Guantanamo Boy (8 page)

“He could have had a stroke,” someone says from the hall, their thoughts clashing with the lovely smell of curry that’s building in the air.

After a while Khalid closes the computer down and steps out of the dark cupboard, surprised to see Abdullah is back again with his wife. They are smiling at everyone and their arms are loaded with dishes of steaming food.

“Bottle gourd curry and chapattis. Chickpeas too for you!” Abdullah says.

Someone bangs on the door, too calmly for it to be urgent news about Dad.
Another neighbor
, Khalid thinks, heading down the hallway and opening the door to a familiar face.

“Hiya, how’s it going?” Jim smiles. “Just thought I’d pop in on my way to the airport. Everything OK?”

Khalid shakes his head. “Nah, Dad’s not here.” Mum and the aunties disappear from the hall after seeing it isn’t anyone with important news.

“We still, like, don’t know what happened,” Khalid says, hogging the doorway. Hearing Abdullah and his wife offer to put the food out in the kitchen, all of a sudden Khalid’s stomach twitches with hunger.

“Have you checked the hospitals?” Jim asks.

“The neighbors have.” Khalid nods, all of a sudden wanting to talk about something else in case he gets worked up again. “We’re just about to have some food. Do you want to join us? One more mouth won’t make a difference round here.”

“Nah, I’ve gotta go. Thanks, though. Just wanted to see how things were going. Wish it was better news.” Jim sighs. “Well, best of luck, mate. Hope you enjoy the rest of your Easter holiday.”

“Thanks.” Khalid closes the door as Jim jumps back in his taxi. Remembering Easter at home, a picture of his town, Rochdale, flashes through Khalid’s mind. Suddenly he’s walking with his mates down a pretty cobbled street—York Street. The shops are crammed with chocolate Easter eggs as they make their way to the shopping arcade. He feels such a strong connection to the lovely old mill town that for the first time in his life he realizes he loves it there. Then Abdullah’s suddenly behind him with a suspicious look on his face.

“Yeah, what?” Khalid asks, feeling annoyed again.

“Who’s that man?” he says, expecting an answer immediately.

“Just some bloke.” Khalid’s tempted to tell him he’s a grenade thrower, but stops himself, not trusting Abdullah to take it as a joke. “I met him in the market. He’s a student in London and he helped me find the address of the flat Dad went to.”

“What else?”

“Nothing else. What do you mean?” says Khalid, thinking,
None of your business
.

“What things did he tell you?” Abdullah asks.

“Things? What do you mean? Nothing. He’s from Liverpool. He’s English. Look, I’m starving. I haven’t eaten anything proper since yesterday.” With that, Khalid wanders off. He suspects Abdullah knows more about his dad’s disappearance than he’s letting on. That suspicious look on his scarred face isn’t right and the sick feeling Khalid has in his stomach won’t go away. Luckily, when Abdullah comes to get some food he doesn’t mention anything about Jim in front of the others.

Later in the evening, when the neighbors have gone home and the aunties and Mum have finally been persuaded to go to bed, the house falls silent once more. The latest decision is to go to the police in the morning. A group of male neighbors are preparing a list of questions to ask.

There were some questions Khalid wanted to ask Abdullah, but Mum stopped him by putting a finger to her mouth. She warned him not to speak out of turn, even though the knot in Khalid’s stomach is still there. All this is on his mind as he switches on the computer. The familiar ping is the best sound he’s heard all day.

“Hiya, cuz.” Tariq’s already there waiting for him with a message.

“My dad’s disappeared,” Khalid types immediately. Tells him the whole story without quite believing it himself.

“I heard from my father,” Tariq replies. “Everyone is so worried. They’re saying the War on Terror is getting worse each day.” Tariq sends Khalid some links to online articles written in English, knowing he hasn’t seen any newspapers he can read since he’s been here.

“Why my dad, though? He’s no one,” Khalid questions after scanning the reports.

“He’s a man, isn’t he, you dorkhead?” Tariq types. “That’s good enough reason for them.”

“I don’t get it,” Khalid answers wearily, worried sick again.

“Come on. Log on to
Bomber One
. Your dad might be back by the time we finish this game,” Tariq says. “The others are ready and waiting.”

Khalid eventually clicks through to the game, hoping for a simple distraction. The other players quickly line up their soldiers, moving them to the target points to start. The fighter planes shift into view. All the points from the last game are quickly calculated to the highest fraction before the battle begins.

Losing himself in the desire to win, Khalid types wildly. His fingers start tapping to the beat of the pictures on the screen until the keyboard appears to be playing the game on its own. Spontaneously battering every plane in sight. Using up bombs to bust the targets with effortless ease. Blasting the enemy’s boats out of the water, power surges through Khalid with every explosion. Finally he’s not thinking about anything else but the game and suddenly his mind feels lighter, despite the complicated scoring system.

At last, coming up for air, Khalid pauses to dash to the loo. Hurrying, jeans half zipped, he’s determined to get back to the computer before it’s his turn to man the rockets, when the
front door swings open. Immediately excited and distracted, Khalid rushes back down the dark hall to the door. Surely only his dad could be coming through the door without knocking at this time of night?

But he’s badly mistaken. Blocking the hallway is a gang of fierce-looking men dressed in dark shalwar kameez. Black cloths wrapped around their heads. Black gloves on their hands. Two angry blue eyes, the rest brown, burn into Khalid as the figures move towards him like cartoon gangsters with square bodies. Confused by the image, he staggers, bumping backwards into the wall. Arms up to stop them getting nearer. Too shocked and terrified to react as they shoulder him to the kitchen and close the door before pushing him to his knees and waving a gun at him as if he’s a violent criminal. Then vice-like hands clamp his mouth tight until they plaster it with duct tape. No chance to wonder what the hell is going on, let alone scream out loud.

Stunned and shaking, Khalid feels his world slow down to a second-by-second terrible nightmare as they grab at his ankles and arms, handcuffing them tight before dropping a rag of a hood over his head. Then, without missing a beat, someone kicks him in the back, ramming his body flat on the floor. A heavy boot lands firmly on his spine, forcing Khalid to moan with muffled pain, while dust from the rug works its way inside his nose, making him sneeze uncontrollably through the threadbare hood. This simple reaction makes the strangers add a sharp thrum of boots to his side and a fiery agony explodes over Khalid’s body as, stunned and shaken, he snorts desperately, trying to get air in through the tape stuck fast across his mouth.

Dad. Dad
, Khalid pleads silently. This must be what happened to him. Khalid twists and turns, unable to breathe or scream or stop his heart from thumping. He recoils in terror as they lift him like a crate, hot fists on his legs and shoulders, and silently carry him out. Dumped in the back of an open truck, he groans as his face and body smash hard against the floor. The sudden movement of the truck jolts him from side to side as it drives off, the men breathing heavily and crowding over him with their smells of warm flesh and tobacco.

Paralyzed by fear, Khalid wonders desperately where they are taking him. Who are they? Why him? What for? Questions he can’t even speak out loud.

The sounds of the city die away as the truck speeds along a potholed road that sends Khalid rolling across the truck in agony. He breathes in oil stains and the stench of animals, knocking his head on the uneven metal floor. A hefty boot kicks him back to the center each time he slides their way. Pictures of his kidnapping flash quickly, one after the other, through his mind, building to an overwhelming fear that he’s going to be dumped at the side of the road any second and left there to die.

As the truck rumbles over another pothole, Khalid’s cloth-covered face is pressed into the spreading dirt and dust flying across the hot, hard floor. Head pounding, arms tied back and aching like mad, eventually all he can think is,
Why put a gun to my head? Is this really what happened to Dad?
The situation is so way beyond Khalid’s everyday reality, he can’t take it in. Things like this don’t happen in his world. Things like this can’t happen to him. It’s more like a movie or a computer game. Again and again he thinks back to Abdullah always hanging round the house. About what Nasir and Tariq told him about people lying for money. Are these men US soldiers? But why would they be interested in a British kid like him? There must be a mistake. If they’ve got his dad, then they’ll work that out soon enough.

Khalid rolls to one side when the truck turns a corner and a big boot nudges him away. One of the men at the edge of the truck shouts angrily, which makes Khalid want to scream. His mum, his sisters, his aunties, they’ll go out of their minds when they find him missing. First Dad and now him.

After a while the truck stops. Two men lift Khalid out to carry him across a concrete forecourt with footsteps and cars nearby.

Inside the building the cloth hood is whipped off. A bright ceiling light dazzles Khalid for a moment as he tries to make out the faces of his kidnappers hidden behind tightly wound black cloths. Only their angry eyes and rough fists give a small clue that the blue-eyed one might be a Westerner, with his freckly pink hands. Without warning someone behind Khalid rips the duct tape from his mouth, slashing his lips and skin to bits, tearing wisps of hair from his face, making him feel he’s been stung by epic-sized bees. He screams in pain as his eyes flood with water. Clenching his jaw as they leave the hand- and ankle-cuffs where they are.

Now out of his mind with fear, pain and anger, Khalid gazes down at the state of his jeans, covered in dust, totally wrecked, and feels so weak and dizzy he can barely breathe or utter a sound. What the hell are they up to? No one will believe this—it’s too crazy for words. He almost smiles with delirium at the thought of what Holgy or Nico would say if he tried to convince them.

“Who are you?” he asks desperately, almost whispering, but no one speaks.

They all sit there until a podgy-looking Pakistani with immaculate hair and neatly pressed shalwar kameez, a huge gold ring on his right hand, appears from nowhere and shuffles him into a gray room, which he locks the second they’re inside. The man looks him over for a second with a shocked expression that proves Khalid’s face is badly swollen and bruised. He can taste the blood from his lips as it dribbles into the corners of his mouth. The throbbing under his eye is so painful Khalid has to squint to take in the gray room, which smells of dog biscuits. It’s empty apart from two chairs, a rug and small black table with a wodge of loose papers on top.

The man points Khalid to one of the chairs, then bends down to unclick Khalid’s ankle-cuffs, which he kicks across the room. He gives the impression that Khalid’s ordeal might soon be over. But then he takes a moment to twist the chrome watch that Dad gave Khalid for Christmas from his wrist and it becomes clear that it won’t. The man squirrels the watch away in his pocket before sitting down opposite him.

“Name and address,” he says in perfect English, pen poised.

He speaks so beautifully, Khalid begins to doubt the man’s from Pakistan at all.

“Give me back my watch,” Khalid croaks.

“You’ll get it later,” the man answers.

“Is this a police station or what? Why did those idiots beat me up?”

“Just answer the questions,” the man says sourly. “What are you doing in Pakistan?”

“Doing in Pakistan? I’m here with my family on holiday. Then I’m going back to school in England, where I come from. My name’s Khalid Ahmed. You’ve just been to my aunties’ house. You know my address.” He can’t believe this is for real.

“England? University school? Your name’s Khalid Ahmed?”

“I’m at a school for kids. Teenagers. I just said my name.” Khalid sighs. “Who are you? Let me out of here.”

The man tilts his head to one side to get a better look at him. “Where have you been since you arrived in Karachi?” he
says, as if he knows something Khalid doesn’t.

“Nowhere. What are you on about?” Khalid’s even more confused when he takes a small photo from his back pocket.

“Who is this man?” He points angrily to a blurred photo of someone in a brown shalwar kameez jumping in the air with arms outstretched, surrounded by hundreds of similar-looking men. This guy could be anyone.

“Dunno. How would I know?”

“What’s his name?”

“I don’t know him, mate. But do you know where my dad is? What’s all this for? Why am I here? And give me my watch back.”

The man stares at him, uninterested. Clearly this is a one-way conversation and Khalid gets angry. He’s seen enough kids round his way being stopped and searched by the police to know what his rights are.