Dead Boy Walking

by David Brining

  #12. BOMB-SITE BY THE RIVER TIGRIS, BAGHDAD, IRAQ

  Friday May 22, 19:48

  THE TWO guys had followed Ali for a couple of days. They had watched him root through the bin for his breakfast then observed his encounters with the shopkeepers, laughing when he was chased out of the café with a newspaper like a troublesome fly. They had seen him arguing with people outside the mosque. They had watched him handing over his treasures to Rafik the Recycler. They had spotted him in the crowd after prayers and witnessed him buying food in the shop. Now they watched him lighting a fire behind the bricks, crouching, unaware, a small, defenceless young boy ripe for the robbing. They separated and advanced on him.

  Ali felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle. This did not look good. The guy on the right was about sixteen, heavy-set, short black stubble covering his scalp. He was wearing a navy blue tracksuit and trainers. The guy on the left was about eighteen, taller, with powerful shoulders bulging inside his fake leather jacket. He had a blue dragon tattooed on his neck. His hideously bent nose had obviously been broken more than once. Ali glanced at his rucksack a few metres to his right. The two thugs followed his glance. Bent-Nose moved towards it whilst Stubble-Head continued towards Ali who now stood up, spreading his hands palm-down in a gesture of peace.

  ''Hi,'' said Ali, trying to keep the quaver out of his voice.

  ''You got money,'' said Stubble-Head bluntly. ''We want it.''

  ''If I had money,'' Ali said evenly, ''I wouldn't be living in this shit-hole, would I?''

  Stubble-Head sighed heavily. He was now about three metres away. ''I hate it when people lie to me.'' He glanced at Bent-Nose, now crouching by the rucksack. ''What do we do with little liars, Haz?''

  Bent-Nose sniggered and opened the rucksack. ''Cut 'em, Cookie. We cut 'em.''

  A knife glinted in Stubble-Head's hand. Ali felt his eyes widen and his anus tighten.

  ''We saw you take a load of stuff to Rafik,'' Stubble-Head stated.

  ''You wanna work with me? There's plenty to share. We could be partners.'' Ali's voice squeaked as he backed away.

  ''We could be partners,'' Stubble-Head mimicked. Bent-Nose sniggered again. ''I got a partner already, squirt. What would I want with you?''

  Ali backed away a little further. Stubble-Head was now moving a little more quickly, the knife extended, pointing at Ali's chin. The six-inch blade had a serrated edge and a slightly curved point. It seemed very bright in the dim twilight.

  Bent-Nose was pulling clothes from the rucksack. Ali retreated a few more steps.

  ''Look, I don't want any trouble,'' he stammered, not bothering now to disguise his fear.

  ''And you won't get any,'' said Stubble-Head. ''Just hand over the cash.''

  ''But my stuff,'' said Ali, backing into the unstable wall and feeling brick-dust shower over his shoulders.

  ''Our stuff,'' corrected Stubble-Head. ''You have nowhere to run, squirt.''

  He seized Ali's shoulder with his left hand and touched the blade to Ali's left cheek with his right. Ali could smell garlic on his breath and a terrible stale odour that made him want to retch. ''Listen, you little bastard. Give us the money.'' He pressed his body against Ali's. ''Or we'll screw your little chicken-ass till you bleed.''

  Ali was trembling now, fear crawling through his stomach like ants.

  Stubble-Head pushed the knife-tip under Ali's cheekbone. Ali felt the skin split. His stomach lurched sickly, but he also felt the wall buckle slightly behind him.

  ''All right, all right.'' he said, suddenly calm. He knew what to do. ''I'll give you the money. It's in my jeans.'' He moved his hand towards his front pocket.

  Stubble-Head took a pace back, still holding Ali's sweater. Bent-Nose was sorting through Ali's belongings. Ali smiled and, seizing Stubble-Head's jacket, jerked the older boy towards him. He snapped his right knee up with as much force as he could muster and mushed Stubble-Head's testicles. Stubble-Head squealed and dropped like a stone. The knife clattered on the concrete. Ali kicked him again in the groin, this time a full-force Cristiano Ronaldo penalty-style kick. Stubble-Head was copiously sick and passed out.

  Ali turned to face Bent-Nose, spreading his hands against the wall behind him. Bent-Nose roared, raised his fists and sprang at him. Ali twisted aside, grabbed the leather lapels and hurled him headlong into the wall. Bent-Nose smashed into it skull-first and crashed to the ground. The wall groaned, buckled and collapsed, burying Bent-Nose under a mound of bricks and dust. Two denimed legs stuck out of the pile.

  ''Bleurgh!''

  Stubble-Head was vomiting again. He was also weeping with pain.

  Ali picked up the knife and sawed at a brick until the edge was blunted and ruined. Then he stabbed the point into a concrete block.

  Stubble-Head was crawling on his hands and knees, still retching. Ali stood over him.

  ''Now you, Cookie, can go screw yourself.'' He kicked him hard under the ribs. Stubble-Head whimpered and collapsed. ''If your balls ever work again.''

  Ali went to repack his rucksack. He was sweating, his hands were shaking and he was breathing hard through his nose. He had never been in a fight before.

  Suddenly, a bright light flared nearby and the concentrated beam of an extremely powerful lamp blinded him. Squinting, he shielded his eyes. A voice yelled, metallic and amplified, ''You there! Stay still! Don't move!''

  Ali could see nothing except the yellow glare.

  ''Put your hands up and step away from the bag! Step away from the bag! Put your hands up!'' The voice sounded edgy, nervous, apprehensive. ''Step away from the bag!''

  Ali raised his arms above his head, still squinting into the light.

  ''It's my bag!'' he called.

  ''Shut up! Move away from the bag!''

  ''It's my bag,'' he repeated, stepping two paces to his left.

  ''Shut up! Keep your hands up! Stand still!''

  Three policemen in dark blue uniforms emerged from the light, machine-guns levelled at Ali's chest. Behind them, in full body-armour and helmets, came two American soldiers.

  ''Move away from the bag!'' called the Voice. ''Walk towards the light. Leave the bag on the ground and walk towards the light!''

  ''Keep your hands where we can see them!'' yelled a second, edgier voice.

  Ali glanced over his shoulder at the rucksack. ''But….''

  ''Don't argue!'' the second voice snapped. ''Just walk towards the light.''

  Ali felt himself swallowed up in yellow then several pairs of hands took hold of him and dragged him out of the light onto the pavement. Now he saw the huge spotlight on a military jeep and two other soldiers pointing their rifles at his head.

  ''Get him in the jeep,'' said a soldier, pointing his gun at Ali's rucksack.

  ''That's my stuff!'' yelled Ali.

  ''Shut up!'' snapped the soldier.

  ''Could be a bomb!'' said the other.

  ''It's sweaters, pants and socks!'' Ali protested.

  ''Bullshit!'' snapped the first soldier.

  ''Plastic explosives!'' bawled the second.

  ''Get a bomb-disposal unit down here!'' screamed the first.

  ''I'll show you,'' said Ali, getting out of the jeep. A policeman slammed him back into the seat and put a gun to his head. ''OK, OK,'' said Ali, ''I won't show you.''

  ''Shoot it!'' shouted one of the policemen.

  ''Blow it up!'' yelled another.

  ''It's my stuff,'' said Ali brokenly. ''Clothes, comics, photos. If you blow it up, I'll have nothing left.''

  ''Shut up!'' The policeman cuffed him round the head.

  ''Look,'' said Ali, ''If it's a bomb, why would I blow up a bomb-site, eh? I mean, it's already been bombed, right? It's already rubble.''

  ''You were gonna carry it,'' said one of the soldiers, ''To a mosque or a market.''

  ''You've got to be joking,'' muttered Ali. ''I've seen that. Lived through that. It's my clothes and stuff, I promise.''

  Another soldier arrived. ''You got a bomb
here?''

  ''Possibly, Sarge. Blue Pokémon rucksack over there.''

  ''Got the kid, Sarge,'' said the other, ''Kid who planted it. Got him right here.''

  ''Take it out! Put a bullet through it!'' cried one of the cops.

  ''Look, it's not a fucking bomb!'' screamed Ali at last. ''It's my clothes!''

  The soldier looked at him.

  ''Hey Mickey? Mickey Mouse?'' Ali blinked. ''Hey, kid. You all right?'' The soldier turned to the others. ''This is Mickey. Kid who saved my life in Sadr City.'' The soldier grinned and turned back. ''So how are you doing, Mickey?''

  Ali breathed a massive sigh of relief and shook the outstretched hand.