by Ian Black
He looks confused, and whispers back, “We’re allowed chocolate.”
She turns authoritarian, snapping “Just do it!”
George follows her instructions quickly.
Once the chocolate is hidden she instructs, “Don’t open it until you’re back in the cell. Now listen carefully George… Hidden inside the chocolate… is a phone… with a list of questions for Hazma.”
“Oh…” he replies, then whispers back, “I’ve never used a phone.”
“Hazma will know how to use it. Ask him to follow the instructions on the wrapper. It’s a chance for him to tell his story.”
“Can I eat the chocolate?”
“Of course you can!” she assures him.
“HEY SCREW, you looking at my bird’s legs?” a prisoner’s voice booms out.
The room quietens immediately. The guard ignores the accusation, but readjusts his stance anyway, to look less guilty, as a buzzer buzzes to signify visiting time has ended.
Millie whispers, “I’ve downloaded that music onto the phone.”
George looks confused, “What music?”
“From my boyfriend’s car… From the crash! You asked what music he was playing!”
“Oh!” he exclaims. “Great.”
“What did you want it for?”
“It reminded me of my ma… It’s not the same, but it’s a bit like it.”
She asks, “How did the other tune go?”
With the noise of scraping chairs and movement from visitors leaving going on behind him, George whispers a brief rendition of “The Blue Danube”, “La laa laa laaa laaa…” until interrupted by raised voices.
The leggy woman’s boyfriend isn’t happy, and confronts the guard, “I saw you, drooling over her legs!”
“PERVERT!” screeches Legs.
Spotting an ideal opportunity for George to sneak-out the concealed phone, Millie reaches into her bag again and whispers, “Take this too!” holding out a cupped hand.
George stands, grinning, holding his hand out to shake; but as their palms meet he feels a lumpy wiry article in her grasp.
“Take this go!” she places a tightly wrapped phone charger into his hand then shoos him away, “Go!”
“Bye, Mill,” replies George, smiling as he reverses out sideways towards the door, and continues grinning as he ducks out behind the red-faced guard, whose hands are full protesting his innocence.
•
Once back in the cell, both men stare down at the large chocolate bar laid flat on the table next to the charger. George sang like a canary as soon as he got back and informed Hazma about the phone and questions hidden inside, and all about the downloaded music from the car etcetera.
Very carefully the Iraqi peels open the paper wrapper. Once inside, it’s noticeable that the foil wrapping has been tampered with. He slits along the length of foil with his long fingernail and peels it back, to reveal inside: blocks of chocolate have been removed from the middle to create a cavity, which contains a small flat paper parcel. Hazma unfolds the parcel to reveal a list of handwritten questions on the reverse, and an iPhone (Larry’s discarded phone).
“Brilliant!” blurts Hazma, fondling the phone, “This is brilliant!”
“I know…” George agrees. “I love fruit and nut.”
Hazma shakes his head, and presses the power button.
George gorges on chocolate, and with a mouthful says, “Play the music.”
“Wait!” Hazma glides his finger over the iPhone screen, pressing buttons, checking settings. “We’ve got signal, 3G. This is good, George.”
“Will you play the music?” George is insistent.
“Will you wait a minute?”
“You want some chocolate?”
Hazma ignores the question, holds the phones face towards George and announces proudly, “This puts me in touch with the world!”
“Oh,” replies George, unable to comprehend the significance. “Will you play the music?”
•
Later that evening, Millie relaxes on the couch in her apartment, with head resting on her boyfriend’s lap, whose outstretched legs are supported by a pouf.
Remote control in hand he’s channel-hopping the TV menu, while moaning about the poor quality of programmes on offer, “I can’t believe we’ve got a trillion channels, and I can’t find one decent thing to watch.”
“That’s why I don’t watch it,” replies Millie. She has an iPad balanced on her knees as she surfs the Internet, and suggests, “Turn on CNN… that channel always delivers well-balanced informative and interesting news… I hear their reporters are excellent!”
“You reckon?” he smiles.
Millie checks her email inbox, and amongst a raft of new messages one in particular catches her eye; an email from GEORGE. She taps the screen and the email pops up. There is no title or written message, but a video file is attached. Millie taps the icon, which buffers before opening up onto a low-resolution still frame of Hazma’s bearded face. “Turn it off!” She barks, “The TV!” and sits up, “Turn it off!”
“What?” he’s confused.
“Turn the TV off! Here we go. This’ll give you something interesting to watch.” She places the iPad between them and explains, “This is Hazma Sahar… the Iraqi terrorist who spat in my face.”
“Fucking hell!” states James, with perfect pronunciation.
Millie maximises the image, clicks the triangular play button and together they watch the recording, as Hazma speaks, “I am Hazma Sahar… Having read your detailed list of questions, I choose to answer with a statement… A quote by Bin Laden, who once said… ‘We love death, and the US loves life. That is why—’ ”
George’s voice interrupts him, piping up from the background, “Why do you love death?”
Visibly irritating Hazma, who snaps sternly “Quiet!”
George is holding the iPhone filming Hazma, and ignores him, repeating his question, “Why do you love death?”
“Give me the phone.” Hazma reaches to snatch it.
The video picture jogs up and down as George pulls back with the phone, dodging the lunge, and persists with his line of questioning. “Answer the question, Haz. Why would you love to die?”
Hazma takes a deep breath, looks into the lens, and replies emphatically, “My life is to serve Allah, to avenge the slaughter of my people, and to defend against the continued oppression of Muslims throughout the world… To achieve this, I will sacrifice myself, and die in honour.”
George fires another question, “And after you die… What happens then?”
He explains, “I will ascend to Seventh Heaven, the highest heaven, a place reserved for gods and martyrs… I will find salvation there, and be rewarded with everything I desire.”
“Things like what?”
Hazma answers assuredly, “Calm contentment… and the love of my family!”
His answer prompts George further, “But if Seven Heaven is reserved for gods and martyrs… will your parents be there?”
This annoys Hazma, who winces.
But George keeps firing; he’s genuinely intrigued to know. “What else do you desire? What else will be there? Are there cars and houses and women and cakes? Do animals live there? Does it rain? Will you grow wings? Is Heaven built on clouds, and do they feel like cotton wool?”
Frustrated by his flippant questions Hazma lunges again for the phone, and as George pulls back, the jolting lens films his own face, as he insists “Answer the questions, what’s Heaven Seven like?”
A melee ensues as both men grapple for the phone, which still films until it’s dropped to the floor. Millie’s iPad screen becomes black, the video ends.
James and Millie look at each other in silence. After a moment’s thought, he leans back into the couch, exhales, nods his head slowly and admits, “You were right… far more interesting than X Factor.”
•
As a perk for being official cell block leader, Pixie gets a single cell to himse
lf, directly adjacent to George and Hazma’s. The regulation bunks have been removed and replaced by a large single bed, along with the luxury of an armchair and a small television with built-in DVD, that sits on the tabletop playing gay porn.
Pixie lies nearly naked on his bed, except for an extremely large pair of off-white baggy Y-fronts. He has no body hair (except eyebrows). If you looked at him through squinted eyes, with his big bald head and fat squidgy pink clammy belly, he could pass for a giant baby in a nappy; except for the huge fearsome tattoo that sprawls across his expansive chest. The tattoo depicts a large cartoon pixie, complete with green pixie hat and tunic; though it varies from a conventional pixie’s image, as this one has bulging arm muscles, a mean scary face, large erect penis and the savage drooling teeth of a rabid dog.
Pixie’s eyeballs traverse towards the dividing wall, to George and Hazma’s cell. He picks up the TV remote, turns down the panting, and from next door hears the eerie muffled dulcet tones of Johann Strauss’s “The Second Waltz” floating faintly through the porous old brickwork separating the cells. Pixie lays his head back, snuggles into his pillow and listens intently, seemingly enchanted by this soothing music. He rolls over into the foetal position, places his palms together, uses them to cushion his cheek, closes his eyes, and wonders why this unusual, beautiful music is playing in the cell next door.
•
Meanwhile, on the other side of the dividing wall, George is prancing around the cell clumsily attempting to waltz to Strauss, with an invisible partner.
“Do you like the music, Haz?” he asks. “It reminds me of my ma… It’s not the same song, but nearly is. We used to dance together, in the park, when we were happy.”
Hazma doesn’t reply. He just sits sulkily at the table, mumbling to himself, “I’ve got to get out of here.”
George continues as he waltzes, “You’re not still angry because I sent that video? You shouldn’t have showed me how to send emails then. Get over it! You’re the angriest bloke I know!” He stops prancing, stoops in close to Hazma’s face and asks, “Do you like the music?”
Hazma snaps, “I don’t do music.” And then admits, “Listen, I know I keep snapping, George, but this place is killing me… I feel like a demented caged animal, in a zoo. I’m like one of those polar bears who rock from side to side because their lives have been stolen!”
George shrugs, “It’s not as bad as a cupboard though.”
Hazma seems confused by the comparison, as George suggests, “How about, I see if I can get you on garden duty, with me? You’d be out in the fresh air then.”
He looks impressed, “I’d like that!” Then as the music stops, Hazma warns, “We’ve got to keep this phone hidden. The screws will confiscate it, or someone will nick it!”
“Hide it where?” asks George.
The Iraqi looks around the cell for a hiding place, then replies, “There’s only one safe place to hide things in prison.”
“Where?”
He nods towards George’s nether region, and with a serious expression suggests, “Your bottom!”
George looks aghast.
•
In the CNN main office next day, Larry stands behind Millie at her computer, as she browses edited clips for her programme, while Strauss’s “The Second Waltz” plays softly through the speakers.
He nods and approves, “Great content… I like the background music too… it works.”
Millie agrees, “Like I said, this is my bag, Larry… giving people insight into different perspectives. Most folks are so blinkered and keen to pigeonhole people… It’s like that old song,” she sings softly, “‘Men hear what they want to hear and disregard the rest.’”
Larry hums the end of the line, then comments, “Let’s be realistic, Mills… The Iraqi’s perspective on martyrdom belongs in the dark ages.”
“I told him that,” she replies, “but in some parts of the world people’s beliefs haven’t changed since the year dot… It’s easy for us to say what we think is right, but how do we know? Who has the divine right to decide what’s right… God? But whose god is right, and by which law?” She remembers her father’s words well.
Larry answers dryly, “Whoever’s law has got the most guns.”
“Give me a break, Larry.” She looks disappointed.
“Hey, I’m just stating a fact. But listen, I really like what you’ve got here, and the name… One man’s good is another man’s evil… I like it. What else you got?”
“I’ve gone through Hazma’s trial files and there is constant reference to a Doctor Raheem Ruparela, a qualified doctor who according to the prosecution was Hazma’s mentor!” Millie reads aloud from her notepad, “Ruparela sponsored his college visa and has, it was claimed, indoctrinated him since he arrived from Iraq. The report states Ruparela is an Islamic fundamentalist who regularly speaks publicly of his outrage over Iraq, Afghanistan, and the continued oppression of all Muslims.”
Larry admits, “This religious squabbling drives me round the bend… Fuck me, we had the American Civil War and got over it. Live and let live I say.”
“Not quite the same, Larry,” responds Millie as she alt and tabs, clicks play on a YouTube video clip, and explains, “This is Ruparela, addressing a Muslim rally in London.”
The video shows close-up footage of the good-looking, well-dressed man who collected sixteen-year-old Hazma from Heathrow Airport. On the video he’s ranting in Arabic so intensely that his eyes are bloodshot, and pumping veins on his temples and neck protrude prominently.
“That’s a heart attack waiting to happen!” comments Larry.
Millie looks down at his belly. “Speak for your self, Larry!” and confirms, “I showed that Agent, Williams, from MI5 the video, and asked him about Ruparela. He wouldn’t divulge too much apart from acknowledging that the doctor dodges any flack flung his way. He called him a Teflon man, coz shit don’t stick to him. They know he’s embroiled in it up to his nuts, but his criminal record remains squeaky clean. Williams reckons Ruparela is a slick sleazeball.”
Larry looks well satisfied. “Nice work, Mills. See if you can get into Mr Sleazeball’s ribs then.”
She nods.
“Pump him for comment on Hazma’s conviction, and their relationship… Then email Hazma in prison. Tell him you’ve met the doctor, mix it up, stir the shit, plonk that fat cat right amongst the pigeons… and see what happens.”
•
Chapter: 23
Big Sausage
George puts in a good word for his cellmate and gets him assigned to garden duty with immediate effect. Hazma is positively delighted to be outside in the fresh air, away from the cell, from the traumatic mundane rigmarole of prison life, and the unbearable bravado and bullshit bandied around the exercise yard.
As he holds a shovel preparing to dig, the cool breeze ruffles Hazma’s hair; his nostrils flare as he breathes in clean wind. The sensation evokes a distant memory; closing his eyes he remembers, as a boy, the soothing night-time breeze that blew across the Tigris river behind his home. For a few brief moments, in his mind, he’s back there with his parents, until reopening his eyes to the stark reality of real life, and the sprawling perimeter wall in front of him.
An abundance of flowers and cultivated produce sprout and blossom everywhere; his eyes take a sweep across the garden, following the old brick and mortar wall line from left to right. Halfway along is the governor’s cherished cut-flower garden with its bountiful supply of beautiful roses. Alongside the rose patch sits a large wooden pallet loaded with bulging plastic sacks of lawn seed, topsoil and garden fertilizer, next to a green plastic rainwater-harvesting butt fed from guttering above.
Hazma continues his sweep along the wall to the right, until his eyes reach a large rusty rectangular metal storage tank, containing heating oil. It’s been positioned on the perimeter wall, enabling it to be filled via a feed pipe fed through from the civilian world outside. On closer inspection he notices, that the extern
al valve to the feed pipe appears to be faulty as a bucket has been placed beneath, a drip tray, to catch a slow-but-steady stream of leaking oil droplets.
His concentration is then broken, by a guard shouting, “Hey! You’re here to dig, not loiter. Garden duty is a privilege. Get to it or get back inside!”
The Iraqi digs obediently, next to George. After a few moments the guard saunters away and lights a cigarette. Once he’s out of earshot Hazma quietly grabs his cellmate’s attention, “Hey!” George shuffles closer as Hazma’s face turns inquisitive and asks, “Do you like tomatoes?”
George looks confused, “Do I like tomatoes?”
“Yes!” He snaps impatiently, “Do you like tomatoes?”
George replies, “Well… I really like tomato ketchup… and yeah, tomatoes as well, why?”
“I’ll explain later.” He nods towards to guard, “Go speak to that screw and ask if you can grow tomato plants against that wall.”
“Oh.” George needs clarification, “What… why?”
Hazma spells it out, “Just say, that you really like tomatoes, and you want to grow them here, in the prison garden for the governor, against that wall.”
“Okay…” George agrees. “But…”
“Just do it!” Hazma whispers aggressively.
“But what about—”
The Iraqi cuts him short, he’s sick to death of explaining everything and spits, “Just ask him, don’t say anything else, and if he asks questions just pretend you’re thick… it shouldn’t be hard!”
George looks hurt, but agrees anyway, “Okay, okay…” and shuffles away towards the guard, dragging his shovel behind him.
Hazma watches discretely as his cellmate reaches the smoking guard and announces gormlessly, “I really like tomatoes!”
•
Later that afternoon, as both cellmates wait in the canteen queue, George whispers into Hazma’s ear, “What’s with the tomatoes then?”