#7. SISTERS OF MERCY ORPHANAGE, ADHAMIYA, BAGHDAD, IRAQ
Monday May 18, 13:20
''WHEN HE comes in,'' Ali told Samir, ''Jump on his back and get this gag round his mouth. We don't want him shouting for help. Salah and Magdy, get him on the floor and tie him up. Sayed, you keep watch.''
Ali had spent the last week keeping his head down, toeing the line, letting his ankle and shoulder heal, being a good little boy and getting to know the others a little better.
Salah's parents had been killed, like Ali's and so many others', by a bomb. That bomb, however, had been American, a Tomahawk missile fired from a US battleship hundreds of miles away in the Persian Gulf during the Shock and Awe phase of the War. It killed six thousand civilians.
Samir's father had died from a stroke when he was six. His mother had struggled on for a year until she had given up and hanged herself from a light-fitting in their living room. He had come to the orphanage aged eight and had been there three years. His two sisters were in a different orphanage. He had not seen them since the day they had been separated by the Iraqi authorities. Samir had not only found his father dead on the bathroom floor, he had seen his mother swinging from a rope. No wonder he was so nervy, Ali concluded.
Magdy, he learned after patiently working to get the other talking, had a story quite different from the myth. His parents had been journalists. They had been 'disappeared' by the old regime for writing seditious articles about Saddam Hussein. As Magdy began to open up to his friends, he told them about secret meetings in his parents' home, writers, artists, political dissidents, talking about Saddam and 'Regime Change', excited by the Bush-Blair intervention and the future it might bring. Then, one night, Saddam's secret police had burst through their door. Magdy's scar had come that night when one of Saddam's men had slashed him across the throat with his bayonet. He had choked on his own blood then crawled across a blood-stained rug to a phone, found no doctor willing to attend, so, bandaging his throat with his mother's headscarf, staggered to a nearby mosque where the imam had stitched up the wound with a needle and thread, taken him to hospital and then turned him over to the orphanage. He had not seen his parents again.
This was Ali's army. Salah hated Americans (they had killed his parents). Magdy loved Americans (they had killed Saddam). Sayed and Samir were tragedies outside the political situation. And Ali? Ali hated Al Qaeda, Salafists, Wahhabis, mujahidin and all the other nut-bag extremists who had killed his family and put him at the mercy of the Sisters of Mercy.
''But you can't like this place,'' he exploded. ''It's worse than a prison.''
''We get fed,'' Magdy explained, ''We get educated.''
''We learn a trade,'' Sayed added. ''I can make a bookcase. I couldn't do that before.''
''I can stitch a cushion-cover,'' chattered Samir, ''And keep most of the padding in.''
They were sitting on the beds in the dormitory. It was supposed to be afternoon-nap time. Salah was keeping an eye on the corridor in case Mr Ala'a should be patrolling.
''Bollocks,'' said Ali. ''They feed us crap and treat us like dogs.''
''Not all of them,'' said Sayed.
''That's like saying not all of Saddam's policemen were bad,'' said Ali. ''You share the money, you share the guilt.''
He had spent the last three days inspecting the premises and observing the staff. The boys' dormitory was on the first floor. The bathroom had no windows. They would have to go down the main staircase to the front door, cross the garden to the railings and open the main gate, which meant getting the keys.
From a conversation with the janitor one afternoon, he had learned that most of the staff went home at ten when Mr Ala'a locked the front door. Sister Gihan and the half dozen other residential women would have another light supper before bed around eleven. At midnight, Mr Ala'a would tour the building, check on the dormitories and switch off lights before retiring to the room he shared with the only other male resident, Mr Mohamed, the rather weedy Mathematics teacher.
''Where does he put the keys?'' Ali had asked.
''Now why would you want to know a thing like that?'' The janitor had narrowed his eyes.
''Because I want to break out, of course,'' Ali had shrugged nonchalantly.
The janitor had laughed. ''In his pocket.'' He had ruffled Ali's hair. ''Break out. Ha ha. Good one. Ha ha. Very amusing.''
Ali had also crept out of the dormitory at three o'clock one morning, using his torch to explore the silent halls. He had reached the large wooden door and inspected the lock. From his Maintenance classes, he had gathered equipment just in case, a wrench, a chisel, a hacksaw, wire-strippers and a screwdriver. It would be possible to remove the lock but he wasn't entirely sure yet how to do it quietly. So he had returned to Plan A.
''Sayed,'' he instructed, ''You'll have to throw a mattress on the floor. We don't want the falling body to make a noise. We get the keys off him, tie him up and shove him under a bed.''
''But Ali,'' whined Samir, ''He's so big.''
''Which is why we need four of us to bring him down.'' Ali glared at them in exasperation. ''He won't be expecting it. He'll be off guard. We can take him if we just get him on the floor.''
The others exchanged looks of concern.
''Get him on the floor,'' Ali insisted, ''And I'll do the rest. We'll have about ten minutes before he's supposed to be in his room.''
They looked doubtful, anxious. Sayed kept chewing his lower lip.
''We'll go to my house,'' said Ali. ''I still have the key. There's food and money and stuff. We'll stay there until we decide what to do next.''
''I'm in,'' said Magdy.
''Me too,'' said Samir.
Sayed chewed his lip again. Finally, reluctantly he agreed. ''All right,'' he muttered.
''Right,'' said Ali, ''It's decided. We go tonight.''
The rest of the day dragged by in an agony of waiting. During P.E., Ali managed to complete twenty star-jumps, twenty press-ups, twenty squat-thrusts, climbed a rope and vaulted the horse. Mr Ala'a clapped his hands and praised him.
''See what you can do when you put your mind to it,'' he crowed.
Ali smiled.
In Maintenance, he learned how to replace a tap-washer without stripping the nut or being dowsed in icy water. He was getting quite good with a monkey wrench. Maybe he could get a job as a plumber's apprentice when he got out. Maybe Sister Gihan was not as stupid as she looked. He put the thought out of his mind as he joined the others in the prayer room.
''Allah,'' he prayed, ''Look after us tonight. Keep us safe and bless our enterprise.'' He prostrated himself on the mat, forehead touching the floor, and repeated his prayer. ''Keep us safe and bless us in our enterprise, oh Allah the most merciful and compassionate, and forgive me my sins and weaknesses. Help me be strong tonight, oh Allah, and help my friends. Be with us tonight and keep us safe.''
Dinner dragged. More sticky rice, this time with a thin, tasteless, brown gravy.
''What? No rancid lentils?'' he quipped. ''What a shame.''
Mr Ala'a grinned and ruffled his hair.
He felt in such high spirits that he decided to play ping-pong with Sayed. Magdy was watching an Arabic movie on TV. Salah and Samir were locked in a chess game.
''You ready?'' Ali asked as he served.
''Not really.'' Sayed returned the ball. ''You?''
''Excited.'' Ali battered the ball back. ''Exhilarated. Can't wait. One-zero.'' Adrenaline was already surging through his system. Four hours to go. He smashed another shot past Sayed's sprawling arm and pumped his fist. ''Yessss!'' he crowed. He had never felt more alive.
Later, as they stood in their underwear at the sinks in the dormitory, washing their uniforms under running cold water, Sayed said ''What if it goes wrong?''
''It won't,'' said Ali. ''Trust me.'' He scrubbed at the sweat-stains in the armpits of his T-shirt with the same stinky green soap they used in the showers. ''This soap is useless. When we get to my house, I'll put everythi
ng through the washing machine.''
His mind wandered into the coming luxury of hot baths and steam and foam and bubbles and plastic ducks and proper shampoo and soap that worked. He would also sleep alone in his own bed for the first time in his life.
That was all he wanted from life, he realised: a bed of his own, in a room of his own. If he achieved that, he would die happy.
He twisted the T-shirt in his hands, wringing out the scummy grey water, and laid it over the iron rail at the foot of his bed next to his shorts. Then he crawled under the thin grey sheet in his vest and pants and waited for the lights to go out.
In the silent semi-darkness, he could hear boys breathing, snuffling and whimpering as they fell asleep. He could also hear four others not breathing in the tense suspension of waiting.
Was this a crazy plan? Could five underfed boys really overpower a gigantic fitness instructor by sheer surprise and weight of numbers? If they didn't bring him down, the plan would fail.
What if he wasn't caught off balance?
What if he fought back?
Ali reached under the bedclothes and felt the cool metal of the monkey-wrench. Would he be able to do it? Bash someone over the head? Fracture his skull? Knock him out? Maybe kill…his mind shut that out. He couldn't kill. But what if he had to?
His palms were so damp.
Apprehension dug a hollow cave inside his stomach.
The door clicked open.
Mr Ala'a stood in a rectangle of yellow light.
It was time.
''Uh,'' grunted Ali, moving his hand rhythmically under the sheet. ''Unnh, Unnh, Unnnh.''
''What are you doing, you filthy animal?'' Mr Ala'a strode, bellowing, towards the bed.
''Unnnnh,'' groaned Ali. ''Uhhhhhh. Uhhhh.'' He moved his hand up and down again.
''What are you doing, you dirty dog?'' Mr Ala'a ripped back the sheet with a roar of rage.
''Now!'' yelled Ali, seizing the big man round the neck.
''What?'' squeaked Samir, surprised and terrified.
''Now!'' Ali repeated.
''What?'' Ala'a roared like an angry elephant. ''What?''
''Samir!'' shouted Ali as the man straightened up. ''NOW!!!!! For God's sake…NOW!''
The squirrel squeaked again and flung himself on Ala'a's back. The teacher span round, Samir clinging to his shoulders, Ali's arms wrapped round his neck, and roared again.
''Magdy! Salah! Help us!''
Nothing happened.
''Sayed! Get the key!''
Nothing happened.
''Help us!!!!'' yelled Ali desperately.
Mr Ala'a shook himself like a dog shaking off water. Samir dropped to the floor. Other people flooded the dormitory, yelling and shouting, Mr Mohamed, Sister Gihan, Sister Zakeya. The other boys were sitting up in their beds chanting ''Fight, fight, fight, fight, fight.''
While Magdy, Salah and Sayed sat still, frozen statues of inaction, Mr Ala'a kicked Samir with tremendous force under a bed. Ali heard something crack. He released his grip and sank back onto the mattress. With a lung-bursting bellow, Mr Ala'a punched him hard in the face, the massive fist smashing into his cheek like a sledgehammer. Ali's vision dimmed for a moment then he laughed. Another fist crashed into the side of his head. Dimly he saw Sister Gihan and Mr Mohamed pulling Mr Ala'a away, saw the P.E. teacher's face, tomato-red, saw Sayed crying on his bed, and laughed again as Mr Ala'a punched him pile-driver hard on the other temple.
Then he blacked out.
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