Hostage Three (31 page)

— Pirates? I ask Farouz.

— Yes, he says.

He is holding my hand. He has been holding my hand this whole time we've been sitting in the back of the truck. There is no air conditioning, so I have the window wide open, the wind whipping in, making my hair fly.

— We will buy one like this, he says. Or we will leave. It is up to you.

We pass a swimming pool, blue as jewellery in the surrounding brownness of sand and dust.

— Let's buy one, I say. With a pool. We'll be like Darod and Dombiro in their oasis.

— OK, says Farouz.

Past the rich pirates' houses, we come to the single-storey dwellings. Here there are lots more people in the street, sitting on the ground for the most part. There are little shops, open to the air, with signs in a language I can't read. It's hard to tell what they sell, these shops. There are women carrying babies strapped to their bodies with cloth, and we pass several men with missing legs.

— The war, says Farouz.

— Which war? I say, because I know from talking to him that there have been several.

— Oh, I don't know, he says. There is always a war.

After maybe half an hour, Ahmed stops outside a particular shop – at least, I presume it's because of the shop that he has stopped, because he gets out of the pickup truck, goes inside, then reappears and jerks his head for us to follow. We get out, Farouz carrying one of the bags of money, one of the other pirates – Asiz, I think – carrying the bag from the other truck. Again, their fingers are on the triggers of their guns. I'm pretty overwhelmed at this point – by the heat, by the strong smells, by the animals bleating and chattering.

A couple of people watch us, watch me – the white girl with the Somali men – go in, and then we're in the cool darkness of the shop, surrounded by tins and packets of strange-looking food. I recognise the brand of pasta that the pirates were always eating, boiled for hours in their big pot at the front of the yacht.

A fat man emerges from the gloom and hugs Ahmed, then Farouz. He beckons us further into the shop, where we come out of shadows into a brightly lit room, like a living room, with a rug on the floor and a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. The fat man withdraws respectfully.

Ahmed arranges the bags on a little table that stands on the rug. He starts to pull out bundles of money, consulting a sheet of paper that he has taken from his pocket. Pirates enter, go up to him, get their money and retreat out of the shop, nodding their gratitude. Some of them narrow their eyes when they see me – surprised to see me, I guess. A couple shoot questioning looks at Ahmed, but he waves them away.

Finally, there is only me and Farouz. Ahmed hands Farouz one of the bags, with the remaining money in it. It's like a ransom in a movie, these big thick wads of cash.

It is a ransom, I remind myself. I'm basically stealing my dad's money. This makes me giggle, and Ahmed glares at me. He says something to Farouz.

— Ahmed says we must be careful, Farouz says. Mohammed's family will be looking for retribution.

This is a sobering thought, so I stop giggling. Farouz hefts the bag on to his shoulder, then hugs Ahmed – not one of those quick man-hugs that people in England do, but a proper embrace, affectionate. Then, to my surprise, Ahmed comes up to me, arms spread wide, and hugs me, too.

— Good luck, he says. You will need.

— Thank you, I say. Really.

And I mean it.

After that, we leave the shop. Farouz tucks his pistol inside his trousers, but I can still see it there. He leads me down some narrow, snaking streets, until we come to a shack with a corrugated iron door.

— This is your house?

— For now, yes.

We go inside. Farouz moves a chair from the corner of the room, a deep, soft one, from which stuffing is spilling. Under it is a board, which he moves to reveal a deep hole in the ground. Taking a couple of money bundles from the bag, he puts them in his pocket, then drops the bag into the hole.

— What do we do now? I ask him.

He kisses me.

— We free my brother. Then we do whatever we like, he says.

— That sounds good.

He winks.

— Maybe we will buy you a violin. And I will have my oud. We could play together.

— I'd like that, I say.

We leave the hut and follow the crazy, busy streets to the jail. As we leave Farouz's street, a monkey sitting on a rooftop screams at us.

I'm shocked when I see the prison. I mean, I was picturing a proper structure, with big walls, and men in towers with guns. This is just an open-fronted building, like a shop, with bars across the front and men inside, right there, visible from the street. Next door is a stall where a man is selling chickens; he takes them from the ceiling, where he has tied them upside down, by the feet. They are alive, their heads shaking, and when he grabs one, it kind of squeals and clucks. Then he puts it on a filthy board, running with blood, chops off its head and throws it straight into a bucket. The chicken bangs around in there, frantic, beating out a rhythm. When it stops, the man takes it out and hands it to whoever has bought it.

— Oh god, that's gross, I say.

Farouz raises his eyebrows.

— Before, I could never afford one of those, he says.

I notice then that the people queuing for the chickens don't look as ill, as dirty, as malnourished as a lot of the people I have seen here in Galkayo. I feel guilty then. So I turn back to the jail and pay more attention to that.

Farouz is walking the length of the bars, obviously looking for his brother. It's long, the prison – like, almost a city block in length. And the men are just displayed there. I can't get over it; it's more like a zoo than a prison.

Then Farouz stops, and there is a man in front of him, his hands on the bars, who looks a little like him, but older, more hurt. He looks like Farouz would look if you took him somewhere, rubbed dirt on him, beat him up, made him drink a bottle of vodka and threw him in a ditch.

— Abdirashid, he says.

— Farouz.

Then they speak to each other in Somali, their voices fitting into each other's neatly, like matching jigsaw puzzle pieces, finding the quiet moments in the other's speech. The effect is compelling, like running water.

They speak for what seems quite a long time, then Farouz spots a guard who has entered at the back of the giant open cell that is the prison. He beckons him over.

The guard strolls to where we're standing, pushing Abdirashid out of the way with a stick. He glowers at Farouz. He is as big as an ox, with a mean expression. Farouz says something to him, and the man obviously doesn't like it because he scowls even deeper. Then Farouz takes one of the wads of cash out of his pocket and hands it to the guard through the bars. Just like that, casual as you please.

Smoothly, like a magician, the man slides it into his pocket. Then he nods. He says something to me, laughs.

— What did he say? I ask.

— He said you brought me luck, says Farouz. He didn't think I would get the money.

— So is he going to let your brother go? I ask.

Farouz puts a hand through the bars and squeezes his brother's hand. His brother smiles, but there are tears in his eyes, too.

— Yes, says Farouz. Yes, he is.

I look at him, then I look at his brother, so like him in his features, and I look back at Farouz again.

— Good, I say. I'm happy for you.

And I am. I'm so happy I could burst, like something sparkling, like a soap bubble on a sunny day, iridescent with petrol sheen, floating in the air, just before it pops into soft sound and spray.

No
.

No, that is not what happens.

But I imagine it afterwards.

I imagine it so many times, until it's a scene in my head, incredibly vivid.

A film.

That I can watch whenever I like.

This is the part that is true.

I am on the dinghy, leaving the yacht, and I do think, wait, and then I do say it.

— Wait. Wait, I say.

— What is it, Amy-bear? Dad asks.

And I do get out of the dinghy, and I do go to the stepmother and say:

— You go with Dad. I'll do it. I'll be the collateral.

— Don't be ridiculous, says the stepmother. You're a child. You can't.

— I can, I say. In fact, it's safer for me.

— What? Why?

— You wouldn't understand. Just, please, go. Get in the boat. I will join you soon.

All of this, too. All of this happens like I said.

— What's going on? Tony shouts from the boat. What's the hold-up?

— Amy wants to go with them instead, says the stepmother. She wants to swap with me.

— That's out of the question, says Dad.

I push the stepmother towards the boat.

— Please, I say. Please. It's easier this way.

And that . . .

That's where it stops going the way I said. That's the only part of what I've just told you that's true.

Dad doesn't just have a go at me and then leave it. Dad gets off the dinghy, comes up on to the deck and he shouts:

— YOU'RE COMING WITH ME, AMY FIELDS.

Then he puts his hands on my arms and he lifts me bodily into the air and hauls me over to the dinghy. He throws me in, and I land on the inflated rubber of the boat, but even so it's hard enough to knock the air out of my lungs. I lie there, staring up at Dad as he jumps into the boat beside me and says to Tony:

— Start the engine right now.

I am paralysed. I am incapable of movement.

Farouz is looking down at me, and I'm looking back at him, shock keeping my mouth shut when I should be protesting, should be doing something to overpower my dad, to get off the dinghy. I should be taking the stepmother's place and going with them, but instead I'm running away with my dad, and Tony and Damian and Felipe. I can't move, but it still feels like I'm running away.

Tony starts the engine and, like a reverse death scene, it coughs into life. He has a hand on the hull of the
Daisy May
, steadying us in the swell.

This is the moment, I think. This is the moment to say something to Farouz. But I don't, even though I can breathe again now, even though I could speak if I wanted to. I don't say anything.

The VHF sparks up.

— This is HMS
Endeavour
, come in. Is there a problem?

— No problem, Tony says into it. We're coming.

Ahmed raises a hand in a salute.

— Goodbye, he says.

— Goodbye, says Dad, automatically polite, so British that way.

I don't say anything, still.

I keep thinking there'll be more time. But here's a lesson I hope you don't ever have to learn: sometimes, there just isn't any more time.

Without any fanfare, Tony lets go of the hull, turns the throttle on the outboard and its death rattle, or life rattle or whatever, opens up into a full-throated roar as we ease off from the yacht.

Only then do I look up properly and see Farouz.

In full view of Ahmed, of the other guard on the deck, of the men on the destroyer, who must be watching everything, Farouz turns to face me full on, then he lifts his hand and he starts waving, waving, waving at me, not stopping, as I draw away, as the sea fills the gap between us. For one crazy moment I want to step out of the boat, to run across the waves to him – on some level in my mind I know I would have to swim, but I picture it as walking, walking on the water – and throw my arms around him.

But I don't, of course. I stay in the boat.

Then, just when he is shrinking to where I can't see his features any more, he puts his hand to his chest, covering his heart, and then he points it at me, hands me his heart, from all that distance away.

A strong arm helps me
up on to the deck of HMS
Endeavour
. My overriding impression is of grey metal paint. There is a whole row of men and women in uniform, lined up on the deck, and when they see us they start clapping. The women are wearing white shirts and black ties, neat little caps. The men are wearing those sailor shirt things with the big lapels; it's like something out of the past.

I feel myself blush, my eyes sliding around, trying to find somewhere to look. We haven't done anything, I want to say. They didn't hurt us, not intentionally, anyway. They didn't treat us badly.

But I don't say anything, because they all look so proud that we're here, these people, and most of them not much older than me.

A man in a linen suit, not navy, steps forward to shake Dad's hand.

— Jerry, he says. Goldblatt Bank. I'm the negotiator whose voice you've been hearing. This here is Captain Campbell.