Blood Wedding

by P J Brooke

  ‘If you don’t whisper it now, I can no longer protect you. You will go somewhere where Allah can’t protect you. You will wish you had never been born. Do you know what that means, Hassan? Just whisper the truth to the walls, Hassan. Then this can all be over. Just whisper, Hassan. Just whisper.’

  ‘B—but there’s nothing t—to whisper. Nothing.’

  ‘Then nothing you will be.’

  The butcher left, and returned with three men. The butcher stood over the cowering Hassan. He kicked him in the ribs again.

  ‘To make sure you don’t forget me.’

  Two of the men lifted Hassan to his feet, and the third snapped handcuffs over his wrists. They dragged him out of the cell, and along the corridor to a car park, and into a waiting car. It was dark outside with a pale sliver of moon hovering over the heated darkness. Panic rose, subsided, rose, subsided. Welts swelled up under the cuffs. The car stopped. Hassan was dragged out, through a door, along a corridor, down steps, and into a bright, flickering light. Figures in uniform appeared. Hassan shuffled after them. Unable to focus, all he could see was the uniform. He needed to wash, wash away all the dirt, all these hands.

  ‘Allah. Allah,’ he intoned.

  Then the uniform suddenly stopped.

  ‘This is your cell, pretty boy. We’ll see how a pretty boy like you gets on here. A pretty boy like this should get on just fine, shouldn’t he, Jesús?’

  ‘Just fine,’ laughed Jesús.

  The laugh pierced Hassan’s eyes. He hardly noticed when they took off the handcuffs. He hardly felt being pushed into the cell.

  Jesús laughed again.

  ‘No need to lock the cell door here, you know. You’re going nowhere. The Qur’an won’t help you in here. Nobody can help you in here. Call if you want to confess.’

  Hassan started to sob. He needed to wash away the hands. All those hands constantly touching him. He crawled to the corner, drew his knees up to his chin, and tried to melt into the wall.

  ‘Just whisper it to the wall, Hassan. Whisper it to the wall.’

  There was no light in the cell, only a flicker of the pale moon. All around him were noises: rough voices, loud farts, shouts, moaning.

  ‘Check the cells,’ a loud voice commanded. Batons rang against steel along the corridor.

  ‘You have a new guest, a real pretty Muslim boy. He’ll need a proper welcome. You should introduce yourselves. We’ve no need to lock his door. He’s going nowhere. You have my permission to give him a welcome worthy of a king.’

  Again the harsh laugh.

  For the first time Hassan noticed the smell of urine, sweet and pungent. His eyes began to focus. The bucket in the corner, the wooden bed, the dark grey blanket, the Formica-top table. The shivering wouldn’t stop. Cold. Cold. Wash. Wash. Pray. Pray.

  ‘Only Allah can save me from the infidels. I must pray.’

  His mother’s face appeared. ‘Hassan, I have to leave you now. Always remember, I always loved you, and always will.’

  ‘Just whisper it to the wall, Hassan. Whisper it to the wall.’

  There was silence. Then a voice called out.

  ‘Hey. Pretty boy. I bet you’ve got a nice little arse. You a maricón? No matter. That little arse of yours needs a real welcome. Doesn’t it, lads.’

  There was laughter. ‘A real welcome,’ echoed round the corridor.

  Hassan, whisper it to the wall. Melt into the wall. Hassan curled into the wall. Exhaustion. Sleep.

  At exactly two in the morning they came. There was no noise. They entered the cell silently. Dark presences. Breathing.

  Hassan woke. They lifted him to his feet. They dragged him to the bed. They stripped him naked. Hassan screamed with the first penetration. Whisper it to the wall, Hassan.

  ‘I knew he’d be a right pretty boy. Your turn, José.’

  ‘I love you, Hassan. I love you.’ His mother’s voice echoed in his head.

  ‘Your turn, Pedro.’

  Whisper it to the wall, Hassan. Whisper it.

  ‘Hey. Where’s that fucking Felipe? Go get the bastard. Tell him he’s missing the fun.’

  Whisper it, Hassan. Whisper it. Darkness.

  They left as silently as they had entered.

  The guards entered the cell at dawn.

  ‘Mierda! We’d better get a doctor. They’ve overdone it. Get that doctor quick.’

  ‘Oh Christ . . . Break the lock. Make it look as if they broke in.’

  ‘They’ll be no confession from him for a while,’ said Jesús, looking at the still body.

  Whisper it to the wall, Hassan. Whisper it.

  Yo era.

  Chapter 17

  La Guardia Civil se aleja

  Por un túnel de silencio

  Mientras las llamas te cercan.

  The Civil Guardsmen ride away

  through a tunnel of silence

  while the flame encircles you.

  Frederico García Lorca, Romance de la Guardia Civil Española

  Max awoke with a start. He reached for his watch. There was enough pale moonlight to make out the dials. Mierda. Two thirty. The heat was still oppressive, his T-shirt sticky with sweat. He stumbled out of the bed, and foraged in his cupboard for a fresh one. Not finding any, he crawled back to bed naked. He shifted around on the crumpled sheet, trying to find a cool, comfortable spot: his memory playing on like the radio. ‘This is democratic Spain, not Argentina under the military . . . Hassan, I love you . . . What is truth, said jesting Pilate, and would not stay for an answer.’

  He finally fell asleep, but at dawn a gang of noisy tourists decided to serenade the neighbourhood. There was no going back to sleep now. His head throbbed. He felt depressed. Had he done enough to help Hassan? Martín’s warning to Bonila should have an impact. Hell. Max sat naked in the tiny kitchen, sipping a glass of cold water. It helped cool him down, but didn’t lift his spirits. He felt tense, edgy and reluctant to go into the police headquarters, fearful of what he might find. His head continued to throb. He put on a Monteverdi disc, but for once that did nothing to help.

  I must do something, he thought. I can’t just sit here.

  Happy thought . . . the little stub of kef, left over from a Moroccan trip, inside the silver inkwell on the desk. Would help him calm down and relax. He hadn’t smoked for a long time. But boy – could he do with a drag right now. Max got the stub and skinned up a joint. He went on to the tiny terrace, and inhaled slowly, twice. The morning sun was now hitting the perfect geometric shapes of the Alhambra. Whether it was the baraka of the Alhambra or the dope, he slowly relaxed.

  If Linda could see me now . . . Linda? What the hell. I still fancy her. Weird. She’s impressive. Got that god-awful bunch of cops licked into shape before they knew what had hit them. Even Gonzo’s eating out of her pretty little hand. But she’s going to stick to the script on the ETA/Islamist link-up whether or not there’s evidence, and I haven’t a clue what’s really going on.

  Max paused in his thoughts, and breathed in the morning air deeply. He went to the end of his terrace, and looked down on to the narrow street. A pretty girl in a Muslim headscarf was walking up the road. He felt like waving to her. Perhaps she’d like a cup of mint tea.

  Mierda. I’m bollock naked.

  He stepped back sharply.

  Dios. What a bloody mess with the Muslims. But some of the Christians in the USA are almost as bad. God save us from religions.

  He looked at his watch. Stop faffing about, get into work . . . check the damage.

  The shower, the fresh morning air or maybe the two puffs had revived him, and he jumped on the Albayzín bus almost with joy. But the minute he entered police headquarters he knew something was wrong, badly wrong.

  ‘Urgent meeting up there. It’s just the top brass,’ said Bardon, on the desk as usual. ‘They haven’t asked for you. But Navarro’s with them. Davila looks like he’s lost a pound and found a penny. Whole load of shit must have hit the fan.’

  Max went
to his office and waited for the call.

  There was an email from Davila saying he had filled in his performance indicators wrongly. And his time sheet didn’t add up either – he was working more hours than there were in the day.

  Still nobody phoned. The whole building knew something was wrong, but nobody on the outside knew what. Max decided to go for a coffee. Bardon was very good at getting information. Max paused at his desk on the way out.

  ‘Just going for a coffee, Franciso. Any news?’

  ‘Nothing. They’ve called in three rounds of coffee already. Head honcho of the press office is in now. It’s not as if we’re going on strike or anything. Nothing on the radio. Bugger all going on anywhere, except the Barcelona manager’s resigned.’

  Max smiled.

  ‘That chap from Madrid, Martín’s here. In the canteen.’

  Martín, his body filling the whole seat, was working his way through a plate of doughnuts.

  ‘Max. Come and join me. Doughnut?’

  ‘Thanks . . . too sweet for me. And I’m trying to keep my figure.’

  ‘Stopped worrying about that years ago,’ smiled Martín. ‘Any idea what’s going on?’

  ‘No idea, sir.’

  ‘I’m told Linda’s in a meeting with Bonila and the others. But I’m not invited. Doesn’t look good. What’s your guess?’

  ‘Not sure. But if Navarro’s in . . . must be the interrogations.’

  They looked at each other. Had someone gone too far? Max finally broke the silence.

  ‘How was Madrid?’

  ‘Fine. Full of rumours. The election’s going to be very close. Both parties spinning like mad. If the economy’s the big issue for the public, then the Partido Popular wins. But the war’s not popular, and that favours the Socialists. But they’re a bit too liberal for a lot of folk to stomach – what with gay marriages and all that, plus they’re negotiating secretly with ETA. And that’s a really awkward one. I’m expecting some dirty tricks from that bastard Allende. You know . . . a decent scandal here could swing the election.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Max sipped his coffee.

  ‘And you? Found out who killed that Muslim girl?’

  ‘No. I think they just wanted me out of the way.’

  Bardon came into the canteen. ‘Thought I might find you here. The meeting’s over. Bonila wants a word with you . . . both.’

  They knocked on the door, and entered Bonila’s office. He was sitting behind his big mahogany desk. Linda was sitting in the corner of the room, looking out of the window.

  ‘Sit down. I thought I should inform you both personally that there has been . . . well . . . a slight mishap. As you know, we left Inspector Navarro in charge of the interrogations. He made the decision – and I’m sure he had good reasons – to soften that kid up, and . . . well, put him overnight in D Section. Apparently there was an unfortunate incident, and Hassan was injured by some of the inmates. And he is now in hospital. Most unfortunate. Not predictable of course. We’re asking everyone not to say a word about this, particularly to the media. We don’t want bad publicity. Delicate timing and all that.’

  Linda continued to stare out of the window. Max waited for Martín to speak first. Martín paused.

  ‘Injured? Seriously?’

  ‘We don’t know yet. We are waiting for the hospital’s report.’

  ‘Do we know what happened?’

  ‘We’ve had a report from Inspector Navarro. Apparently some of the prisoners broke the lock on Hassan’s cell door and, well, sort of injured him.’

  Max could keep silent no longer. ‘Beat the shit out of him, you mean? Buggered the kid? Stinks, doesn’t it? Pure accident of course—’

  ‘Sub-Inspector Romero, that’s enough. Any repetition and I will have to discipline you. Is that understood?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ mumbled Max.

  ‘We are continuing to make inquiries,’ continued Bonila. ‘There’ll be a thorough internal police investigation of course. Most unfortunate. But meanwhile we want no mention of any of this outside this room. Is that clear?’

  Max did not reply. Martín frowned. ‘I take it we are no further forward with getting any evidence? It will be difficult to hold the suspects for much longer after this.’

  On impulse, Max suddenly said, ‘Can I see Hassan Khan?’

  Linda finally spoke. ‘No. I’ve asked the hospital to keep him isolated in a private room. We’ve put a guard on the door, just in case.’

  ‘Just in case of what? He dies? Like the other one. And we hush it up? Just more collateral damage in the war on terrorism?’

  Bonila cleared his throat, and in his top-brass voice said, ‘Sub-Inspector, that’s enough. There’s no danger of him dying. That man in the Centre was an unfortunate accident.’

  ‘But this isn’t. It looks deliberate to me. Why put him in prison and fail to provide basic safety?’ butted in Martín.

  ‘Well, apparently he kicked Inspector Navarro. He’s done this before. Sub-Inspector Romero has already recorded the attack on Teniente González.’

  Max flushed in anger and embarrassment. That bloody lying report of his was coming back to haunt him.

  ‘In any case,’ Bonila went on, ‘this is all for the police investigation to establish, not for you or us to guess. Well, I think it is time you left now.’

  Max, Martín and Linda left together.

  ‘You two seem to have come all matey,’ she said. ‘Can I join the club?’

  Neither Max nor Martín replied. Max looked at Martín, who nodded. Twenty minutes later the two were at a quiet table in the Bar Alonzo.

  ‘What do you make of that?’ asked Max.

  ‘Don’t know. Doubt it’s the whole story. Navarro will get a slap on the wrist. The guards will get a fine – and they won’t even have to pay it out of their pockets. We don’t know what state Hassan’s in. Could be serious.’

  ‘Do we go public?’ asked Max.

  ‘Difficult. We’d be in the frame. Traffic duties for you . . . and “suspected terrorist sustains injuries” ain’t going to stir the public up. No. We just sit tight. See what happens. Okay . . . we leave separately. I’ll go first.’

  Max waited until he left, and then took out his mobile.

  ‘Jorge. How are you? There’s been – as the boss puts it – an unfortunate mishap here. I think it’s quite serious.’ He gave Jorge the details. ‘I don’t know what hospital Hassan is in. But shouldn’t be too difficult for the human rights groups to find out. Some medic will talk. Chao.’

  Best get back and redo those bloody performance indicators.

  It did not take long for the Granada Human Rights Association to find out which hospital Hassan was in. It did not take them long to find a medic to explain the nature of Hassan’s injuries. It took them longer to decide which paper to leak the details to. In the end they decided on Ideal, not the most progressive of papers but, given the shortage of news in Granada in August, Ideal would run the story

  Jorge had also called the Muslim Associations. It was agreed to call for a demonstration in two days’ time. It took hours of negotiations to agree where. In the end they agreed to meet in Plaza Nueva, and march along Gran Vía to the police station. The Ideal story was picked up in other Spanish papers, and even got noticed abroad.

  Max kept a low profile, staying in his office. It was a noisy, angry march, but passed without incident.

  Jorge reported back later.

  ‘Hassan’s cracked rib is in a bad way. Probably been kicked on it more than once. His anal injuries are severe. Gang-raped. But it’s his mental state that’s the real worry. He makes no sense. Keeps muttering, “Whisper it to the wall, Hassan. Whisper it to the wall.” He then talks of djins coming out of walls in the darkness to humiliate him, torture him. But Allah and he will have their revenge. A day of reckoning is coming. And then he starts chanting ‘Hassan Khan MA . . . MA.’ The doctors are really worried. Any idea what it can mean?’

  ‘None. MA? Might be the Englis
h for Master of Arts – a university degree title in Britain. But I don’t see the significance of that. Probably isn’t any.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘I should have put up more of a fight,’ said Max. ‘Jorge, I’m thinking of resigning.’

  ‘Why? You did what you could.’

  ‘It wasn’t enough.’

  ‘Look, if every decent cop resigned when something went wrong we’d be back to the Franco years. You have to stick in there.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I’m not going to let you pass by on the other side. Max . . . I know you’re a good cop. You can be an even better one.’

  ‘Okay, Jorge. What do we do?’

  ‘There’s the election coming. Calm it down. We’ll keep the pressure up to get the Centre chaps released. Don’t oppose any suggestion from the police to keep an eye on them. If you have doubts, then I do too. Just keep a low profile, Max. We’ve still got that bottle of Cartojal to finish. Give me a call sometime.’

  Bonila did summon Max. But Max had no idea where the information in Ideal came from.

  ‘Probably someone in the hospital, sir.’

  ‘Yes. Hadn’t thought of that. I can’t imagine anyone on the force doing it.’

  He looked at Max hard as he said it. But Max knew he was happy with the idea it was someone in the hospital. It made his life easier.

  Linda and Martín had returned to Madrid before the demonstration. Martín phoned a few days later.

  ‘And as far as Partido Popular goes, the head honchos are fuming. Allende was so furious he threatened to cut Linda’s balls off. Mind you, figuratively speaking, she needed them squeezed. She’s still adamant something was being planned. Have you seen today’s papers?’

  ‘No. I haven’t had time.’

  ‘You should read them. There’s an official statement that the Centre guys will be released after further questioning. The statement also says they have agreed to leave the country, and in return no charges will be made following the discovery of pornography on one of their computers.’

  ‘Pornography?’

  ‘Quite. These things happen.’

  ‘But we must do something about it.’

  ‘What? It’s the easiest thing in the world to plant porn on a hard disk, and nobody can prove one way or another who put it there. So the guys from the Centre will be leaving quietly, except Hassan who has to stay until his doctor says he’s fit to travel. We’ve asked their respective countries to keep them under surveillance.’