Dead Boy Walking

by David Brining

  #14. ROOM 1212, INTERCONTINENTAL HOTEL, AMMAN, JORDAN

  Saturday May 23, 11:09

  ALI WOKE suddenly, startled by the unfamiliarity of his surroundings. He was lying between cool, clean white sheets in a king-sized bed, his head propped up on a pile of soft, fluffy pillows. Light was filtering faintly through a chink in the thick gold-coloured curtains. He yawned, blinked and rubbed his eyes.

  To say the room was luxurious would be to say the Sun was a little warm. The wallpaper was a rich crimson and gold colour, the paintwork gleaming white, the carpet a rich ruby-red, the curtains thick and velvety soft, like rabbits' ears. The room contained two large brown leather armchairs, a glass-topped circular table, a writing desk, an enormous plasma-screen Sony television on a stand, a double wardrobe, a mini-fridge containing snacks, chocolate and drinks, a telephone and a massive bedside lamp. The duvet was white with red and gold stripes. Gold cushions were piled on a red sofa at the far side of the room. Ali had only seen such palaces in pictures and movies. He had never expected to actually be in one, especially ten hours earlier when he had been in a cell in Baghdad police station with Bent-Nose and Stubble-Head threatening to shove broomsticks up his ass.

  Although he had only slept three nights on the streets, it had been tough. He had become constantly hungry. The garbage he dug out of the bins had stopped satisfying him and left him with the bony fingers of starvation beginning to dig deeply into his stomach. He had felt dirty all the time, caked in sweat and dust, unable to rinse it off, except at the mosque. He had hated not being able to change his clothes. Everything had stuck to him as the heat of approaching summer had slowly intensified. He had slept badly. Hard concrete, cold sand, the occasional rattle of gunfire, the frequent scream of sirens, the constant aroma of urine and burning and damp and dogs, all acting in conspiratorial concert to get inside his head.

  He hated feeling dirty. He hated dirty clothes. That had been worse than the constant gnawing hunger and the forced swallowing of mouldy bread, bruised, fly-blown fruit and stinky, green-sheened, maggoty meat. He had even resorted to drinking water from the River Tigris, even though he suspected it to be seriously and dangerously polluted.

  Mosquitoes were also a nuisance, especially down near the river. He had often been woken by irritating, high-pitched whining and managed to swat and splat several insects but inevitably some had broken through to leave itchy red bumps on his skin, even, bafflingly, inside his clothes. He had begun to despair of living like this for long. The muggers, then, had done him a favour, especially since he was now in a five-star hotel. Bent-Nose and Stubble-Head. Huh.

  Pointing the remote control at the television, he clicked into Tom and Jerry on Dubai One and browsed idly through the leather-bound Hotel Directory whilst Jerry slammed a frying pan into Tom's face. The directory listed six bars, five cafés, seven restaurants, two gymnasiums, two saunas, two swimming pools, shoeshine services, limousine services, laundry services, massage services, souvenir shops, flower shops, bookshops and clothes shops. This hotel was a miniature city crying out to be explored. He settled back to watch the cartoon, enjoying the cool feel of crisp cotton on his bare legs.

  Colonel Ibrahim had whisked him in an unmarked black limousine to the vast 1980s complex known as Medical City. Made up of several hospitals, an Accident and Emergency Department, specialist clinics for toxicology, kidney transplants, gastroenterology, hepatology and tuberculosis, the Children's Hospital, a bone marrow transplant section and the National Blood Transfusion Centre, it had cost millions to build and cost more millions to run.

  Ali and the Colonel did not speak during the fifteen minute journey. The Colonel simply pressed a key on his mobile phone and said ''I've got him.''

  The night-staff at the Children's Hospital were not best pleased to receive visitors so close to midnight. All the patients were, according to Matron, fast asleep.

  Colonel Ibrahim flashed his teeth and said ''Make an exception for me.''

  Grumbling and muttering, she led Ali to the room where Fatima, right arm resting across a pink teddy bear, lay covered by a sheet. Her right leg finished halfway down, a plastic tube was stuck in her nose, a thick bandage was wound round her head and a drip protruded from her left wrist, but at least she had more colour in her cheeks than last time.

  ''She'll be all right,'' the matron said quietly. ''We're doing everything we can. There isn't much we can do for her spine except physiotherapy but her leg… well, they can work miracles these days.''

  ''What? Grow it back?'' Ali muttered.

  ''Prosthetic limbs and stuff,'' the matron said. ''She's young and strong.''

  Tears prickled Ali's eyelids. ''Tell her I came,'' he murmured, kissing her forehead.

  ''She could have the best medical care in the Middle East,'' Colonel Ibrahim said quietly. ''Top-class physios, world-class doctors…I'm sure they're doing their best here but, '' He waved his hand. ''They don't have so much money, the country is fragile economically and there is always the possibility of more violence. I know your uncle can't keep her here indefinitely.''

  Ali rubbed the tears away. ''What do you suggest?'' he said.

  ''Move her to Jordan,'' the Colonel replied, ''To a military hospital. World-class care and free, as a gift to you,'' He almost smiled, ''For services to be rendered.''

  They walked together in the dark garden of the hospital compound whilst Colonel Ibrahim outlined the purpose of his department: collaborative, cross-border counter-terrorism, and told Ali of the schools that took poor children from the streets, filled their heads with hatred and sent them out into the world as living bombs.

  ''These schools are very secretive and appear to be respectable places of education,'' said the Colonel. ''We need to find out the truth.''

  ''So you need a kid to get in and poke around,'' Ali concluded.

  ''Clever boy.'' Colonel Ibrahim lit a cigarette. ''The guy who killed your family in Muraidi Market came from a school in Damascus which we have been monitoring for some time. It is supported by a charity called Hands across the Sands and businesses in Egypt and Jordan. These backers are powerful and the Syrian government wants proof before they take action. Unfortunately we have none, just suspicions, and suspicions are not enough.''

  ''How do you know this school is training terrorists then?''

  ''Several former pupils became suicide bombers,'' the Colonel replied.

  ''Coincidence?'' suggested Ali.

  The Colonel blew smoke into the air. ''I don't believe in coincidence,'' he said. ''We sent in an agent masquerading as a teacher. He disappeared two weeks ago.''

  Ali frowned. ''Why me?''

  ''You mean apart from your escapades and taste for adventure?'' Colonel Ibrahim ground the finished cigarette under his heel. ''The imam is an Iraqi refugee who prefers to recruit other Iraqi refugees. You are just his type. Besides, who would suspect a child of being a spy? It's a ridiculous idea, right?''

  ''But I'm not a spy,'' Ali said.

  ''Exactly,'' the Colonel replied. ''No-one in their right senses would ever suspect someone like you, would they?''

  Ali was unsure how to respond to that comment.

  ''Look,'' said the Colonel. ''What are your options? You could return to the streets of Rusafa and collect rubbish for a dollar a day. Or you could return to the Sisters of Mercy until you're fifteen and learn a trade. You could become a very good plumber but you would have two whole years with Sister Gihan and Mr Ala'a whipping your backside every other day. Or you could help your sister and work for us.'' His dark brown eyes seemed to penetrate Ali's soul.

  One hour later, the Sikorsky S-76C touched down on a dark hill-top in central Amman. Ducking under the whirring rotors that whipped dust into their faces, Ali and the Colonel dashed across the tarmac to a waiting black car.

  They raced at high speed through the city, bright white headlights slicing through the inky night-sky, shot round a hairpin bend, up another hill and pulled up at the side-door of a hotel. Ali and hi
s rucksack were bundled through the door, into a service elevator, down a carpeted corridor and into Room 1212.

  ''Get a shower and a good night's sleep,'' the Colonel told him. ''We will meet tomorrow.''

  He had left Ali alone and slightly dazed in the middle of the room.

  Now, as he drew back the curtains and gazed down at the sparkling blue swimming-pool twelve stories below and the huddle of brown-brick buildings swarming up the hillside beyond, Ali understood what he had done. He had agreed to endanger his life fighting terrorists in exchange for a fancy hotel room and medical help for his sister. What an idiot.

  He used the toilet in the glinting green and gold bathroom and then looked at himself in the mirror. He looked a mess. His face was lined with strain, his hair was a thick, greasy mat, his skin was grimed with dirt. Twisting the tap, he stepped into the overwhelming indulgence of a long, hot and soapy shower.

  Breakfast was laid out on the balcony by a liveried waiter. Mint tea, mango juice, scrambled eggs, sliced sausages, soft cheese, tomato quarters, cucumber slices, freshly baked flat-bread hot from the oven, fruit salad, peach yoghurt, Danish pastries… he soon cleared the china plates. The sun was warm on his face and, as he finished the tea, he felt full for the first time in weeks. Pulling the orange bath-robe more tightly around himself, he snoozed a little in the sun. Maybe the life of an international super-spy would not be so bad after all!

  The Colonel would soon be back, and then what? Maybe he should rob the room and run away. But then he would probably never see his sister again.

  Bollocks, said a small voice. You don't like her anyway, with her ponies and princesses and pink. Get as much stuff as you can and leg it. Damn the moustachioed, pear-headed fool.

  But then what? The money he would make from the hotel's bedding and fittings would only last so long. Besides, he had made a commitment.

  He sighed and went to dress. Everything in his rucksack smelled musty and damp. The jeans, socks, Manchester United shirt and jumper he had worn constantly since leaving the orphanage were sweat-stained, filthy and smelled of the street. Suddenly he felt ashamed. He had arrived at this wonderful palace like a dirty beggar. The liveried waiter must have looked down his nose at him. It would not happen again. He put on white shorts, a blue and yellow Pikachu T-shirt and orange flip flops, bundled everything else up in the white plastic bag marked Laundry and phoned Room Service.