow cone. Damn these old cars—they have no power.
Thud!
The engine screams and he shifts the gear into second. “Come on! Move!”
The thudding continues but now it is muffled, a smash against tarmac, not the metal panels or glass windows of the car. Checking in the rear-view mirror, a hole bigger than a fist, a brick-sized hole, is smashed through the window. Beyond that, the fires that burn in the fat oil drums at the side of the road pick out the silhouettes of the men. Catching sight of his face in the mirror, his left eye is already closing, and blood trickles from the gash across his temple. Pink flesh shines from the gash across his scalp.
“The brick hit Daoud.”
Mohammed grunts.
“He’s not moving.”
“Check him over. I can’t do anything. I have to drive.”
“I think he’s dead.”
Mohammed slams his fist against the steering wheel.
“What now? Where do we go now?”
Mohammed is silent. He stares at the point where the light gives way to the black of the road and the night.
“What now, Mohammed?”
“We go back to the petrol station. It’s where the others will be.”
“OK. But this shit is getting to me.”
“What does that mean?” He narrows his eyes and stares at Ali through the rear view mirror.
“It means I want to go home.”
“Pah.” Mohammed spits. “Go home to mommy?”
“That’s not what I meant. I’m cold, tired and every time we kill one of these white pigs they kill two of ours. It’s not meant to go down like that.”
“No one said it would be easy. Bin Sayeed said there would be martyrs, alhamdullilah.”
“Yeah.”
“We regroup at the petrol station. Join the brothers and wait for Bin Sayeed’s orders.”
“Do you think he will have done it by now?”
“Killed the Prime Minister? Yes, Bin Sayeed will have burnt him alive for the English pigs to see.”
“There’s no power though, so who is going to see?”
“Why all these questions, Ali. Do you doubt Bin Sayeed? Do you doubt the brotherhood?” Mohammed’s voice rises to a pitch with his anger. “Do you doubt the jihad?” He stares at the boy through the mirror, watching for any sign of dissent.
“Of course not.”
“Good, because you know what happens to traitors don’t you.”
“Yes.” Ali’s voice carries a note of fear and Mohammed smiles.
“Then stop asking the questions and shut up. We regroup with the brothers and carry on with our jihad, insha’allah.
“Insha’allah.”
The car powers along the road at a steady fifty; taking it above that speed makes it judder. The petrol gauge is reading low. He takes the road that lead
s south and over the river. They had just enough petrol to get them to the intersection, but not more.
Ten minutes later the bridge comes into view. Massive concrete pillars reach to the sky, their outline caught by the light from the moon. The intersection lies eight miles south of the bridge. The roads are dark without the overhead street lights and Mohammed slows as he follows the road to the toll booths. The barriers are down and the booths deserted.
“What now.”
He pulls the car to a stop. “We move them. Come on.”
It takes ten minutes to weaken the barrier enough to bend it out of the way and Mohammed returns to the car with sweat beading across his brow. The day has been hot and the sourness of sweat clings to him. The first thing he’d do at the petrol station was wash himself down, get rid of the stink of the day’s failed mission.
As he drives the car onto the bridge, the water beneath shines like black glass, a mirror for the sky. He tightens his hands around the steering wheel, keeping the car in the middle of the two lanes, keeping the car straight, afraid of veering too far to the left and – his heart beats harder – crashing into the barriers.
“Mohammed! Stop.”
He slams on the brakes. Ahead the road is blocked, the lorry sitting across the carriageway unseen in the dark until it was almost too late.
The car stalls as it comes to a juddering stop only feet from the lorry. Mohammed slams his fist on the steering wheel and throws open the door. Torch in hand, he walks to the truck, listens for motion, for evidence of guards. This was a barricade, a deliberate blockade of the road. It would be a mistake not to have it manned. Squeezing between the two lorries he peers out into the dark. Cars fill the road, pushed up against the blockade. Nothing moves. He switches on his torch and shines it across the scene. Another group of cars sits about six metres away, their bodywork damaged, lights broken, glass litters the tarmac. The air has the smell of death, it’s not pungent, not like he’d smelt it in the rubble of the towns they’d taken back home, but it was there, unmistakable. He shines the torch in an arc, following the stench of death, shining light into the cars. There are no bodies here. No rotting corpses pollute the night air.
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