Guantanamo Boy

by Anna Perera

  It’s true, saying thanks does make Khalid feel better for a moment—even a bit more peaceful, like Dad said. In a second, Dad’s wide smile comes back to him and that quick laugh he has whenever he spots something special. Silly things like a stone in the shape of an egg.

  “The whole world’s in this kind of surprise,” Dad once told him.

  The idea that Dad might also be staring at a carpet in some other room, somewhere in Karachi, feels like a real possibility suddenly. But the truth is, the rug he’s lying on is the only link he has to him right now. Khalid’s mind is desperately grab-bing at something to stop himself from going completely crazy, tugging at the shapes and colors of the rug like a baby pulling apart a favorite blanket.

  He lifts his head from the rug to stare at the ceiling, wishing the yellow glow from the bare light bulb above him would spin into the shape of a genie. A fat, laughing genie or jinn, like the one in the story of Aladdin’s lamp. The jinn, an immortal in human form, is coming to carry him away from here. He can see him, right there, right now, carrying him home on a magic carpet, back to his mum. His mum.

  “Your wish is my command,” the jinn says, and Khalid’s heart locks on to the image of being returned to the computer cupboard, switching off the machine this time. Seeing himself pick up his mobile, put it safely away in his denim pocket, the chrome watch back on his wrist, and walk up the stairs to bed. Waking a few minutes later to the smell of steaming hot tea and Mum standing over him with a wide smile, saying, “Dad’s still asleep.”

  But the jinn has gone. No one comes and after a while the light bulb flickers off and Khalid’s thoughts change course to the hopeless feeling he’ll never get over this. Lying on his side, he listens to the night-time noises of the big creaking house, occasional footsteps and the murmur of a passing car outside. His eyes on the beautiful rugs reaching out to the dark hidden corners of the room which smells of mold and wax polish. The only light a streak of yellow coming in under the door.

  7

  BREAD

  In the morning another armed guard, with a drooping face and a curling beard, brings Khalid tea and bread. Uncuffing him like last time, the guard stands over him until he finishes eating. Footsteps hurry past the door while Khalid sips the hot, sweet tea, and the sound of banging and angry shouting from the room above keeps him company as he hungrily snaps up the flat bread. Scoffing it in three eager mouthfuls. The smell of stale white flour on his fingers.

  “Any chance of a shower?” Khalid says without much hope. Finally losing it when the guard turns away to gaze vacantly at the blank wall. In one fell swoop, the tea and plate crash to the floor as Khalid leaps at him. His hands close tightly round the soft skin of the guard’s warm neck and the anger rises so fast Khalid’s fingers tingle as the guard struggles to pull them off, punching him like a boxer as he wildly yells for help through the stranglehold.

  Four guards charge in, pointing their guns at Khalid’s head. Standing feet apart like a firing squad, ready to kill him the second he releases the guard’s neck. But, exhausted by the power of his own nervous fury, Khalid drops his hands and sinks in a heap on the floor, head hanging low. Thick black hair falls over his forehead and he begins to sweat as an out-of-body feeling of sheer hopelessness drains him of every molecule of energy.

  Now he’s down, a boot jams into his side, knocking him flat. His arms are twisted back, he’s handcuffed tight. Another boot lands on his shoulder. Boots come down on his stomach until there’s nowhere for Khalid to turn to get out of their way. He doubles up in pain until blood runs from his nose and he vomits.

  He lies there for what seems like hours until eventually he falls asleep. Waking up to find the room dark again. The moment he remembers what’s happened, he panics. His stomach hurts. Arms hurt. Face hurts. There’s hardly a part of him that isn’t in pain. Despite the tears welling in his eyes, Khalid stares into his invisible future and sees nothing worth living for, just a small horrible world with nasty people who don’t give a damn about anyone.

  At that point, the door opens and a square of fluorescent light floods the room. Khalid squirms to focus on the shapes at the door, unable to make out the shadowy faces. A man says something that might be in Urdu. Khalid picks out a word that sounds familiar.

  Then one of them says, “Only English him speak.”

  “Up from there!” another quieter voice commands. With the shadow of a gun on the wooden floor beside his feet, Khalid struggles to stand, a piercing pain in his ankle causing his foot to suddenly fold, making it hard to balance. But he tries and tries—knowing if he stumbles they’ll start kicking him again.

  Two rugged-looking men on either side of him elbow him to the door and out of the room. There’s enjoyment on their faces as they rush him down the corridor to yet another room. A room with a ceiling light, a small desk and two black plastic chairs.

  What kind of weird game are they playing with me? Khalid wonders. Are they moving me around so I won’t remember where I’ve been?

  Three of the men hurry away, leaving only one man with a kind face. Khalid sees he looks ashamed when he meets his gaze. He quickly lowers his eyes before sneakily attaching one of Khalid’s handcuffs to the chair. The other arm is left to hang limply in his lap. Then he stands back while Khalid examines the extent of the yellow and purple bruises on his brown skin. Plus his filthy hand, which is smeared with dirt, dusty and bloody, with a few carpet threads attached. His fingernails look as if they’ve been dipped in ink. Khalid raises his arm for the guard to see his injuries, pointing his finger firmly at him as if he’s responsible for the state he’s in. But the guard doesn’t seem to care. He leaves, only to return a couple of minutes later, grinning for the first time with tatty, wonky teeth while he cracks open a bottle of water.

  “Thank you.” Khalid’s suspicious of his sudden smile, not wanting or trusting the kindness he’s showing by giving him a measly bottle of water. Khalid would rather he scowled at him. Then maybe this jailer–prisoner relationship might have a vague chance of being an honest one. Khalid glances down, avoiding his gaze.

  He drains the last drops of water and thrusts the empty bottle back at the guard. Watching him closely while he talks rapidly to the other man waiting at the door. In the end, the man rushes off. He gives a final gesture of irritation by flinging his hands in the air before slamming the door.

  “Yeah, and good riddance,” Khalid says out loud, then wonders if his rude remark has seen off his chance of breakfast. But no, soon the door opens again and another, much harder-looking man hands him a piece of thin warm bread that Khalid stuffs quickly in his mouth. Making a mental bet with himself that this is the last bit of food he’ll see today, he’s anxious to swallow the lot before the guard makes it back to the door. Just to shock him. Show him how hungry he is. How nasty they all are.

  Now what? Feeling somehow crushed the moment the door closes without the guard even glancing at him. Some things you get over and some things you don’t. Khalid knows this will stay with him for the rest of his life.

  With each slam of the door, followed by the sound of hurriedly retreating footsteps, Khalid feels such self-pity it makes him want to faint. Waiting and waiting in this room smelling of grime, that’s bad enough, but the thing that hurts the most is not understanding anything.

  8

  MASUD

  The ear-splitting noise of screeching furniture being dragged across the ceiling wakes Khalid up. For some reason the maroon velvet curtains are open. The strange sight of sunshine flooding the room takes a few seconds to reach his brain. Someone must have come in while he was sleeping and pulled the curtains back.

  Nothing else about the room has changed. The small desk is in the same position in the middle of the floor. Two black plastic chairs on either side of it. Bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. The now-familiar smell of filth on the walls.

  It’s then he realizes that two pieces of tape fixed to the window have come undone. The curtains are in the same p
lace.

  Now he remembers the guard with the wonky teeth coming in last night, fixing him with a sorry look and trying to rouse him as he lolled in the chair, half falling off. The guard uncuffed Khalid from the seat, then gently recuffed his wrists behind his back so he could lie down on the rough coir matting that covers most of the wooden floor. He threw Khalid a smelly blanket from the doorway before shutting out the yellow light from the corridor—he remembers that.

  Khalid wonders if it’s possible to pull all the tape off. If the window opens he might somehow be able to get out. The thought makes his arms begin to ache. In whatever position he tried to sleep, he had to compensate for the unnatural place his shackled wrists found themselves. The best was when he lay on his stomach. Only then did the pain in his shoulders ease a little.

  For some reason, the sight of the clear blue sky brings a feeling of expectation to Khalid. Perhaps today’s the day he’ll be going home, though by his reckoning this is the fifth day since he was captured and nothing’s happened to give him any hope.

  With a sudden burst of energy, Khalid jumps up, runs to the window and, with his back to it, begins scratching at the tape stuck fast to the frame. Eventually, one corner comes away. Threads of tape peel off like string, leaving the main strip behind, which irritates him into getting down on his knees to attack it with his teeth. He soon realizes he’s achieving nothing but getting the odd stringy thread in his mouth—they tear off like cotton.

  Then the door opens and yet another new guard smiles at him. Speaking in hesitant English.

  “You want go toilet. Yes?”

  Khalid nods, getting up slowly from the floor and angrily spitting out masking tape. “Tell me what I’m doing here.”

  “Americans they you want.” The guard gives him a concerned grin.

  “That’s crap,” Khalid responds. “I haven’t done anything to them. What did I do?”

  This time the guard widens his eyes and shrugs, giving the impression after this question that he has no choice but to ignore him. His smile quickly disappears.

  Like before, Khalid’s led to the toilet with a cloth covering his eyes. Like before, he’s back inside the plain room in a couple of minutes. Again, the door snapping shut on him feels like some kind of insult. Like a thump in the back.

  “How dare you?” Khalid pounds it with cuffed wrists, then switches round to kick the door until it opens again. “You can’t leave me here on my own!” he yells at the same guard, who’s quickly joined by another man.

  They both look at him for a second, then agree something between them with a shared look and a few whispers. Instantly, the cloth is thrown over his head again and he’s led down the same corridor as before.

  Soon a door opens and he’s pushed inside. The towel is whipped off his head as the door closes on another bleak, gray room with an old desk and two chairs, and the strange sight of a scruffy handcuffed man sitting cross-legged on the bare concrete floor. His small face is swollen and covered in bruises. His ruffled, graying hair and beard are matted with dirt but there’s a strange, calm dignity in his expression.

  “I am Masud Al-Dossadi,” he says proudly. “And you?”

  “They kidnapped me. Beat me up. Stole my bloody watch, the gangsters,” Khalid gasps.

  Masud nods wearily. “You have a name?”

  “Khalid Ahmed. I’m English, from Rochdale near Manchester. You know it?”

  “Rochdale?” For a moment, Masud searches his mind for such a place before shaking his head.

  “I’m fifteen. That’s all,” Khalid says. “They can’t do this to me.”

  “Me—forty-eight years.”

  They both half smile and Khalid tries to find a comfortable position to rest his bruised body as he sinks to the rough floor. The pain in his side starts up again the second he straightens his spine but, anxious to hear Masud’s story, he ignores the discomfort, leaning in to catch every word.

  “What happened to your face?” Khalid asks.

  Masud sighs. “First they make resolution, I very dangerous person. Beat me with big pipe. Then they are preventing me from sleep. Make standing all night. Hit hard on head when I start to fall. Then use pipe again all over body.”

  “Who? Who did it?” Khalid asks, horrified.

  “The Pakistan security men, they doing it under American orders,” Masud says. “Who do you think?”

  Khalid goes cold. Shivers race up his spine. “Why?”

  “I am Egyptian man,” Masud explains. “They collect me up at Afghanistan border with 2,000 dollars I got in my pocket for not buy many things because village gone. They putting bomb there, now is being my fault.”

  “Because of the money?” Khalid suddenly understands why they might have been suspicious.

  “For five years I’m buying many goods from there to sell in the shop I got in Cairo. Turquoise necklaces, blue ceramic bowls, woodwork. Birdcages are very, very good to buy at Afghanistan. Anything, I bringing it back.” He smiles. “I am knowing this country long time. Plenty things good to see. Nice people invite me eat—all time. Good people, not like you think.”

  “But why did you go there when you knew there was a war on?” Khalid thinks he’s friendly, a sweet man without the slightest hint of malice in his face, but he still can’t understand why he went to Afghanistan when everyone knew it was dangerous.

  Head high with peeping eyes, bruised and swollen, Masud begins his tale. “You asking me why? The roads are bad and some of the towns they not really towns, just little ramshackle house, but Afghanistan is wonderful country. Mistake I making this time was go from bombed mountain village to visit Kabul with good friend. We are wanting to see what happening.”

  Pausing to catch his breath, Masud twists round to make himself more comfortable before continuing.

  “Americans looking everywhere, all time for Bin Laden—it ruin my business. Kabul is very sad there. Bombing every day. Women, children, dying in streets. Explosions going all time. I’m trying leave. But thousands of refugees in same position, going also.”

  Khalid remembers the pictures of truckloads of men on the news. Broken men with sand-colored cloths wound tightly around their heads. Staring at the cameras along the dusty road. Dad saying, “Do they look like terrorists? Or refugees?” But the newsreader said they were members of the Taliban and maybe they were. Either way, how could they tell? And at the time Khalid thought, Who cares? They had nothing to do with him—until now.

  “Then I’m having moment of typhoid,” Masud says. “Lucky for me, my friend is looking after me until I well enough cross the border for Pakistan. When they looking at my passport they ask why I’m always going Cairo to Afghanistan? Why I stay Kabul for months? Why I having much money in pocket? I am telling them about my business, but no believe, and I’m having no birdcages, just necklaces in pocket.”

  “What about your friend?” Khalid asks. “What happened to him?”

  “They say he have no visa. What happening to him? I’m not knowing this. Then they say my passport out of date. I telling them I got typhoid. Very ill I being for months, but they not hearing.”

  “Maybe they just wanted your money?” Khalid says. “They stole my watch.”

  “This is possible.” Masud sighs. “But now they got money, you think they free me? They say Americans wanting me. They accuse me of being enemy combatant.”

  “An incompetent? Why?” Khalid knows that word well. Remembering Mr. Tagg calling Nico an incompetent when he handed in his essay outline on the Spanish Inquisition with only three words on the page and plenty of space in between: beginning, middle, end.

  Masud looks a lot cleverer than Nico to him. It doesn’t make sense.

  “Combatant. Enemy combatant.” Exhausted, Masud closes his eyes.

  “Oh, right. Sorry!” Khalid nods.

  “Look at me!” Masud shakes his head.

  “I’m looking,” Khalid says. Hoping for more.

  “They are thinking I fighting against them. Again
st America. But I have no gun. No bullets. No knife. Only turquoise necklaces and money in pocket.”

  “They can’t keep you here forever,” Khalid says quietly, trying to comfort him.

  “No, they telling me in morning I’m going Kandahar in Afghanistan for processing. Why they bringing me all way here first, I’m not knowing.” For a second, silence overtakes Masud.

  “Kandahar.” Repeating it, Khalid rests his head on his chest. Reminded of what the guy Dan said—is he still going there too? The memory of his abduction comes back to haunt him, speeding round and round inside his head. Why didn’t he try and stop them? Why didn’t he fight or try to run away? Why didn’t he scream? Do something? And though he and Masud are in the same situation now, they have nothing in common. Two weeks ago he was playing football in the park in Rochdale. Rochdale, for heaven’s sake—nowhere near any war zones or dangerous borders, any bombing or kidnapping. Masud is a grown-up who was found with a bunch of money in his pocket in a dangerous city, while he—he was just returning from the loo to the computer at his aunties’ house. Somebody sold Khalid to the authorities, made up lies about him, he’s certain now that’s what happened. It’s the reason no one listens to him. It must be. But what can he do to change their minds and convince them he’s innocent?

  The faint tapping of footsteps resonates down the corridor. Khalid glances at the door, still half expecting someone to come and tell him there’s been a mistake.

  “In the name of Allah . . .” Masud responds to the call of prayer coming from a nearby mosque.

  Khalid mumbles something about being tired, blushing slightly, but he has no desire to join in. The one thing he wishes he could change right now is the religion he was born into.