Hostage Three

by Nick Lake

  — Listening to music, I said. I waved my iPod. The pirates had some kind of fight with some guys on another boat. Nothing for us to worry about.

  — Why are you shouting? said the stepmother.

  I didn’t realise I had been. I hadn’t heard a single word I’d said.

  — They were from the North Coast Guard, said Farouz, the next day.

  We were talking under our breath, while one of the pirates fed hay to the goats, and Dad and the stepmother played Scrabble in the dining room. We had to talk quietly. I mean, Farouz could lose everything, getting too close to me. I could lose everything, getting too close to him. I’d seen him shoot at people, and he hadn’t even hesitated. I felt like, I don’t know, like if I was whispering it was almost like I wasn’t talking to him.

  Like it was safer.

  — They were other pirates? I said.

  — Coast guard, yes.

  — But . . . you’re on the same side, aren’t you?

  He laughed.

  — No. We are the South Central. They are the North. They don’t like us. We have one hundred and forty boats. Nearly a thousand men. Money, from our sponsor. They have less. So sometimes they try to take the ships we capture.

  I remembered him talking about his sponsor before, though I hadn’t got him to explain what it meant.

  — Your sponsor? I asked. Amir?

  — Yes. Amir.

  — What does it mean, sponsor?

  — He is a coast guard who made a lot of money – three million from a Greek container ship. Now he takes that money and invests in others. This is how it works.

  As he was talking, a couple of the other pirates were loading the dead man, who had been wrapped in sheets from the yacht – I could see the logo of the Daisy May embroidered on them – into one of the small boats. It was even harder to keep track of the number of pirates now that we had moved to Eyl, as they shuttled to and from the yacht, bringing reinforcements and supplies from the beach. I had the impression they were doing shifts, like it was a job. I suppose it was. The only ones who stayed on the yacht all the time were Ahmed, Farouz and Mohammed.

  — What about him? I asked, pointing to the body.

  — His family will receive a hundred thousand dollars, said Farouz. When we get our ransom.

  — What? Seriously?

  — Yes, of course. Compensation.

  — But . . . how often do people die? Pirates, I mean? I didn’t dare ask about hostages.

  — Not often. Sometimes they fall in the water. Not many can swim. Sometimes – not often – the navy kill them.

  — The British navy?

  — I don’t know. Or the American. Once, they took two boys, friends of mine, who got too close to a destroyer. They floated them back to us, just off the coast, in white wooden boxes. On one end they had written HEAD in red letters, in English. I don’t know how they expected us to read that. I mean, I could, but no one else can read English in my crew.

  — That’s awful, I said.

  — Yes. Well, at least they gave back the bodies. That way the families can have their compensation.

  — Of a hundred thousand dollars.

  — Yes.

  The little boat unmoored from the yacht then, and began to chug towards the beach, the body inside it. I leaned closer to Farouz.

  — So, I said, nervous. How much . . . I mean, what do you expect to get from us? You, personally?

  — I need to free my brother. That’s fifty thousand.

  — And you think you’ll get more than that?

  — I hope so. I mean, this yacht, it’s a dream for us. So many people on board, which is the really valuable thing. The last mission I was on, we took a container ship. They run those things with a skeleton crew. Once the ransom was split, my share was small. This . . . this is my chance.

  — This is my life, I said.

  Farouz turned away.

  At the same time, I thought, oh no. These pirates want a lot of money. And I knew how much my dad loved money. I knew he wouldn’t want to part with it. I felt worried again, so I asked Farouz the question he hadn’t had a chance to answer before, when the guns went off and interrupted us.

  — What happens if my – if the company who own the yacht won’t pay?

  He looked back at me again. Paused.

  — We will continue to hold you, he said at last. For a year, maybe. This costs a lot, in goats and water. If it goes on too long, the sponsor will get angry at his money being wasted, and Ahmed will order us to kill you.

  — Oh my god, I said. And if he orders you, will you . . .

  Farouz didn’t answer. He just looked down, frowning.

  Oh god, oh god, oh god. You know those balls, like Magic 8 Balls, where one ball floats inside another one, in liquid, so when you turn it, the ball inside moves independently? That’s what my mind felt like, like it had come unattached from the sides of my head.

  — Are you serious? I asked.

  — My brother . . .

  — Oh god, I said. Oh god.

  I got up and stumbled into the yacht, down the corridor to the cinema room. I felt floaty, dizzy. Farouz didn’t come after me, but Dad stepped out of nowhere, blocking my way.

  — I saw you talking to that boy, he said. Did he upset you?

  — What? Yes. I mean, no.

  — Amy, said Dad. I don’t know what you were doing last night, but I don’t think you were listening to music. I don’t want you talking to him any more. OK? You could have got shot.

  — Jesus, Dad.

  He raised his hands, offended.

  — I’m looking after you!

  — Yeah? I’m seventeen! And for your information, I’m not interested in Farouz. This was true then. I pretty much hated Farouz at that moment.

  — Farouz? said Dad.

  — I mean, that guy.

  Dad’s face set, like plaster drying.

  — Listen, he said. You cannot imagine how dangerous this situation is already, without you getting involved in some crush.

  — I can’t imagine? There are men with guns all around us, Dad.

  — Point taken, he said. The thing is, Amy, these men are pirates. They’re ruthless.

  — Please, I said. They were fishermen, did you know that? Then, after their government fell, Western ships started coming into their waters and stealing their fish. That was when they began arming themselves.

  — What? said Dad. Who told you that?

  I didn’t answer.

  — It was him, wasn’t it? That was what he told you. Bit bloody convenient, isn’t it, making out that they’re Robin Hood?

  — Well, they’re not exactly rolling in it! Ahmed doesn’t have goddamn aspirin for his kids.

  — OK, Dad said. His face softened for a second. I’ll admit their situation may not be totally black and white. But you don’t have to fraternise with them. You may want to get yourself killed, but don’t get everyone else killed, too.

  — I don’t want to get myself killed, I said.

  He looked at me.

  — Don’t you?

  I hesitated, thinking of Mom. Was that it? Was I doing the same thing as her? Did I have some kind of death wish? I remembered a counsellor telling me that if one of your parents kills themselves, you’re six times more likely to do it yourself. I think it was meant to be some kind of warning to look after myself, but I got it. That is, I got why people did it if their parents had. I mean, that’s the only way to see them again, right? It’s like following someone who gets on a bus. You get on the bus, too.

  Only, no, I knew for a fact that I didn’t want to die, because when Farouz wouldn’t answer me, about whether he would kill me, I’d been scared. I wouldn’t be scared if I had a death wish.

  — I don’t want to die, I said.

  Dad paused.

  — Right, he said, his voice gentler. Sorry, Amy. I am, really. I just . . . I worry about you and that boy. He’s a lot older than you. You think that doesn’t matter, but it doe
s. Also, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but he’s a fucking pirate.

  — I don’t think it doesn’t matter, I said. I don’t think anything.

  — No, he said. That’s the problem.

  Anger popped in me like a jack-in-the-box.

  — You don’t want me to embarrass you, that’s all, just like with failing my A level.

  — What?

  — Your daughter, the daughter of James Fields, fraternising, as you put it, with a pirate. You couldn’t stand that, could you?

  — So you’re saying you and him –

  — No! I’m not. I’m saying that’s what you’re thinking.

  — I’m not thinking anything about it, he said. I told you – I worry about you, that’s all.

  — Because you can’t stand the idea of me being with someone poor, and black.

  Dad’s eyes went wide.

  — You really think that? he asked.

  I wasn’t sure. Actually, I hadn’t even thought of the fact that Farouz was black, or dark-skinned at least. I mean, I really hadn’t been aware of it, so it was kind of a surprise to hear myself say it. I guess I just wanted to shock Dad. Still, it was too late to back out now, so I said:

  — Why not? It’s the truth, isn’t it?

  Dad sighed.

  — Believe it or not, I’m concerned about your happiness. If I were you, I’d ask myself: if this guy wasn’t a pirate, if there wasn’t something exciting about that, would I be interested? If he was an electrician, say, back home, or a banker, would the same frisson be there?

  — I told you, there’s no frisson.

  — OK, fine, yes. But just . . . think about what I said, OK, Amy-bear?

  His voice made my shoulders slump, and I didn’t want to fight any more.

  — OK, OK, I said.

  He held his arms out, awkwardly, fractionally too late.

  I shook my head, turned and walked back the way I’d come.

  — Amy! said Dad.

  — What?

  — Nothing, he said. Nothing.

  I should have stopped and listened to him, of course. I should have, but I didn’t.

  The wooden boat pulled up to our diving platform, and the man stepped off – dressed, improbably, in a suit with a tie. How he could wear that in this heat, I don’t know. I was sweating constantly in shorts and a T-shirt, baking in the unmoving air.

  It must have been about ten days after we got to the Somali coast.

  — What the hell? said Dad.

  He and the stepmother were playing – and I realise the irony of this – Battleships on the rear deck, under the sun canopy. That my father was spending all this time playing games was surprising. Still, I suppose there was competition involved, and Dad gets competition; he understands it. Games aren’t jokes: they go somewhere; they involve action; someone wins.

  It was another brutally hot day, the heat haze so thick over the scrubby hills of the coast that it was like the rock and sand were on fire.

  The man in the suit approached us. He was clean-shaven, about forty, with a thin, wiry frame, and he was carrying an equally thin, black briefcase. Ahmed was beside him, smiling.

  — Nyesh, said the man, holding out a hand. I am the lawyer.

  — The . . . lawyer? For us?

  — No! He laughed. For these men. For Ahmed.

  — I don’t understand, said Dad.

  Ahmed sighed, beckoned over Farouz, who came over, scowling. I hadn’t spoken to him since two days before, when he’d basically told me by omission that he’d put a bullet in my head if Ahmed told him to. He talked rapidly to Nyesh for a minute or so.

  — This is how it works, said Farouz. I come on board at the start, as a translator. Now the lawyer has come so that we can negotiate.

  — You will find me very reasonable, the man in the suit said, with a wolfish smile. His accent was almost as good as Farouz’s. I understand the owners of the yacht know that you have been taken captive? A video was taken and emailed to them, yes?

  Dad nodded.

  — And the navy, too?

  This time Farouz inclined his head.

  — Yes. A helicopter came. And they called the yacht once.

  — OK, good, good, said Nyesh. But you have refused all attempts at contact since then? Good. Right. I think, then, we’d better make some phone calls of our own.

  We sat in the dining room, at the big table. Tony, who could walk around on his own now, came, too. He was the voice of the company, at least as far as the pirates were concerned. He introduced himself to Nyesh as our guide.

  — Fine, said Nyesh. In that case you will speak. It is better if I do not talk to them directly. It makes things . . .

  — Tense, supplied Farouz.

  — Yes, tense.

  — Tell me what you want, and I will tell them. Tony held the satellite phone in his hand.

  Nyesh nodded.

  — We want five million dollars.

  Dad spluttered on the water he was drinking, spraying the table. Tony just raised an eyebrow.

  — That’s a lot of money, he said.

  — We have an investor, said the lawyer apologetically. We must pay a dividend.

  The sponsor, I thought. Amir. It was strange that I knew these things, but couldn’t mention them to anyone else, because I knew them from Farouz.

  This was Dad’s territory, and now he turned on Nyesh.

  — Are you fucking serious? he asked. This isn’t some FTSE 100 company you’re running here. We’re being held by illiterates who bring goats on to our yacht! You’re all fucking pirates!

  Nyesh didn’t blink. He just lifted up his briefcase, slid it on to the table and flicked the metal tabs to open it. He took out a sheaf of papers.

  — I am the accountant as well as the lawyer, he said. These are the accounts of the South Central Coast Guard.

  I saw columns of numbers on the papers, his finger tracing them.

  — We take this very seriously, Mr Fields. Yes, there are illiterates in the operation, but there is no other industry in Puntland. Much as I would love to move to London and exercise my profession there, I cannot. And so I, too, and others like me, become pirates. Do you see?

  — This is absurd, said Dad.

  — Please, said Tony. Let’s all calm down. He indicated Dad with his hand, then turned to Nyesh. Can I have a moment with my colleague? he asked.

  Nyesh shrugged.

  Tony drew Dad aside and they had a whispered conversation. We all just sat there waiting for them. Then they returned to the table.

  — We can call our employers, Tony said. Five million dollars does sound a little expensive, though. The last private yacht that was taken, they paid 3.5 –

  Nyesh shrugged.

  — Inflation, he said. Make the phone call.

  So, while Dad glared at everyone, Tony dialled a number. Immediately the bank – or whoever it was – answered.

  — Yes, yes, we’re all safe, said Tony, in response to a question from the other end. I was wounded in the leg, yes, but I’m better now. Uh-huh. Yes, I’m in the yacht in the dining room with three of the pirates. The others are mostly on guard outside, two on –

  Smart, I thought. But at exactly the same time as I thought it, Ahmed raised a hand and Farouz lifted his pistol, pointed it at Tony’s head.

  — Ah, sorry, said Tony. I mean, the pirates have their demands. That is, I am to put their demands to you. Oh, OK. Hang on. He turned to Nyesh. Do you have a pen? Paper? Nyesh handed them over and Tony wrote down a number, then he hung up the phone. There is a negotiator aboard a Royal Navy vessel that is heading towards our coordinates, he said. We are to call him.

  — Fine, said Nyesh.

  Tony dialled the new number. The guy must have been expecting the call because there was no greeting.

  — Yes, said Tony, we have their demands. Yes, that’s right. Yes. Five million dollars. No. Five million. Right, OK. He turned to Nyesh. They want two days.

  Nyesh shook his hea
d.

  — They have twenty-four hours.

  Later that day, they made us come out on to the deck.

  I was watching a film in my room, I don’t know where everyone else was. Mohammed came to get me. When he entered the room he gave me a kind of sickly smile, then he pointed his gun at me.

  — Out, he said. On deck. There will be a die.

  I stared at him. Everything below my pelvis disappeared, and my stomach fell through space.

  — I’m sorry?

  — A die. On deck.

  — A death?

  — Yes. Now.

  Oh, Jesus, oh, Jesus, I thought. I remembered him mock-slitting his throat, telling me we would die like animals. I tried to push past him, to rush, but he gripped my arm. It was like being held by a bear. I stood very still, the skin of my arm smarting.

  — Where is watch? he asked. You have? He was too close and his breath was sour against my face.

  — Watch? I don’t know what –

  He raised his other hand, as if he were going to hit me, then he scowled and lowered it again. Mohammed might be the son of someone important, I realised, but Ahmed was still chief. He could get fined for striking me.

  But what if a fine wasn’t enough to –

  He dug his fingers even further into my arm and took a deep breath. Then he leaned in close, and as he did so, his hand, the one he had been about to hit me with, brushed against my chest, sending a shiver of horror across my skin.

  An awful, awful thought occurred to me then, appalling as eyes outside your window in the dead of night. I’d only worried about him hitting me.

  What if he . . .

  I mean, we were alone. He was a strong man. I was a girl. There would be nothing I could do, nothing to stop him. He had a gun! I felt like a mouse in a trap, like I could spin around and run in circles, but wouldn’t go anywhere. I felt like energy was blazing inside me, even though I stood very still. It was like I was a furnace, bolted to the floor and roaring inside with flame.

  I thought, I have to do something. Mohammed leered at me and I saw the khat in his mouth. On an instinct, I pointed to it.

  — Can I taste some? I said. Some khat?