by Rik Stone
A guard stormed over and rousted him to his feet. He had no idea how long it had been since he’d eaten, but for now dizziness had the upper hand. He lost balance, tottered uncertainly and the guard, being the compassionate kind, pulled him roughly from the cell.
“I didn’t say you could go wandering, did I?” he said, bouncing him against a wall as he spoke.
Jostled and shoved, Mehmet was taken to the interrogation room where they kept the metal chair. Yagmur was already there and was rifling through her bag of tricks, but she stopped to look up at him. He tried ignoring her, while looking around the room. It appeared to be the same room, but the chair had gone and a tin bath had taken its place. And there was just enough water in it to cover the base. A pedal generator had been set up in the corner opposite the small table; a bicycle with the back wheel spindle rigged up to a motor had two clamps with corresponding cables coiled up on the floor next to it. Mehmet wanted to be scared; he should have been, but he felt nothing. His spirit had crumbled. His face and head hurt, his body ached and he could have been about to die, but he really didn’t care.
“You won’t get much from this one,” the guard said. “He nearly collapsed on the way here. He hasn’t eaten for a couple of days.”
“That isn’t your concern,” Yagmur said, foreboding. “Just pedal the generator when I tell you to.”
“Yes, Doctor.” Oversized, the guard’s great bulk looked ridiculous as he mounted the bike.
“Not yet,” she hissed. “Secure him in the bath first, you fool.”
He lumbered his way off the contraption. “Yes, Doctor. Sorry, Doctor.” In seconds, he had released the chains from Mehmet’s manacles and stripping him naked, forced him into the bath and shackled his ankles and wrists to holes on either side of it. The water was cold and Mehmet shivered miserably. The guard got back on his bike and the hunchback clipped the clamps to the manacles then told him to start pedalling. In seconds, Mehmet’s fists had clenched and his toes curled. But his head sagged. He rolled his eyes up to Yagmur and saw her put up a hand.
“He’s supposed to drop his head when the voltage stops, not while you’re generating it,” she said. “You just might owe the guard a favour, Mehmet. Maybe you are too weak for this. You don’t look so good. And we don’t want you dying on us, not yet.” She signalled for the guard to dismount. “One chance, Mehmet. If you tell me what I want, I’ll let you go back to your cell.”
“Anything, I’ll tell you anything you want to know, just please don’t hurt me anymore.”
Yagmur leaned towards him, made him face her using a hand under his chin and smiled her yellow smile. “Who are the six people on the list?”
“They’re perverts. They like little children,” he answered, the words crawling from his mouth.
“That’s as maybe, but were they involved in the death of Volkan or were you just blackmailing them for their little indiscretions?”
“No, I wasn’t blackmailing them. Volkan died because he was a pervert too.”
Her face soured. “Don’t fuck with me, you little turd, that is not a reason to kill him.”
“Yes, yes it is,” he said, a new hope quickening his speech. “Volkan was under the impression he was being investigated because of what he was doing to the boys. The perverts were members of his group. Those on the list thought he was going to distract the investigation by turning them in. They hired me to kill Volkan.”
Yagmur cupped a hand over her mouth and shuffled around the room.
“So, you and Yuri killed him and the bodyguards?”
“No, Yuri wasn’t involved. I acted alone,” he answered.
“Huh, you expect me to believe you could do such a thing by yourself? You nearly took me in there, Mehmet. I–”
“No, wait, it’s true! I’ve lived with Yuri for many years. He knew about combat from his early life in the Russian Army and taught me how to fight like a soldier, showed me how to kill people. I used what he taught me. I killed Volkan. I used a couple of boys I know in the Little Dogs gang.”
“How do you know boys from the Little Dogs?”
“Because I was one of them,” he said.
Yagmur’s face told Mehmet he’d reached a turning point. She was taking the bait.
She mumbled, paced some more. “And the names of these two Little Dogs are?”
“One is called Senturk and the other Oz,” Mehmet answered.
The hunchback stood, traced her eyes back and forth over Mehmet’s naked form as his muscles quivered in the cold water. “So you knew Zeki?”
“Yes, I knew him well.”
She nodded. “Very well, what about Yuri? Where is he?”
He knew it; Yuri was still alive. His spirit renewed. “I swear to God, I have no idea. How would I? As far as I was aware he was killed on the night I was taken.”
She nodded deliberately. “So, you’re saying this wasn’t a political assassination, but a paedophile ring watching their backs?”
“Yes, Doctor, and that’s the truth,” he said.
Her face changed as she spit out her next question. “Why was Zeki killed?”
Mehmet had rehearsed this so many times in the cell, he almost believed it himself. “I don’t know how he found out, but he knew what was planned. He was going to warn Volkan that night, so those on the list had him killed – I swear. I was alone on the boat a few days before Volkan died. They delivered the body to the quayside in a tarpaulin. I took Zeki out into the middle of the Bosporus, weighed him down and threw him in.”
Yagmur sighed and turned her attention to the guard. “Put him back in those stinking rags and take him to his cell… There are some things I need to check out, Mehmet, but … we’ll see.”
Taking Mehmet’s trousers from the guard, she put something in a pocket and handed them back.
The guard released Mehmet from the chains. He dressed without being allowed to dry and was marched out of the room and along the corridors. The guard pushed him through the door and he fell to the floor. Hurriedly, he clawed his way to the wall, pitched his back against it and searched the trouser pockets to see what Yagmur had put inside. Something tacky; it felt like clay. It was for his teeth. She’d rewarded him for telling all. Mehmet tore the substance in half, worked it between fingers and thumb until it became pliable enough and then gingerly pushed a piece into each tooth. A moment to get used to the pressure and the relief became exquisite. He lay down and slipped into a relatively comfortable sleep.
*
The routine returned to what it had been before the torture began: warm and then cold, but always dark. When coldness came the guard pushed food and water through the bottom of the door. And that was it. That was Mehmet’s life. He was left alone with his thoughts and felt satisfied that what he’d told the hunchback couldn’t prove him a liar. How could she investigate the Little Dogs? And she wouldn’t accept the word of perverts, especially as he’d admitted the killing. Why would he lie about them? So at least the torture was over.
Thinking he’d been left to his own devices in the cell to live out his life in darkness, he was both surprised and frightened when one day the guard opened the door and used his usual gentle manner to lift him to his feet. Terror cut through him like a knife. Yagmur – somehow Yagmur had found out he’d been lying.
“But I can’t tell her anything else! Please, don’t take me back there.”
The guard laughed as he pushed him through into the corridor, guided him up to ground level and out through the main door. Mehmet couldn’t believe it; he was out on the street with the sun and fresh air stimulating his skin. The guard tugged him around and stood him against a wall. The light dazzled his eyes, but even through the sting of the glare, his soul lifted. He could see a clear blue sky.
Several other men were lined up next to him.
“What’s happening?” Mehmet asked one of them, but the man turned away without answering.
The group waited in silence until a tarpaulin-covered lorry pulled up
in front of the police station. Mehmet was first to be bundled into the rear of the truck. The others shuffled in a row along the bench seating next to him and two policemen climbed in after them. They threaded a heavy chain through the prisoner’s manacles, anchoring it to steel rings at the front and rear of the truck. An officer on the pavement tapped the tailgate with a riot stick and the lorry started up, clunked into gear, fought for enough power to get moving and chugged away from the police station, soon to be absorbed into the mainstream traffic.
Chapter 25
There was no way of guessing where they were going, but Mehmet knew it had to be a long way from Istanbul. Apart from the many hours of driving, the sight of the landscape through the open tarpaulin at the rear of the truck had far-reaching views over open countryside and only ended when hills or pine forests popped up to mask the skyline. They travelled along coast roads where woodlands grew on mountainsides and large islands lingered offshore.
The day darkened, the shackles were undone and the officers led the prisoners from the truck to the sidings on one long chain so they could carry out their ablutions, which reminded Mehmet of his time under the jetty. Returning, they were fettered to the truck before being fed a sprinkling of couscous. Mehmet had no idea where the guards went, but the prisoners were left to fend for themselves.
An early start, several more hours of driving, and they came to a shuddering halt. One of the escorts dropped the tailgate, unlocked the chain and rattled it through the shackles, freeing the prisoners. They removed the shackles and a man who had sat next to Mehmet throughout tried speaking to him as he rubbed his wrists. Not one of those prisoners had so much as looked at him in two days. Mehmet turned away: fuck you. The guard ordered them out and they were marched through a small door fitted into the middle of a large stockade gate. Inside was an open compound surrounded by high walls. Uniformed men in watchtower turrets stood at each corner, machineguns mounted in tower openings pointed down into the courtyard at inmates who seemed to wander about aimlessly.
“Get in line and stand to attention,” someone shouted.
They shuffled together, facing a penitentiary-like, multi-tiered building cut into the hillside. As if in synchrony, the prisoners arched their backs and stretched. A senior officer, probably a captain, then came from the entrance of the main building and walked regimentally towards them. The policemen from the truck saluted him and were formally dismissed by a sergeant. They climbed into their vehicle. One took a riot stick and beat it on the floor. The engine sprang into life and they pulled away. Somehow, Mehmet felt abandoned hearing it go.
The sergeant stood, hands behind his back, relaxed, but when the captain neared, he came to attention. The captain stood next to him and addressed the prisoners.
“I am Captain Iscan and I don’t run this prison with too many rules. It’s up to you to find a bed and a cell. We do not lock cell doors. You might think life has just got easy – but it hasn’t … or maybe it has; that’s up to you. Cause me a problem and I will deal with you brutally – believe it! And don’t think of escape. Overnight, the walls are lined with armed policemen and dogs. If you attempt to go over the wall, I won’t have to deal with you because there won’t be anything left to deal with. How the guards react to someone escaping is left to them. Do you understand me?” he shouted.
“Yes, sir,” they answered together – almost.
“Very well. A meal is about to be dished up over in the corner.”
While the prisoners swivelled their heads towards where food was being served, the captain turned on his heel, tapped the back of his thigh with a switch stick and left.
Mehmet had watched it all with disinterest before trailing over to where inmates crowded in on the food. He felt worn out. He couldn’t be bothered. If there was anything left when they’d finished squabbling, he’d eat. If not, tomorrow he might feel renewed. All he wanted now was to find somewhere to get his head down.
A little man pushed his way out of the crowd. He had a large plate heavily laden with beans in tomato sauce, rice salad and bread. He was the only prisoner that no one had challenged and Mehmet wondered how he’d managed it. The man stopped and stared. His expression made Mehmet think he knew him, but he couldn’t imagine how; he had never seen him before, or so he thought.
His face lit up. “Mehmet?” he said.
Mehmet was still convinced he didn’t know him, but answered. “Yes.”
Holding the food against his chest, the man tried taking Mehmet into an embrace, but he couldn’t manage it and stood back. “Mehmet, it’s me, Oz. Remember the Little Dog who stuck to Zeki like shit?”
Mehmet looked at him as he combed fingers through a beard that had taken on a life of its own since Yagmur had last tortured him. “Oz, Oz? Oh, yes, I remember you.” And now he wondered how he could forget. Senturk had continually told Mehmet the boy wasn’t to be trusted. Said he was Zeki’s toad and got the others into trouble for the sake of it. But Mehmet hadn’t seen any truth in those words. In fact, Oz had always seemed friendly towards him and he had liked him well enough in return.
“I just didn’t recognise you. But believe it or not, your name is one of the last I’ve mentioned to anyone in months,” Mehmet said, thinking of his confession to Yagmur.
Oz gave him a confused smile and shrugged. “Come over here,” he said. “We can share this food and that part of the wall over there is mine – nobody will come near.”
He moved to his pitch. Mehmet followed and sat against the yellow sandstone wall with him. Oz handed him a piece of bread, which Mehmet scoffed greedily; he was hungrier than he’d realised. In the station cell he’d had couscous one day and … actually he’d had couscous every day they’d remembered to feed him. This was a plain piece of bread, but it tasted like heaven.
“It was a good day for food, Mehmet,” Oz said. “We usually have couscous.”
“Oh,” was all Mehmet could think to say.
As he sat, the sun beat down on his face and he loved it. Apart from little fluffy white clouds, the sky was clear and blue and other than the permanent musk of urine that had infested his nostrils ever since leaving Istanbul, the air was fresh. But life felt good. To see, to experience, to feel the real world touch him after the darkness, this new prison meant only freedom to him.
His thoughts moved to Oz. “Are you the only Little Dog here?”
“Not any more, Mehmet. I have you.” He grinned wide and happily. “But no, there is one other. He isn’t a prisoner; he’s the sergeant of the guard on the nightshift. His name is Selim.”
“Should I know him?”
“Maybe not, but you should have heard of him. He ran the Little Dogs before Zeki.”
“Oh, yes, Senturk told me stories. Is he giving you protection? Is that how no one bothered you in the food queue?”
Oz grinned. “Yes, he had a sudden change of heart and left the gang. He’s never told me why, but the good news is he’s still our man when it comes to favours. And a lot of the guards here are perverts, if you know what I mean. Not Selim; he’s watched over me well and those who’ve tried to touch me have ended up with broken bones.” He nodded vigorously as if Mehmet might not believe him. “And I get to find out what’s happening in the outside world. From the things he’s told me, you’re a lucky man, Mehmet.”
“I am? And here I was feeling sorry for myself.”
Oz laughed. “I always liked you, Mehmet; you stay happy whatever happens.”
Mehmet suspected he wouldn’t have said that if he’d spent time in the police station with him, but said, “Thanks, how come you’re the only one here? Did the others desert you?”
“Not really. After you and Senturk left to run the gangs in the old city, we robbed a man in a small market, a souk in Beyoglu. The victim turned on us. I was caught. It all happened so fast. I panicked and slashed his arm and you know if you knife anyone above the backside you get prosecuted for attempted murder… So now, unless I escape, I’m here forever.”
“Zeki!” Oz shouted. “He didn’t!”
“Yes, I don’t know why, but he had a unit of policemen waiting in Sirkeci. He was there with them. I saw him.”
“What and you were all arrested and kept in a police station?”
“I wish. As far as I know I was the only gang member who wasn’t killed. And I took a bullet in the shoulder.” He pulled his shirt away and showed him the scar – back and front.
Oz shook his head. “He always was a bastard. I was shit scared of him. That’s why I hung around and tried to make it look like he was my hero, save myself from getting a kicking.”
“Hmm, it was a long time ago, but he’s paid the price now.”
Oz’s eyes went wide. “You killed him?”
“Well, not exactly, but I did play a part in his downfall.”
“Anyway, from what you say about the police cell, you’ll be one of the ghosts,” Oz said.
“What, like I don’t exist?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what it means,” he said, and Mehmet noted an air of excitement in his voice.
Oz had been one of the older boys in the gang, probably around twenty-five now. He wasn’t tall then and he hadn’t grown much since. He was scruffy and unusual-looking for a Turk: blondish hair and dark blue eyes.
He went on. “You know who Adnan Menderes is?”
“Yes, the prime minister.”
“Not any more. The generals imprisoned him last May when they took over the senate. The reason you’ll have been moved from a police cell is that the military have begun scouring the stations for political prisoners falsely imprisoned.”
“This might sound stupid, but what year is this and what month?” Mehmet asked, realising he had no idea how long he’d been in that cell.
“It’s March, 1961. Seems they’ve kept you in the dark.”
Mehmet couldn’t help but laugh. “Something like that … but I wasn’t falsely imprisoned and I’m not political,” he mused. And he wasn’t surprised to hear of the military coup, in a way he’d been part of it, but he failed to see how that had an impact on his situation here.
