My Name Is Not Jacob Ramsay (40 page)

"Arsenal Football Club's also known as The Gunners. It's because of the history of where they were founded, in Woolwich. It was an ammunition laboratory in 1695 and in the eighteen hundreds... eighteen hundreds, it became a military academy. It's not an army base really anymore. It was sold off. There are houses there now, but the place is still called Woolwich Arsenal. I have to drive through Woolwich Arsenal to get to my workplace. I am a teacher, not in the army. I'm not in the army."

"Yes, you're in the army," spouted Hamid, straightening.

"Listen to me! You're misinformed! I'm not in the army! I'm not in the army!"

Hamid gestured to the unseen shadowed figure by waggling his finger in a quick, waving flick.

Suddenly, Michael was rocked backwards upon his chair and dragged into the darkness behind him.

A high-pitched squeal sounded out. It was the gate to a six by six cell within the underground industrial base in Iran being opened. Droplets of water rolled down the rusty iron bars where they eventually joined a larger, stagnant puddle that filled the cracks and holes of the concrete floor.

A glimmer of electric light illuminated Michael's bruised and bloodied face. He sat on a plastic crate that had once contained bottles of Coca Cola.

Hamid crouched and peered through the bars at him.

"Are you hungry? We can get all food, you know? Pizza, Italian pasta. Iranian food. Koobideh or khoresht. It's not a problem." His manner was in stark contrast to how he had previously behaved. It was if the violence was simply part of his job and this was his home-life; a more caring side. "I'm not a monster. You are my guest as well as my prisoner. Think about it. You tell Siamak what you would like, okay?"

Hamid held his curious stare on Michael for a few seconds. He studied him like he was a creature in a zoo. He straightened and stepped into the darkness, only to be replaced by a tall man with jet-black hair: Siamak.

Siamak was indeed a handsome Iranian man. For some reason he oozed kindness and warmth. "My name is Siamak. I'll be your guard for the night."

Michael sneered and slowly formed a half smile. He frowned and looked closer through the bars.

"Did I say something funny?" 

Michael rolled his eyes upward to meet Siamak's. "I'll be your guard for the night?"

"That is correct," answered Siamak.

"Was that a joke in English?"

"Not quite," Siamak replied.

"But almost?" asked Michael.

"Almost? Almost in what way?" Siamak asked again, intrigued, like a pupil in a class at school.

Michael coughed. "Almost in the way an entertainer says 'I will be your host for the night'". 

"I understand your joke. I'll be back in five minutes, okay?" Siamak turned away.

"Your name? Sia..." Michael called out.

"Siamak."

"Siamak. What does it mean?" asked Michael, seeking any information he could to feed his mind and keep it active.

"It is Farsi. It means 'a man's whose horse is black' or 'black-haired man'. Something like that."

"Your English. It's very good," stated Michael.

"I don't know about that, but my mother, she's-"

"SIAMAK!" the distant yell of the Iranian torturer sounded out from elsewhere within the darkened base.

"I'll see you in a while," continued Siamak, who turned away and stepped into the darkness.

His footsteps sounded on the wet concrete and became more and more faint until there was silence once more.

Michael stared at one of the bars that made up the cell door. The middle bar, a rusted, vertical pole, separated half of the cell. To the left hand side of the bar, Michael had a view of a corridor ahead. It captured shards of orange from poorly-wired electric lighting. To the right hand side of the cell bar, it was black, the complete unknown. A cracked toilet was loosely positioned in one corner.

There was clear evidence of others having been there. Dried excrement was present around the toilet bowl.

Michael had forced himself not to use it at first, making himself wait to let it dry. He remembered the first time he'd seen it. He'd cast his eyes on the dried poop that was suddenly punctured by a claw, with a rat appearing from underneath, deep within the toilet. The rat didn't last long as a Desert Cobra slid through and killed it. Michael had hurt his back on the cell bars when he'd jumped away from the snake.

One of Hamid's guys had laughed, grabbed the snake through the bars and walked off with it, into the darkness.

A droplet of water made contact with the middle bar, which caused Michael to jolt suddenly. He blinked and was suddenly taken out of his mesmerising trance. His eyes darted around and then fixed on the water drop that rolled down the bar. He jumped again as Siamak appeared once more.

Siamak crouched down looking concerned as he stared into the cell at Michael.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Like I've just been tortured," Michael replied.

"Not a joke this time, huh? I'll get you some food. A kebab. Good lamb. Seriously. Rice, too. It's uh, Basmati though. Not Iranian rice."

"Why are you being nice to me?" asked Michael.

"Nice? I am being respectful. Am I not polite?"

"Yes, you're being polite. It's being nice."

"What is your name?" asked Siamak.

"Is this good cop, bad cop?" asked Michael.

"What is good cop, bad cop? Is it a movie thing?"

"Kind of a movie thing, yeah. When a suspect is being questioned and a cop isn't getting anywhere. They offer the suspect coffee," explained

Michael. He was exhausted, yet felt more relaxed around Siamak.

"Or they give him a donut," interrupted Siamak.

"Yeah, or a donut. The cop's questions and good nature don't get the result he intended, or perhaps it does, I don't know, but whatever the case, another cop steps in and takes a more hardline approach. A threatening and often violent method. The good cop does the good things and the bad cop does the bad things. It's certain to gain a positive result. If you're using both methods, it limits the odds of failure dramatically."

"I understand this technique. I've seen it many times. So what is your name? Hamid says your name is Jacob."

"Who's Hamid?" inquired Michael.

"The bad cop," said Siamak.

Michael sat in the damp six by six cell and looked up at Siamak, the peculiarly kind-natured kidnapper.

"Hamid is on his way to speak with you. He is angry," warned Siamak.

"I think I've experienced angry Hamid before," responded Michael, cockily.

"No. Not this angry Hamid, but listen to me. OK? I'm here to-" Siamak was seriously concerned for Michael, but quickly turned around when the sound of echoing footsteps were heard.

Siamak was indeed the most mysterious out of all the Iranian captors Michael had seen during his time there. Siamak expressed kindness and empathy openly. He didn't want to set himself apart from the rest of his comrades, but did so nonetheless and it was much to their distaste and dislike that he did so, whether he could hide his compassion or not.

"Here to what?" asked Michael, who started to breathe heavily. He assumed a sudden expression of sheer panic as Hamid, the Iranian torturer, appeared at the cell gate, wide-eyed and furious.

Hamid's dirty fingers clasped Michael's tiny notebook: pocket-sized and spiral-bound, with a black plastic cover. The Paperchase notebook, with the paper that consisted of sections of blue, red, grey and green tiny squares. Twelve by seventeen to be precise.

Michael adored them. He had a stationery obsession. It was hardly a vice, however, if it was this little book which had enraged Hamid.

"You are the spy in Europe. Open the gate," Hamid instructed, snapping his fingers at Siamak. "You stayed with another infidel. A female crusader. I read your words."

Hamid tapped the notebook on the cell bars as Siamak opened the gate.

Michael looked up. He was overshadowed by Hamid who had now crouched and was tapping him on the forehead with the book.

"These are your words yes?" Hamid asked as he thumbed open the book and pointed his stubby forefinger at some poorly written scrawl.

Michael didn't have to look at the handwriting. He knew it was his book. He rolled his eyes upwards to meet Hamid's.

"Yes. They are my words. It's like a diary."

"A diary. Yes. A diary telling me of your sins," Hamid said, firmly.

"If you call going to Prague with my girlfriend a sin, then I must duly confess, but let me tell you this: you'd best start rounding up the thousands of drunken British louts who stagger along the streets of Prague on their stag weekends, because if I'm a sinner, by God, those guys are the devil's army." Michael shouldn't have spoken. He was so weak. 

Hamid moved himself round to sit next closer to Michael. He read from the book and squinted at the terrible handwriting. "You are the devil? Is that what you say me?"

"Say me? No. I tell you," corrected Michael.

"There is not just one devil. There are many," said Hamid. He shuffled closer, as if he was Man Friday sliding up close to Robinson Crusoe to view a treasure map or share some food, or even a young Tarzan learning from his elder ape family member. A peculiar fascination took place. Hamid pressed his thumb against the squared paper notebook. "Look. Here. You arrive in Czech and, look, I read. 'I arrive in Czech and see the man with the spider tattoo on his... neck who I... saw on the plane.' The man with the tattoo. Like a spider. You know him. He is your contact. Is he your handler? You see I find you out. Look. I read again." He thumbed to the next page and squinted as he ran his dirty forefinger under the handwriting. He continued to read in his broken English, like a student, wanting praise after he had done so. 'I... see the man with the spider tattoo again after breakfast when I check the internet. Bex is...  in the room, doing her hair.' What is doing?" asked Hamid, curiously.

"Doing. She's doing her hair. Combing, brushing, straightening. Making hair look beautiful. Presentable," responded Michael. He was tired and sick of his captor.

Hamid stared at him for a few seconds, like an artist's model. Hamid despised the Western World. He tried his best to remain as faithful to his Middle Eastern roots as he could. He detached himself from watching satellite television. He kept only to IRIB, the Islamic Republic of Iran Broadcaster, however he didn't always. He had friends and once a really good, close friend. A man he trusted and confided in. Hamid liked cinema and once expressed in confidence to this close male friend that his favourite film of 2004 was 20 Angosht, translated as 20 Fingers. It dealt with divorce and homosexuality and was, naturally, extremely controversial. Hamid's friend disclosed the information to a fellow group of male Iranian friends, much to Hamid's embarrassment. "The film won Best Feature in Italy!" Hamid exclaimed, only to receive a collaboration of ignorant laughter. He felt an embarrassment he hadn't experienced before. He felt shame. He felt angry. He felt betrayed. Hamid never disclosed anything to this friend again. This was because he drugged his coffee and led him down a narrow alley at night where he then bashed his skull in with a rock until he was dead. After he had done so, Hamid injected his friend with heroin and then tossed the hypodermic needle beside the body, and spat on him. He walked back home, collapsed with exhaustion on his bed and closed his eyes. He tried to remove the violent images in his mind that prevented him from sleeping. He twisted onto his side, scrunched up his eyes and pulled the pillow over his head, as if there was a noise outside he didn't want to hear.

Of course there wasn't a single sound outside. It was silent. However, inside Hamid's mind there were a hundred and one different noises. The sound of his dead friend's final conversation with him. The sound of his dead friend's footsteps, echoing within the alley way. The sound of his dead friend's head being struck by the first blow of the rock. The sound of his dead friend's body falling to the cold, hard ground and the heel of his shoe scuffing and scraping as his leg slid this way and that upon the floor. The sound of his dead friend's gasp as he winced with pain. The sound of his dead friend's skull cracking like an ostrich egg. The sound of his dead friend moaning with sheer pain. The sound of his dead friend's skin upon his forehead splitting open and tearing around his hairline, like a row of stitches being ripped along a seam. The sound of his dead friend's final moan. The sound of his dead friend's blood and brain squelching each time the rock was brought down on his head. The sound of the rock connecting with the cold, hard ground as there was no longer any brain matter or skull for it to travel through. The sound of the rock echoing upon the stone floor. It was probably the sound of a stray dog that barked which distracted Hamid from continuing and so he stopped to turn his attention elsewhere.

On his bed, he twisted back round to stare upwards and started to cry. Hamid didn't know if he was crying because he had, in its simplest form, killed his best friend for mocking his preferred film choice, or if was he crying because he had killed his best friend for simply exposing the truth: that Hamid was, in fact, homosexual. An extreme reaction by any means, but for Hamid, it was his way of dealing with it. He felt he had eliminated this fact by murdering the one man who knew him.

The one man who loved Hamid had mocked him and thus brought about his demise.

Hamid vowed he would never again be taken advantage of or mocked. When his friend's body was found just a short time later, despite the horrific sight of the corpse, the death was of no surprise to the authorities. It was just another very violent, drug-related crime. Injecting drug use (IDU) in Iran, to Hamid's advantage, was rapidly escalating. "You wish to hurt me, Jacob?"

"How many times do I have to-" Hamid slapped Michael across his face.

Hamid grasped his hair and slammed his head twice against the concrete wall. He pressed his head to the brickwork and held it there.

Michael grit his teeth.

"You wish to hurt me now, Jacob?"

Michael breathed heavily and rolled his eyes upward to meet Siamak's, who stood in the cell gateway with a tightened expression of his own.

Hamid broke his own wide-eyed, mad stare and turned briefly to look up at Siamak. Michael took his chance. He shoved his left elbow into Hamid's throat and pushed upwards on with his other hand on Hamid's knees, making a stumbling dash out of the cell.

Hamid made a delayed reach for Michael's clothing and tried to clutch at anything, but he lost balance and toppled over onto his side.

"SIAMAK!" screamed Hamid, as Michael hesitated briefly then barged Siamak out of the way.

Michael, bizarrely, hesitated again, just for a split second, to decide on which lengthy corridor to flee down.

"SIAMAK!" yelled Hamid as he got to his feet.

Siamak collected himself and turned to see Michael running down the corridor dead ahead. Hamid straightened and stood in the cell gateway. He held onto the bars and glared at Siamak. Then he caught sight of Michael disappearing into the darkness. He smirked. Hamid shrugged, stepped out of the cell and leaned back against the bars, next to the open gateway.

Siamak stood on the other side.

The door was between them.

Hamid signaled to Siamak and made a cigarette gesture with his two fingers to his mouth.

Siamak thought briefly, nodded his head and retrieved a packet of Bahman cigarettes. He handed the pack to Hamid. In the darkness of a damp, abandoned generator room, Michael trod cautiously. He glanced behind him to look into the sheer blackness. The light source was a lone flickering fluorescent tube. He passed a block of piping as he stepped with his bare feet into cracks within the concrete, which were filled with dirty water puddles. He reached a metal fence and his fingers gripped round the squared links. Michael looked beyond the fence to another dimly lit corridor running parallel to the one he'd chosen. He gripped tighter, with his face practically reflecting the tension in his fingers. He was disheartened. The place he found himself in was simply a fenced-off generator. He'd picked the wrong corridor. He lowered his head, then glanced up briefly and turned back to retrace his steps. He did a double-take, looked twice and squinted through the grille that prevented him from walking any further. Michael stared and then swallowed. He stumbled back, with absolute shock. What on Earth had he seen?

Hamid exhaled his cigarette smoke into the dark air. He looked ahead and smiled, seeing the weary Michael trudge back towards him from the depths of the corridor.

Siamak was surprised to see him, but not Hamid, who knew it was a dead end. Hamid stepped aside. He pointed at the other corridor.

"Next time, choose that one, but be quick, asshole, because next time, I will shoot you. Do you think you can run faster than a bullet? Do you think you are Superman?" Hamid sneered, as Michael stepped back into his cell. Hamid narrowed his eyes as he watched Michael pass him. He looked at his thinning body. He looked at his bottom and then raised his eyes.

Michael released a deep sigh and turned around to face the cell gate, which closed and locked.

Hamid held the notebook once more. His fingers gently held it and the burning cigarette sent smoke into a desperate, dark and depressing nothingness. "Are you playing with my mind, Jacob?"

"Are you playing with mine?" Michael replied.

"You are not like the spy heroes from movies," Hamid chuckled.

"Oh."

"You are quite easy to defeat. Do you think I will destroy you?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe? There is no maybe. I will."

"Maybe," Michael replied again.

Hamid narrowed his eyes again. That one repeated word had stirred him. It caused him to rethink Michael. He wondered whether Michael was the easy nemesis he made him out to be or if he was really playing with his mind? He put his cigarette between his lips and thumbed open the book again, locating a desired page.

The smudged ink and dirt-stained paper was difficult to read for any average English reader, but for a non-English speaker, reading Michael's poor handwriting and, indeed, in the darkness was a mean feat. "You have dated the time you were in Eastern Europe. In Prague. Five Al-Qaeda were arrested. Your government told the world they were Al-Qaeda, but they were not. I know this. They were taken and have not been seen. You were there. In Prague. When they were. I know this. It is true. They were Turkish. Not Al-Qaeda. What is Al-Qaeda anyway? Do you know? Can you tell me? Is it made up? An American and British creation? If I want to join, where do I go? ANSWER ME!" Hamid screamed, causing Siamak and Michael to jolt. Hamid gripped the bars and rattled them, like a caged animal. "Do I type into YouTube or the Google? Huh? How do I join? Is it like a youth club? I think not."

Despite Michael being inside the cage, he was safe. He stared, scared of the raging Hamid on the other side of the bars.

Siamak gently touched Hamid's left bicep.

Hamid turned his head slowly and held his stare on Siamak. "I am hungry, Siamak," said Hamid, in Farsi.

Siamak glanced at Michael, standing in the shadows. He looked back at Hamid and nodded his head, turned and walked away into the pitch-blackness of the second corridor.

Hamid watched Siamak go and turned to look at Michael. He pouted as he looked him up and down. He leaned his back against the wall, facing the cell. "My cousin was one of the men taken in Prague. They say it is a good country for terrorists to pass into Europe. What do you say?" asked Hamid.

"'They?' Who are 'they'?" replied Michael.