Gunnymede removed his pistol from its holster. It would be quick and easy to put it to his head and pull the trigger. Life would be over in a second. He’d be spared the torture. But Gunnymede wasn’t the type. He was too much of an optimist. As the vehicles closed, in he dropped it to the sand.
The trucks came to a stop either side of him. The fighters climbed out, curious about the man standing alone in the open who was clearly a western soldier.
The Daesh fighters were heavily armed with AKs, RPGs, grenades, knives, axes and machetes. Bearded. Unwashed. Sun-baked. Grim. Intolerant. These people were getting battered from one side of the Iraq Syria plains to the other and didn’t look like any had been on R&R of late. Much as they knew he was the enemy and hated his very being, their self-control kept them from tearing him apart. Discipline was still evident amongst the ranks of this lot at least.
A man stepped from one of the trucks wearing a bloody bandage around his forehead. Gunnymede recognised him immediately. Saleem.
As soon as the Arab saw Gunnymede he smiled, recognising him from the night before. A reversal of fortunes. The irony was not lost on either man.
Saleem looked him up and down. ‘It’s you, innit?’ he asked in a London accent, his voice deeper than one might expect from his frame size. Saleem was a few inches shorter than Gunnymede, thinner, wiry and tough with a menacing coldness that could not be concealed even behind his broad grin. ‘I can’t believe it’s you. How lucky is this? Allah has the best sense of humour, I swear. So you survived. Amazing. Just you, me and Mustafa ’ere.’ Saleem indicated a man Gunnymede recognised as the driver of Saleem’s vehicle the night before.
Mustafa stared at Gunnymede with cold malevolence, a fresh, bloody wound down the side of his face.
‘You Brit or American?’ Saleem asked.
Gunnymede kept silent.
‘You gonna play the strong silent type?’ Saleem asked, smiling confidently as if it was a puerile challenge.
‘Brit,’ Gunnymede said.
‘What unit? You ain’t a regular. Not out here with just your mate.’
Gunnymede decide to keep quiet.
Saleem smirked with obvious contempt for Gunnymede’s silence. ‘These people help you? These villagers?’
‘I got here just before you did,’ Gunnymede said.
‘Is that right? Where’s your gear then? Your pouches with all your little toys an’ stuff? Not like you lot to go walking off without your rifle. I came ’ere looking for you. I thought this lot would ’elp you. They’d do anything for a chance of a food parcel.’
Mustafa whispered into Saleem’s ear. Saleem nodded.
Mustafa barked a command and most of the men set off into the village. Shouting followed. Women screamed. A gun was fired.
‘Don’t worry,’ Saleem said, as if reading Gunnymede’s concerns for the villagers. ‘We need these people for what little farmin’ they do. We’ll punish one or two. The leader will be hung. That’s all.’ He looked for Gunnymede’s eyes. ‘Look at me,’ he said.
Gunnymede obeyed.
‘What you doing here?’
Gunnymede merely blinked.
‘You’ll tell me,’ Saleem said, confidently.
He barked an order and the remaining men grabbed Gunnymede, searched him, putting his gear into their pockets. His hands were tied behind his back and he was shoved towards one of the pickups, his back turned to the vehicle, legs picked up and thrown over the side and onto the flatbed where he landed hard. When he opened his eyes he found himself looking at Granger’s face inches from his own.
His partner's eyes were dry, his face streaked in flaking scabs and coated with sand.
Poor bastard had been dead for hours.
Gunnymede lay silently in the sun facing Granger long enough to begin to doze before the men climbed back in and sat around him as the engine fired up. Granger and Gunnymede were shoved tightly together into the centre so the fighters could use them as foot rests.
It was a painful journey as he bounced over the endless ruts. The engine transmission vibrated through the metal floor and his entire body. The most strenuous part was keeping his head off the bed each time they went over a bump to prevent his skull from being cracked open.
The journey lasted several hours and included a stop to refuel and relieve bowels. Gunnymede was left with Granger without a sip of water.
He suspected they’d arrived at their destination when the men clambered out, the engines died and the air was filled with voices like a crowded market place. A sack was placed over his head and he was manhandled off the truck and shuffled through crowds of people. His shoulder hit something immovable. His guide pushed him onwards. All thoughts of his partner faded as the question of his own fate took pole position.
He was yanked around a corner and it suddenly went darker. The cacophony dropped away. The air became cooler. Sounds echoed. He brushed a stone wall with a shoulder and a few steps later brushed another with his other side. His nostrils filled with the smell of musky carpets.
He could make out lights above his head through the sacking fibre. A string of lightbulbs. The ground dropped steeply away and he almost fell down several stone steps. He reached the bottom and the back of his shirt was harshly grabbed to halt him. The stairway had led into a small chamber with lights on the walls. The sound of keys jangled. A lock was turned. A door creaked open.
Gunnymede was shoved through and his hood removed. He blinked the dust from his eyes to find himself standing in a damp, windowless, stone room that looked mediaeval. A couple of bulbs on cables provided the only light. Half a dozen other people were in the room, sitting or lying on the dirt floor in chains.
Gunnymede’s guide slammed him in the gut with a wooden rod totally winding him. A second blow to his back forced him to his knees. The guide then left, closing the door behind him. The heavy lock turned with a clunk followed by the muffled jingle of keys as they were removed.
Gunnymede could sense someone behind him and turned enough to see a fighter, presumably the guard, sitting on a wooden chair beneath one of the dim bulbs. He looked at Gunnymede coldly.
Gunnymede took a look at his new home. The room was long and narrow with space for many more guests. Each man had his own piece of wall to sit against. Their feet were shackled, their hands free. But their greatest restraint appeared to be their lack of physical well-being. They looked malnourished. A foul smell came from them. They were all sitting in their own shit and urine.
Gunnymede’s mouth was bone dry and he looked around for any sign of refreshments. ‘Water?’ he said to the guard.
The guard jutted his chin towards a bucket in a corner. Gunnymede shuffled over to it. A wooden bucket half filled with water with bits floating in it. He leaned down to smell it. A bit musky but he wasn’t in a position to be choosy. He lowered his face into it and sucked up as much as he could in case he didn’t get another chance.
When he straightened up again he looked around the accommodation, saw a space, made his way over to it and sat back against the cold, uncomfortable wall, his hands still tied behind him. He regarded his fellow inmates, heavily bearded and gaunt. The Count of Monte Cristo came to mind. Two were asleep or unconscious, or worse. It was difficult to assess in the poor light. The others looked at him. Two were white. The other two looked Latino or Middle Eastern. All were in a sorry state. Their poor physical condition was a reminder that if an escape attempt was to be made it had to be sooner rather than later.
Three of the men went back to whatever daydreaming they did while one continued to look at him. Gunnymede felt the man wanted to say something.
‘How long’ve you been here?’ Gunnymede asked.
The guard immediately sprang to his feet and lunged at Gunnymede with his wooden rod. Gunnymede instinctively fell to his side in an effort to avoid the blow, squeezing his eyes shut, bracing for it.
It didn’t come. He opened his eyes to see the rod in the guard’s hand inches away.
&nb
sp; ‘No speak,’ the guard said.
He walked back to his chair and sat down.
Gunnymede shuffled back into a sitting position. The man opposite hadn’t moved. Gunnymede searched for a question in the man’s eyes, an expression perhaps, any kind of meaning. But as he stared he realised there was nothing in them but despair. He wasn’t trying to communicate. He was simply looking at someone new who would soon be like him.
Gunnymede dropped his head back against the wall and sighed inwardly. The ceiling was covered with small stalactites, formed by centuries of moisture seeping from above. His thoughts went to Granger. What were ops doing? Did they have any idea what had happened to the pair? Did they know where Gunnymede was?
He suddenly felt exhausted. Sleep encroached, rolling over him like a heavy cloak. He didn’t fight it.
When they came for him, Gunnymede had no idea how long he’d been asleep. He jerked awake as hands grabbed his clothes and hauled him to his feet. He hadn’t heard the door open or the men come in.
He was in a daze as he was shoved out of the room, up the stairs and along a dark, dank corridor. His hands remained tied behind his back. He was wide awake by the time they left the cool, damp, musty stone building into the suffocating sunshine. Gunnymede’s handlers were two armed fighters, one behind, one in front who kept him moving with purpose. The sun had gone past its high point putting the day at mid to late afternoon.
They turned a corner through an arch into a courtyard packed with stores and equipment; vehicle parts, weapons and ammunition, fuel and tinned food. There were no clues as to what town they were in.
At the other end of the courtyard, they passed through another stone arch into a sand field of Roman ruins. Everywhere were slabs and plinths, some with the remains of statues, sections of what were once tall pillars topped with flared capitals, some upright, others lying on the ground, the remains of an ancient city that looked as if it had been blown apart. Corinthian.
Gunnymede wondered where he was being taken. If they wanted to interrogate him they could’ve done that in the dungeons. This felt ominous.
They arrived at a clearing where a wooden scaffold had been constructed. Four men were standing on upright logs with nooses around their necks attached to a horizontal span above them. Saleem was sitting in a tatty leather armchair under a canvas awning, facing the scaffold, his legs crossed on a stool, a plastic bottle of water in his hand. A dozen fighters lounged around passing the time. As Gunnymede got closer, he could see that the men standing precariously balanced on the upright logs were uniformed Kurdish soldiers, their hands tied behind their backs.
Gunnymede was brought to a halt by the scaffold. He looked up at the faces of the Kurds. All were sweating, clearly stressed as well as hot, helplessly awaiting their fates. One in particular looked more precarious than the others, his crotch soaked in urine, with trembling knees that threatened to unbalance him.
Saleem wore a thin, superior smile and gestured for Gunnymede to be moved to the end of the line of Kurds. There was a space beneath the scaffold waiting for him. A short noose was attached directly above a narrow log like the ones on which the Kurds were standing. Gunnymede was helped up onto it. His hands remained tied behind his back. When he was able to balance on the log without assistance the fighters released him. One climbed onto a chair behind him, fixed the noose around his neck, tightened it, gave it a tug to ensure it was secure, jumped down and walked away with the chair.
Gunnymede was now a full member of the hanging team.
Saleem climbed out of his chair and went to a slab of stone where the stuff they’d found on Gunnymede was laid out. He selected a device and showed it to Gunnymede. ‘Emergency beacon?’
Gunnymede remained silent.
‘You flip this switch and hit this button?’
Saleem walked over to Gunnymede. ‘Welcome,’ he said, as if making an official start to the proceedings. ‘We’re joined today by Amanj, Nebez, Karzan and ... Eja? Eja, yes?’
The Kurd didn’t respond.
‘We’ll go with Eja. Let’s go on with the chat we were having earlier. I asked what group you’re from. Your unit?’
Gunnymede swallowed, the noose a little too snug around his neck.
‘For every question you don’t answer I’ll top one of the Kurds,’ Saleem said.
Gunnymede looked into his eyes. The man was cold as a fish.
‘Your unit?’ Saleem asked.
Gunnymede paused before opening his mouth.
‘Too slow,’ Saleem shouted as he kicked away the Kurd’s log. The man fell a few inches and the noose slammed tight around his neck. He shook violently as he choked, his face turning bright red, eyes bulging, tongue sticking from his swelling lips as he fought for air. His legs bucked, trying in vain to find a purchase. A minute later his efforts reduced to a twitch. The man would remain alive for a few minutes more, a residue of consciousness until his brain was starved of oxygen. His eyes remained partially open, his tongue hanging from his mouth, his face swollen and turning cyan.
He swayed gently beside Gunnymede, the rope creaking rhythmically. The fighters watched the death with the usual fascination. Watching someone die was never boring.
‘Your unit?’ Saleem said as he stepped in front of the next Kurd.
‘Army Int Corps’ Gunnymede said.
Saleem nodded as he pondered the answer. ‘The Int Corps? Bollocks. What was your mission?’
‘You.’
‘What do you mean?’
Gunnymede was reluctant to answer.
Saleem placed his foot on the Kurd’s log. ‘We’ve got plenty more ’a these. We can play this game all week.’
‘We want to know who you’re talking to,’ Gunnymede said.
‘Who do you think I’m talking to?’ Saleem looked at the Kurd, who was sweating profusely.
‘We think Russian but we don’t know.’
‘What do you think we’re talking about?’
‘We don’t know.’
‘You must think it’s important to go to all the trouble of coming out here to get me.’
‘Yes.’
‘And you have no idea why?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Sounds like a load of bollocks to me.’
‘If someone knows any more than that, I don’t.’
Saleem smiled and closed in on Gunnymede so that only he could hear him. ‘Shall I tell you?’
Gunnymede blinked as he looked into his eyes.
‘If I tell you, promise you won’t tell anyone.’
‘I can’t guarantee it.’
‘I can,’ Saleem chuckled, keeping his voice too low for any of the fighters to hear. ‘I’m going to England as soon as Baghdadi approves the plan, which he will because it’s brilliant. Thousands of Londoners dead in one go. No guns, dirty bombs, nuclear, gas, bio or chemical. Just pure engineering brilliance.’ Saleem put the toe of his boot against the top of Gunnymede’s log. Gunnymede braced himself as the log moved.
‘But now that I’ve told you I’ll have to kill you. Those are the rules. Sorry you won’t be around for the big day.’
Saleem made ready to kick the log away.
‘Untazar!’ a voice called out. It was Mustafa. ‘I want to do it,’ he said in heavily accented English as he walked over.
Saleem looked between Mustafa and Gunnymede with a grin. ‘Mustafa wants to be the one to kill you. He used to work for the British Army. In Basra. How long for?’
‘Two year,’ Mustafa said.
‘SRR wasn’t it?’ Saleem asked.
‘Special Reconnaissance Regiment,’ Mustafa said.
‘He worked in the kitchen. Mustafa was going to kill a bunch of ’em but he was laid off before he could. He’s a bit of a thug is Mustafa.’ Saleem removed his toe from Gunnymede’s log. ‘One last thing. What was your mate’s name?’
‘Granger.’
‘When we found Granger he was still alive. Straight up. He was wounded. He couldn’t walk. Bu
t alive.’ Saleem raised his hands so that Gunnymede could see them. ‘I strangled him with these. I wrapped them around his throat and squeezed until he died.’
Gunnymede stared at Saleem as the man held up his hands and for a few seconds he forgot his own life was literally hanging by a thread while wanting to tear the Arab apart.
Saleem stepped away and Mustafa put his boot against the log. Back to reality. Gunnymede’s hands strained in vain to break the bonds, his throat braced against the noose. Where was all the pomp and ceremony? The video. The banner with armed fighters in prayer. Didn’t they want more information out of him? Surely this wasn’t it.
Mustafa moved the log a little.
A Daesh fighter came running from the courtyard and between the ancient stones. ‘Aircraft!’ he shouted.
The air was suddenly filled with the sound of fighter jets. As one, every man ran as fast as he could. The best place to be during an air raid was the catacombs of the building Gunnymede had just left. A jet screamed overhead with a deafening roar and a rocket slammed into a building. Explosions detonated in rapid succession. Saleem took off as fast as he could. A nearby strike shook the ground. Gunnymede felt it quiver up the log and through his legs. He and the Kurds fought to stay balanced.
But Mustafa had not run. He remained, looking at Gunnymede for a second. Gunnymede could see the death in his eyes. Mustafa kicked the log away as another rocket struck nearby and broke into a run. The log fell beneath Gunnymede’s feet and the noose slammed tight around his neck. He swung inches above the ground, his feet kicking out in desperation to find anything to step onto. He pulled frantically against the bonds that tied his hands. His face turned red as he choked.
Death was seconds away.
Chapter 7
The week in Dartmoor dragged by as Bethan had hoped it would. With no-one to talk to and a poor internet connection, she made her way through two novels, half a bottle of scotch, two bottles of wine and covered some thirty miles of moorland. She’d been so chilled that she’d forgotten to complete her case report or read the file she’d brought with her.
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