Sleeper 13

by Rob Sinclair

  ‘Interesting that you should mention genitalia,’ Aydin said, before casting his eyes downward.

  Haroun’s eyes followed and Aydin saw the moment of realisation sweep across his face. He was naked, his hands secured behind him and around the leg of the bookcase. His ankles were roped together and tied to the radiator pipes. He couldn’t move at all. By Aydin’s side was a pair of pliers and a hammer he’d found in a small toolbox. In his hand was a knife. Just a regular chopping knife from the kitchen drawer, but it was plenty sharp enough if he needed to make himself any more clear than he already had.

  Aydin jabbed the pointed end of the blade into Haroun’s scrotum, causing him to writhe and grimace until he took the bloodied tip away. Haroun understood, and Aydin saw the look on his face change.

  Recalibration complete.

  ‘Now let’s talk,’ Aydin said.

  THIRTY

  It was two weeks since Aydin had celebrated his fifteenth birthday. Celebrated? Perhaps that wasn’t the right term. It had been acknowledged by the Teacher that he was now fifteen, not fourteen, and Itnashar had sung him a birthday ditty as they lay in their bunks that night. He didn’t feel any different because he was now older – even though the Teacher had told him he was no longer a boy – but he did feel different because of what they were doing today: it was the first day that Aydin had held a real, live gun.

  For all of the teaching he and the boys had experienced at the Farm over the years, everything the elders had shown them and made them do, Aydin had never felt so powerful as earlier that morning when he’d first held that lump of metal and pulled on the trigger to fire at the imaginary targets.

  They’d spent several hours doing that. With a handgun each, the boys had been taught how to aim and fire, and how to reload. Aydin had done okay. Not the best of them, but certainly not the worst either. It was what Wahid always said to him – as an insult. Aydin was a jack-of-all-trades, master of none. An English saying, Wahid delighted in telling him, as though it made him superior to Aydin to know a saying of the place where he came from.

  The weather outside was stifling with not a breath of wind and the air was thick with heat as the intense sun beat down on them. They had stopped for water not long ago but the Teacher now had the fourteen boys lined up in the yard for the next task. Fourteen. Neither Aydin nor the others knew exactly what happened to the fifteenth, though everyone had a tale to tell of his sorry demise.

  The Teacher paced up and down in front of them, next to that damn wooden pole in the centre of the yard that Aydin had spent many a sleepless night chained to. There was a little portable table set up in front of the pole. On it sat a shining black handgun. The yard they were in was enclosed by a simple wooden fence. No other security was needed. Beyond the fence, in every direction, was simply an endless expanse of rock and sand. There was nowhere to run or hide out there.

  ‘Today you will become men in my eyes,’ the Teacher said, without looking at any of the boys. ‘You’ve already come so far here, it’s now time to prove yourselves to me. This is your one chance to show you belong here.’

  Across the other side of the yard, where the series of low-rise buildings stood, a door opened and Aydin saw Qarsh with his back to them. Aydin knew it was him, even without seeing his face, due to the unmistakable slope of his heavily muscled neck and shoulders. Aydin wondered what he was doing, then he saw that Qarsh was heaving something out of the doorway.

  No, not something, but someone. It was a man.

  The guy was naked, except for his dirtied underwear, and there was a sack on his head. His brown skin was covered in wispy black hair, his hands were tied behind his back, and Qarsh was coaxing him along. The man stumbled every few steps as though there was no strength or focus in his limbs at all.

  ‘Each of you will face this same test,’ the Teacher said, turning to face Qarsh and the man. He paused. Then looked over the boys. ‘Sura five, verse thirty-three?’

  Several hands went up. Naturally, the Teacher pointed to Wahid.

  ‘The punishment of those who wage war against Allah and His messenger and strive to make mischief in the land is only this,’ Wahid recited from memory. ‘That they should be murdered or crucified or their hands and their feet should be cut off on opposite sides or they should be imprisoned. That is their disgrace in this world, and a great torment is theirs in the Hereafter.’

  The Teacher nodded in acknowledgement. Aydin bit his lip. Now wasn’t the time to debate that much of the rest of the Sura referred to Allah’s merciful nature.

  ‘The objective is simple,’ the Teacher continued. ‘The men you will see today have to die, for they have attacked us. It is down to you to make that happen.’

  Qarsh brought the man over and quickly untied his wrists, then retied them around the pole. He then lifted off the sack and Aydin saw the bouncing eyes of the man underneath. His jaw was chattering with fright as he mumbled incoherently.

  ‘Wahid,’ the Teacher said, turning to lock eyes with his favoured student once more.

  Without hesitation Wahid stepped forward and moved up to the table. No more words were said as he reached out and brushed his hand across the gun. He looked back up to his master and the Teacher gave the slightest of nods. Wahid picked up the gun and strode over to the prisoner, who fell to his knees and began to plead.

  Wahid moved right up to the man and placed the barrel of the gun up against his forehead. Then he paused and turned to the Teacher. He simply nodded again and Wahid pulled the trigger and Aydin felt himself jump at the booming sound as the back of the man’s head all but exploded. His body flopped forward, suspended in the air awkwardly with his wrists still secured to the pole behind. When Wahid turned back there was a wide smile on his face as his gaze found Aydin.

  Every one of the boys had their turn. Aydin had no choice but to watch as one by one Qarsh brought a condemned man out into the sun and secured him to that pole. No choice but to watch as one by one his brothers stepped forward and took the life of another human with the simple pull of a trigger.

  No reasons were given for who the men were, nor what their crime – if any – was, and not one of the boys opened their mouths to ask any such question. Despite the Teacher trying to tie the killings to the will of Allah, it was clear the exercise wasn’t about punishing the men they were shooting, it was about the boys.

  Itnashar moved forward from the line, to the table, and picked up the gun. He took two steps further forward to the man before lifting the gun up. Aydin had been keeping a mental note of how far each of his brothers stood from their victim. Only Wahid had pressed the barrel of the gun right up against the condemned’s skin. Itnashar, so far, was standing the furthest away.

  Aydin once again flinched as the gun fired and the bullet splatted into the man’s left eye. Itnashar hung his head, turned, and placed the gun back onto the table. Aydin looked back to the Teacher, who had stopped pacing and was staring at Itnashar. He said nothing but Aydin saw anger in his eyes. He didn’t know why.

  Minutes later, with another soon-to-be-corpse in place, it was Aydin’s turn to approach the table. The vile exercise had finally become real for him, and he struggled to find the strength to pick up that gun. He had told himself he would, that he had to. But now that it was right in front of him it was as if there was a force field around it, pushing his hand away.

  He fought through it and grabbed the butt of the gun, checked it over like they had been taught to that same morning, then pointed the barrel to the head of the man standing just a few yards in front of him.

  His finger was on the trigger. But he hesitated. His brain was screaming for him to just do it, to prove himself to the Teacher and to his brothers, but something else inside was holding him back.

  The gun began to shake in his hand. Just a tiny, almost imperceptible stammer coming from his arm. But it got bigger. Within a few seconds he worried that he might even miss the target.

  He imagined what the others behind him were t
hinking. Were they willing him on, wanting him to succeed? Or were they hoping he failed, hoping that the Teacher and Qarsh would punish him for showing weakness?

  ‘Stop!’ the Teacher yelled and Aydin jumped and sensed everyone around him was now holding their breath. ‘Put that gun down, now!’

  Even from yards away Aydin was sure he felt the Teacher’s spittle spattering his cheek, such was the force of effort in his bark. Aydin shifted his eyes and caught the Teacher’s gaze and saw the unabashed rage in his eyes. He lowered the weapon, moved over and put it down onto the table.

  The Teacher reached to his side and unsheathed an eight-inch serrated blade, which he slapped down onto the table.

  ‘Now pick up the knife.’

  Aydin did as he was told without hesitation.

  ‘Take it over to him.’

  Aydin moved, though it was an effort. His legs felt intermittently like lead and like jelly.

  ‘Be sure that it takes more strength of mind to take a life up close, than from a distance,’ the Teacher shouted, and Aydin sensed he was talking to the others as much as he was to him. ‘You are men now, never fail to show your enemy that. To feel another person’s life-force drifting away as you stare into his dying eyes, feeling his slowing breaths on your cheek . . . there is nothing more powerful than that. And your enemy deserves nothing more. Never be afraid to punish your enemy. He would certainly not show you any mercy.’

  The Teacher had said this before. In fact Aydin thought he quite delighted in reminding the boys of the barbarous acts carried out by Western countries over the centuries, from torture techniques used in Medieval England through to Nazi human experimentation during World War II. Those examples were, according to the Teacher, convincing evidence of why the non-believers couldn’t be allowed to control the world – couldn’t even be allowed to live in the world.

  Aydin reached the man and looked into his sorry eyes and for just a flash he thought that even he was mocking him now. That at least allowed him to muster an ounce more strength and determination.

  ‘Do it,’ the Teacher said. ‘Slit his throat.’

  Standing there, with the man on his knees in front of him, the stench of his urine and the blood-soaked ground filled Aydin’s nose, and as he held back bile he was having serious doubts whether he could stomach carrying out the instruction.

  He clenched his teeth, tensed his muscles, summoning an inner rage that he hoped would see him through.

  It was working.

  His body was shaking again, no longer from fear, but anger, and it was driving him on. He grabbed the man’s hair, pulled his head back to expose his neck. He lifted the knife, ready to swipe . . .

  ‘Stop,’ the Teacher said. But gone was his bark, he was now measured and calm. ‘Very good, Talatashar. Very good. But for you, something different.’

  Aydin didn’t move. Not at all. The knife was still there, in prime position to take the man’s life. He was ready to do it. A large part of him wanted to do it. He had to prove himself.

  ‘A challenge for you, Talatashar. Can you hurt this man for me? I mean really hurt him? Can you look into his eyes while inflicting the most unimaginable pain?’

  ‘Yes,’ Aydin said without even thinking.

  ‘Good. Now cut off his ear.’

  ‘I . . .’ is all Aydin said to that. He simply couldn’t find any other words.

  ‘Cut off his ear. Show your brothers how strong you are, Talatashar. Show them what it takes to be up close and to have someone at your mercy.’

  The shaking was back again, though Aydin was now struggling to keep hold of the anger that had driven him on moments earlier. He let go of the man’s hair, and took an ear in his grip. He pulled the appendage outward and the man moaned louder, his pleading becoming more desperate.

  ‘Show me you deserve your place among us,’ the Teacher said.

  Aydin had to. There was no other way. He had to stay at the Farm. Not just because it was what his father wanted, but because they’d all heard the stories of what would happen to the students who failed. After all, there used to be fifteen of them. Now there were only fourteen.

  Without any further thought, Aydin pulled the knife round and sliced it down against the man’s ear. He screamed in pain and writhed and jolted his head and Aydin heard the flesh of the ear in his grip tear further. The Teacher had to come over to hold the man in place. Aydin locked eyes with his master and saw he was smiling at him.

  ‘You can do this, son,’ he said.

  Aydin didn’t hesitate, moved the knife back and forth, and the blade sank down slowly through flesh. He finally found that inner rage again and he roared as he took two more swipes. His hand was covered in blood and the thick red liquid poured down over the man as the gristly piece of tissue came away from his head.

  ‘And now you’re a man,’ the Teacher said, pride in his eyes, and he grabbed Aydin’s hand, the one with the dripping flesh still dangling from it, and hauled it into the air like it was a trophy.

  Aydin’s brothers cheered for him and applauded and he broke out into as wide a smile as he could remember.

  This was his moment.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Bruges, Belgium

  ‘I don’t know!’ Haroun screamed, his voice coarse and gravelly from the effort of his cries.

  But Aydin didn’t believe him. He knew how their operation worked. He knew what Khaled had done for him, back in Paris. There was no way that Haroun didn’t have the access code to Itnashar’s lab, and Aydin was almost certain he had the passwords for the computer equipment too. The administrators were like personal assistants, and what PA worth their salt didn’t know their boss’s log-in details?

  Did Haroun really believe he could hold out? Did he not understand what Aydin was capable of?

  By now the blood coming from Haroun’s head wound had clotted and the lines of blood on his face were dark and solid, beginning to crack. His flabby body was shivery and he was shaking with fear. His left foot and the floor around it was covered in fresh blood as Aydin worked across each of his toenails, the discarded pieces on the floor next to them.

  ‘Four down, sixteen to go,’ Aydin said.

  ‘No, please!’

  Aydin pinched the nail on Haroun’s big toe with the pliers and pulled up until he felt resistance. He looked into Haroun’s eyes. They didn’t know each other. Aydin didn’t feel any real animosity towards him, yet he had barely blinked at what he was doing to him. This was how they wanted him to be. He wasn’t sure if it made him feel incredibly strong, or incredibly weak any more.

  ‘The codes, Haroun. And I promise I’ll stop.’

  ‘Telhas teeze!’

  Lick my ass. Not nice.

  Aydin tugged upward with a short, sharp movement and the tight grip on the pliers allowed him to easily prise off the large nail with a squelch and a suck. Haroun screamed again and Aydin quickly stuffed the sock into his mouth. Together with the TV on full volume it was plenty enough to muffle his cries. When it was clear he was calming down Aydin grabbed hold of the little toe on Haroun’s right foot and got ready again.

  Then a beeping rang out just feet from where Aydin was crouched, cutting through the muted cries and the noise of the TV. As he listened to the ringing phone, his eyes remained fixed on Haroun, looking for a reaction on his face.

  There it was. A glimmer of hope. He thought he was being saved.

  Aydin pulled the sock from Haroun’s mouth and released his toenail and he groaned in relief as Aydin got up and fetched the vibrating phone from the coffee table. It was Itnashar calling.

  ‘If I don’t answer he’ll know something is wrong,’ Haroun said through heavy breaths.

  ‘Then answer it,’ Aydin said. ‘Tell him everything is okay.’

  Aydin knelt and opened the pliers wide around Haroun’s testicle. He squeezed, hard enough to make the man’s eyes water but not so hard as to cause him lasting damage. Not yet.

  ‘You know I’ll do it,’ Aydin said
, and Haroun gave the slightest nod.

  Aydin accepted the call and pressed the button to activate the loudspeaker.

  ‘Hey, friend, all good there?’ came Itnashar’s tinny voice.

  ‘All good,’ Haroun said, his voice sounding surprisingly sure and unruffled. ‘Did he show?’

  A pause. ‘No. I’m coming back now.’

  ‘Sure. See you soon.’

  ‘I’ll pick us up some food.’

  ‘Sounds good. Whatever you want.’

  The call clicked off but Aydin stayed in position, phone held out, looking for any read on Haroun’s face. There was something about the conversation . . .

  Aydin had already sensed something wasn’t right even before the loud clunk as the TV went off and the apartment lights went out, but by then there was nothing he could do. Apart from Aydin’s and Haroun’s breathing, the room was now deathly silent. Gone even was the buzz of the refrigerator and the perpetual low-pitch hum of electricity in the walls. Gone too was the glare from the overhead bulb, and out of the corner of his eye Aydin saw no light seeping in through the small gaps between the front door and its frame.

  It was a full electric cut-out.

  The only light at all was the faint glow from the screen of the phone that was still grasped in Aydin’s hand. He angled the phone away from him to pick out Haroun’s face; the shadows made his features elongated and sinister.

  There was a slight twitch on his face. The faintest outline of a smile?

  Then, behind Aydin, there was a crash as the front door sprang open. He spun to his right, grabbing the knife from the floor – the gun was out of reach – and dove for cover behind the sofa as the thwack, thwack, thwack of a suppressed gun sounded out.

  He wasn’t hit, but the soft squelch that two of the bullets made told him that Haroun was. Aydin didn’t have time to think about who was shooting or who the target was, instead he let his instincts guide him and when the blasting of the immediate assault paused a moment later, he burst up from the sofa and hurled the knife at the first thing he saw moving: the arcing beam of a small flashlight.