by Sharon McKay
He was an ogre out of a fairy story, Pax thought. A monster, made-up, silly, laughable. He would make up a story about him. His name would be Neckless. What would the story be about? He tried to put his mind someplace else, someplace far, far away.
The policeman nodded to Neckless. Pax pulled at the restraints. He waited for the blow. Neckless lifted the whip and slashed his feet. The pain seared the inside of his body.
“Mister? What is his full name?” asked the policeman-torturer.
“I don’t know.” Pax’s words lodged in his throat.
“Where does he live?” he shouted.
“I don’t know.” How was he to know such a thing?
The whip came down, again. With each stroke, Pax thought he might slip into oblivion. Not death, he did not want to die. He had to save Kai. He wanted to go to a place where there was no pain. Think. Think.
“Tell us about the street gang of boys,” said the policeman.
Pax gnashed his teeth. “I am not part of a gang,” he answered.
“LIAR! You are a liar. LIAR. LIAR. Even now we are rounding up the boys on the street. Do you know the boy called Rambo? He tells us that you were the leader of the gang. What of the boy Tirta? He tells us that you are a thief.”
The whip came down, again.
Pax screamed. This time blood flew up and spattered Neckless.
The policeman stepped aside. He examined his shirt, then took out a white handkerchief and dabbed at a spot of blood. He looked at his watch.
“This foreign man named Andy gave you a bicycle. How was he involved?” The policeman suddenly sounded tired.
“He was not involved,” said Pax.
“Then you were involved.”
“I don’t understand.”
Over and over Pax tried to think of a story about Neckless. Perhaps he was a dwarf-giant from another planet. That’s it. Everyone around him was a giant but he was little. He had been banished to Earth.
“You said this . . . Andy was not involved. That means that you were involved, or how would you know? Tell us the names of the people who are terrorists. Confess that you are the leader of a street gang of boys who plotted to kill.” The policeman’s words were loud, but at the same time he sounded rather bored—as if he was weary of the questions.
“I do not understand.” How could he be a leader of anything?
“Tell me if you recognize any of these names.” The policeman read out names of men and women Pax had never heard of or met.
He tried to imagine Neckless in a sea of giants. Maybe they came from the ocean? The story was receding, drifting away. It wasn’t a very good story . . .
The man leaned down and hissed in Pax’s ear. “I will tell you something. The feet are the most sensitive part of the body. This will happen again and again. You will get a daily ration of fifty lashes until you confess that you are the leader of street boys who plotted to kill. Even now we are rounding up more street boys. In the end, they will all say that you are their leader.”
Again and again and again. The blows to his feet created a trail of flames that licked his legs, raced up his spine, and exploded in his head. He was being roasted alive from the inside out. No story could control it, reduce it, or charm it away.
Later Pax was forced to walk back down the hallway. He left bloody footprints down the halls.
“It’s good for the circulation, to get the blood to your feet. Otherwise your feet will get infected and we will have to cut them off,” said the guard who shuffled behind him. He too seemed bored.
Pax was taken to a new cell. He clutched the doorframe with his hands and tried to hobble forward. On the mud floor of his cell was a thick mat and two pillows. Pillows? Where had they come from?
Pax fell forward. He put one pillow under his head and the second under his feet.
Sleep was impossible. The pain in his feet arrived in waves. Every wave was like a jolt of electricity. The noise in the prison was constant: banging, rattling, yelling, clinking, cell doors opening and closing, metal scraping metal. There was screaming, too. It echoed up and down the halls, bounced off walls, and stuck to him like sweat.
He heard footsteps, great, clobbering steps that a giant might make. There was the sliding of a bolt, the turning of a key, and a rumble.
“Get up.”
Pax rolled onto all fours. Slowly, using the wall, he stood. He came out of the cell like a rabbit, nose first, body trembling. He stumbled down a hall. Every step shot rivers of pain up his legs and into his head.
“You have five minutes in the toilet.” The guard hovered above him, his breath stale and smelly.
Pax hobbled down the hall and vomited into a stinking hole.
When Pax returned to his cell, there was a tin cup filled with broth. His hand shook as he held the cup up to his mouth. He drank it all.
He fell asleep.
There was an announcement on the loudspeaker. They called his name. He was not awake, but he was not asleep either. He was in that place where pain invades the mind and leaves one paralyzed.
His cell door opened. A guard stood on the threshold. This guard was different from the last. He did not wear a uniform. He was in rags but he carried a big stick.
“Did you not hear your name? GET UP!” he shouted.
Pax lay on his side. The guard slammed his stick down on Pax’s waist and something deep inside his body broke. Pax moaned.
“When you hear your name on the loudspeaker, you must go to interrogation,” screamed the guard.
Hand over hand, Pax clawed his way up. He stood and looked at the person holding the stick. A tongue coated in a thick white film flicked against black teeth. The teeth stuck out of rotting gums like crooked tombstones poking out of the ground. He was wearing a long, dirty shirt that came down to his knees. His pants were torn. His knees bulged like knotted ropes under scabby skin stretched too tight.
“You are a pretty boy. Wait. You will not have that face much longer. If you do not hurry, they will make it worse for you.” The guard poked him with the stick.
“Kai, the boy, where is he?” said Pax.
“Who is this Kai?”
“He is a boy. He came with me to this place. Where is he?” Pax tried to be brave, tried to stand tall.
“What have you got to give me?” asked the ragged guard.
“I have nothing.”
“Then I have nothing to tell you.” The stick swiped Pax’s back. “Hurry up.”
Pax shuffled down the corridor.
Chapter 24
This interrogation was no different from the last, and the one before it. How many? Pax had lost count. He would tell them what they wanted, but he knew nothing. They wanted him to say that Andy was a terrorist. Andy? Who was Andy? It was hard to remember things. Pax said nothing because there was nothing to say.
Pax stumbled back to his cell. Again, the tin cup was full and beside it was a hunk of bread. His hands shook as he held the cup to his lips. He chewed the bread slowly. He fell into a black, dreamless sleep.
Light from the hallway came into his cell. His tongue thick, his mouth parched, he reached for his tin cup. He whispered, “Let there be a drop left, just a drop.” It was a prayer.
“Looking for this?” The raggedy guard stood on the threshold holding up a lamp, and for a moment Pax thought of Bell. How she hated it when people stood in doorways. “It’s bad luck,” she would say. Bell, Bell, Bell. Help me, Bell. A silent prayer.
“What are you mumbling?” snapped the raggedy guard.
Pax shook his head.
The guard reached for Pax’s tin cup. “I said, what are you mumbling?” He growled like a dog as he threw the cup at Pax. “Answer me!” The stick came down on Pax’s head.
Pax fell back into darkness.
He divided night from day not by light but by sounds. During the day there was screaming. At night he could hear sobs. Now, it was night.
There was someone in his cell. Pax held his breath. His ears perke
d. Shuffling. He felt a hand cup the back of his head.
“Sit up,” the voice hissed in his ear.
Pax struggled to sit. He heard the word “Drink.”
Pax felt cool water run down his throat. His parched lips were moistened.
“M-more,” Pax stammered.
Again, water was dribbled into his mouth. “Sip slowly.” Who was talking? Looking out through his swollen eyes was like peering through dirty water.
“Who are you?” Pax asked.
“My name is Ezat. Sip more water. Not too fast.” More cool liquid dripped down his throat. “Tell me your name,” he asked.
Questions. Pax did not like questions. But the man offered water. He seemed—kind. Was it a trick?
“Pax,” he mumbled.
“Listen to me, Pax. The one who was beating you with the stick—he is a repentant, a prisoner who does the bidding of the guards. They call him Stink Boy. They give him extras—food, clothes, cigarettes, money—to be a bully. Do as he says. He isn’t much older than you are. How old are you? This is important. They execute boys over fifteen.”
“I am almost fifteen” he answered. The truth was, he no longer knew exactly how old he was. “Can you help me find Kai? He is only a boy. He will be a mathematician one day and go to a great university.”
“Eat. I brought you bread,” said Ezat.
With only meager light from the hallway, Pax’s eyes drifted from cup to bread to the face of the man above him. He’d said his name was Ezat.
Ezat stood and turned to the cell door, peering left, then right. He moved like a soldier—shoulders back, head held high—but he was crooked all the same, sloped to one side. He was tall and skinny. His dark hair was mixed with white.
“Why are you helping me?” asked Pax. His voice was raspy.
The man returned to Pax’s side. “I have a son. He is younger than you, just a baby. He is with his mother. I hope that maybe someone will help them. I do not have much time. Listen.”
Ezat went back to the doorway and once again peered up and down the hall before sitting back down beside Pax.
“There are men in here who will take care of you, good men. Political prisoners. I must not stay too long. The guards watch. They will think we are plotting. Come out to the common room. We can help you there. You too are a political prisoner. Do you know what that means?” asked Ezat.
Pax shook his head.
“You are not allowed visitors. You will be kept separate. They will torture you. During torture they will read out names. If you identify any of those names, they will do to them what they are doing to you. Do you understand?”
Pax nodded.
“You are a boy, but that won’t protect you. If you are to survive—are you listening? If you are to survive, you must think of other things—stories, good times, happy memories. You must let your mind help protect you.” Ezat looked down at Pax with soft eyes.
Pax stared up at the man. Yes, yes, he knew about stories. He understood stories. He tried to make up a story about Neckless. Pain cuts through stories.
They both heard footsteps.
“I will come back.” Ezat vanished.
Where did he go? Had he imagined him?
Pax fell back into a dreamless sleep.
Chapter 25
Pax was asleep, but not a deep sleep, not a restful sleep. He was ready, at any moment, to protect himself.
Stink Boy raised his baton and smacked it hard against Pax’s shoulder. “Wake up, Prison Boy. Your little friend is with the guards. They like him very much.” Stink Boy laughed.
A surge of energy flooded his body. Pax leapt up. His hands reached for Stink Boy’s throat. Stink Boy slammed his stick against Pax’s chest. Pax gasped, fell back against the wall, and slid to the ground.
“Now you are awake! Maybe he is not with the guards. Maybe he is being beaten at this moment.” Stink Boy stood over him and chuckled.
Pax’s chest contracted. He pulled his knees up to his chin. What had he done? No one would come for him. No one would come for Kai. It was his fault. If he had never thought about England, about Kai going to a faraway school, he would not have been blinded by the money Mister offered. If Kai died, he would be responsible for his death. It was easier to think him dead than to imagine him being abused, being passed from man to man, being tortured. If he was dead, he would be out of reach, out of pain, out of harm’s way.
“Kai, forgive me,” Pax howled, like an animal in a trap.
“Quiet! They will call for you soon. You should tell them what they want to hear.” Stink Boy rapped his stick against the cell doors as he left. Bang, bang, bang.
Pax waited to be called over the loudspeaker. Waiting was the worst. He tried not to cry, but the tears felt good in his eyes. He lay down.
“Pax?”
Who was calling him? Pax lifted his head and perked his ears as he rubbed the wet from his face. He listened.
“Pax.”
It was Ezat. He entered the cell and sat beside Pax.
“This was smuggled in.” Ezat spread a newspaper on the floor.
Pax crawled towards Ezat on his knees. He should try to stand. They said that walking was good for his circulation and would eventually toughen the soles of his feet, but the pain was excruciating.
Pax looked down at the front page of the newspaper. He recognized himself. “It’s me! Kai too. Where did it come from?” The picture was startlingly clear, their faces looking forward as if staring into the camera.
“It looks like it is from a security camera. They are popular in that part of the city,” said Ezat.
Above the photograph it said, “Terrorists held in custody.” Under the picture it said, “Street Boys Become Boy Terrorists.”
“We are not terrorists,” Pax whispered. He tried to read the article beneath the photograph, but the paper was badly crumpled. It might have said, “22 killed in timed explosions, 108 wounded.”
“I am not a killer, and Kai is just a boy.” Vomit rose up in his throat. “They think I set a bomb, that I deliberately killed people.” Pax turned away.
“No, Pax. You are too young and know too little. You were being used. And you are being used still.” Ezat folded his legs under him.
“I do not understand. How can they use me still?” Pax looked at Ezat.
“They have not caught the men responsible for the bombings. Some say the government set off the bombs. They say that the government needed an excuse to clean up the streets,” said Ezat.
“How can they blame the street kids?” Pax’s voice was raspy.
“It does no good to think too much about that. You must use all your strength to survive. You are not alone. There are people on the outside who are trying to help you. There are good people in this country.” Ezat was gentle, his voice almost comforting.
“Who?” There was no one in the whole world who cared about him or Kai.
“It’s best if you do not know, that way you cannot tell. Remember, you are not alone. It is possible that if you are put on trial, the world will see that you are just a boy, that it was not you who planned this destruction,” said Ezat.
“But what if the judge and the government don’t care about what the world thinks?” asked Pax. “What if I am found guilty?”
Ezat shook his head. “It is hard to tell what will happen. A government in disarray is like a cornered rat, it is hard to predict what it will do.”
Inside Pax’s head he screamed, This is unfair. I did nothing! But his lips did not move. He turned his head to the wall. Trial. Execution. He remembered Kai coming back from the execution, Ol’ May walking behind him. Kai had said that the hanged man kicked his feet as the rope choked the life out of him. He died kicking his feet in the air—dancing. Pax closed his eyes.
“Come out. Come and meet the others. You must try, Pax. You will gain strength from the others. They understand.” Ezat offered his hand to help him up.
Pax lay on the mat and shook his head. It was bet
ter to be alone, better to hide, better to sleep.
Ezat put a finger to his lips. Both heard the thud-thud of Stink Boy as he lumbered down the hallway. The sound echoed from a long way off. Ezat folded the newspaper and tucked it under his shirt.
“Remember what I said. Go to a place in your mind where you can find peace. Your brain controls your limbs, your eyes, your thoughts.” Ezat leaned in closer. “Use your imagination. Let it take you far away. Exercise your body as best you can. Find a place in your body that does not hurt, a shoulder, a hand—something. Exercise it. Make that part of your body stronger. This is how you fight back. Will you do that?” he asked.
Pax nodded. He wasn’t listening. He was thinking, What happens to people when they die? Where do they go? Do sins go with them?
Ezat left quietly and, once he was gone, Pax cried.
Chapter 26
Pax lay on the bed, his hands and feet tied. The policeman who dressed like a tourist sat beside him on a chair. “Do you want this to stop?” he whispered in Pax’s ear. Yes, yes, more than anything. Pax nodded. “I do not want to hurt you. I want the truth,” said the policeman.
“I have told you all that I know,” said Pax. The man ran his hands through his hair. Pax turned his head. For the first time Pax looked at him, really looked. The man had soft eyes. How could that be?
“Because of your actions, many people are dead and over a hundred no longer have limbs, are blind, cannot hear. Your boss caused this. My boss wants answers. The people want answers. They want to be kept safe. If making a boy tell the truth will help keep them safe, then that is what the government will do. It is not my fault. I must do what I am told. Do you understand?” said the policeman. He was speaking in a normal voice now.
“I understand,” said Pax.
“Then tell me the truth.”
“I have told you all that I know.” Tears choked him. He coughed.
“That is the problem. I don’t believe you.” The policeman sighed.
The days passed. Pax seldom left his cell, despite Ezat’s insistence. Some days he was beaten. On the other days he was left to think about being beaten. He no longer tried to make up stories about Neckless. The pain of being beaten cut like jagged teeth through any thoughts or stories or happy memories. Ezat was wrong. His imagination brought no relief. He rubbed his side. There was a dull pain there, a different pain from all the rest.