Ball of Confusion

by Ian Black

  •

  Several hours later Millie lies shivering on the van’s cold red-metal floor; arms tied behind her back, ankles bound, mouth taped, and though the hood blacks-out Millie’s vision, cold metal directly against her skin confirms that her body is as stark-naked as she feels.

  Her nose throbs from Binda’s punch, and a headache pounds as her mind conjures up thoughts continually: I’m freezing, scared, naked. My head hurts, and my nose. I’m cold and naked. Will they rape me? I’m really scared. Are MI5 watching? Where am I? What have I done? I’m scared! Naked! Really scared!

  A sound halts her thoughts: squeaky doors opening. Panic levels increase; she tenses her body, instinctively clamps her knees and thighs together tightly, twisting her legs and body to the side, in a futile attempt at protecting her modesty.

  Without vision Millie’s other senses heighten; she hears and feels movement of a man climbing into the van, which rocks on its suspension as he steps over her. Breathing in and out with short sharp inhalations, through aching nostrils she can smell him: a stale combination of sweat and spices.

  The hood is pulled from her head, from behind. With wide frightened eyes she looks up, and as her vision adjusts to the light, focuses on a bulky face kneeling over her from behind; Imran.

  Using neck muscles Millie lifts her head, and with chin on chest looks down across her exposed breasts and trembling naked body. Beneath her feet the van’s double doors gape open, revealing Ruparela, Binda and Hazma stood outside, ogling over her flesh.

  Their eyes crawl across her skin. She huddles into a ball, frets, and stares back. Ruparela looks markedly different; his usual smart-suited attire and clean-shaven image replaced now by dull casual unfashionable clothes, a good growth of beard, and hair in need of a trim; no longer gelled back. At a glance he could pass for another man… except those dark piercing eyes that are him unmistakeably. Binda looks unkempt and weird as usual, while Hazma wears heavy stubble, and appears to be hanging back deliberately behind the other two’s shoulders. Millie stares directly into his eyes, knowing he knows she’s looking, but he gazes down, refusing to make eye contact.

  Looking past them, the van appears to be parked inside a large empty industrial factory unit.

  Imran grabs hold from behind, forcing Millie down by her shoulders; she winces as long strong fingers grip painfully into her armpits, preventing movement of her upper body. He presses down and leans over; his intimidating upside-down face hovers closely over hers. She views close up his sprouting forest of spiky black nostril hairs. His hot stale breath stinks.

  Looking down Imran sees a thin wavering dried blood line, from Binda’s earlier punch, trickled across silky brown skin from her nostril, into the dimple of her cupid’s bow.

  “Grab her ankles!” Ruparela commands. Binda and Hazma kneel into the van, prompting Millie to lash out dolphin-kicking wildly with both legs, until the men grab hold. The doctor feasts with his eyes, orchestrating events with sinister satisfaction, “Untie the legs.”

  As Hazma releases rope restraining her ankles, Ruparela’s lips form a sadistic semi-smile. He’s enjoying the experience too much, and drawls pleasurably, “Open them.”

  Millie screams, but duct tape dampens the sounds to muffled squeals, growls and grunts. Not giving up without a fight she bucks her hips, trying hard to lash-out with her legs, but well-restrained by three men her valiant efforts are in vain… Grappling a leg each, Binda and Hazma prise her legs apart, scissor-like, until they’re gaping open wide.

  Her wriggling body is held firmly at three points, shaped like a letter Y. Raging from her throat, seething through teeth and nose, her wild eyes bulge bloodshot as all four men stare down at her vagina; like silent drooling dogs, smelling a bitch’s scent… Their ogling lasts only seconds, but seems like hours to her. She’s locked inside a tense simmering pressure cooker… and Millie’s the meat.

  Then all attention is drawn… to the recognisable sound of a zip unzipping torturously slowly. Hazma and Binda look back over their shoulders, at Ruparela unfastening his trousers, revealing snow-white boxer shorts beneath.

  Millie racks her brain frantically for ways to defend or attack while by being assaulted by four men. With hands and arms tied she’s unable to fight or scratch, restrained legs can’t kick or knee, she can’t bite because of the tape; she’s helpless and exposed totally. These men can do with her whatever they want. More than anything Millie wants to stop them… but knows she can’t!

  The doctor nods his head, up and down slowly, approving of what’s presented before him. He purrs, “Very nice, Ms Jones,” and steps forward. “Very nice indeed!” then clambers inside the van crouching down on all fours beside her, before taking his time over a close personal inspection of her body… Millie feels violated, already; it’s like his eyes are penetrating her skin, invading germs attacking her pores, as if she’s drowning in a swarming ants’ nest, her flesh itches, twitches and crawls; even more so as he manoeuvres himself over into the missionary position above her.

  Hovering over her, he looks down into Millie’s eyes, that stare back stubbornly as he starts thrusting his groin sexually into hers, mimicking sex. With hot breath he whispers, “We know what Western women like… The way you dress, and act… We know what you want!”

  She struggles lionheartedly as Ruparela cups his palm and holds it just millimetres away from her breast.

  Prepared now for the worst, with gritted teeth and scrunched-up eyes she tosses her head from side to side; Millie’s tears trickle and cries whimper as his hand hovers sensually downwards, just above the skin. And though his hand hasn’t yet touched her flesh… she feels his energy.

  Reaching her groin area, she feels his hand twisting around as he fumbles with his flies.

  Millie has interviewed many rape victims, but none prepared her for this. She snarls, sobs, and prepares to be raped. He stops fumbling and mocks, “George called me a dragon… and you’re a damsel in distress!”

  George’s name focuses Millie’s mind. She stops sobbing immediately, tenses her body rigid, and in frigid anticipation glares back into cruel cold eyes that mock as he sneers, “I have fire in my belly too!”

  Millie tenses so hard that her muscles and tendons shake, while her banging heart booms. With nostrils flaring her eyes bore back into his… she awaits penetration.

  “But you need not fret…” he says… and surprisingly, with one upward jerk, zips up his flies and with a cackle states, “I’m not a complete monster…” explaining, “I want something more valuable from you!”

  Then much to Millie’s amazement Ruparela reverses out of the van, the other three release her, and climb out too. She shuffles into a tight trembling ball.

  Ruparela tosses a pile of black cotton garments onto her body, commands, “Dress her!” then swivels nonchalantly on his heel and strolls casually away, whistling.

  •

  Chapter: 33

  Gratuity

  Later that afternoon, inside a shabby back-street London curry house, the cheap menus presented flat beneath glass covered tables are priced to suit the pockets of its local clientele. None of which populate this empty restaurant right now. Customers and cash are hard to come by in this degenerated area, where the demographic is poor.

  Two staff members keep themselves to themselves, as another carries a jug of water towards a closed door leading to a back room, guarded by bearded Imran, whose head is well shrouded, buried inside a hoody.

  He knocks, opens the door, and allows the waiter entry to where Ruparela and Hazma sit at a solitary table inside, both partially disguised in bob caps, peaks down, collars up, and speak in hushed voices while stooped across the table, but stop instantly as the young waiter approaches and tops up their glasses.

  They watch him pour in silence, then as he leaves Ruparela requests, “The bill.”

  He nods subserviently and scurries away. As the door closes the doctor confesses, “Living in hiding is difficult for me.” sliding
his steel bowl of food away in disgust, and admits, “I’m accustomed to better than this… That reporter has cost me everything.”

  “What will you do?” Hazma enquires. “Where you will go? Pakistan, Yemen… home to Iraq? We have people there.”

  “I can’t live in hiding,” he snaps back, “in some hideaway shack, dressed like this… I can’t live in a cave; I’m accustomed to more than that! You see, Hazma, I hope you understand when I explain how, in serving Allah, well… I became entrenched within a lavish Westernised lifestyle, which was absolutely necessary to disguise myself within the infrastructure of this God-forsaken country; but now… my forced sabbatical away from what became my normal life… I’ve had time to reflect, and cause to wonder whether, well… maybe I did become too accustomed to those trappings of my trade.”

  This unprecedented confession, if it is one from the doctor, was unexpected; Hazma listens intently as he continues, “I must confess, I did indeed grow to enjoy those possessions, and maybe… well, maybe I enjoyed the fruits a little too much!” He pauses, shakes his head and explains, “But in my defence, those things were forced upon me… by my profession… The ways of the West tempted me, and fell into my lap so eventually… I coveted, yes, I know that now. I coveted, accepted and enjoyed those things… and I shouldn’t have.”

  Hazma sits in surprised silence. Not knowing quite how to respond, especially as he asks, “What else could I do?”

  While debating whether to reply or not Hazma keeps quiet as Ruparela wipes his hands with a napkin, takes a sip of water and admits, “I do miss that life… but now CNN have broadcast my face all over the world, I can’t live that life again. If I stay in Britain it’s only a matter of time before they catch me. Alternatively, I could flee and keep running and hiding… but that’s just not my style.”

  “So what will you do?”

  Though they’re alone, Ruparela still looks around to check before whispering, “Now is my time.”

  “For what?”

  The doctor rolls his eyes upwards towards the ceiling.

  Hazma’s confused, and repeats his question, “Time for what?”

  He leans in closer across the table and utters, “Paradise.”

  Hazma’s jaw drops, “Why? How? When?”

  “Now is my time… Why? Because I’m disappointed at the failure of my Parliament plot… that was my gift to our people, my crowning glory… but it failed dismally.” For the first time Hazma has known, the doctor looks sheepish as he admits, “I’m also… embarrassed at myself… in the way I coveted. I succumbed to my weaknesses, and for that… I must redeem myself.”

  “How?”

  For the first time in days, Ruparela’s toothy white grin sparkles behind his beard, “My door to Paradise was inspired by your old friend George… and with your technical assistance my death will make a statement to the world.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow… I need one ton of explosives loaded into my car by morning.”

  A knock precedes the door being opened by Imran for the same young waiter to enter, who silently and respectfully places a handwritten bill for £9.00 in front of Ruparela.

  Hazma drops his head, slumps back in the chair and mopes.

  “Thank you, young man,” the doctor acknowledges the waiter. “The food was, rather basic, but your service and manners were… exemplary! You are worthy of a fine tip!”

  The waiter smiles, then after a polite bow of the head retreats.

  Ruparela places a £10.00 note on top of the receipt then returns his attention to Hazma, having noticed his body language, and questions, “You’re disappointed? This is monumental for me… Why so glum?”

  He looks up, and solemnly admits, “I believed… my turn would be next. I cannot stand, living in limbo. I need salvation.”

  Ruparela understands his devastation, at not being next in line for martyrdom. He’s been nurtured for it; trained and disciplined to expect it. The doctor stands, moves around the table, clasps Hazma’s head gently in his palms, kisses him softly on the forehead and explains, “Now is my time. Your time will come. Be proud that tomorrow you will press the button, and afterwards you will succeed me, and decide your own time… We came here today alone… because I wanted to explain my feelings and plans to you, away from the others… You are special, Hazma… chosen by Allah… When your time comes, it will be magnificent!”

  The doctor reaches for his coat, “Come!”

  Despondently, his prodigy stands, trudges across to the door, and politely holds it open as Ruparela leaves, then deliberately makes a point of holding the door for the same waiter, who enters to clear the table.

  Hazma observes with great interest as the young man lays eyes on his gratuity… presented on top of the £10.00 note… Ruparela’s shimmering gold Rolex wristwatch.

  His priceless face sparkles like the diamonds on the watch.

  •

  Early next morning, Millie remains cuddled up tightly in a shivering ball on the cold van floor. The loose cotton trousers, tunic and hood are insufficient to provide warmth on this chilly April morning, and whatever position she contorts herself into, her bare feet inevitably end up touching cold metal; on the walls or the floor. She hasn’t felt her toes for hours, and wiggles them constantly trying to get circulation going.

  Millie was physically and mentally drained before her abduction, and now, after the additional trauma and lack of sleep she’s operating on extremely low levels of reserve battery power, and control. During the night she was too cold and too scared to sleep, in case they came back. In darkness she shivered the whole time, fidgeting and thinking the same thoughts, repeatedly self-examining herself, all adding to her mental exhaustion, but now, only one solitary thought remains paramount in her mind: What will happen to me now?

  Her ears prick up, on hearing a door open and slam closed from outside in the warehouse. It echoes around the factory, followed by loudening footsteps approaching the van.

  Though Millie’s movement is severely hampered, with arms tied behind her back and legs bound, she has improved shuffling technique now and slides her body backwards across the floor, getting as far away from the doors as possible, squashing herself back into the corner.

  She identifies sounds: the footsteps halt, keys jangle, followed by squeaking hinges as the rear doors open. Someone steps inside and moves towards her. Millie tenses her body, as the hood is yanked from her head.

  Squinting up, she sees Hazma looking down at her feet, still avoiding eye contact, until he glances and reaches out towards her face. She tries to recoil further, but her back’s already rammed against the partition wall behind the driver’s seat, and remains rigid as Hazma picks at the tape covering her mouth, then tears it clean off.

  She winces at the stinging pain, while feeling relief at being able to open her mouth. The eye-watering experience reminds her of seeing it happen to George, on that fatal video, and for the millionth time thinks: poor George, then stares up with disdain, at the man who killed him.

  Hazma pulls out a vacuum-packed sandwich and plastic bottle of water, unscrews the top and thrusts the drink to her mouth.

  She stubbornly keeps her lips closed, firmly; forcing him to look her in the eye and command, “Drink!”

  As Hazma looks down at Millie, cowering behind raised knees, she looks a forlorn dishevelled figure, and he can’t help comparing the tarnished image squatting before him now, to the beautiful sophisticated confident female he’d met in prison. Her mascara-smeared eyes peek through a flung-forward mane of straggly hair, cascading over her face, sticking out all over the place, hood-hair.

  He repeats, “Drink!”

  Millie is parched, having spent over twenty-four hours without drink or food, and though she doesn’t feel hungry, she does crave the liquid he’s offering, and after remembering her father’s words about fuelling your body, she offers her lips to the bottle, rehydrates, and takes a small bite of the sandwich. It’s stale, dry and tastes like
cardboard, but it’s fuel.

  Hazma passes on instructions, mumbling “Doctor Ruparela will allow you to interview him today.”

  Looking unimpressed, she replies hoarsely, “I need the bathroom.”

  “There isn’t one.”

  “I’ll interview him wearing wet pants then!” she responds dryly.

  Hazma grimaces, and looks out through the van’s rear doors, in thought, then stoops, grabs hold of the rope restraining her ankles and without a word drags her across the floor to the doors.

  “Such a gentleman!” she comments sarcastically, while the back of her head bounces off the floor.

  He hoists Millie up, fireman-lifts her onto his shoulder and carries the reporter, like a sack of potatoes, several paces away from the van. Looking around confirms to Millie, she’s inside a huge old empty warehouse, without windows, only skylights.

  He slides Millie off, onto her feet, points at the concrete floor and instructs, “Do it here.”

  Still fully dressed, hands tied behind her back, a questioning expression forms on her face as she asks cynically, “In my pants?”

  He hadn’t fully considered the process, and looks uncomfortable.

  “Well, come on!” she insists. “Either untie me or pull them down!”

  He dithers; weighing up the safest, most hassle-free and least embarrassing option.

  “What’s the matter?” she snaps. “You’ve seen everything I’ve got!”

  He sighs, then tentatively kneels before her and with head bowed, and eyes averted, tugs the cotton trousers down to Millie’s ankles; before standing, stepping several paces away and turning his back on her.

  With limbs bound, Millie finds it awkward to squat, and it takes a moment to balance sufficiently before she pees; but then, just seconds into urinating notices that the concrete floor slopes away slightly, as her urine stream runs towards Hazma’s heel, and he’s facing the other way.

  Having not peed for a full day, Millie’s brimming bladder releases in full flow, at a pressurised pace. She watches her river run, and enjoys the satisfaction of feeling that in some small way she’s having a go back, and wills her wee on as it trickles through cracks and crevices en route towards his boot.