#8. SISTERS OF MERCY ORPHANAGE, ADHAMIYA, BAGHDAD, IRAQ
Tuesday May 19, 06:30
WAKING IN The Cupboard, Ali could feel the tightening skin, the thick headache, the stiff jaw and face, the swelling bruises and drying blood that were the legacy of his fight with Mr Ala'a. He rested the back of his head against the wall. Damn the others for bottling out at the last minute. Scowling darkly, he touched toes with someone hidden in the darkness.
''Ali?'' It was Samir. ''Thank God you're awake. I thought they'd killed you.''
''They won't get rid of me that easily.'' Ali touched his jaw gingerly. Dried blood was crusted on his swollen face. ''What happened after Ala'a knocked me out?''
''He just kept hitting you,'' whispered Samir. ''Sister Gihan and Mr Mohamed dragged him away. He kept yelling he was gonna kill you.'' That explained the aches all over Ali's body. ''They got him off and Sister Gihan screamed 'Put him in the Cupboard' and Mr Mohamed carried you out.'' Samir gulped. ''Then she put on all the lights and yelled at us and Salah and Magdy cried and Sayed told her our plan and she said she would kill you herself and then she grabbed my arm and yelled 'Cupboard!' and two sisters pushed me in here…'' He sobbed. ''I think he's broken my ribs.''
''What happened to the others?'' he said, closing his eyes.
''Sayed got a cookie for telling the truth,'' sobbed Samir again. ''It's so hot in here.''
''Regulate your breathing,'' Ali advised. ''Keep calm.'' He could smell the other boy's fear.
''I've never been in here,'' Samir sobbed, ''Never.''
''You were very brave,'' Ali said.
''What do you think they'll do to us?''
''I don't know.'' Ali turned his face to the wall. ''Whatever it is, it won't be pleasant.''
His father had taught him never be a rebel. He had disobeyed and now he was waiting in a suffocating cupboard with a petrified child for God knows what.
''Do you think we'll be sent for re-education?'' sobbed Samir. ''I don't want to leave. I like it here. I don't want to go away.''
''Who knows?'' said Ali despondently, wincing as pain throbbed through his sweating face. It was his fault the child was in such a state. If only he had not led him astray, he would be safely tucked up in bed dreaming of cookies or teddies or whatever little kids dream of. He would step up and take the punishment for them all. It had been his stupidity that had led them here. Let Sister Gihan and Mr Ala'a do as they wished. He would bear it for his friends, even those who had betrayed him.
After what seemed an eternity of sobbing, sniffing and snuffling, Ali and Samir were marched to the refectory where the other boys had gathered for breakfast. At the top table sat Sister Gihan and her cronies. They had been joined by a man in an expensive-looking light grey suit, a tall, athletic, handsome man in his forties with slicked-back black hair and gold rings on every finger. He wore his white shirt without a tie and Ali could see a gold chain resting against his throat. He was wearing dark glasses.
''The rebels return.'' Sister Gihan rose. ''Regard them, boys. Regard them well.''
Ali, even though he was only wearing his underpants and a vest, felt strangely calm under the gaze of a hundred pairs of eyes. Some were curious, others indifferent. Some were wide with horror, anxiety or fear whilst some were bright with excitement, expectation and enjoyment. Few showed sympathy, pity or understanding.
''Our benefactor visits today,'' said Sister Gihan, ''And the first thing he must see is a punishment.'' She bowed to the man in the grey suit. ''I am sorry, sir, that you are so troubled.''
''Boys will be boys,'' the man said simply. ''You just have to beat it out of them.''
''Ali Hassan,'' said Sister Gihan, smoothing her habit, ''You have been nothing but trouble since you arrived. I believe there is a demon in your soul and it needs exorcising before you damage yourself and your fellows any further.
''Samir Mohamed, you have been with us a long time now. I am surprised at your behaviour. Your parents, God rest their souls, would be ashamed.'' She paused while Samir sobbed his contrition. ''You will now be whipped in front of your peers, that the Devil might flee your souls.'' She folded her hands and sat down, licking her lips hungrily.
Mr Mohamed set a chair down with its back towards the boys. This meant they would be able to watch every expression of fear, every twist of pain…
''Kneel down,'' said the teacher. Ali and Samir knelt on either side of the chair, looking out at the sea of faces.
Mr Ala'a, features fixed in a fiendish grin, flexed a thin, whippy, four foot long cane with his massive, hairy hands. ''You little bastards,'' he hissed. ''I'm gonna hurt you so much you'll wish you'd died with your parents.''
''Samir Mohamed,'' intoned Sister Gihan, ''You will be first. Bend over.''
Ali noticed the man in the dark glasses tense slightly as the small boy, bending over, grasped the edges of the chair. The entire audience seemed to suck in one deep, collective breath as Mr Ala'a hooked his thick, meaty fingers inside Samir's waistband and hauled his pants down to his ankles to reveal tight, bubble-buttocks, then lifted the vest from a smooth but narrow expanse of creamy brown back. Samir's backbone jutted through the skin.
Samir started screaming. ''It was Ali!'' he screamed. ''Ali made me do it!''
Mr Ala'a flexed his cane again then rested it lightly on Samir's left thigh.
''Nooo! He's the Devil! Ali is the Devil! Beat him, not me!''
The cane lashed across the boy's flesh. Ali saw a purple line leap through the skin. Samir shrieked as though he had been scalded. Ali bit his lip and screwed up his eyes. This was coming to him.
The cane whipped across Samir's left buttock. Another purple weal sprang into view. Samir howled like an injured dog.
Ali felt sick, felt his knees shaking. Oh my God.
The cane cracked sharply against his back. Samir squirmed and screamed once again.
''Please, no, stop, I'll do anything, tell you anything.''
Another slash across his buttock brought beads of blood through the bruise.
Ali sought out Sayed and fixed his attention on his one-time friend's expressionless features. You bastard, Ali's thoughts bored through his eyes. You bastard.
Switching sides, Mr Ala'a grinned sadistically at Ali.
''You're getting it much harder than Samir,'' he said, viciously whipping the cane over Samir's right thigh and then across his back, ''So hard it'll make you bleed.''
A deep ambulance siren wail welled from the depths of Samir's soul.
Two more slashes across his bottom, and Ali saw urine dribble down the inner thigh. Sister Zakeya murmured ''He's had enough.''
Ali gulped. His stomach had disappeared into some outer space vacuum.
''Stand up,'' ordered Mr Ala'a.
Samir's face was covered with tears, snot and blood. He had bitten through his lip.
''Observe the wages of sin,'' said Sister Gihan.
''Turn around,'' ordered Mr Ala'a.
Samir's humiliation was complete.
''I'm sorry,'' Ali whispered miserably.
''Now dress yourself and kneel down,'' said Sister Gihan.
Samir pulled his underclothes over his bleeding skin and collapsed like a sack of flour.
Ali's heart pounded in his throat and cold sweat broke on his face. He needed the toilet.
Samir had been in terrible pain. His skin had been laced with cuts and red-edged ridges. How much would it hurt? Would he scream too? Would he cry like Samir? Would he wet himself too?
Standing up, trying consciously to stop himself trembling, Ali moved to the chair, his stomach flipping like a gymnast till he felt sick. Glancing at Samir, he saw blood flowering through the cotton of his vest. Controlling his breathing, he looked coolly at Mr Ala'a, then dropped his pants and bent over the chair.
The first stroke, on his left thigh, felt like fire, as though a branding iron had been applied to the skin. Ali sucked air through his tightly gritted teeth and breathed hard as the cane lashed agai
nst his left buttock, forcing the air out again in stuttered bursts as his cheeks twisted and his muscles clenched and his fingers gripped the wood so hard he could see the white of the joint about to burst through. The third made his bare feet shift on the planks of the platform. Something split and he felt blood trickling down his skin. The fourth, biting into his bare back, made him gasp, and the fifth, on his right leg, made him at last cry out.
Oh God, he was in agony and he had at least another three coming.
He focused on Sayed again, then Magdy, then Salah, each in turn, and suddenly relaxed, counting his breaths, concentrating so hard on them, staring at his knuckles, that he seemed to float away, to become strangely detached, as though the boy being beaten were someone else.
''Stand up.'' Mr Ala'a's voice sounded hollow, distant, a million miles away.
Ali wobbled upright. His knees would not stop shaking. His whole body burned.
''Turn around.''
He faced Sister Gihan, focused on the black wire erupting through that coin-sized mole, and the dark glasses of the smirking man in the grey suit. Dimly he heard some sniggering behind him.
''Thrash him again,'' said the man. ''Give him ten more.''
''Later,'' said Sister Gihan, ''When we have rubbed salt into his wounds. You two, go to the dormitory, clean yourselves up, get yourselves dressed and report to first lesson.''
Ali pulled up his pants and, limping heavily, followed Samir out of the refectory.
''See what happens when you rebel against the system?'' said Sister Gihan. ''Nothing but pain comes from such behaviour. Now eat your breakfasts.''
The man in the grey suit took a seat at the table and cut up his omelette with the side of a fork, his gold rings glinting as his strong, hairless hands moved with surgical precision.
''The second boy,'' he remarked conversationally, ''Is a trouble-maker?''
''Inveterate,'' answered Sister Gihan, helping herself to a mango slice, ''But never fear, Dr Al-Sekem, we shall break him in the end. We always do. And then you can have him.''
''Excellent,'' said Dr Al-Sekem. ''In the meantime, do you have another suitable boy for me? My work nears completion, thanks to you.''
Sister Gihan's mole-hair trembled. ''You may have Sayed. He betrayed them. I have no time for weasels like him.''
''What exactly do the boys help you with?'' asked Sister Zakeya.
''Scientific research,'' said Dr Al-Sekem. ''As you know, I am developing alternative energy sources such as wind and solar. We test the power of our turbines and photovoltaic panels on them. Do they work? Do the boys feel warmer or colder? Is the light produced stronger or weaker? Is the water heated adequately? Before we fit every home in Jordan with our panels and power every community through windmills, we need human subjects to help us make the appropriate adjustments so we get our products right. Believe me, sister, their contribution is invaluable.'' He shovelled the omelette pieces up with his fork.
''But they never come back,'' said Sister Zakeya.
''No,'' admitted Dr Al-Sekem, ''We take them to Jordan and place them with a family. It is one of the philanthropic avenues Hands across the Sands has opened for these poor unfortunates. Assist with our research and enter a new life.''
Sister Gihan grunted. ''And it saves us having to feed and clothe them, Zakeya. Gets them out of our hair. Mr Ala'a, please ask Sayed to report to the basement during second period.''
Up in the dormitory, Samir collapsed onto his bed weeping.
''That was awful,'' he blubbed, ''The worst day of my life. Everyone watched it. Everyone saw it. Everyone.''
''They saw your winkie,'' Ali muttered, sponging blood from his buttocks. ''Big deal.''
''They saw me cry,'' sniffled Samir. ''I hate you, Ali Hassan. My life was good until you came. Why can't you just be grateful for what you've got? Why have you got to start a fight with everyone? Why can't you just do as you're told?'' He blubbed again. Snot oozed from his nose.
''Clean yourself up,'' Ali said harshly. His bottom throbbed and his knees were still trembling. His head felt hot. He scooped several handfuls of water from the tap into his mouth. A new plan was taking shape. From his locker, he retrieved the key to his flat, lay face-down on his bed and waited for the pain to pass.
When Samir had tidied himself and finished dressing, Ali started mumbling.
''Bomb,'' he mumbled, ''Bomb. Blast. Blood. Fire. Bomb. Murder.'' He clawed the air with his hand then started shaking. His upper body twitched and his limbs jerked and the muttering continued.
''Ali?'' Samir sounded scared. ''You all right?''
''Mm,'' grunted Ali, ''Mm, mm, mm. Bomb. Bomb. Dead. Dead.'' His head jerked. He clawed the air again. ''No! No! No!'' Then he opened his mouth and screamed at the top of his lungs. ''Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!''
''Ali!'' Samir, terrified, shook him. ''Ali!''
Ali's eyes snapped open. He gripped Samir's shoulders, fingers digging into the flesh like talons. ''Fatima! Fatima! Don't go! Don't! They'll get you! They'll kill you, Fatima!'' He shook Samir violently. ''Listen to me! Listen! Fatima!''
''Help me!'' yelled Samir. ''Help!''
Ali released him and collapsed again, muttering and shuddering.
Samir threw open the door and yelled again: ''Help me! Help!!! Ali's dying!''
Ali quickly reached down, bit his lip and gouged at the cuts on his legs and bottom with his door key, opening them up so blood soaked into his pants.
Mr Mohamed rushed into the room, saw Ali twitching on the bed, saw the bloodstains, heard the muttering about bombs and his sister and death.
''He's having a fit! Samir, fetch Sister Gihan.'' He grabbed a towel, soaked it in water and wrapped it round Ali's forehead.
''What is all this noise?'' Sister Gihan had waddled in.
''I think he's having a fit,'' gasped Mr Mohamed. ''He's delirious, muttering about bombs and death. He's hallucinating.''
Ali seized the teacher's sleeve. ''The boy on the bike! It's the boy on the bike!''
''Ali!'' said Mr Mohamed urgently. ''Can you hear me?''
Ali stared over the man's shoulder. ''He'll kill you! He'll kill all of you! That man in the suit!'' He fell back again.
''He's bleeding all over the bedclothes,'' said Sister Gihan irritably.
''He's gonna die,'' moaned Samir. ''Is he gonna die?''
''Call a doctor!'' said Mr Mohamed.
''Don't be insane!'' snarled Sister Gihan. ''I'm not having a doctor in here. Doctors will examine him, poke about, ask questions.''
''But he might be really sick,'' said Mr Mohamed. ''Feel his face. He's burning. His foot's opened up. He needs fresh stitches.''
''Damnation!'' she swore. ''Trouble from the start! Take him and throw him into the street. Let him die in the gutter where he belongs.''
''Sister Gihan!'' Mr Mohamed straightened up. ''That's the most despicable thing I've ever heard. Where is Mr Ala'a?''
''Mr Ala'a is busy with our guest,'' snapped Sister Gihan.
Ali moaned an intense, deep moan, writhed and flopped unconscious.
''Oh very well,'' scowled Sister Gihan. ''Call an ambulance and take him to the hospital. Don't take your eyes off him for second, don't let him answer any questions and for God's sake don't let him escape. We need his uncle's money.''
''What if they keep him in?''
''Take his rucksack, but don't leave him, whatever you do.''
''They'll ask about the cuts and bruises!''
''He was blown up,'' growled Sister Gihan. ''Of course he'll have cuts and bruises. Anything else, say he got into a fight with Mental Magdy.'' She glared at Samir. ''What are you looking at, you little shit? One word out of you and I'll gut you like a fish.''
The ambulance, screaming into the front yard of the orphanage, drew a crowd of boys and teachers to their classroom windows. Mr Mohamed and a paramedic manoeuvred Ali's inert body onto a trolley, dumped his rucksack into his lap, threw a blanket over him and wheeled him quickly down the corridor. Sister Gi
han followed the trolley barking ''Back to work. Nothing to see. Back to work.'' The trolley was lifted over a low footplate and bumped head-first into the back of the ambulance. Mr Mohamed followed it in and sat by Ali's head, hands folded, a look of concern etched on his thin face. The doors were shut and the ambulance screamed away again.
The paramedic carefully slid Ali's blood-stained briefs away from his bottom, swabbed the stripes with iodine and stuck some plasters over the cuts.
''Bit too handy with the cane, eh?'' he said jovially.
''None of your damn business,'' growled Mr Mohamed. ''Just get him conscious again.''
The paramedic peeled back one of Ali's eyelids. ''I'll give him an adrenaline shot.''
The ambulance jolted up a hill as the paramedic reached for a syringe and needle.
''Damn. Steady on,'' he called to the driver.
''Traffic lights,'' the driver replied, easing the ambulance to a juddering halt on the incline and pulling on the handbrake.
''Great.'' The paramedic swabbed Ali's arm. ''Just a little prick,'' he smirked, spraying a squirt of liquid into the air.
Then he 'oofed' loudly as Ali's rucksack thumped into his stomach and thundered into his ear. He staggered sideways into Mr Mohamed.
Ali tossed the blanket over them and clicked off the brake. The trolley trundled towards the double doors.
''So long, suckers,'' he cried, bracing against the bone-jarring impact, and then he burst from the ambulance into the sunlight. Behind him, Mr Mohamed and the paramedic were untangling themselves and yelling.
Ali wriggled into a kneeling position and grabbed hold of the handles on either side. He was hoping these would steer the makeshift vehicle but he was going downhill and picking up speed. He wove through stationary vehicles as drivers' eyes widened and jaws dropped. He waved at a couple and leant his body-weight to the left to take a corner on one wheel. Mr Mohamed and the paramedic were now out of the ambulance and shaking their fists. It was the last he saw of them.
Round the corner and down the hill, wind rushing through his hair, Ali felt exhilarated. Every ache, every pain, every twinge of discomfort in his body was gone. He felt alive again for the first time in days and whooped for joy. Using his weight to steer, he allowed the trolley to trundle through the traffic and responded to hooting with a clenched-fist salute and a loud ''Yeeeee-ha!'' Then he heard the siren. The ambulance was coming after him. Damnation.
Get on the pavement, he thought, but the yellow- and white-striped kerb was several inches higher than the road. Drivers were now stopping their cars and getting out.
Ali flung himself full length on the trolley and rode it like a toboggan, pressing himself flat to the mattress to balance the weight.
''Let me through!'' he yelled. ''Out of the way!''
Someone waved at him, reached out to stop him. He leaned away and smacked the man in the chest with his rucksack. He flew round another corner and rounded a parked bus.
''Ha!'' he exclaimed and sped up a ramp towards a shopping mall. The glass doors slid obligingly aside to let him in. The metal detector went berserk as he passed through it and then he was heading towards an escalator.
The ''ha'' became an ''AHHH!'' as the trolley clattered down the metal steps, each bone-shaking bounce threatening to jolt him off. He pressed his body flat against the trolley and reached out for the black rubber handrails on either side to slow his velocity and bring him into sync with the escalator. The sharp angle threatened to tip him headfirst. Then he noticed a crowd of shoppers at the foot of the metal stairs.
''Get out of the way!'' he yelled as the trolley shot towards them, ''Out of the way!''
People scattered as Ali careered towards the plate-glass window of a furniture shop.
''Holy shiiiiiiiiit!'' he cried, twisting the trolley sideways so it skidded across the polished marble floor. He felt it overturning, felt himself tumbling to the floor, and then he slid, the trolley on top of him, to smash through the window. At the last moment, he heaved the trolley over to shield himself from the hailstorm of glass which burst suddenly into the mall.
The trolley collided with something heavy and Ali somersaulted on to a soft brown sofa. Alarm bells shrilled. People gaped in awestruck amazement. A security guard shouted something. Gasping, laughing, Ali sat up on the sofa. All around him was carnage. Then, grabbing his rucksack, he ran back through the hole in the glass and disappeared into the crowd.
Dead Boy Walking Page 9
