Hidden Gods

by Anthony Masters

  ‘You.’

  Gus stared up at the soldier blankly.

  ‘Out’

  The cold sweat poured down Hugo’s face. Please, God, no.

  ‘Listen – ’ Gus fought to stay calm.

  ‘Out.’

  ‘You shot my colleague in cold blood. You’ll be court-martialed for this. Do you hear me? You’ll be fucking executed – ’ Gus was losing all control now; his voice rose ludicrously and the boy laughed excitedly.

  ‘Come out’

  ‘You bastard – ‘

  ‘Come out, or I shoot you now.’

  Hugo could hear the reloading of a pistol.

  Slowly, Gus hauled himself up. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, turning back to Hugo. ‘They had Anwar because he was a Kuwaiti – they won’t do anything to us.’

  ‘Won’t they?’ muttered Hugo, shifting so that he could see at least part of the floor above.

  Gus stood in front of a young Iraqi soldier who could not be more than twenty. Meanwhile, their informer looked on, grinning, anticipating reward. The sweat poured into Hugo’s eyes and Lucy’s face swam into his mind. You forced me back to this. But he knew that he had forced himself.

  ‘You’ve got to listen to me.’ Gus was pleading now. ‘Where is your commanding officer? I must speak with him. You are doing terrible things – things without his permission. Do you understand? You will be in very serious trouble. You are – ‘

  The sound of the shots seemed immensely loud and reverberated in Hugo’s head for a long time afterwards. The bullets hit Gus in the neck and head and most of his features exploded with the impact. Brain, tissue and other matter mingled with the blood that splashed on to the floor. With his hands making little clutching movements, Gus toppled over.

  Hugo began to vomit.

  ‘You come out, English.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Now!’

  The boy giggled and there was the flare of a match as one of the soldiers lit a cigarette.

  ‘You come out.’

  Hugo curled himself up womb like and began to sob.

  ‘You come out.’

  But he only curled himself tighter.

  ‘You come out. Now!’

  Hugo shook his head again, and closed his eyes rigidly against the sheer, unbelievable horror of it all. Lizards and the Cornish coastline and Tiderace flashed into his mind only to be replaced by the boy in the hotel with the gun – not that much older than the child who had set them up. Both grinned mockingly at him in his mind’s eye and then disappeared into darkness – out of which the pyramid rose on the cliffs of Tiderace, distinct, majestic and beautiful. He had not seen it in weeks, but this time its presence must surely presage death.

  He was pulled out of his hideaway and dumped painfully on the dirt floor. Still he did not open his eyes, knowing the bullets were going to tear him apart. Some instinct told him he would soon be able to enter the pyramid. Who was that waving from its shadow? Brent?

  ‘Open your eyes.’

  Hugo clenched them tighter shut, smelling shit and sweat and carnage. He touched something soft, jelly-like, and rolled away, gasping in revulsion.

  ‘Open your eyes.’

  The cold barrel of the revolver was jammed against his head.

  ‘If you do not open your eyes I will kill you.’

  They’re going to kill me anyway, thought Hugo. But he opened them as the pressure of barrel against bone increased.

  He was lying face downwards, the young officer kneeling beside him, holding the gun to his head.

  ‘Get it over with.’

  ‘I’m not going to kill you.’

  Hugo could not believe what his tormentor had just said. He was obviously playing some game.

  ‘I said get it over with.’

  ‘And I told you I wasn’t going to kill you. Get up. Get up now.’

  He took the pistol away but kicked Hugo hard in the side. Numbed by the dull pain he staggered up, catching sight of the corpses of Gus and Anwar. It was hard to imagine they had ever lived they looked so doll-like; even the massive pools of blood seemed artificial.

  The officer shrugged and half smiled as if to disassociate himself.

  Hugo glanced at the faces of the other soldiers. Most of them were young, perhaps in their late teens. Then he looked down at the child who had led them there and saw that he was still grinning.

  In a mist of blind rage Hugo dealt him a stinging blow around the face, followed by another. There would have been many more if the officer had not pistol-whipped him. The boy cried silently, no longer amused or triumphant and Hugo, despite the searing agony in his face and the blood that clouded his vision, felt a passing satisfaction.

  The officer turned to the boy, gave him some money and then spoke sharply to him in Arabic. He ran out sobbing.

  ‘You are to be taken to Baghdad.’

  ‘I demand to know why I’m being arrested.’ Hugo stuttered out the words, wiping at his bleeding nose. Was it broken, he wondered.

  ‘For having the wrong papers.’

  ‘You haven’t even asked to see them.’

  ‘They are wrong.’

  Hugo looked down at Gus’s body. A tiny burst of wind escaped the corpse. ‘You’ll be court-martialled,’ he said weakly.

  The officer smiled and turned impatiently to his companions. ‘Take him to one of the trucks.’

  ‘You’re illegally invading Kuwait,’ yelled Hugo.

  ‘This is our territory,’ said the young officer. ‘Kuwait is part of Iraq.’

  The soldiers took Hugo outside. He did not resist.

  *

  The truck had no windows, and the journey took a long time. Wedged between two guards, Hugo wet himself and then slept, his comatose state such a blessed relief that each time he was jerked awake he tried to burrow deeper into unconsciousness. The fact that he was back in a situation like this struck Hugo with an extraordinary sense of irony, but the images of the pyramid lingered. You have to start the journey.’ Brent’s voice repeated itself over and over again in the blank cavity of his mind. Was this the beginning? Surely he couldn’t have meant a journey to Baghdad.

  Hugo almost laughed aloud as he realized how wild his mood swings were becoming. Sometimes he put Brent’s visions down to madness – at other times to some kind of spiritual directive. But as the truck rattled on he wondered if in fact his journey had been bypassed, and the fatal move had been to take up his career again, to agree to this deadly assignment. Or perhaps it was a baptism of fire, a necessary reminder that he had to make a new beginning to his life. Could he ever stop cutting and running? Fooling himself? Massaging his insecurity with booze and sensation? What had Brent said about change? Being different? Could he regenerate himself? It was odd, but the word stuck in his mind and grew large. Regeneration.

  The truck eventually came to a halt and Hugo was half carried, half pushed through a large garage into an austere modern building, across an empty hall and then downstairs into a corridor that smelt of stale excrement and disinfectant. Gradually Hugo became aware that he was passing a number of empty cells until they arrived at the furthest. His escorts had now been joined by an elderly man with glasses who searched him and took away his possessions. The door was then opened and he was pushed into darkness.

  Groping around, Hugo discovered a mattress hard up against the wall. There did not seem to be anything else in the small space but a toilet bucket, which stank so badly that he gagged. Numbed by the misery of it all, he slumped down on the filthy mattress, and oblivious even to the bugs once again took refuge in sleep.

  When he woke, without his watch, Hugo had no idea how long he had slept except that he felt from his light-headedness and sharp hunger that it must have been for a considerable time.

  Looking around him, he realized the cell was now cloaked in muddy light, and a tray of rice had been pushed through an aperture in the door. The tray also contained a plastic mug half full of greasy-looking water, and he ate and dr
ank ravenously, not allowing himself to think of anything but his stomach. Then, slowly, he looked up at the dim ceiling where he could see two vents through which wan light was seeping.

  Gradually the light from the vents faded and pitch darkness returned.

  An identical tray of rice and water was pushed through the aperture later, but Hugo could not work out how many hours had passed.

  This was to be the pattern for what seemed to be many days and interminable nights, and although he tried to judge how time was passing by the repetitive meals Hugo soon lost count. Gradually the numbing shock began to wear off and hot panic swept over him. He shouted loudly and eventually more feebly for guards, supervisors, officers – anyone who would take responsibility for his plight. No one came, and he sank on to his insect-ridden mattress and tried once again to lose himself in sleep. But now even that release had become elusive.

  Gradually Hugo realized that he had been brought here to be broken and that the Iraqis had some purpose in doing this. But what could it be? He knew nothing. Slowly he began to wish he had died with Gus and Anwar. The word regeneration came into his mind again and he laughed savagely. What hope did he have of that here?

  More days passed – or at least, he supposed they did – and Hugo’s desperation grew. No one came to tend to his toilet bucket which was now almost overflowing and stank foully. Soon his body odour competed with that of the bucket, but gradually, mercifully, he became less conscious of it and at last began to withdraw into himself. Regeneration no longer seemed absurd.

  His mind was an empty space – lofty, enormous, devoid of anything but cathedral-like serenity. Slowly Hugo lost touch with his body completely, seeing the pyramid grow above him until its apex touched the roof, a brilliant light shining from its portal. It was like welcoming back an old and trusted friend. Slowly, comfortingly, he realized that not only was he at home here, but all the protective layers of self-deceit were beginning to slide away. He was becoming whole, for the first time in decades.

  The tepid light of dawn was stealing through the vents when the cell door swung open, and in some confusion Hugo imagined that somebody had come to join him inside the pyramid. Instead, he was marched back across the great, bleak hallway of the prison and into a small, windowless interview room, equipped only with a desk and two chairs. Behind the empty desk sat the elderly man with glasses he had seen when he first arrived. Dressed in a light blue suit, his shirt open at the neck, he was now nodding casually at Hugo’s filthy, stinking body as if he had arrived at the reception desk of a hotel.

  ‘You will want a shower – and some breakfast.’

  Hugo stared at him, too bewildered to respond.

  ‘I’m afraid your confinement was necessary. You were arrested in a security zone. Of course, we immediately contacted your employers, Time Magazine, and I have spoken to their lawyers, but I was unable to arrange for you to be visited. Yet.’ There was a significant pause. ‘You will be released if you can assist us.’

  ‘Assist you?’ Hugo tried to take a grasp on reality. ‘How can I do that?’

  ‘You were arrested in a security zone,’ his interrogator repeated.

  ‘That doesn’t give you the right to do what you did. You murdered two of my colleagues.’ He was beginning to function again and felt the anger return.

  ‘Unless you can help us you won’t have your shower, Mr Fitzroy. Or your breakfast. We have a number of Kuwaiti prisoners of war here in Baghdad – many high-ranking civil servants, a police chief, a couple of ministers. We want you to photograph them.’

  ‘Smiling happily?’

  ‘We wish to assure the United Nations that we are caring for them.’

  ‘Whereas you’ve no doubt been keeping them as you kept me – like animals, deprived of light?’

  ‘They are prisoners of war.’

  ‘Why don’t you get one of your own stooges to photograph them?’

  ‘Because you have a reputation, Mr Fitzroy. An international reputation.’

  There was a long silence.

  ‘No,’ said Hugo eventually.

  ‘We also wish you to interview them,’ his interrogator continued, as if he had not heard.

  ‘And repeat the lies you put in their mouths?’

  ‘I should like you to reconsider our proposition.’ The elderly man was still mildly polite and the eyes behind his spectacles were brown and gentle. ‘Take that shower right away. Your breakfast is almost ready.’

  Hugo was taken down another corridor and into a modern washroom. There, his guards watched him peel off his filthy clothes and walk into the sheer physical joy of a hot shower.

  In the cubicle he found hair and body shampoo as well as cologne and talcum powder, and when he reluctantly emerged his own soiled clothes had been replaced by a shirt, trousers, socks, shoes and silk underwear. He dressed slowly, luxuriating in the feeling of cleanliness, and was then led into a small office where a lavish breakfast had been laid, with a pot of strong coffee and, best of all, a jug of fresh orange juice.

  Hugo feasted. Calling for side orders of toast and coffee, he savoured every mouthful. As he ate he tried to think what he should do next, but his mind fortunately refused to go beyond his physical well-being.

  When he had finished, Hugo was led back to the interview room.

  ‘Did you eat well, Mr Fitzroy?’ asked his interrogator. ‘And the clothes? They fit?’

  ‘They’re fine.’

  ‘So it’s good to be civilized again.’

  Hugo said nothing.

  ‘And you’ve decided to help us?’

  ‘No.’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘That is a pity.’

  Hugo did not reply.

  ‘A very great pity, for it would be – quite terrible for you to become – uncivilized again.’ Hugo still did not reply.

  ‘You will be returned to your cell,’ said the elderly man. ‘And this time you will be deprived of food.’

  ‘Ray Sipoltski of Time Magazine- he won’t allow that.’

  ‘We are at war with America, and with her allies. Your Mr Sipoltski is not relevant.’

  ‘Saddam Hussein will be taken prisoner and tried for war crimes – ’ Hugo began.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ was the mild reply. ‘We shall starve you for a few days – and then talk to you again.’

  ‘It won’t make any difference.’

  ‘I think it will.’

  ‘You are both foolish and ignorant,’ said Hugo, too angry to care that the whole exchange was becoming pointlessly childish. ‘Even if I did take your photographs, it would be obvious I must have been under duress.’

  ‘I disagree.’

  ‘That’s why you’re both foolish and ignorant.’

  The expression of kindly inquiry remained on the elderly man’s face. ‘Have you anything else to say, Mr Fitzroy?’

  ‘Yes. Iraq illegally invaded Kuwait and murdered my colleagues. No doubt many others have also been killed. It is only a matter of time before you surrender to the allies and the war-crimes tribunals begin.’

  ‘A speech of true Churchillian grandeur,’ observed his interrogator drily.

  Back in the cell, darkness became twilight and then brightened again in the now familiar sequence which was the only variation in Hugo’s void-like existence. He soon returned to his filthy, soiled state, his new clothes only emphasizing his squalor, but worst of all, once again, the pyramid did not appear. At first he thought he was not concentrating hard enough; then he began to panic.

  After a couple more days without food, Hugo started to hallucinate, although he only saw the Cornish cliffs with Lucy walking along them, occasionally Brent and later a terrifying combination of both.

  On the third day Hugo was visited by another interrogator, younger this time, and more abrasive.

  ‘You have decided to help us?’

  ‘No.’

  The man came nearer.

  ‘You will help us, Mr Fitzroy.’

&
nbsp; ‘No.’

  He drew back a booted foot and kicked Hugo as hard as he could in the stomach. Then he did it again.

  The beatings and starvation continued whilst Hugo slipped in and out of consciousness. One night, however, when he was left alone, he was filled with exultation for now he was on Tiderace, and the pyramid was on the cliff top. He could hear the surf thundering below and a light salt wind played on his cheek. The gate was open and he and Brent walked casually inside.

  ‘Mr Fitzroy.’

  The voice was a long way away, hardly penetrating his consciousness.

  Isn’t it great, Dad?’ said Brent in his nine-year-old voice. He wore an aertex shirt and khaki shorts and sandals. The pyramid was enormous – so high that he could not see the roof – and there was a cool, dry slightly fragrant atmosphere. A group of priests stood in a beam of light that came from high up in the apex; the shadowed walls were painted with pictures of the human mind, some anatomical, others impressionistic, all filled with luminosity.

  ‘Hugo Fitzroy.’ The voice echoed in the pyramid, gentle, almost caressing.

  ‘It’s in the journal, Dad,’ said Brent distantly.

  They joined the priests in the brilliance of the beam and at last the portal opened. Racing clouds were darting across the face of the sun, rhythmically plunging them in and out of the light.

  ‘Mr Fitzroy. Hugo?’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘You won’t know me, but I’m a friend.’

  The vision faded and Hugo opened his eyes to see a tall, dark-haired woman somewhere in her late forties who at first seemed strangely familiar; then the familiarity vanished and he knew he must be talking to a stranger. Her eyes were slate grey and her long narrow face was sunburnt. She had a pronounced air of intelligence and a subtle quality that Hugo found instantly comforting and curiously discerning – as if she already knew him. Screwing up his eyes he tried to bring her into sharper focus but only registered that she was wearing a dressing-gown and her face was bruised.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Philippa Neville,’ she replied.