#27. VILLA AL-SEKEM, AJLOUN, JORDAN
Wednesday July 15, 14:03
ALI DIVED into the pool and swam a length, his mind working furiously at every stroke. Whatever Uthman did to him, Hisham could only keep repeating the truth and they would either believe him or not. Either way, it would be better if he died under Uthman's ministrations, though Ali doubted this would happen. Uthman was almost certainly capable of inflicting unimaginable agonies while stopping just short of total incapacity or death. He heard more banshee-shrieking as his head burst through the blood-warm water into the sunshine. Maybe he should kill Hisham himself but cold-blooded murder was different from hot-blooded vengeance. Anyone knew that.
Yes, he had killed people, but not deliberately and with malice aforethought. Moussa Bashir had fallen off a roof. Talal Hafez…he had it coming. He blocked it from his mind.
He might have to kill Hisham. His own life might depend on it.
But how to do it? Stab him? Cut his throat? Bludgeon him with a hammer? Strangle him? Drown him in the pool? Garrotte him with the wire from his watch? All these methods would involve watching Hisham die, and die slowly, and he was not sure he could do that, watch someone's life ebb away, hear the last rattling breath, see the lights in the eyes fade out and know that he, Ali Hassan, had snuffed them out. Except Talal…
He turned for another length and heard another ear-piercing scream.
Hurry up, Uthman! Finish him off!
Come on Hisham. Just die, will you? No-one wants you. No-one cares about you. No-one will miss you, you worthless piece of street-trash!
He turned for another length. Better to get out and leave the mission unfinished. That was what Colonel Ibrahim would say. It was what Hamza Madani would say. There would be other opportunities to catch Al-Sekem. After all, there was plenty of evidence to at least bring charges. The cops could move in. Al-Sekem might even be 'killed in the cross-fire'. Yes. That was the best option. It was certainly better than falling into Uthman's clutches.
Determined now to leave this mad-house as soon as possible, and with another horrible shriek ripping through his ears, Ali seized a rung of the aluminium ladder but stopped halfway, water running in rivulets down his back and legs.
Al-Sekem, dressed now in light grey Armani, grey slip-on shoes and a white, open-necked shirt, was standing on the tiles. His dark glasses seemed to zoom into the murkiest corners of Ali's brain.
''Your friend is sticking by his story,'' he said mildly.
''I'm not surprised,'' said Ali. ''He's a spy. He's probably had…what do they call it?… interrogation-resistance training or something.''
Well aware that he had experienced nothing of the sort, he swung himself up the ladder and out into the sun.
'Uthman,'' said Al-Sekem conversationally, ''Has removed all his toenails and scalded his legs and genitals with a steam-hose but still he claims to be you.'' He sounded as though he were describing the weather or a rather dull movie. ''We beat him, of course, and burned his penis, and yet he insists he is telling the truth. What do you make of that?''
Ali reached for the dark blue towel on his lounger. His mouth had gone suddenly dry. God Almighty. He would crack within seconds. Toenails, steam-hose, burns on his willy… he had to get out of here.
''I have instructed Uthman to try something different,'' Al-Sekem said disinterestedly, picking at one cracked fingernail. ''A stiff broom-handle pushed roughly through his anus might loosen his tongue.'' His laugh was cold. ''It will certainly loosen his innards.''
Ali gulped. ''I hope he doesn't die first,'' he said. ''He could tell us so much.''
''Oh,'' said Al-Sekem, ''Uthman is a very skilled interrogator. He will get the truth.'' The staring black glasses resembled twin bullet-holes. ''Unless he's already telling the truth.''
Ali sat on his lounger. ''He's a trained liar. Moussa Bashir knew it, Talal knew it, everyone knew it.'' His laugh sounded so forced, so phony.
''Come and see,'' said Al-Sekem. ''It is a modern miracle.''
Ali felt sick. ''I don't want to,'' he said.
Al-Sekem insisted, so Ali followed him down the steps to the pump-room. Yesterday he had been romping under a wide grey pipe with Katya Kinkhladze's beautiful lips pressing down on his, her hand somewhere between his thighs. Now he was about to witness the worst horror imaginable. Steel yourself, he told himself. This is the boy who tortured you, electrocuted your testes, ran a current through your cock…
Uthman met them in the entrance. There were bloodstains on his slacks and splashes of vomit, snot, shit and urine on his shirt. The lipless, letter-box mouth grinned hideously out of the bleached lopsided face.
''Hi, Uthman,'' Ali said jovially. ''Don't mind us. You carry on the good work.''
But the rigid, icy fingers of horrified fear were probing deeply into his spine, into his arms, into his brain. His stomach lurched wildly. Hisham had been reduced to an almost unrecognisable lump of weeping, bleeding animal-meat hanging in a too warm, soaking wet, hazy, clouded atmosphere. Condensation streamed down the rough concrete walls.
Suspended naked by his wrists from a pipe, arms outstretched above his head, his toes did not quite touch the concrete floor. His left shoulder looked dislocated and every muscle and sinew seemed on the verge of snapping. His nose, swollen, misshapen and purple, had been broken with a hammer. His right eye was badly bruised and very swollen. His chest and abdomen were smeared with blood and vomit. Bright scarlet blood spattered the floor and urine had pooled around his feet. These were a mass of angry pink wounds where the toenails had been ripped out with pliers. Huge, puffy, weeping blisters smothered his legs from the two hundred degree steam-hose. Some of the skin had peeled away revealing red, raw flesh. Yellow burn-marks pocked his groin and cigarettes had been stubbed out on his nipples. Several brown craters marred his penis, three on the shaft, two on the circumcised head, one on the tiny puckered lips of the slit. More cigarette burns-glared angrily from his balls. His pubic hair had been set on fire. Dark crimson blood had splashed up his ankles and calves. Tears flowed over his bruised, bloodied cheeks. He was shaking uncontrollably, his body jerking against its bonds in some grotesque jig. Inadvertently, Ali pressed his fingers to his lips against his rising breakfast. Whatever Hisham had inflicted on him was minor compared to this.
''You wish to speak with me,'' Al-Sekem stated flatly.
''I don't know what to say,'' Hisham sobbed. ''I am Hisham Mahmoud. I am from Damascus. I did study at the Dar El-Tawhid madrassa. Moussa Bashir was my friend. Everything I told you is true. I don't know what else to say.'' He sobbed again.
''That you are Ali Al-Amin,'' said Al-Sekem.
''But I'm not,'' wailed Hisham, ''He is. The other one. I swear on my mother's life. I swear on the Holy Qur'an. I swear on the Prophet! I swear I'm telling the truth.''
Sighing impatiently, Al-Sekem shook his head at Uthman who, gargling with joy, caught up the red rubber hose-pipe which flailed and thrashed in his shiny plastic hands as, with a sharp, savage twist of the nozzle, a searing, scalding white cloud of steam shot geyser-like from the narrow brass mouth. The sudden explosion of heat brought beads of gunmetal sweat to Ali's skin. Somewhere inside the cloud Hisham screamed like one demented as two hundred degrees of hissing, spitting steam melted his testicles.
Uthman grunted something. Al-Sekem considered. Yes, the boy might not last and Uthman had applied considerable pressure, yet he was sticking to his story. No-one could withstand that level of questioning, no matter how well trained he had been.
''You've hurt me so much.'' Hisham was whimpering now. ''Please don't hurt me again. I'll die if you do…. '' He started sobbing again. ''I don't want to die. Not like this. Please. You have to believe me…''
Ali stared, spellbound. There was something evilly hypnotic about Hisham's condition.
Uthman grunted something else. Al-Sekem agreed. They should interrogate the other boy too but one needed to be able to walk, to stand on that stage in Jerash on Friday an
d sing to the world. He would have to take his chances with Hisham. An idea crept into focus.
''Let him down,'' said Al-Sekem. ''Clean him up, put some cream on his wounds and dress them. Give him a glass of sugared water. Wrap him in a blanket to keep him warm and give him something for the pain.''
Hisham sobbed gratefully.
''I am not saying I believe you,'' Al-Sekem was saying. ''I just do not want you to die yet. Be assured, though. Die you will, eventually and somehow, but it will be when I choose.'' The black holes turned to Ali. ''I will be occupied for the rest of the day, working to ensure that the Festival opens with a bang. Katya will amuse you and you may order what you wish for dinner.''
Ali scampered through the grinding pumps and hissing valves up the concrete steps from this blood-soaked, pain-sodden cellar of agony and out into the sunshine. He retched into a scrubby shrub. Only yesterday it had been a bower of bliss. Now it had become a sopping scene from the worst imaginable nightmare, and he had felt very vulnerable in just his trunks.
Kinky was back, sprawling on her sun-bed, raven hair tumbling over her sun-burned shoulders. Ali gazed at her long, elegant legs as the bottom fell out of his stomach.
''Who is that boy?'' she asked disinterestedly.
''Another bomber,'' he said. He had to get her to meet with Hamza, phone 1-1-1-1, pass on a message to Hala Ghaboury, contact the Colonel, but she was running her tongue over her pursed, pouting lips, stroking his thigh, breathily suggesting another sensual, mutual massage with silky aromatic jojoba and sandalwood oils…oh my….Ali caught a breath, bit his lip and felt his eyelids gently close. Maybe, if he could just relax, it would be better this time?
Dead Boy Walking Page 36