by Mark Dawson
They stopped outside a building that had escaped at least some of the damage that had been wrought on its neighbours. There was a wooden sign outside it, the stencilled letters bleached by the sun, but a drawing of a table and chairs suggested that the factory had once produced furniture.
“Out,” the driver said curtly.
They stepped out. The sun was burning hot and low in the sky; Aqil shielded his eyes with his hand.
“Remember,” Yasin said. “Do as they say. Okay?”
They walked into the open space that preceded the factory. There was a guardhouse, a wooden shack that offered shelter to a single guard with an AK-47. The guard, a man who was no older than the two of them, told them to wait, went inside and fetched a second man. He was older, with a thick grey beard and a face that had been rendered leathery by the sun.
“You from the oilfield?”
“Yes,” Yasin said.
“English, yes?”
“That’s right.”
“Names?”
“Yasin and Aqil,” he said, indicating first himself and then his brother.
“You,” the man said, pointing. “Yasin. I need you to come with me.”
“What for?”
“No questions. I need you to help.”
Yasin looked anxiously at his brother. “I—”
The man glared at him. “I’m not asking, I’m telling. You know who I am?”
“No,” Yasin said, already cowed.
“I’m in charge. The prisoners are my responsibility. You do what I tell you as long as you are assigned here. And I want you to come with me. Now.”
“Give me a moment,” Yasin said.
The man harrumphed, but turned his back on them and walked across the dusty yard to a pickup that had just pulled up.
Yasin took Aqil by the shoulders. “Don’t worry,” he said. “This will be fine. I’ll get us out again. There’ll be a way. I’ve read about people getting out. We just need to work out how to do it.”
“I’m frightened, Yasin.”
“I am, too.” The older brother found a smile. “But we won’t be here long. Do you trust me?”
“Yes.”
Yasin drew Aqil closer and hugged him tight. “Do what they say. I won’t be long. We can talk again when we’re alone later.”
Aqil’s throat was tight and he felt tears in his eyes. Yasin gently disengaged their embrace and held Aqil so that he could look into his face. He reached up and gently wiped the tears away. “I love you, Aqil,” he said. “I’m sorry about all of this. It’s my fault. But we’ll be fine. I promise.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Isabella had been left in her cell. It was impossible to gauge the time in the pitch-black room, but the fact that she had been given two breakfasts and two dinners suggested that they had kept her there for two full days. She slept as much as she could, and when she was awake, she kept herself occupied as best she could. She put together a routine of exercises that she could do in the confined space, a series of push-ups and crunches that left her muscles burning and her skin covered in sweat. She would rest afterwards, close her eyes and try to recreate the big room outside the cell, the corridor, the doors and then the courtyard outside. She was allowed to use the toilet twice during what she took to be the first day, and she used the short trip to the hole in the floor at the end of the row of cells to fill in those parts of the immediate geography that she hadn’t been able to recall.
The last trip to the toilet had been hours ago. Isabella banged her fist on the door.
“Hello?”
There was no response.
“I need to use the toilet.”
Nothing.
“Excuse me!” she called again, louder this time. “Please? I need to use the bathroom.”
She heard the sound of approaching feet and then the click as the key in the lock was turned. The door opened and bright light streamed inside. Isabella blinked until her eyes adjusted; when they had, she found that the young guard that she was looking at was not one that she had seen before.
“I’m sorry,” the guard said. “I didn’t hear you.”
Isabella looked at him with a mixture of surprise and curiosity. None of the guards had ever apologised to her before, and this one spoke with a timidity that suggested that he was uncomfortable with what he had been asked to do. He had the usual AK-47, but he held it awkwardly in a way that suggested he was unfamiliar with the weapon. He wore it on a strap and his right hand was nowhere near the trigger; she could have disarmed him well before he would have been able to aim and fire, and for a moment, she considered it. She had bunched her right fist and was about to close the distance between them when she saw another guard in the gloom ahead of them. The man took a step forward, into a shaft of light, and she saw it was one of the older men, and one whom she had already identified as more proficient than the others. She relaxed her fist and let her arm fall loose at her side.
“This way,” the new guard said.
That was the other thing about him: he was English.
She walked along the row toward the toilet. When they were a little farther away from the other guard, she turned her head to him. “What’s your name?”
“Aqil.”
“You’re English?”
“Yes.”
“From the north?”
“Manchester. Who are you?”
“Daisy.”
They came to the end of the row. The toilet was in the final cell. There was no concrete floor in this one, and a hole had been dug in the floor. There was a drop beneath it that led either to a cesspit or a sewer. If there was no other option, and she was desperate, Isabella had already decided that she would jump into the hole in the hope that it was a sewer she could follow.
There was no door on the cell. The guard, Aqil, turned his back, and Isabella went inside and relieved herself. She paused there for a moment longer than she needed, her eyes closed as she ran through the possibilities that his obvious inexperience might present to her. He was still standing with his back turned; she could have broken his neck without his even knowing what had happened to him. That someone so obviously out of his depth had been brought in to guard her was encouraging, but this wasn’t the right time to take advantage of it. She would wait.
“Thank you,” she said.
He made no move to escort her back to the cell. “Where are you from?”
“London.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I was kidnapped. They took me. I shouldn’t be here.”
Isabella watched his face. He was older than she was, although not by much, but his eyes bore doubt and uncertainty. His fingers trembled a little as he rested them on the weapon. She saw weakness in the boy, something that she could exploit.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“They didn’t tell you?”
“Not much. We were in Turkey. We came in on a helicopter.”
“This is al-Bab,” he said.
“Where is that?”
“Twenty-five miles from the Turkish border.”
He stood there, still unmoving. Maybe she could forge a relationship with him? “What are you doing here, Aqil?”
“I came to fight,” he said.
“Did you?”
“Yes,” he said tersely, perhaps sensing that she doubted him. “You think I can’t?”
She had doubted him, and she was irritated with herself for letting him know it. “No.” She put a little unrest into her own voice. “Not at all. I just . . . I just haven’t had the chance to speak to anyone else from England.”
Isabella saw the second guard approach and started back to the cell.
“Don’t talk to them,” the guard said in broken English. “You guard them only. If they talk, you tell me. I deal with them. Understand?”
“Yes,” Aqil said.
The guard walked right up to Isabella and took her by the arm. “You hear me?” he said, digging his fingers into the s
oft flesh below her shoulder. “You don’t talk. If you do, I put bullet in your head. Understand?”
“Y-yes,” she pretended to stammer. “I’ve been in there so long, I just—”
He yanked her hard, propelling her into her cell before she could finish the sentence. He slammed the door shut and turned the key.
“No more toilet,” he said, his voice muffled through the door. “You need to piss, you piss in there.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Isabella wasn’t left alone in her cell for very long. The door was unlocked and opened, and she saw Aqil standing there again.
“Let’s go,” he said.
“Where?”
“Out.”
Isabella stepped out of her cell. The other cell doors were all shut. She didn’t know whether that meant the al-Khawaris were here or not.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“What for?”
“I didn’t want to get you into trouble.”
“I’m not,” he said. His tone was brusque; he was overcompensating. “Put on your proper clothes.”
Isabella collected the niqab, abaya, and gloves and put them on. They stepped outside. There was a minibus parked on the corner of the street, and Aqil indicated that they should make their way to it. A group of men stood next to the vehicle. They were all armed, two with AK-47s and the others with handguns. As they approached, the men nodded a greeting to Aqil. None of them looked at Isabella. It was an unusual sensation, almost as if she didn’t exist. She realised that there might be a benefit to the garments after all.
Aabidah was waiting for her in the hotel reception. She took Isabella by the arm and led her to the staircase that they had ascended yesterday. Aqil followed behind them.
“You like this hotel?” the woman said.
“It looks very nice.”
“This is where the al-muhajiroun stay.”
“The who?”
“Foreign fighters. Our foreign guests are treated very well, too. Your cell is not very pleasant, is it?”
“No,” she said.
“You do not have to go back there. We have a room for you here. All you have to do is co-operate with Abu. Tell him what he wants to know. Answer his questions. It is very simple.”
Abu was waiting for her behind the desk in the same room that she had been taken to before. There was a silver platter on the desk, with a pot and two china cups.
He smiled solicitously at her. “You can remove your veil,” he said. “I am not offended.”
She did as he suggested, relieved on the one hand by the cool air that circulated across her hot flesh, and worried, on the other, by the fact that she could no longer rely upon the veil to hide her expressions. She was going to have to concentrate harder to persuade him that her answers were truthful.
“That’s better. I can see you now.”
She found that her attention was attracted by those small, perfectly white teeth and the manicured moustache, so black that it was surely dyed.
“Would you like a cup of coffee? It is flavoured with cardamom. Very strong.”
“Yes, please.”
Abu lifted the coffee pot and poured the coffee into the two cups. He pushed one of them across the desk and Isabella took it. Abu raised his cup in a little salute, smiling at the foolishness of it. Isabella put hers to her lips and sipped. It was thick and black.
He replaced his cup on the desk. “I have a few questions for you, Daisy. Do you mind answering them?”
He was unfailingly polite. Isabella wondered whether that was part of his strategy, to try to persuade her that he was a friend and that perhaps he might be able to help her in her predicament. It wouldn’t hurt to play along with that charade. He might offer her an inducement if she could persuade him that she was being truthful. A room on her own, perhaps. One that would be easier for her to escape from.
“No,” she said. “I’ll tell you whatever you want. I just want to go home.”
“Yes,” he said. “I’m sure you do. This must be very frightening for you.”
“Yes,” she said. She didn’t have to act too hard to persuade him that that was true.
“What is your name?”
“Daisy.”
“And your surname?”
“McKee.”
“Thank you, Daisy. I do have questions that I need to have answered. I need to understand why you are here. The al-Khawari family, that I can understand. But you are not like them. A young white girl—it makes no sense that you would be with them. Can you understand why I find that curious?”
“I suppose so.”
“So tell me: how are you connected to Mr al-Khawari?”
“I’m not. I know his son, that’s it.”
“Khalil?”
“Yes. We go to the same school.”
“I spoke to Khalil yesterday, Daisy. All afternoon. It was an interesting conversation.”
The man paused, leaving a space that he evidently hoped that she would feel compelled to fill. It was a standard interrogation trick. Her mother had taught her that she should never volunteer information. And she had told her that the more you said, the more lies you told, the more the chance that you would say something that might trip you up. Far better to hold your tongue.
“Are you not curious what he had to say?”
She had to say something. “What did he say?”
“He says that you had only been at the school for a few days. He says that you made a special effort to get to know him. Is that true?”
“Which part?” She chastised herself as soon as the words left her mouth; she couldn’t afford to give the impression that she was confident enough to give him attitude. She remembered how Daisy would feel: frightened, timorous. That was the role. She had to play it.
“Both parts.”
She paused and made a show of biting her lip. “Well, yes. I had been there a few days. But it wasn’t how he says at all. He made an effort to get to know me. I think he liked me. He bought me a watch.”
“Ah, yes. This one?” The man reached into a pocket and took out the Rolex that Khalil had purchased for her when they had been together in Geneva. “It is a very expensive watch, I think?”
“Yes,” she said. “He’s very rich.”
“His father is very rich indeed,” the man agreed. He put the garish watch back into his pocket.
“Khalil invited me to his birthday party. I wasn’t sure that I wanted to go.”
“Ah yes, the party.” Abu smiled at her. “He told us about that, too.” He reached up with a finger and ran it across his moustache.
“I wish I’d never gone,” Isabella said.
“I can imagine. You wouldn’t be here if you had stayed away, would you? What happened? Mr al-Khawari and his son both say that you were found in a part of the house you should not have been in. Is that true?”
She frowned. “I got lost. I was looking for the bathroom.”
“And you ended up in the study?”
“His house is enormous. I didn’t know where he was.”
“No doubt,” the man said. “But what happened with Mrs al-Khawari?”
Isabella had known that the question would be coming. “She attacked me. She found me in the study and tried to drag me out.”
“She says you attacked her.”
“To defend myself.”
He stroked his moustache again. “Why were you on the helicopter with the rest of the family?”
“Because they forced me to get onto it with them.”
He shook his head, smiling, his mean little teeth showing between his thin lips. “I will be honest with you, Daisy, I am very uncomfortable with all of this. I like certainty, and at the moment, I cannot say that I am certain about anything. There are a lot of questions that need to be answered. Can you see that?”
“I’m just telling you the truth.”
“I am sure that you are, Daisy. Never mind. We will speak again tomorrow. I will get to the bottom of it. I alw
ays do.” He stood and smiled again. “You will wait here for me. I am going to speak to the al-Khawaris again. I will speak to you after that. I think I am getting to the bottom of things.”
He gestured that she should stand, too, and she did.
“Don’t forget your veil. You are not at home now.”
She took the niqab and arranged it so that the double folds fell over her head, obscuring her face. The world closed in again, her field of vision reduced to what little she could see through the eye-slit. She allowed herself the luxury of relaxing her face, letting her expression go slack after the strain of her pretence.
“May I give you a little advice, Daisy?” Abu’s voice seemed far away now. She didn’t answer, and he continued. “You have a few hours to yourself now. You should use them profitably. Think about the situation you are in. This is not a safe place for a Western girl like you. My people are being bombed every day by your government and the governments of the West. My brothers and sisters, and the children of my brothers and sisters, are being killed. Every day, more die. If those people knew that you were here, they would want to make an example of you. You understand what I mean when I say that, don’t you?”
She tensed, understanding precisely what he was saying, and gave a small tilt of her head.
“I can help you. I am the only person who can help you. The only thing that you need to do is to tell me the truth.”
Isabella watched him as he got up, crossed the room and opened the door. Aabidah was waiting outside. The two of them had a quick conversation, too quiet for Isabella to overhear, and the woman came inside and took Isabella by the arm. She pulled her roughly.
“Come on,” she said.
Isabella followed the woman out of the room. Abu was standing on the other side of the door. “Think carefully, Daisy,” he said. “Think about what we talked about. I will see you shortly.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Aqil took Isabella to another room in the hotel. Aabidah came with them, and there was no chance for Isabella to try to engage him in conversation. The room was plain and simple, with a desk and a bed. Isabella went over to the window and looked out. They were several floors up, with a view that offered a vista of the city. She saw more buildings that had been flattened, pyres of smoke that issued into the dusky sky and, below her, vehicles running in both directions and the bus that they had arrived in, still parked at the side of the road.
