Split (1)

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Two hours later and he still hasn't come back. Lunchtime and more boxes of food are thrown at them. Fish-paste sandwiches in foil wrapping and a packet of salted peanuts. The calorie content is written clearly on the side. Information telling him the peanuts come from Texas. The squares of daylight at either end of the building begin turning a rich navy blue. The noise of the planes and trucks outside at last begins to die down. Only the annoying drone of the electricity generator fills the night air when they bring Abdul back. He's bent double, head almost on his chest, as they lead him down the aisle between the cages. Khalid kicks the wire fence, making it wobble noisily. Anxiously, he watches his friend's slow progress. Feeling cross because he can't see Abdul's face properly until he's pushed inside and the soldiers finish undoing the restraints and leave. Once the desert boots have marched angrily away, Khalid creeps to his side of their adjoining fence. Abdul's in the same position they left him in—on the floor, knees bent, legs crossed, hands on his head. He looks up, meets Khalid's gaze as if he's a stranger and not someone he's spent hours talking to. The tears rolling down his face make Khalid back off.
It's way past dinnertime but a box of food is thrown at Abdul and lands in his lap. He gingerly picks it up, looking at it from every angle as if he doesn't recognize the box. Khalid watches him eye everything written on the side before opening it with his teeth. Then Khalid turns away, trying to give his friend some privacy as he chews on tuna, cold pasta and beans. Eventually he stops crying. But it still takes an hour or two before he leans in to the shared wire wall to whisper to Khalid. "They say I do spy. They take me interrogate. One man—he say, 'Admit you be a spy. You spy. Say you spy.' This happening me—not right. They say me, I looking secrets. How they know this?" There's nothing Khalid can do but shake his head. Abdul can't stop repeating himself. Going over and over the accusation because he cannot believe anyone would think he's a spy. Words of sympathy escape Khalid. What do you say to someone who looks so broken he can barely lift his head from his chest? A knot of fury forms in Khalid's stomach as he starts walking round his cell. Endlessly walking to prevent his friend's words from touching his heart. Moving in small, trance-like steps to rid himself of the horrible certainty that he and Abdul will die here.
After a few minutes of mindless trudging round and round the wire fence, the same military policeman stops again outside Khalid's cell. Catching sight of Abdul sitting cross-legged, head in his hands in the next cell, murmuring to himself, he seems upset and gazes at him with concern. At this point, Abdul becomes aware of the guy standing there and smiling down at him. He lifts his head, his face a mess of conflicting emotions, and straightens his back. Then something breaks in him and he leaps up to batter the fence, yelling, "Death to America!" _Good for him_ , Khalid thinks at first. A gang of angry voices soon join in. The sound of rattling fences begins to take hold all the way down the building. Lengths of wire pop with bulging fists. A chorus of "Death to America!" grows louder and louder. Khalid's tempted to join in, but then he thinks, _How can you kill a whole country? And why do they hate America? It should be George Bush and his mates they're angry with, not the country whose action films, rap music, TV programs and sneakers they all like._
Wade races up from the side. For all his niceness, he's actually trembling a little. Hands slightly shaking as he points his machine gun at Abdul. Suddenly Wade's surrounded by a horde of soldiers who stare anxiously at the rippling fences as if they're about to crash to the ground. It's then that Khalid realizes Wade's just another human being. They all are. Khalid lets go of the fence and retreats to the far end of the cell to sit on his mat. He places the shawl over his head to block out the nervousness on Wade's face. Then he hears Abdul being dragged screaming from his cell. A soldier yells, "Shut up!" Eventually the banging and shouting stop. Fingers uncurl from the cool wire fences and the hum of the electricity generator dominates the building once more. The next morning, Wade stops by again with another soldier. A tall guy of about twenty who smiles shyly. "This is my buddy, Michael!" "Where's Abdul?" Khalid asks, uninterested. "He's OK. He'll be back soon when he's calmed down," Wade says.
"How can you do this?" Khalid questions Michael. "He hasn't been found guilty of anything." "Hey, man, I'm a part-time soldier. A reservist," Michael says. "They gave me a few months' training a while back, that's all. I only serve for six weekends and a couple of weeks a year. I thought it would be fun this time, I'd get to see Germany or somewhere in my two weeks, you know?" "You're here for two weeks?" Khalid can hardly believe what he's hearing. "They put you in charge of us lot? Aren't we supposed to be evil terrorists?" "I had no idea I was coming here," Michael says, sharing his disbelief. Shrugging at Khalid to show this isn't his idea of fun either. Then his radio bleeps and he turns away to answer it. Talking in number-speak, which confuses Khalid. "Eighty-four, two-one—in five. OK, Bob. I got that. Sun, right." Wade turns to Khalid to explain. "It's time for a trip outside." "Why?" The look on Michael's face suggests the trip is a good thing, but Khalid has no reason to trust this weekend soldier and, when he doesn't answer, Khalid's sure "sun" is some kind of code to take him for interrogation, like Abdul Al-Farran.
Then someone starts shouting from the other end. Footsteps rattle down the row and, much to his surprise, Khalid watches a chain gang lining up in the middle of the row. Hearing the reason why from another soldier nearby. "Y'all need to stop ya complaining about no sunshine." Khalid is amazed that anyone has bothered to complain and even more shocked that something's happening as a result. Suddenly excited by the simple thought of seeing the sky, he wonders if Wade had anything to do with the fact he's been included. Reminding himself to thank him the next time he sees him—because "y'all" aren't actually going outside, only about twelve of them are being shackled and attached to a joining rope that smells of cats. It's a sad scene to witness in the twenty-first century: prisoners standing in a line, roped one behind the other. Heads bowed. Ready to be led away to work on a railway? Following the long drawn-out procedure, the line finally crawls outside. It's the first time Khalid has been allowed to enjoy fresh air since he arrived here six months ago. Apart from being hurried through cool shadows at the side of the building to the showers and then the barber's, he's never been allowed to just stand in the sun. For some reason the excitement of going outside reminds him of a digital photo Tariq once sent of himself sitting on a rock in his garden in Lahore. The picture was so bright, the window of the concrete house behind him sparkled like water and had a kind of inner power that looked odd. Tariq loved that photo. He said the glass had become a river of energy because of the power of the midday sun. Khalid smiles at the memory of the picture in his mind. Tariq? Where is he? Was he kidnapped from his computer too? Is he being led from a prison cell into the sunshine—like him, right now? Khalid gazes at the sky as if for the first time and the sudden, searing light makes him feel drunk as anything. It's so wonderful and perfect, Khalid can nearly taste the feeling of infinity it brings. Everyone else shuffles from chained foot to chained foot, blinking hard with half-closed bleary eyes at the brown trucks and concrete buildings, as well as at the caged men in the barn opposite. It seems to Khalid that only he can see the thin streak of cloud with a petal shape at one end. Only he can hear the distant bird flapping its wings and singing to itself.
Standing here doddering around is all very well, but the blazing-hot sun on Khalid's head for the first time since it's been shaved is making his skin prickle. The growing stubble demands to be scratched and he can't move his hands. In Khalid's mind, his bare conk looks like a turkey's head and the ugly picture destroys the nice feeling he had when gazing at the sky. The odd sensation soon passes when a voice shouts, "Move on!" bringing Khalid back to the shuffling chain gang, which is slowly being led back to the building after the smallest, shortest glimpse of fresh air and sunshine known to any modern prisoner. He can't believe they've gone to all that trouble to shackle and tie them up just to give them about four and a half minutes outside. Next day, when the soldier asks, "Anyone for a trip out?" Khalid firmly shakes his head. All that stupid effort for what? No thanks. He'd rather sit here and be eaten by maggots than go through all that crap again. Abdul Al-Farran still hasn't returned. Much as Khalid questions Wade, he never gets a straight answer. He's gone forever, Khalid can feel it in his bones, knowing the truth for certain when they bring another man into his cell.
His new neighbor is puny and wiry, with nervous eyes that dart here and there as if he expects to see a gap in the fence. Just once he pauses to stare at Khalid for a moment before falling on the mat to pray. Something he does incessantly. It drives Khalid mad. Mostly because his voice is a whining, unpleasant one, but truthfully because he wishes he was Abdul, or even Masud from Karachi, whom he'd hoped to meet here, or someone, anyone, he can pass the time of day with. Maybe someone like the man a few cells down, who, he's just noticed, the military seem to respect more than the others. Khalid doesn't know his name, but he appears to speak several languages, including English. They look at him differently. Giving him bananas and occasionally a carton of orange juice, which none of the others have received. Khalid never finds out who he is, because the next day Wade announces, "You better come up with the goods, dude, or your name will be added to the list for Cuba." "What's in Cuba?" Khalid panics.
Wade looks at him strangely. "Kandahar is a way station, a holding place, midway point before Guantanamo Bay. Camp X-Ray's now closed and the new facility there, where you'd be going, is Camp Delta." He hands him a piece of unwrapped spearmint chewing gum. "I'm on leave—going home. Good luck." Khalid's still absorbing the information as he mumbles a thanks. _Guantanamo Bay?_ They can't send an innocent person like him there, surely. He puts the gum in his mouth and chews slowly. The familiar taste is a nice surprise. So nice, he keeps chewing away at it until it resembles a piece of leather and all thoughts of being sent to Cuba are stored in a no-go part of his brain. Later, after a revolting dinner of gray meat and sloppy potatoes, Khalid slips into a place he's never been before. Begins singing to himself in a language he doesn't know. A language no one knows. The same babbling nonsense babies conjure up. "Wooeee, chucka, chucka," Khalid yells to the three soldiers who come for him in the middle of the night. "Doody, doody. Fish eyes doody! The three doody boys. Dude one. Dude two and fish dude, head of dudes, number three, doody boy."
"Shut up, moron!" one of them screams. "You're going straight to hell!" "On your knees!" another guard yells. "Hands on your head." What are they going to do with him now? _Why can't they wait until morning?_ is all Khalid thinks as they shackle his wrists. Forcing him to bend double as they walk him out of the barn and across the concourse—not towards a plane, but towards a concrete building where he's been several times before for questioning. An unimaginably bright spotlight blinds Khalid for a few seconds before he's led inside. This time he's taken to a steel room with a wavy crack running across the concrete floor. It's a room Khalid gets to know well, because every single half-hour over the next three days the soldiers barge in to wake him. He fades in and out of the most disturbed sleep ever conceived as his mind wanders to thoughts and images he had no idea were even stored there. 13 LIGHTS The lights are on . . . . . . Apart from a blue mat, there's nothing else in the cell, which is the size of the bathroom back in Rochdale.
Nothing, except a steel toilet in one corner. No window. Only gray walls and the smell of burning, dust and sweat . . .. . . They drag him out—they throw him back.Now he's staring at the air conditioner again. Breathing in the smell of his own flesh. On his own.For how long this time . . . ?. . . If he can close his brain down for a bit, then maybe he can forget? Perhaps if the guards stay away, he can fall into a long, timeless sleep instead of the half-hour here and there before another bitter wake-up . . . . . . Khalid turns over on the mat to lie on his back, listening to his beating heart.Vaguely wondering if he's got the energy to pull himself up and take a leak. Can he be bothered? Not really > Now, this is the third day in a row they've disturbed him. Aware he might never sleep again, Khalid decides not to try again. Especially as he's done everything to numb the light. Pulling the mat over his head. Burying his face in his arms—in the wall. Nothing works. Even trying to sleep with his hands on his face only makes his eyes itch more . . .
This is the third day in a row they've disturbed him. He'll never sleep again, why try? Especially as he's done everything to numb the light. Pulling the mat over his head. Burying his face in his arms. Nothing works. Even trying to sleep with his hands on his eyes only makes his eyelids HURT . . . Pulling the mat over his head again and again. Once more burying his face in the wall. iiiiiiiiI IN T H E Seeing only his own hands over his own eyes. Red fingers on fingers. Smelling of sweat. Footsteps down the corridor sound inside a mind of shadows so dark, he can hardly remember what day it is anymore . . . 14 WATER TRICKS Finally they unlock the adjoining room next door, taking him into a smaller room with a black table and large spotlight. Three chairs. The same two interrogators from before march in to question him. The same dull angry faces bear down on him. One flashes up photo after photo of the victims of 9/11. A blazing spotlight on Khalid's weak, defeated face. "You see this woman? Her four children are now orphans. See this man jumping from the flames? His mother died the day before and now his daughter is suffering from cancer. See this girl—she was the cleaner. Only her second day there. See this guy? See him . . .?"
The blazing light is left on here too and Khalid is completely delirious. His mind wanders back through his life. His memories change shape the more he looks at the photos. Expanding, shrinking, merging into story forms, adding scenes from films and episodes from football games. Until every detail of the life he once knew becomes too painful to relive. Khalid's heart slowly gives up on him at the sight of so much pain. So much heartache. These ordinary people. Dead. Their lives cruelly cut short. By the time Khalid's dragged back to the cell next door, all he can think about are the things he's done wrong in his life. The pain he's caused. Like the time he stole those black jeans from that little Polish guy down the market. Galloping off like a maniac, jeans under his arm. Nico running behind, roaring with laughter. They thought they were so clever. So cool. He remembers all the people he's hurt and betrayed. Like when he collected money in the street for Bosnia and, instead of handing it in, emptied the tin with a knife, putting the pound coins in his pocket and leaving only the small change behind. Thinking back to the day he and Tony Banda bunked off school to go to Renzo's house to smoke cigarettes and swig his dad's gin. Telling his teacher his mum would write a letter to explain his absence, then writing it himself. That time in the high street he ran away when he saw Dad walking towards him, ashamed of the sight of him in his old-fashioned clothes. And Mum, he'd snapped at her so many times just because she wouldn't let him go on the computer until he'd done his homework.
The list goes on and on as they drag him back to his cell, adding to the awful pictures flashing through his mind. That poor woman. Her poor kids. Now they've got no one. The next day, hell starts with the dull thudding of footsteps down the corridor. On the mat, Khalid turns from the wall to lie on his back, staring at the green light of the air-conditioning unit until it starts blinking on and off again. An uncomfortable smell of feet hovers over him all of a sudden, while he clocks the same twisting ache of disappointment and loneliness that he felt yesterday, the day before and the day before that. After yet another endless night without sleep, he can't even be bothered to wonder what questions they're going to ask him today. The lack of sleep tears his dreams to shreds. The piercing shouts of the guards waking him up time and time again during the night scramble his brain. Barging in to steal sleep from him every time he grows close to losing himself, sharply pulling him back to these four walls. By the time they come for him, Khalid's barely conscious.
The sudden ache of being tightly chained and dragged from the room makes him scream like a tiny baby. _Not to worry_ , the thought flashes through him. _They interrogated me yesterday and then left me on the floor to freeze, but I slept for three hours straight_. When they push him into a dark room, so cold that even the man in the black suit in the corner is hugging himself for warmth, Khalid knows something's up. The room's so dark and gloomy, he can barely locate the slanting plank behind him, an old cloth slung on top, let alone the tap on the wall. The suited man glances at Khalid as if he's scum. Khalid raises his head to stare back but his eyes soon close, his mouth runs dry and he can't stop shivering. Then a burning sensation starts up in his stomach. _What the hell are they going to try now?_ The sound of gurgling water from the tap echoes round the room. On the floor, a dirty glass jug stands beside a stinking drain. They've run out of toilet buckets, Khalid guesses. _Get on with it_ , he thinks, as they rip off the shackles and tear off his crumpled T-shirt and navy trousers, stripping him naked. The full force of the freezing temperature throws him into such a shivering fit, he can hardly cover himself with his hands.
Suddenly wide awake, Khalid's shocked by the steely gaze of the suited man, who clearly means business of some awful kind. "You spoke in a secret code when online?" he says. "No, it was normal computer chat," Khalid says. "We were playing a stupid game." "Ah, so you did communicate by code?" His mind is so scrambled his words come out slowly and exaggerated. "We all talked in text lingo. Don't, please stop. I can't take it." Khalid shudders, remembering so many past conversations just like this. "Please." He stares up at the man, his eyes red raw from lack of sleep. "Who's 'we all'?" the man says, ignoring his pleas. "Us gamers," Khalid stutters. "Let. Me. Go. Please. _Please_." "You insist on dragging this out," the man says, casting a shadow over his ugly face with a fat hand. "Unless you start talking now, we have no choice but to take stricter measures to loosen your tongue!" "Help me," Khalid whimpers. Three guards shuffle closer to Khalid. In this state he can barely stand up, but he knows the guards are baiting him in the hope he'll lash out and they can have some fun "restraining" him. The sudden whiff of body odor makes Khalid want to heave, while something worse than fear lodges in his chest. Quickening his heart. Crushing him. Emptying his mind, while his teeth chatter noisily on and on.
"Don't. Don't." All it takes is a nod and the guards reach for him. Their sudden warm breath prickles the hairs on Khalid's neck as they shove him towards the plank, which they straighten with a kick. Then remove the cloth. Taking either end of him, they lift him up and hold him down until his feet, neck and hands are straight. Gasping, Khalid cries out, "What are you doing? Don't hurt me. Don't . . ." A smiling guard slaps his face with the back of his hand. They don't need to use the ropes to keep him on the plank thanks to the built-in straps underneath. They unfasten them like leather belts before throwing them over his body to bind his forehead, chest and feet with clamp-like force. When they tip the plank back, Khalid's thrown upside down with a sickening thump. Blood rushes to his head, cold feet in the air. "This is your last chance," the man says, standing over him, holding his ankles. "Tell us what you know and we'll let you go home." "Please. There's nothing . . . Don't." Eyes closed, their hands pressing down on his shoulders, Khalid hears the jug being filled with water at high velocity. A cloth lands on his face. More hands hold it down, so that he breathes in the smell of gauze bandages, and at the same time a trickle of cold water pours through the cloth and down his nose and mouth.
At first, Khalid coughs and splutters, gags, sucks the cloth into his nose and mouth, which suffocates him. Struggling, his hands jerk and tremble to get away from the straps and he tries to vomit. Groaning. But the rough hands clamp him down more. A split-second memory of Dad's ghostly face passes through his dying mind as water floods his face. _Dad, help me, help me. Don't let them kill me._ A flicker of breath sits there—just that bit out of reach. His mouth opens to grab it, battle for it. Spitting. Gurgling the pouring water, but his neck goes rigid with the effort to breathe—with the effort to cough. A slush of water hits his ears. "Tell us what you know!" the mad man shouts. _Dad, they're killing me. Help me._ And still the water comes. Drowning him in slow motion. Choking him. Suffocating him. His swelling, bursting lungs force his neck muscles to go limp and he swallows and swallows. "Are you ready to admit your involvement with al-Qaeda? That you and others planned to bomb London?" The man's voice sounds a million miles away.
With a clack, the plank straightens. The water stops and Khalid spews violently, coughing up his guts, spluttering for breath, opening his sore, bleary eyes. Through the gauze, he sees the suited man standing over him. He leans down right into his face, his stinking warm breath washing all over Khalid. "Admit your part in the plot and we'll let you go." Khalid yelps, choking violently. Mumbling a watery something even he can't understand, because he's soon tipped back, gagging for breath under the cloth again, and even though Dad's face is there in his mind he can't reach him. A few seconds pass before the next wave of water bubbles down Khalid's nose and rushes down his throat. Blocking air. Mouth closed until he splutters. Choking. Gagging wildly before he loses consciousness with the smell of open drains drifting up from the floor as they kick the plank straight with a thud. The shock of a sharp elbow in his stomach makes him vomit again. "Are you ready yet?" The stupid question is worth nothing more in response than a thin, gray, watery stream of sick from Khalid's mouth and nose and a violent ache in his belly. Gulping for breath, grabbing for air, trying to store oxygen to breathe, he groans and coughs, watching over himself as he chokes to death while time stands still and they tower above him.
The sound of a dog barking outside loops round the dark room as they force Khalid down again. He's shivering worse than ever as they tip the plank up—feet in the air. Sending the blood to his head in another sickening rush. "This procedure will continue until you confess your part in the worldwide bombing campaign you planned with known accomplices," the man says firmly. The ice-cold water floods Khalid's face again. The slow-motion drowning starts again. But he's ready this time and he closes his throat, spits out the bubbling water leaking down his lungs. A bolt of air sticks in his throat—suspending him in a long, still moment between life and death before he gags, struggling for air he doesn't even want any more. His life flashes past him like a fast-moving film. Sinking. Falling. Dying. _It's OK, Dad. I don't care._ They swing him back up the second he goes under, the sudden movement shooting his body back into place with a violent thump to his chest. Blood rushes from his head to his heart. Fists pound his belly to bring the water up again as he vomits the racking pain in his head, wringing himself inside out. A sudden wave of air tears his chest from his body as the plank wobbles.
Gasping for air, on it goes, this hell on earth, only this time, the moment Khalid begins coming round, he gives in and holds up a shaking finger to show he's had enough. "I did it," he whispers, voice red raw from coughing. With a sharp pain at the back of his nose, his naked body falls to the slippery floor the moment the straps are undone. The suited man looms over him with half a grin on his ugly face. A grin that Khalid reaches for with a blue, trembling fist. Waggling his hand with the serious intention of punching his smile out, his teeth too. But then he falls, cracking his forehead on the wet floor. "Bring him through," the man says to the guards, barely noticing the twisted body floundering and crying in watery sick next to the drain. Khalid trembles, the blood from his head running down his face as he gasps and gasps for air. The pain is so deep and sharp, all he can do is wipe his weeping eyes with a damp wrist and give up on everything, on life, on the whole of mankind. The guards do their best to dress Khalid while holding on to his shivering body. One clutches his small waist with an elbow, while the other pulls up the prison overalls.
"You only lasted ten seconds. The last guy did twenty," one of them sneers. There's no towel to dry him, wipe the blood from his head or clear his waterlogged ears. What animal is worth a towel when he's been deemed a dangerous terrorist? Once the shackles are safely in place, they drag Khalid next door, throw him into a chair and tie his feet to rings bolted on the floor. Sitting opposite him, on the other side of the black table, his torturer curls his thin lips. "Let me go now," Khalid begs, but the man smiles. _He's smiling_ , Khalid thinks. _How can he smile?_ Spitting more water from his lungs, breathing rapidly while doing his best not to choke, he tries to swallow normally even though his throat hurts, his nose aches, his eyes feel raw and he wouldn't mind dying. "These are the crimes you've confessed to in the presence of four witnesses. Read them before signing and make the changes you want." He pushes the pages towards Khalid, along with a pen. Khalid tries to breathe but his throat snaps shut, his mind spins and his eyes feel sprinkled with sand. Then, finding a last tiny drop of dignity and pride, instead of crying he pulls himself up and says in a state of breathless shock, "How come this is already printed?"
Narrowing his eyes, the man pauses before running a chubby thumb over his bottom lip. A steely look begins creeping over his face again and Khalid gets the message. "Sign these, then you can go home." _You can go home._ Finally, the words he's waited so long to hear. Quickly, Khalid signs all eight pages, his sore, streaming eyes barely able to focus on the words swimming in front of him. Back in the cell, it seems that having him sign the confession after drowning him isn't quite enough for them. The lights are still on, blazing down as always, and it's colder than ever, the air-conditioning unit on full. The green light's blinking on and off for no reason, as it always does. _Is this what they call home, then? This cell?_ Khalid is unable to think of anything but killing that ugly guy. Anger boils inside him, feeding on itself until it overtakes every other desire, even the desire to see his family again. His mind feels sharper than he can ever remember. How many seconds did he last? The guy said ten. Ten short seconds and it was over, but it felt like half an hour. In that time Khalid saw his whole life flash before him. Saw Niamh in the library, saw himself playing football down the park, scoring a goal and discussing a new game plan for the match against Heywood. He saw himself arguing with Mum, walking behind Dad down the road—pretending he wasn't with him because he felt ashamed. How can you see all that in just ten seconds and decide to die—say goodbye to your life and then let go in that short amount of time? As well as relive everything you've ever done wrong. See the faces of everyone you've ever hurt. How?
And now they have a bulletproof confession proving he's a dangerous terrorist, an enemy of the world, and no one cares. Why did he let them do that? How pathetic is he? Tony Banda would have stopped them somehow. Look at what happened when that center half knocked him over in their first match against Bolton. Tony yelled like mad for a minute, but then he went charging down the field to score their only goal and nobody knew until afterwards he'd broken his big toe. Exactly how Tony would have stopped these maniacs, Khalid doesn't know, but he's certain he would have lasted longer than ten short seconds. Much longer than that. While he gave his life away for a breath of air he doesn't even want. He feels ashamed of caving in so quickly. Totally weak and useless, incapable of lasting more than ten seconds, while the guy before him lasted twice as long. Then the weirdness of this thought suddenly brings Khalid to his senses. The guy's an idiot, a fool for lasting twenty seconds. He's not a hero or someone to look up to. He was just another guy, a Muslim like him, being drowned. He simply suffered for longer. And why did the guard tell him he managed twenty seconds? To make Khalid feel like a coward, that's why. And why should he believe him anyway? If Khalid told people about the attempt to drown him, would they believe him? Apart from the cut and bump on his forehead, there are no marks on his body. Nothing to prove anyone was trying to kill him.
The air-conditioning unit rattles for a second, then continues humming. Khalid curls into a ball on the mat and shades his eyes by burying his head in his arm, thinking that not only did they drown him, but they've left him with a burning anger that has no outlet. All he can do is grind his teeth in hatred. As he slips back into delirium, one of his little sister's paintings flashes through his mind the moment before he falls asleep. The light bulb blazes overhead. Unrelenting as always. The smell of burning dust and the memory of a watery hell never far away. 15 SLEEP Staying put, getting up—neither choice is a good one when every part of Khalid's thin body aches. Hatred and guilt scrabble like ferrets at his brain. Guilt at the thought of his stupidity. If only he hadn't done that. His tired mind haunts the life he once knew for a memory that might bring him comfort. Any reason to go on living. All night long, under the constant bright lights, the picture at the front of Khalid's mind is the painting by Gul. A picture stuck to the fridge at home in Rochdale. His stomach churns when he remembers the green sun, the orange sea and the mad red grass. Everything was painted the wrong color, including the blue dog, but that's why it keeps going round his head. The memory of the odd colors adds to his feeling of being locked out of anything normal. Little Gul's painting is a reminder of something ordinary to hang on to—even if the orange sea gets brighter and weirder every time it rolls through his head. Anything's better than remembering that moment—his hand on the pen . . .
If he can close his brain down for a bit, then maybe he can forget. Perhaps if the guards stay away for a while . . . One sleepless hour later, they barge in to wake him again. Yank him from the mat and haul him around until his eyes stay open. Yelling obscenities in his ears to stop him passing out. As if they haven't got what they wanted by now. Then, as the aroma of a sickly lemon aftershave fills Khalid's nose, the back of his throat tightens. A pink cat begins pawing his face. Or is it a man with pink hands squeezing his cheeks for fun? They win. Khalid stares at the soldier and his tinted glasses. Recording every detail of his bright, shiny face for posterity, because once they see he's fully awake, they'll leave him alone. And they do—for a bit. Leaving him with nothing but the sound of his heart thumping louder than the air conditioner. Sinking to the mat, he passes out. Fast asleep in seconds. Asleep until a total madness starts up out there: dogs barking, plane engines roaring, men yelling orders at the tops of their voices. Don't say they're planning on doing more water tricks now? But the noises—they're new, aren't they?
Khalid focuses, listening carefully as the noise suddenly changes to a tinny banging. "NO. NO." Two guards barge in, shackles swinging from the stocky one's arms. Khalid blinks. Not really taking them in. Vaguely recognizing them as two of the five men who'd woken him through the night. The one with the strong lemon-smelling aftershave shouts, "Get up!" Yanking Khalid from the mat. The psycho one with tiny fish eyes says, "You've got thirty seconds to eat this." A peanut butter sandwich presses into Khalid's face, along with a plastic bottle of water. Only half here, Khalid stumbles. They catch him under the arms and slam him angrily against the cell wall, pinning his shoulders back with their fists. Their roughness suggests Khalid has the strength to resist them. After days without sleep, he can barely stay upright, let alone escape. He's almost unconscious. The guards messing with him like this is beyond crazy—they really are insane. Without tasting anything, Khalid gorges on the cardboard-like sandwich. Peanut butter sticks to his teeth and he dribbles, croaking down warm, plastic-tasting water.
Barely able to swallow more than a teaspoonful at a time, Khalid says, half smiling, "What, no Coca-Cola?" "That's it." The stocky soldier knocks the bottle from his hand. "Jackass." The blue plastic dreamily double-bounces before rolling on the steel floor. Water slips between Khalid's toes and the smell of the guy's aftershave hangs over him like a smashed-up lemon tree, and all he wants to do is sink to the floor and close his eyes forever and ever. First they kit him out in an orange suit, then they twist his arms together. One sneers at Khalid's skinny arms and wrists as he clicks the cuffs tightly shut, then they attach the handcuffs to a middle chain they fix around his waist. At that point Khalid's head flops to his chest and he drops fast asleep. Moving quickly, they lock his ankles to the waist chain. The cold, heavy metal catches his cuts and bruises by surprise, bringing him round for a moment with the fear they're going to drown him again. "Too loose, mate!" Khalid mutters, awake again. But they don't laugh. They never laugh.
"Bye-bye!" A guard pulls a black hood over Khalid's head. The sudden darkness is a shock after days of dazzling bright lights, a weird relief until a sickening loss of balance comes over him as they lead him down the corridor, staggering all over the place. His bare feet kicking together with sharp toenails. "Guantanamo!" someone whispers as they pass. Bringing Khalid to—for a moment—before he shuts his eyes again. It's OK, he's going home. They said he could go home. He signed the papers to go home. The sound of dragging feet and clanking chains pierces the midday heat. The sun beats down like boiling tar on Khalid's masked head. He can sense other people nearby. Three? Or maybe a hundred? He's going a long way away. England? Yes. Why else the sound of so much sudden movement and the horrible smell of petrol? "Hey, dude, get them over here!" a soldier screams. Someone shoves earmuffs on Khalid. The world goes suddenly quiet. Leaving him bent and gasping, on his knees in the searing heat like a captured, half-dead dog. Breathing in the smell of soldiers' socks and desert boots.
Maybe he is going to Guantanamo. But they said he could go home if he signed. After a few minutes, Khalid's yanked up again. Step by step, they shuffle him along the ramp of the plane—up hot, ridged metal that seems to go on forever and burns his curling toes, shackles cutting into his ankles. The moment his aching bones hit the plane floor, Khalid knows he's going to be sick. But nothing comes up. Just the same dizzy, nauseous feeling he's kept down for hours. One part of his brain watches himself fall to pieces, while the other no longer cares about anything and just wants to sleep. The drone of the engine grows louder. Khalid tries pushing the earmuffs off his sore ears. Cuffs rub his wrists raw as he pushes and pushes, elbows in the air. The hot, plastic smell of the mask turns his guts over. A terrible desperation spreads through him as he twists and wriggles the earmuffs farther off his head. But they spring back and he has to wait a while before bending his head and trying again. This time he succeeds in freeing his sore lobes for a few minutes. That's better. Now his ears aren't hurting, he can close his eyes and go to sleep.
"Allah hears and knows all things," a prisoner says over and over again. _Shut up_. Khalid wishes the guy would shut up, that all of them would stop praying and groaning, because he feels nothing for anyone. Not even the tiniest spark of concern or compassion for any of them any more. No way are all these hooded men going to Britain. "Camp Delta, what a stupid name!" Khalid remembers laughing when Wade told him about it. He actually laughed. Not realizing they were going to warm him up for the journey by leaving him alone in a brightly lit cell for days. Days where he wasn't allowed to sleep or talk to anyone before they tried to drown him. Which brings it all back to him. Brings back the thing he's trying hard not to think about or admit. Submitting finally to the memory of something the suited man said before they hauled him on the plank. "You spoke in a secret code when online?" "No, it was normal computer chat," Khalid had replied. "We were playing a stupid game." "Who's 'we all'?" "Us gamers."
Khalid mutters, "Gamers. Gamers." He forces himself to remember being stripped naked and thrown backwards on the plank. Tilted back. Feet in the air. "This procedure will continue until you confess your part in the worldwide bombing campaign you planned with known accomplices." "Known accomplices." The expression haunts Khalid's every waking hour. Remembering every detail. The cloth smelling of old bandages smothering his face. Water clogging his nose and throat until he gagged. Coughing and spluttering for air. All the time, someone shouting, "Tell us what your plans were and we'll stop." But they didn't and he couldn't, because he had no idea what they meant. Khalid closes his eyes but the man next to him is still muttering and his mind's still spinning. Racing and racing with question after question. What plans were they thinking of? Khalid's suddenly wide awake. What was really going on in that guy's mind? And then the suspicion he's been burying for a while rises to the surface again. Did Tariq have something to do with this?
How else do they know so much about the fact he'd been on the computer? Did he really betray him? His own cousin? Had he been talking to Abdullah, the aunties' neighbor in Karachi? He'd found Abdullah on the computer. He knew Khalid had been playing a game. Did he know it was Tariq's game? Do they know each other? Were there other people involved in this that he hadn't considered? Abdullah said his brother and his sister's husband used the aunties' computer. Did they have something to do with this? Either way, Khalid's thoughts keep returning to Tariq. He's the link. The other gamers didn't know where he was, but Tariq did. The thought sticks in Khalid's throat. It's obvious: he's trusted him way too much since they began messaging. After all, what does Khalid really know about Tariq? They've never even met, so why should he expect anything of him? Apart from the fact they were family, they didn't have anything special in common. One after the other, he'd signed all those pages because of him. Signing them with a nicer pen this time. A black shiny one. When he glanced at the names on the pages, though, he hadn't recognized any of them. Not that Khalid looked closely —he was still choking. Half dead. Shivering, at the time.
Now he wishes he'd paid more attention. Perhaps Tariq's name was there—in some form or other. All the gamers used pseudo names that they changed regularly. Names like Tariq Van Dam. TVD for short. One guy called himself Purple Pizza before changing it to DungHill. Another was Verminate before becoming Boss X. Khalid still has no idea what their real names are, apart from Tariq's. Thinking back to that second after they whisked the black pen away, he remembers a feeling of absolute peace spreading over him. Realizing they had no need to hurt him ever again. It was worth lying for. Worth it for that moment's peace. It doesn't feel worth it now. Now the regret he feels is driving him crazy. Why can't I just sleep? Why can't I stop thinking and thinking? As he rocks back and forth, the relentless drone of the plane's engine bores into him until he hears and cares about nothing but getting the truth from Tariq once and for all. Settling the frantic feeling in his stomach for a few hours by imagining Tariq admitting his part in Khalid's abduction. But what was all that about Afghanistan when they questioned him in Karachi? Where was his passport? Abdullah, the neighbor and random people at home, like Nasir, the shopkeeper in Rochdale, were they members of al-Qaeda? Jim, who helped him look for Dad, what about him? What about Dad? Anyone he's ever met?
Angry. So angry. There are so many people he'd like to destroy. Their faces go round and round his head, the layers of fury expanding as they circle his brain. Yelling, "HOW DARE YOU DROWN ME?" But the sound comes out weaker than an abandoned kitten whining for food. Exhausted, Khalid's heart slows to normal for a few seconds. Allowing him to breathe more easily, unleashing the desire to sleep again. His eyes open and close in a dreamy spin. Clutching at hope, Khalid imagines he's going home to England, to Mum and Dad and his little sisters, and a life of shops with milk and newspapers. Chocolate and lottery tickets. Ordinary things. But the deafening plane engine roars into action and it doesn't feel like it's taking him home. Or anywhere nice. A sudden, dense heat smelling of petrol overtakes the trapped desert air inside the plane. Khalid can't help gasping. Since they tried to drown him he's been continually gasping for air. Unsure it's really there—sucking it up in case it's his last breath.
The inside of the mask dampens with sweat from his dripping forehead, the salt sharpening his swollen lips. All Khalid can do is waggle his head to keep the drips from his eyes. The hot uncomfortable earmuffs cling to the sticky mask. The available choices are simple: either put up with the din of the engine or suffer the pain of the earmuffs and get some peace. Either way he can't sleep. His eyes won't stay closed. Khalid maneuvers the earmuffs back slightly using his shoulder. By mistake he moves the mask round to reveal a hole in the plastic which he can clearly see out of. His eyes land on a soldier with fat, freckly arms. His big hands are attached to a silver camera and he's taking pictures for fun. _Flash. Flash._ Anger flares up inside Khalid again. He can't believe anyone would do that for kicks. Maybe he wants photos to sell to the newspapers back home. Either way, each click is another hammer blow to Khalid's heart. _Who do they think they are, these guys?_ Khalid fumes. It sparks a memory of the time they'd been studying the Spanish Inquisition in school with Mr. Tagg and he'd got them all worked up about the subject of torture. Everyone began arguing. Loads of kids said it was a good way to get information from evil people, but in the end Jacinda Parker, who lives over the music shop, got them all thinking differently.
"It's a stupid way of finding anything out. Whenever my brother twists my arm up my back, it hurts so bad I say anything he wants me to just to get him to stop. So what's the point in torturing someone if all you get is lies?" None of it adds up for Khalid. If only he could stop all this stuff going round his head. His mind returning from the sight of Jacinda Parker and her horrible brother, Josh, and their nice two-story flat over the yellow-painted music shop, to his sore arms and aching head. To the raw feeling in his throat and itchy eyes. To the thought of Tariq turning him in. He thinks about Guantanamo Bay again. If he's really going there. Wasn't it a place for members of al-Qaeda? Someone had said Guantanamo was the worst of the worst, but Khalid hadn't really listened. He half thought they were making the stories up. He doesn't even know why it's in Cuba and not America. _Surely they won't take a kid like me there?_ The thought makes him catch his breath, and when he comes to breathe out he gasps for air again. Defeated. Totally shattered. His mind begins searching for that place deep inside where peace happens. Where nice memories are stored. Eyes wide open, he begins wanting. Wanting his mum. Wanting his dad. Wanting his annoying little sisters. Wanting his friends, Mikael, Holgy, Nico and Tony, and a longed-for kickabout in the park.
Drifting back to Rochdale, he's walking through the town center wondering what the old mill town used to look like before they covered up most of the River Roch that flows underneath the main street. The nice old buildings that are still there with the best town hall in the universe. A majestic building with a beautiful wooden staircase and wallpaper by William Morris, who, the art teacher, Mrs. Dowling, says was a genius. Then there're the cheap lunches they do in the town hall for retired people. Khalid helped out, along with two others from school, during Help the Aged Week last year. For three pounds they get a three-course, home-cooked meal in a lovely room with William Morris wallpaper. How good's that? Rochdale is a nice place to live. Plus Khalid's house is only a ten-minute walk from the Odeon cinema. Now his mind's right there on the football terraces, shouting for Rochdale to win—at their away matches especially. Seeing the town with its—he's not quite sure how many exactly, but definitely more than six—mosques. Each of them floats past his eyes. Mixed with people who are Muslims, Hindus, Christians, Jews, Buddhists, Rastas. Plus loads of people who don't believe in anything. Others who sometimes believe but never go anywhere near the mosques, temples, churches and synagogues. And plenty more believe whatever makes them feel good. Then there're those who hate everything. Who just get angry and spew up any old crap. All of them live side by side in Rochdale. His Rochdale. Khalid likes that.
As the plane taxies to the runway, Khalid's totally back there. Down the park, playing football. Skidding on the grass. Racing his shadow up the line. Trying to avoid Adnan, who looks like Jesus and tackles too hard. Delivering a perfect corner kick into their penalty area, with Mac cheering him on. Dad's words at the back of his mind: "At the age of sixteen, son, you must decide what kind of man you want to be." Now his best friend is this anger that won't go away. Khalid had told them the same thing over and over again. He'd given them his address. His doctor's name. The name of all his Rochdale schoolteachers, including his favorite, Mr. Tagg. Plus the details of his post-office savings account with the sixty-one pounds and eighteen pence that took him five months to save. Over and over again they'd asked him the same questions. Perhaps they'd confused him with someone else. With more than two million hits on the Internet when he googled his name, Khalid Ahmed, he knows they've got the wrong one even if they don't.
What more could he do to prove his innocence? But they don't want to believe him. Khalid even told them about the money Dad and his friends had collected to help the refugees in Albania. Two planeloads of food, plus medicine, clothes, blankets and tents. The local paper said the mayor was "immensely impressed with the efforts of the Muslim community in raising substantial funds for the refugees." "Cut it!" The soldier had kicked the chair from under Khalid to stop him talking about the mayor. As if he'd made the story up. Punching him in the stomach for no reason. The heartbreak was that they didn't care about the truth. Why else leave him half conscious on the floor to rot? _Funny_ , Khalid thinks, remembering that feeling of absolute shock. _I'm not even that interested in religion. Any religion. Not even my own Muslim religion._ His family is relaxed about it, though. Dad's always telling him he'll work it out for himself before too long. Allah, the bountiful, will happily wait for him.
_Dad. Come back to me, Dad._ The reality of the mess he's in suddenly comes back to Khalid. Unimaginable fury bubbles in him again and he smiles at the thought of taking revenge. Eight months ago they kidnapped him for committing the unholy crime of being in the wrong place at the wrong time and one day he'll get these maniacs, tip them upside down and shove water down their noses until they drown. Only he'll leave them to drown. Yes, do the whole world a favor and finish them off. With that satisfying thought, Khalid finally lets go, closes his eyes and sleeps. 16 GUANTANAMO This time no one disturbs Khalid until they land and another kind of hell begins. The strange smell of the sea greets Khalid as he leaves the plane, finally free of his hood and earmuffs. But this definitely isn't home sweet home. The bright sun throws dark shadows on the ramp that follow him down—a warm breeze in his face. The unexpected sound of birds brings with it a sticky heat that covers his body in a sudden sweat, reminding him of an old school trip to Blackpool on the hottest day of the year. He had been thrilled at the thought of the bus journey with Niamh close by.
And there it is, that day, flashing through his mind again . . . Khalid was feeling great after Rochdale's win on Saturday and he pushed himself forward to say hi, hoping to swing his arm round Niamh's shoulders. Trying to make his stumbling into her look accidental. Ready to glance back at Holgy with an accusing look if it all went wrong. Ready to say it was Holgy who pushed him into Niamh's side. Then, somehow, dorky Gilly got in between them. She grabbed Khalid's hand and, squeezing it tightly for a second with cold fingers, began licking her lips and fluttering her eyelashes to tease him even more. Holgy pretended not to notice his mate crumple and flush as Niamh scrambled red-faced on to the coach, hurrying to the back row. The sound of their squealing told Khalid her friends were having the last laugh. Thankfully, Holgy and Nico were on hand to make him feel better. "Nice one, Kal!" Holgy nudged him. "Next time, move in closer." Nico winked. As if he ever would after that. But later Niamh waved a chocolate-covered fork at him while they had lunch in a cafe near the pier. Beckoning him over, then sliding up in the booth to give him room. Her mates squashing to the end so Mikael could sit there too.
"Ow," Niamh yelled as Mikael stamped on her foot in his rush to grab the vacant space next to her. He dumped his plate of steaming pasta on the smooth table and dug in as if he hadn't eaten for a week. "Sorry," Khalid apologized for him, standing there like a fool at the end of the table, more embarrassed than ever. Nico shook his head at Mikael for ruining what could have been a truly romantic moment. "What? What did I do?" Mikael said, wide-eyed, his mouth crammed with chunks of pasta dripping in tomato sauce. "You nicked his place, you moron!" Niamh laughed. Making them all laugh. "Doesn't matter," Khalid said. "Doesn't matter!" Gilly echoed. Khalid's still half smiling at the memory as the sound of a barking voice snaps him back to reality and he's shoved down on to his knees. "Welcome to Guantanamo Bay Prison. You're now the property of the US Marine Corps. Heads down!" Soldiers with black dogs walk along the lines of kneeling men. Khalid lowers his head, but not until he's taken a peek at the nightmare that is Guantanamo Bay. _Those lying bastards!_ A bleached-out expanse surrounded by high fences topped with rolls of razor wire two meters high and watchtowers draped in American flags at either end.
To his right all he can see is scrubby rough ground with patches of thin grass and a heap of masonry with lines of stones and sand marking it out. In the distance, more fences. A tinkling sound like wind chimes starts up in the huge rolls of rusty wire reaching for the sky. Khalid gazes at the hot earth, thinking, _This place has wind chimes? How come?_ Then, like a scene from a film, an iguana darts in front of the poker-faced marine who's busy shouting orders—yelling at men who are unable to do anything but listen while they bake to death in the blazing sun. Khalid wonders how mad it would be to break open a packet of Doritos. Listen to a bit of hip-hop. Look up the word "maniac" on Google. Watch _The Simpsons_ on TV. The kind of stuff he does when he gets home from school. The kind of stuff his mates are probably doing right now. While all the time a vulture circles in the sky above him and the warmth of the sun tickles the stubble on his head. A dazzling, silvery light in his eyes makes it hard to focus on those dusty desert boots for a moment longer.
From the tone of the marine's voice, it's obvious they don't tolerate time-wasters here. This place is far more serious than Kandahar, built to contain highly trained assassins, security threats, enemies of America. The atmosphere grows ever more threatening as the marines march up and down, giving each of them the evil eye. It's not often that Khalid can look at his life from a distance. But, instantly, he can see himself clearly for once. He's another meaningless bent orange shape dropped into some weird world game, the sun fixing him here on this lump of tarmac like a dart in his back. He's nothing but an orange heap for soldiers to toss around because they think he's a terrorist who wants to blow up cities. Think he hates the West, even though he lives there and doesn't know anything about weapons of mass destruction or bombs or buildings crashing to the ground in New York. "Where's your evidence, then?" Khalid mutters to himself. Eyes closed, he whimpers like a baby. "Where? You got it all from stupid little me, that's where."
Soon they lead Khalid inside a long building done out like the prisons he's seen in films, with rows of locked, diamond-shaped wire doors. A sign spells out CAMP DELTA. The soldiers pause to force him inside one of the small kennels. "Stand closer, 256," a man drawls with a strong Southern accent as he clicks the lock. Khalid shuffles towards the metal door, which has two oblong holes, with flaps top and bottom. Holes the size of three plastic lunch boxes, side by side. "Closer to the flaps," the drawling voice shouts again. "Stand with your wrists and ankles to the beany holes," another shouts. Khalid obeys and the guard unties his wrist and ankle shackles through the door holes that he thinks are the beany holes, with great caution, which makes Khalid smile at the sheer silliness of it all. Why can't they undo the chains outside the cell? Why this stupid, over-the-top arrangement of holes in the door? Do they think he might escape if they removed them beforehand? Khalid can just see himself breaking out by ducking their bullets, charging from the building and across the hot ground while men in watchtowers train their guns on him, only to make the superhuman effort of climbing ten meters of barbed wire and diving into the sea and swimming to safety. His mates would crack up if they could see these soldiers undoing the chains through these stupid holes.
After the metal flaps are raised to cover the holes, the sound of slamming echoes down the lines until all the prisoners are done and the thundering boots march away. A small room with a plastic bed with round corners built into the wall greets Khalid when he turns. Thin foam mattress on top. Two blue blankets at either end. A copy of the Qur'an in English. One pair of white flip-flops. Two white towels. Wash cloth. Soap. Shampoo. Toothpaste. Bottle of water. Two buckets this time. And so another routine begins. Breakfast on a plastic tray: a box of cereal, white roll. Bottle of water. Sometimes sloppy scrambled eggs and overdone peas. Maybe an orange. For lunch: a piece of tough meat, some form of potato, usually canned and half mashed with sweetcorn or turnip. Peanuts. Water. Sometimes a packet of raisins. The dinner menu remains unaltered for the next two days: tasteless white rice, hard red beans, revolting gray fish. Bread. Water. On Friday, a banana. Khalid doesn't understand how food can be this disgusting and tasteless. He knows some pathetic effort has been made to keep to the halal diet, but anyone with half a brain could have come up with something better than this.
After two days, he's determined never to eat any of the vile bread rolls again. If he gets a choice, that is. The motto here being "eat or starve," he chews his way through the slice of white bread with the satisfaction of someone about to throw up. Convincing himself things will change soon. Or so he hopes, because they can't get any worse. He's already nearly died and is now slowly going out of his mind. Since he arrived in Guantanamo, Khalid hasn't really seen anyone. Just the food trolley man and the soldiers. The only sounds that keep him company day and night are terrifying screams from the other end of the building and then someone who coughs and coughs—he doesn't know which is worse. Plus the constant slamming of metal flaps gives him a headache, like a pneumatic drill in the side of his skull. The only good thing is that he's slept most of the time since he arrived. And he's getting used to his mind blanking, wandering off in odd directions after so much humiliation and pain. The sensation of drowning still catches him out when he becomes aware he's swallowing for no reason, or sometimes just breathing hard, but he's getting used to that now and it doesn't scare him as much any more.
Just lately, though, he's been picturing his face on the news. A mugshot of a convicted terrorist who's hated by everyone. Even his mates. Seeing Niamh snarl at herself for once smiling and flirting with him, while her friend Gilly says, "I never liked that loser." The other thing is, unless Khalid's busy hating himself, he doesn't feel fully here. Making up scenes like this is the only thing that stops him from thinking about what they did. From going out of his mind blaming himself for being so stupid. It's so much easier conjuring up horror movies with him in the leading role than it is watching himself staring at the empty walls, too wrecked to hold his head up straight. At least it seems that way until he begins confusing the dreams with reality and starts believing the dramas in his mind are actually happening. More than a few times he's woken up and been surprised to find David Beckham, Niamh or Nico standing in front of him. Shocked to see them there instead of the small bed, white towels, toilet bucket on the floor. The familiar sound of someone screaming nearby seems to make his visitors smile.
Khalid has a feeling of dread he might join in and smile with them, slowly believing the noise of approaching boots might be a fantasy too and he's really somewhere else, somewhere he doesn't know, and the wasted, patchy, not-here feeling only subsides when the soldier yells something ridiculous. "You Taliban guys don't know how lucky you are! If you were in Afghanistan now you'd all be dead. Thank God for the US of A." Making it clear to Khalid that the soldier has no idea how nice dying would be. The upbeat, insulting tone of his cheery voice tears him apart bit by bit. No one cares. They don't care about him. Nobody does. If only he hadn't signed those papers. They said he could go home, the liars. If they'd let him sleep, things would have been different. Then he might not have signed his own prison sentence. Reminding himself he was pretty much mentally and physically dead the moment his hand picked up the pen doesn't help. He can't forgive himself. Neither will Nico and the rest of his mates. Niamh hates him now, he knows it. His mum and dad. Aadab and Gul. Everyone does all over the world.
He'll never be sure of himself again. How will he know who he is after this? On and on, the day before they tried to drown him, they held up those pictures of children killed in 9/11. Photos of women jumping from the towers. Flashing them up as if their deaths were Khalid's fault. Wearing him down until his nerves were completely shattered. Until he started believing maybe it was all his fault. In the end, he signed the papers and what happened? They shut him up here. Does anyone even know where he is? He doubts it. Arms folded, Khalid sits on the bed and stares at the wall. At the blank space with pockmarks and dead flies he knows so well. The smell of his own body in the warm room, the sound of his own breathing and the thudding of boots make him think his whole life has been a gigantic mistake. Then one day . . . "Get up, you," the guard says. "You never get up!" His bad breath adds to the whiff of cold battered meat from the plastic tray he's passing through. "Sorry to put a crimp in your day but Britain cooled out —whupped the United Nations. Blair's with us. Europe's a bunch of cry-babies." He laughs, then pauses a moment to work out which inmate nearby is reciting a verse from the Qur'an. The melancholy voice calling to Mecca.
Ignoring him, the guard turns back to Khalid to gloat. "We gonna kick your butts," he adds. "You ain't going nowhere now, man. Tony Blair—with his decision—he clean done y'all in." "What decision?" Khalid drops the tray on the bed and, glancing back at the sneering face pressed to his fence, he's surprised to see the guard's big popping nostrils are flaring with excitement. "Britain's with us—at war in Iraq!" Shouting so loud, someone in the camp responds by translating the news into various different languages. Soon it's passed on, until eventually everyone knows what's happening. People run to the doors, kicking and banging to show how they feel, yelling and screaming in their own languages. Fury travels along the rows of cells like a crashing, unstoppable flood. The nearest thing to a riot Khalid's ever experienced. Guards respond by racing up the lines and leveling automatic machine guns at the detainees. Ready to fire at the drop of a hat. Khalid's overwhelmed by the news Britain along with America are at war in Iraq and not just Afghanistan. Why? No one's more surprised than him. Suppose he never gets out now? The guard said so, didn't he? What else has changed out there that he doesn't know about?
Khalid loses his grip on the door, letting his hands fall to his side like lead weights. Emotionally frail, he wanders the few steps to the bed. Collapsing in a feeble heap. The constant banging and yelling have broken down the flimsy layer of protection he hoped would keep his mind together today. The violence is so horribly real to Khalid, he can't help brooding on the hatred he feels growing in the world and the problems the war will bring to his family—for Muslims everywhere. He knows Dad would go out of his way to complete the Muslim duty of _zakat_ —acts of charity to help people in need during the war in Iraq. But where is he now? Eventually the banging and kicking die down and a pitiful whine starts up somewhere beyond him. Out there. Outside this field of right and wrong. The familiar, high-pitched, grating cry of someone who Khalid knows is being harmed. Bringing it all back to him . . . 17 SWEAT Day follows day. Weeks and months pass by and nothing changes. Time stretches for Khalid. Sometimes the hours between breakfast and lunch feel longer than a day at school. He remembers the school day going so slowly. Often, by the time the bell went, he couldn't recall what happened that morning, it felt like so long ago. Then, at other times, the minutes shrink. He finishes the tasteless cereal and two seconds later the lunch tray clatters the flap and all he's been thinking about is the TV program he once saw about an Olympic diver. The guy explained how he has two and a half seconds between jumping off the board, doing two perfect spins and hitting the water, and in that short time he must rectify any awkward position he finds himself in. Deciding instantly while he falls to straighten his back or lower his arms.
How is that possible in two and a half seconds? In the time it takes for Khalid to say his own name? Khalid wakes covered in sweat, perspiration running down his neck. The two-and-a-half-second dive is still on his mind. How can anyone plan what they are going to do in that amount of time? Suffering a slight headache, dry mouth, he glances at the air-conditioning unit bolted high on the wall behind him, wondering why the green light is off. Now there's a spider on the grill. Tiny quivering legs climb slowly inside the unit. Perhaps that's the reason it's not working. Don't they check them? What do they do all day, these soldiers? He places a sticky hand on his chest and the orange uniform feels wet. Hot pools of sweat are forming on his damp skin. With no chance of release from the dense heat, Khalid lies on his side. Keeping as still as possible, he breathes gently to bring his temperature down. Concentrating on each breath until he can bear to reach for the half-empty bottle of water on the floor at the end of the bed.
Then a peculiar faintness passes over Khalid as he tries to sit up. His head's worse, hurting badly now. His fingers feel weaker than jelly when he tries to unscrew the tight blue lid from the bottle. After a swig of warm water, he senses a metal clamp tightening around his forehead. Forcing him to make a superhuman effort to focus on putting the bottle down without knocking it over. But when Khalid lifts his chin, the gray room swivels round ominously. Rising, swerving, moving in hills across his eyes. Flashing round to nuzzle the back of his head. Then pulsing and pulsing before coming back in a sickly rush. Eyes popping, a broken man jumps ogre-like from the gray walls. Reaching for his throat from the pit of a nightmare. Arms wide. A booming sound shoots from Khalid's mouth with a heart-rending roar. Hands tear at his screwed-up face and he bashes the back of his head on the wall. Numbing his brain. The pain is a welcome relief as he thumps and thumps his head, suffering the kind of torment only a prisoner knows. Locked out, not in. Not here, not there. Not human at all. The only reminder he's real is the ache, the sharp pain, again and again. The moving walls hold whatever's left—together—for as long as the pain throbs and throbs. But are they walls?
When the air-conditioning light suddenly twinkles green, the walls fall back to steady the room. Khalid widens his eyes, sweat dripping from every pore. Forehead throbbing. Has he been going mental for minutes and hours or days and weeks? What month is it? Did he hear someone saying "Happy Christmas"? Or did he imagine it? Without a clock or a calendar, he can't tell. Plus, the ceiling lights—are they getting brighter? Or is he imagining the increasing glare? Groaning with pain, he begins flicking through the pages for the passages in the Qur'an he's come to know well, turning quickly to the blessing of Moses. Hoping to find clues about how to deal with the pain that's eating away at his guts. The holy book is his only link to outside help of any kind. Praying he'll learn to become a better person and not the bitter, angry guy he turns into whenever he thinks of his cousin. Tariq's never far from his mind. All Tariq ever talked about was himself and where he'd been and that stupid game. By the time the dinner trolley comes squeaking down the corridor, Khalid has been driven almost crazy by the memory of how devoted he'd been to his cousin.
"Yes, cuz. No, cuz. Two bags full, you're so clever, cuz." Why didn't he just tell him to get lost? All those times he'd crept downstairs when everyone was asleep. Nights that Khalid had wasted telling Tariq how brilliant _Bomber One_ was going to be. And it wasn't, no way, it was just OK. But why, oh why, did Khalid care if _Bomber One_ was going to be great or not? Why did he care so much about how Tariq felt about himself? Sickened by the idea of Tariq's smiling face bearing down on him, to get the thought of Tariq out of his mind, he escapes in other ways too. By the time the trolley stops outside he's shocked to see perfect tooth marks sharply outlined on his arm. He's been biting himself. Why the trauma comes out this way, he doesn't know, but lately it has. Khalid doesn't notice the twinges of pain on his arm because today his fractured mind can only locate the many pictures Tariq had e-mailed of himself. All of them were digital photos of Tariq with his friends pulling mad faces. One with his dad and three brothers, lucky him, grinning at the camera as if everything in their family is perfect.
For a second, Khalid thinks he hears a car door opening and closing, but it's only a dinner tray snapping into place. Khalid glances at the gristly meat, boiled tomatoes and ball of undercooked rice and goes for the small banana first, before rubbing hard and trying to make the red tooth marks on his arm disappear. A sudden surge of energy comes over him now. His stomach feels better—yes. His heartbeat's slower—yes. But the passage in the Qur'an he wants to read is still swimming in front of his eyes. The unchanging words are spinning in groups of three or four. The shapes jump out to confuse him, linked as they are without meaning to his previous, less shadowy brain. Spreading white rice with the plastic spoon on the lumps of gray meat to disguise the gristle, Khalid's half tempted to tip the lot on the floor. Fading away into something beyond sleep for an hour or two after he's eaten, he joins up the dots on the wall to make a giraffe shape with a rabbity ear. Then he eyes the eight gravy marks on the floor to see if the distance between two is smaller or larger than another two. Sometimes he counts the footsteps going up and down the row. Over and over again. Now and then he loses track, often when his fingers settle on the weird ridges of skin between his smallest toes. Is it night-time? Or morning? Did he eat breakfast today? Or did they forget to bring it?
Waking up to trace the red scratches on his face, Khalid catches sight of the spider speeding to the door and breathes a sigh of relief. Perhaps he's slept too long. Weeks, for all he knows. Only learning it's early morning when the call to prayer wakes him up. For a while, Khalid imagines daylight breaking outside. An unexpected feeling of peace spreads over him at the memory of being outside in the sunshine. Hoping, by concentrating on this, the last of the wooziness in his head will fade away. When did he last go out? He can't remember. But he mustn't lie here forever . . . Grabbing at the walls, Khalid stumbles to the door, banging and kicking. Someone shouts his number: "256!" The metal flap's unlocked, snapping open. Slamming against the wire. Khalid punches the corridor through the beany hole, yelling and swearing. Two minutes later, they come for him, attaching the shackles with nifty hands. Khalid raises his bruised head. "Thanks!" he says. Feeling a strange pleasure at the sight of ordinary human beings instead of the dark things flowing through his mind. Even though they're guards, he's suddenly grateful to them.
"Get up," one guard says, shackling him tight. The word "up" takes on a nice meaning that was never intended. And why? Where's he going now? It's good for Khalid to walk. As he goes down the corridor, he realizes he's OK. He's just been hallucinating bad things. Good things too. Knowing the dark dreams, strange fantasies of Niamh and David Beckham, might have damaged his ability to tell what's real and what's imagined. But by creating bad feelings, he's stopped himself from dying inside, and even though they have seen him through the long wait, the pressure on his brain when he wakes up is still too much to bear. That's why he tries to bang it away on the wall. _At least I know it now_ , Khalid thinks to himself, _and I'm not going to let them win_. At the same time, he realizes this awareness might just save his life. He makes an effort to take in his surroundings. Grounding himself by staring at the soldiers' laced-up black boots—which are highly polished but have dusty creases. Stopping high above the ankles, they look almost girly, those big boots, with those jungly combat trousers that are a bit like the combats Niamh sometimes wears.
Another reason to concentrate on the here and now is because it keeps the demons at bay and might just prevent the nightmares from returning. David Beckham can take a hike. Too much is at stake. Madness, for a start. Gray linoleum, Khalid notes, as they reach the end of a long white corridor, past cells so enclosed by wire it's impossible to make out the faces of the men inside. _There are people here a lot worse than me_ , Khalid realizes, as he sees a man desperately banging the wire with his bleeding head. His fetid wound the size of a cup. He's led outside and his senses are assaulted by the rapid whistling of a nearby bird, dazzling sunshine, countless shadows. He's almost blinded by the sudden piercing light. He was here a few days ago. Wasn't he? Heart pounding, Khalid's led over uneven ground to a wooden shelter. Watching his shadow shuffle along beside him, a whiff of disinfectant hits him, followed by the sound of running water. The smell reminds him of the routine. His shadow overtakes him as they round a corner to arrive at the row of basic showers. Khalid likes the showers now. He hated them at first, but he likes them now.
Armfuls of shackles and chains just to walk him to the showers? Yeah, Khalid always smiles at that. Two prisoners try to hide their nakedness, as they do every time the guards herd them under rusty shower heads that release the thinnest trickle of water. Khalid hurries to undress, used to the routine, while others hide their embarrassment with their faces in the crook of their arm. Doing their best not to look at anyone. The birdsong disappears as Khalid throws his head under the cold stream of water. Closing his eyes for a moment to catch the feeling of sunshine on his bare skin. The square of hard soap smells of vanilla ice cream and is pretty useless, but the tingling, refreshing sensation of rubbing his wet face makes Khalid feel alert and clean. Much less like the sweating maniac he was before and more like the kid who once scored two goals in the Rochdale Junior League quarter-finals. When Khalid opens his eyes he stares straight into the kindly face of Masud, the necklace-seller from Cairo whom they beat with a pipe and he met in the dark room in Karachi all that time ago.
But Khalid's not going there again. Oh no, not right now. Not while he's enjoying being outside under the shower. No matter how good it feels to imagine Masud in the shower next to him, he knows it might as well be David Beckham. "Khalid, you are here? For why?" the vision whispers. _For why?_ The words pierce Khalid's brain for a moment. Prodding it to come up with an answer. But he can't if he doesn't know why. Know anything. Especially why the water is calling his name. "Khalid. Khalid." Trickling his name—the water. Am I upside down? About to drown? Stumbling forward, Khalid catches his big toe on a stone. "Khalid! Take your hands from your face. Look at me. Look." Instantly, Khalid opens his eyes, balancing himself by staring into the man's face. "Masud. It's really you?" Shocked to recognize his friend from Karachi is actually standing there, cleaning his large ears with a corner of yellow soap. "This I'm learning—they're bringing young people to Guantanamo? I'm not understanding. You can see me now?"
Nodding, Khalid steadies his breathing, deciding to believe his eyes as he takes in Masud's gaunt, clean-shaven face. Then he catches sight of the soldiers moving slowly to the end of the row to gossip, thinking the prisoners are too ashamed of communal washing to communicate with each other right now. "I've been, like, weirding out in my cell," he tells Masud. "Too much time to think. I was, like, in Kand—Kand—Kandahar, as well." "Kandahar? You?" Masud's shocked. "Me, they taking me from Karachi to Morocco. Hang me from wall for long time." Khalid turns white as Masud explains how, instead of a pipe, they beat him with a strap attached to a wooden handle. Cracked his ribs. Kept him in an underground room in a shuttered house in the middle of nowhere. How one man held a gun to his chest for an hour and promised to kill him, saying his wife was already dead. "That man, you see him." Masud points to a wiry man being led away. "Him went to Jordan. They have blind him one eye. Americans having many prisons like this all over world."
Taking care to hide his shock from a passing guard, Khalid whispers, "How do they get away with it? Where are the police?" Shrinking at the memory of his own abuse. Afraid they'll come for him again if he talks about the drowning, the sound of his own voice mixed with the noise of the trickling water tips his brain too close to the surface of his other self for Khalid's liking. For mentioning, yet. Wiping water from his big, dark eyes, Masud continues, "This I'm knowing for sure is against the law they set in Geneva. Certainly. No one here has received a trial. They cannot keep a child like you on your own. This is cruel torture. What camp are you?" "Delta Skelta." Khalid gestures to the nearest gray building. "They take you for exercise from that camp? What happen your head? Bruises there you have. You arm. You must stop hurting you arm. Stop biting." "I can't!" "Khalid, no do this hurt to yourself. Stop. Ask for lawyers. For help. Shout for paper to write letters," Masud says quickly before the soldier hurries in their direction after getting suspicious of their friendly gestures.
Khalid turns his face away and blinks, trying hard to mix his tears with the veil of cold water running down his face. "And sign everything. Say, 'Yes, Bin Laden he very good friend.' Agree all suggestion. Don't let this happen, Khalid. Take no pride in holding against threats. Pray, Khalid. Pray and learn. I learning better English. Me practice good," Masud shouts as they drag him off, dripping wet, to get dressed. "Remember, they will have to account to God for this one day." A soldier forces Khalid to step away from the muddy water to make room for another man, head bowed, clutching a rag to wash himself with. _That guy needs his toenails cutting_ , Khalid notices while bending down to pull up the orange suit. But the harsh color suddenly smacks Khalid in the face, too bright in the shimmering sunshine for his sad, crying eyes to absorb. His fingers won't stop shaking and his body's trembling and suddenly he can't breathe. _I did sign everything, Masud_ , he thinks, _and look where I am now_.
"Did you catch the baseball game on TV last night?" a soldier asks his mate. His gun on Khalid's every awkward move, until he's shackled tight. And all Khalid can think is, _How many seconds did that take?_ 18 EVERY SHRED Khalid wakes up one morning to a new sound. The sound of music. Rap music throbbing in his ears. Drowning out the call to prayer. Drowning out the early-morning noises of the base he's become so familiar with. Sparking the memory of the sound of house, techno and hip-hop booming from the old speakers in Nico's bedroom, black foam pads peeling from the corners. Khalid's suddenly back there, wide awake. Himself again. Clear in his head for a while. Recalling both of them singing, jumping along to the driving beat, rapping about life in mean streets that were way cooler than Rochdale. Hearts on fire, hands in the air—the delicious smell of fish and chips drifting up from the kitchen. In the ghetto—yeah. Khalid's just getting into the rapping when it stops. Ending as suddenly as it started. Making him think it's a trial run for something. An experiment to test the loudspeakers?
Khalid smiles, remembering a time when Nico wrote a rap of his own called "Hey Leona." It was rubbish. Nico was a good singer but he had too much confidence. Believing the moment he wrote it he was going to be the best in the world, he even entered a rap battle online, where one of the real rappers said it was the worst thing he'd ever heard in his whole life. And everyone, all the people logged on to the site to hear them battle it out, agreed. The next day Nico bought a trumpet in the school jumble sale, even though it had a massive dent down one side. But Nico didn't mind. The rest of them did, though, Khalid especially. Every conversation after that was interrupted by a deafening blast from the old thing. Khalid looks again and again at his life, as though he's searching through an old photo album for the millionth time. Days and weeks pass by with him revisiting incidents and events he hadn't thought anything of at the time. Always yearning to be back there, pushing the play button on Nico's CD player, looking at his collection of _Star Wars_ figures on the windowsill, the poster of Eminem on the wall. It hurts so much sometimes it makes him want to end it all.
He really wishes he'd had a girlfriend. That Niamh had put her arms around him just once. He imagines being married to her and living in a nice big house with a flat-screen TV and music piped into every room. They'd have kids who were brilliant at football and clever as well, and that makes him feel good—for a bit. With a sudden bout of pins and needles in his right leg, Khalid sits up, totally cross with himself for not yet being able to talk to girls in the way he should. "First look her in the eye," Tony said. "Then give her a compliment, say something nice—I like your shoes. Girls have a thing about shoes. Say that, or nice coat. Anything you can think of to make her smile. Then lay a hand on her shoulder, know what I mean?" But Khalid finds all this stuff harder than it sounds. Although he likes to give the impression he's all right with girls, in actual fact he's just as awkward and lacking in confidence as Holgy, who blushes whenever a girl gives him the once-over. Khalid's mind traces and retraces every reaction to every girl who's ever looked his way—who's ever passed him in the street and caused him to turn round. Like the first time he met Niamh in the library last year.
She joined the school a year ago when she was fourteen, having moved to the area with her family from Ireland. At first everyone sort of ignored her—she was just the new girl and she seemed nice and that, but so what? It was only when the GCSE art students put some of their work up in the library that Khalid became aware of her. He'd wandered in there with Tony to hand back the books he'd borrowed for his English essay and couldn't help noticing the pictures on the walls. There was one of a doorway leaking blood from the handle that caught his eye first, then a pencil drawing of Mrs. Warren, the headmistress, which looked just like her. "Here, look at this one," Tony called, dragging Khalid's attention to a painting of a filthy swimming pool with a stag beetle floating in it. "Erghh, disgusting!" They were about to go when Khalid noticed a painting of a green grassy field with a single yellow buttercup in the middle. There was something so still and beautiful about it, he found it impossible to look away. He could almost smell the damp grass just by standing there.
He can almost smell it now. "'The Last Buttercup' by who? Who Reilly? Is that Nim or Neem or what?" Khalid read out the title. "It's pronounced 'Neeve.' The new girl, you know?" Tony said. "Bit of a boring picture, though—I told you girls love shoes. They love flowers too for some reason." But Khalid carried on staring, impressed by how real the painting looked. What he didn't know was that Niamh was leaning on the table right behind him, watching his reaction. "You coming, mate?" Tony said. "We'll be late for math." "Yeah, yeah." Khalid turned round and fell straight into Niamh's green eyes. A bolt of electricity passed between them. It did. He can remember that feeling even now. It hypnotized him for what felt like ages, it was so full on. From that moment, wherever she was—sauntering down the corridor, chatting to her mates at the school gates, leaning on the classroom door—he could pick her out without even trying. A sharp buzzy feeling always told him exactly where she was in a crowd. If only he'd plucked up the courage to talk to her in the library. If only he hadn't gone all shy and walked away. And even though he's spoken to her many times since, he can't help regretting the wasted opportunity from way back then.
More fragile than he realizes, Khalid pitches forward and back, unable to keep still. Helplessly trapped by the rocking movement of his body, he can't believe how little fun he's had in his life. He's never been to an all-night party, had a real kiss or scored any girls, and while his friends are probably getting loads of action at home in Rochdale he's still stuck here in this kennel on his own. The imagined picture of playing Spin the Bottle with Niamh mixes with other terrible images of small children being blown up—burning hope and fear into his mind at the same time. Then a few guys start yelling and soldiers begin storming into cell after cell. "On your knees!" they yell, shackles swinging. Khalid is ready on the floor, head bowed when they get to him. And, like before, they push him outside and along the hard, scrubby ground to another section of Camp Delta. Into another building and another room that resembles the last one in every detail except it has a room off to one side. A cell with its own private interrogation room and a door that opens to reveal a black table with two people sitting behind it.
Khalid's locked in, thinking, _Oh, so that's the way they're doing it now._ Recognizing them as the cold American woman from Karachi and the guy who stood behind her, saying hardly anything, while she and the posh English guy questioned him about being in Afghanistan. But this time, excited by running into Masud, knowing he didn't imagine him, Khalid decides not to be fazed by them. Not this time, no. As the soldier attaches the chain from Khalid's left ankle to the bolt on the floor, pulling up a black chair for him directly opposite them, he holds his head high. Ready for them. "Pakistan last time, wasn't it?" the woman says pointedly. "We've been looking at your confession again. Have you got anything to add?" "Yeah, I'm really Bin Laden!" Instantly Khalid wishes he hadn't joked with her. By the look on her face, she's not in the mood to be messed with. "You were part of an Internet plot to bomb various cities. It says so here in your signed statement. So now will you tell us the order of the planned bombings?" She bites her lip impatiently.
"I want a lawyer," Khalid says. "A lawyer? I'm a lawyer, you can talk to me." She smiles patiently. "The name's Angela. This is Bruce. You remember." "You're not a lawyer!" "Yes, I am." "No. No." A rare moment of sanity returns to Khalid as he looks into Angela's hard little face. A much-needed shot of confidence suddenly gives him strength. "I want to write to my family. You're not allowed to treat me like this. Where's the judge who found me guilty, then? Go on, where, you tell me? I haven't had any exercise. No education. Nothing. Well? I'm going to get you all back for this." Bruce interjects now. "Come on now, we know you. We know exactly what your intentions are." He's sneering at Khalid's pathetic attempt to stand up for himself by shouting his mouth off. "How? You don't know me. My intentions? What exams was I taking, then? Answer that! You can't, can you, because you're idiots. Nothing but creeped-up worms. Ask me how I know that. Go on, ask me!" "We have a document signed by you which proves you and your accomplices plotted online to bomb a number of cities throughout the Western world. We intend to find out which city you planned to bomb first," Angela says.
"Yeah, but I made it all up. I take it all back. You locked me up on my own, trying to make me crazy. Well, hard luck. Stopping me from sleeping. Not letting me get letters, or see a lawyer, or get any help. You're going to get in trouble for trying to kill me! You wait." "You were friends with known members of al-Qaeda. We have photos." Bruce remains unfazed. "Plus members in England who have recently been arrested." "What? What members in England?" "We're not going to give you that information. We want the details of the movements and conversations you had with these people," Angela adds. "But I don't know who they are!" Khalid shouts. "You will tell us what you know about al-Qaeda!" Bruce says menacingly. "If not now, then tomorrow or the next day. I hope you'll think about how your actions are harming innocent people." "Innocent people? I'm the innocent one here and you'll go to hell for this," Khalid warns in the same tone of voice Bruce is using. "There are millions of Khalid Ahmeds on the Internet. You've got the wrong one. What's wrong with you?"
"We know there are many members of al-Qaeda with your name. We have details of your involvement with the Taliban from other detainees in Afghanistan and here in Guantanamo." "I don't know anyone here except for . . ." Khalid stops himself from mentioning Masud, unsure how the information will be judged. "Except for whom?" Angela stares blankly ahead. "Perhaps you're thinking of Ahmad Siddique? Msrah Shia-Agil? Kamal Sadat? All known members of al-Qaeda?" "That's total crap!" Then suddenly a flash of inspiration tells Khalid what's going on here. "Wait, I get it. You made these guys I've never heard of say they know me, sign papers, like you made me sign, and yeah, then you've got something on me. That's what you do, isn't it?" "You're imagining things." Bruce frowns, glancing at Angela for agreement before calling the guards. Interrogation over, they untie his ankle from the bolt on the floor, but only after Angela and Bruce have left by their own secret door. Angela's heels clicking quickly down the corridor.
Over the next few weeks, Khalid's brought next door for questioning many times. Sometimes by Angela or Bruce, sometimes by another man who claims his name is Joe and the woman he's with is called Sal. Each time now he's given a chair before their insane questions begin. "What would you do if you knew someone was planning a suicide attack?" Joe asks him. "I have no idea," Khalid murmurs. "Come on now, you must have friends who talk about this stuff?" he says. "No," Khalid says. "Do you?" "Why not trust us for once and tell us what you know?" He doesn't seem to notice how tired and thirsty Khalid's becoming. "Leave me alone," Khalid begs. "As soon as you give us some answers you can go." Khalid scoffs. "Yeah, right. I've heard that one before. Liars." Joe goes on and on trying to break him. As if the constant repetition will nudge his brain into remembering something. Khalid never knows when the questioning will end and when they'll take him back to his cell. Soon realizing how pointless his answers are when all that happens is they come right back, asking the same things over again, until he can almost predict what's coming next.
Tired of sitting in the hard chair without a sip of water, Khalid trains his mind not to listen. Their voices drone on regardless. Although somewhere, deep inside, he knows even these terrible sessions are helping him to reclaim some part of his mind and his memory. Anchoring him to reality for short periods of time. Even just giving him the chance to sit in a chair. Look at different walls. Real shoes instead of boots. The smell of mildew and warm plastic in his nose instead of stale bread, rotten fish and warm water. The following day, they up the pressure. No chair this time. Now Khalid's lying face down in the middle of the concrete floor. Arms out, his wrist shackles tied to a rusty iron ring. His chin is hard on the floor, while a man with gray hair and gray skin, smelling of cigarette smoke and lounging in a black chair, points a large spotlight at Khalid's face. A tall, stocky woman in a navy suit stands behind him with arms folded, tapping two long red nails on her elbow. Her silver bangles clink and clank like keys.
The sound is broken by a sudden groan from Khalid. Pain shoots up his arms as he wriggles his hands nearer to the ring bolted to the floor to try and ease the pain. Fully aware as he stares at the ring that it's a chain within a chain. Inside a locked cell. Inside a guarded prison camp circled by rows of high, curling razor wire. Its perimeter patrolled by soldiers carrying guns loaded with bullets, guarding a prison that's part of a base. A base situated at the tip of an island, in the middle of two oceans. Protected by water on one side and landmines on the other. The dot on the floor is him, a sixteen-year-old boy. A boy who's looking at himself from every angle. Looking down on himself. Looking up from below. From underneath, then behind and in front. Backwards and forwards, images flash through his brain. Nothing but thin air covers his bones. His lungs. His heart. He can see his own dusty breath sweeping from his mouth. Mirrors of light bounce from him like laser beams. "Tell us the name of the fifth accomplice."
"Number five!" Three seconds. Khalid counts. That took three seconds to say: Num–ber–five. Yep, three. "Admit your role in helping him!" "Let me go. Let me go." Was that six seconds? Six words—could be five seconds, because the words are short. Soon the door opens and the man leaves. The American woman is joined by another American man, around forty years old, who looks friendly. Getting Khalid's hopes up for a second. But after whispering to the woman, he turns to Khalid. "What other international cities were you planning on bombing?" "Burnley. Barnsley. Bolton. Accrington. Todmorden. Over there. Yeah, Tod. Tod." How many seconds was that? Khalid breaks out in a fit of hysterical laughter. So hysterical, he can't stop. Annoying the man and woman so much they leave the room to the soldiers. Soldiers who kick and beat him. Anxious for their pound of flesh to get them through the day. The force of their anger is outside anything Khalid knows and he can't be bothered to count the number of kicks they give him.
And there are other times. When they won't give him water. When they push him against the wall to stub out their cigarettes on his arms. But when he laughs they stop. Giving up for a while—at least on him. Khalid loses himself by pressing his face to the floor. Numbed by the light burning into his face, consumed by the desire to lick dirt from the cold concrete floor. The feeling he didn't really see Masud begins haunting his bleak, staring eyes once more. Were Masud's eyelashes really that long and feathery when he saw him in Karachi? Or was the room too dark to notice them at the time? Khalid had been in pain, his eyes swollen from the beating when they kidnapped him, but still that face—it looked like Masud's. Now the chatter in his mind's suspended by the memory of the bleak room with the rough coir matting. The scruffy, handcuffed man whose swollen face was covered in bruises, sitting cross-legged on the floor. A strange, calm dignity about him. Yes, that was Masud, with the graying hair and beard. He mixed him up with the guy in the shower. That guy sounded like him. His head and face were bare but still he looked nothing like Masud, hair or no hair. It wasn't him. How could it be?
"What was the name of the fifth accomplice?" A voice interrupts his thoughts. "I don't know," Khalid says. "You don't know?" The man leans in to the spotlight. "There wasn't anyone," Khalid sighs. Out of energy. "No one at all?" he asks. "Please let me go. Let me out," Khalid wails. "My arms hurt." 19 THE JINN Gazing at the lights, staring into the black hole that keeps flashing up the new imaginary face of Masud, Khalid hears the sounds of Ramadan start up again. Hungry men refuse breakfast. Later on refusing lunch and even dinner if it's brought before the sun goes down. Praying for help. Praying for peace. Always praying, and it sounds nice. Too weak to join in, Khalid's finding it hard to get up and go to the loo this morning, even though his bladder is full. And it's not just due to guilt because of Ramadan and the thought of a billion Muslims around the world who are fasting and praying while he's lying here doing nothing. It's because he knows another, even more dangerous thing is happening to his brain.
It started when he did or didn't see Masud in the showers. Now the jinn—the genies—have begun calling his name. Just as Masud had done. Or he thinks he might have done. Khalid can't quite remember why. Khalid met one before in the room in Karachi while he stared at that rug. Didn't a genie take him away then on a flying carpet? Back home to his family and friends. "Khalid, Khalid." The voices grow louder and louder, then soften slightly when the ceiling lights dim. And when the voices drop, the world goes backwards. Khalid gets up from the bed and walks up and down to stop everything moving the wrong way, pacing the room to remind himself of his body. The shooting pain across one shoulder tells him he was bolted to the floor a short time ago and forces him to straighten his spine and rub his neck. How long ago was that? A deep well of fear and worry adds to the feeling he's been a dimwit most of his life. Then suddenly he's aware of himself sweating and panicking. Standing stock still in the middle of the cell for no reason.
Listening. Knowing whenever a sound stops out there, like when a soldier clunks to the end of the row and the name-calling finishes. Finishes. A hum starts up where the echo of the boots was before. A hum that rings and rings even though there's no proper noise behind it. Not even the voice calling his name. Then, when it goes quiet, Khalid can see a white space filling out in front of him, even though he knows he's imagining it. He falls on the bed. Head in his hands. But the worse thing is, when the white space comes, it spreads everywhere. He can't stop himself sinking into it. That's why he wets himself from fear. The warmth a pleasant feeling for a second until the smell hits him. _No point getting up now._ Khalid shakes his head at himself. Shocked and half pleased at the same time. Shocked he's lost control of his bladder. Half pleased because the sensation brings him round and, the second he knows where he is, the white noise goes away. Feeling better for a while. But not better enough to do anything, like pray or think. Especially not think about his family and what he's supposed to be doing for Ramadan.
This morning, when they brought the plastic tray for breakfast, he was still staring at it when they brought the next tray for lunch. "What's up, man? This place stinks. Why you ain't touched your oats?" The smiling black guard stares at the tray. His voice soon changes to a gentle whisper. "Now come on, you gotta have something!" In the end, it's the dark, syrupy color of his eyes that brings Khalid back. "I, um, I, yeah," the only thing Khalid manages to spit out. Part of him believing he's skipped breakfast because of Ramadan, while another part wonders how he completely missed hearing the soldier. Maybe he didn't shout his number this morning. Maybe he didn't fall on the bed when he went sweaty. Maybe he stood in the middle of the room for hours. He got up from the bed just now—didn't he? The thought troubles him. "Now, you eat this up, you hear me? I'll be back in ten and I wanna see this grub gone." Khalid nods, pretending not to be a bumbling idiot. Then he takes a deep breath, thinking, _He'll be back in ten and I have to eat this up, otherwise they'll . . ._ He doesn't know what will happen if he doesn't eat the cold canned potatoes, one after the other. Then the peas, one after the other. Then the . . . it looks like fish, but it smells like stinking cabbage. He'll be back in ten and then—what?
The rancid smell of urine overpowers Khalid as he stands with the tray in his hand in front of the hole, waiting. Waiting for the guard to come back. Only he doesn't come back in ten. He doesn't come back in fifteen or twenty. The man only said that to get Khalid to eat up. So Khalid stands there, tray in hand. Waiting for the man to come back. Refusing to sink into the white space or listen to the voices until after—yes, after the sound of footsteps disappears down the corridor. Refusing to believe in the white space that he's already in. Seeing it over there. Not here, next to his shadow. When the prayers begin from every corner of the camp, Khalid's mind starts up for a second with the thought that maybe they've given him the wrong number. Rubbing his forehead with his free hand, he bursts into tears. His number is 256 and he knows now they've given it to someone else, because no one's called his number for a long time. So something must have happened. They used to call his number for showers. A soldier would shout, "256! 256!" Khalid would know then they were coming for him. Then it all stopped. Or did it?
"256!" Khalid yells to remind them, just as the beany hole slams open and another man, not the one with the kind eyes, grabs the tray. "You're stinking the place out!" he barks at him. The beany hole snaps shut. Khalid listens to black boots march on. Holes banging open and shut, on and on down the corridor. The sound of plastic trays clattering on the trolley. Then it all stops and the smell of urine takes over. Suddenly the air conditioner starts up, blowing out freezing-cold air. Khalid moves back to the small bed, covering his shoulders with the blue blankets. Placing a white towel on his head, he sinks into the white space that opens up after the last of the prayers die away. Unable to resist anymore. His empty brown eyes rest on the empty gray floor. There are only a few gravy stains and dead flies and his bare feet, but a less earthly realm takes over the moment he closes his eyes and makes space for the jinn, the genie man with the purple hat and big wide grin who slides him into his playground. Others come too, trailing behind Khalid, yes, behind him, if he meets their gaze. Shivering. Shivering. There's no need to run when the jinn come calling, because they live in a world where all Khalid's thoughts are acted out right in front of him. Some have wings, others have swords. Some have unfathomable powers. One has a wife by his side. Another has an army dressed in black.
You never know with the jinn. Anything can happen with them. Only when he hears the air conditioner click off does Khalid blink himself back to sitting on the bed. The blue blankets are on his shoulders. White towel on his head. Watching the jinn fall down. "Go on, take everything with you," Khalid says. Leaving him with only the ash-colored walls, plus the sound of someone being dragged past the door, shackles scraping the floor. And then the unbroken noise of a man screaming, which has been going on for hours and is beginning to make Khalid feel he should join in. There's something strangely soothing about the thought of screaming his head off. Anyway, it's better than listening to the yelling. That gets on his nerves. His mind becomes a flickering video camera, recording the screamer's pain, hunger, desperation. He can see him pacing the room, banging his head on the wall, biting his arm. Waiting for something to happen to break the monotony of wondering how everything went wrong. Of wondering how anyone can spend their time making other people unhappy. Kicking their heads in for saying the wrong thing. Smiling at the wrong time. Being other, not like, separate—them—they—demons—Muslims—insurgents—enemy combatants—extremists—terrorists—whatever. It's one big scam. And then go home and have a chicken dinner in front of the TV.
"Watch it, or we'll hang you up by the wrists to a wall. Be careful, dude, or we'll pour water down your face until you drown. No mistake, we're the good guys. We don't hit our kids but we're happy to kick you about. Next one, please." More crap. How can you fight for peace? Peace doesn't understand war. Khalid shakes his head angrily. Why don't they get it? "War doesn't work, you jackasses!" Khalid screams. Screaming high and wide until his throat rattles and throbs. The word "they" comes back to him in a flash of inspiration. The word "you" cracks his spine like a mugger's fist, making him jump out of his skin. Then Khalid sees—there is no "they"—there is no "you." Bin Laden and al-Qaeda are just as bad. Look at the killing they've done and the hatred they've spread, because in the end there's just "us"—just "us." He stops yelling. Stops banging the door and falls back on the bed to wonder at the powers of the jinn. The blue blankets are in a heap on the floor. The white towel is on the bed. The gray walls, though, are in the right place in front of his eyes.
Any minute now it will be dinnertime. Khalid can always tell when it's dinnertime. By now he knows the noises that come before the sound of the trolley wheels hitching up on the concrete to begin the round. First there's the guards marching up and down twice in two minutes instead of once every three minutes. Sixty seconds—more than just a number—Khalid's counted them out a billion times. The slamming begins, getting nearer as the holes open and shut, and this time Khalid's ready for them. He's hungry now and he's hoping it might be sweetcorn and chicken lumps in a half-cold tomato sauce, because that's the only meal he can eat without wanting to gag. And the bananas are always nice. Even the ones with the black skins are much tastier than any of the food on the tray. Khalid's mouth begins to water as the metal flap of the hole next to him slams shut. Arms ready to grab the tray. A whiff of putrid sardines lands on him but, hey, there's a sprig of parsley on top. No banana today, though. Chewing the parsley, he lines his mouth with the sharp taste before bracing himself for the slices of gray-sided fish in yellow gloop. Swallowing it anyway and saving the wrinkled peas for after, he pushes the four canned potatoes to one side.
At least the screaming guy has shut up for a bit. All he can hear is the sound of lots of plastic spoons scraping the last peas from the plastic trays, echoing down the row. That's it for another day, until the volunteer prisoners come to slop out the rooms. One of them, Shafi, sometimes whispers to him from the Qur'an. Yesterday he said, "They claim that He has kinship with the jinn, yet the jinn know they will also be brought before him." Khalid likes it when Shafi comes. With big, mad eyes, he looks something like 50 Cent but he doesn't rap. Khalid wishes he would rap, but no, his head is somewhere else entirely. Quoting from the Qur'an is his thing. Soon it's slop-out time again and the door's unlocked. Two men point their guns at Khalid in case he goes crazy, like the man last week who rammed himself in the stomach with the mop handle. Keeping it there in a frenzied grip, sniveling and yelling until the soldiers dragged him away. Shafi had calmly carried on, going about his business without the mop, and washed the floor by hand with the man's white towel, he said.
"Two men they keeeksh." Shafi draws his fingers across his neck like a knife. Khalid gasps, nodding, "They killed themselves?" "Yes. Also five they going starving death. Nearly killed," Shafi says. "Don't do this." "No, I won't." Khalid feels sorry for Shafi, because he's not quite right in the head. Not quite here. A good reminder you have to keep your feet on the ground in this place or the jinn will take over. Shafi stares at the bucket. Looks at Khalid. Rolls his eyes a bit. Then whispers, "Signs are in the power of God alone!" "What signs?" Khalid says, watching Shafi dunk the dirty mop in the dirty water. "Signs." Shafi runs off with dripping mop and filthy bucket, leaving Khalid thinking about signs, wondering if rainbows are signs, because he used to like rainbows whenever they appeared in Rochdale—which wasn't often. The expressions on the faces of the watching soldiers are ones of utter boredom until Shafi comes back with a bucket of clean soapy water, when they nod to him, then chat to each other in low voices.
"Eight more days and I get to go home," the first soldier says, scraping around for something to talk about. "Twelve for me if you don't count today," his mate answers. A foul smell of disinfectant drifts suddenly from the corner of the cell. Shafi pads off. The beany hole slams shut, leaving Khalid alone again, always at the mercy of these small interludes to provide a few minutes' company, entertainment and food for thought. And sometimes his thoughts settle down. Settle down to ordinary things. This time it's rainbows occupying his mind, plus the science of the color spectrum they learned in primary school, remembering the colors from the rhyme they were taught: "Richard of York Gave Battle in Vain." Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet. Rainbows are signs of the power of good, he decides. Bored enough to try and see good in whatever's left in his brain, he battles hard to come up with something else. But nothing wraps itself around him like the vision of the last rainbow he saw over the oak trees in the park.
He'd just spotted the perfect semicircle of radiant color over the high branches and when he turns round, there—tipping backwards on the bench—is Niamh, with her hair in a twist on top of her head. She smiles up at him. Did she smile up at him? Now she does. The biggest smile in the world. Her perfect face, beautiful mouth, made him feel like a million dollars for the rest of the week. A million dollars until the smell of disinfectant evaporates and the smell of urine returns. Her face fades suddenly with the fatal realization she's not here. Curling up on the bed like a baby, Khalid reaches for the blue blankets to cover himself. Pulling the white towel over his face to stop the jinn from bothering him. 20 EXERCISE After six days of yelling and screaming, shouting at himself, listening to the silences and the pauses between them, things improve slightly when the library man, Will, comes with a cardboard box of old Reader's Digest condensed books. "Any books, man?" "Books?" Khalid can't see them at first. Where are they?
"Yep, books." Will smirks. "You want them?" Khalid nods in the belief they're not actually being poked through the hole at him. "Yes." He carefully squeezes the word out and three small books tumble to the floor. Will's soft footsteps stroll away. Khalid listens to him saying the same thing to each man as he saunters from cell to cell. Then, flicking open a yellowing book, Khalid puts it to his nose to smell the dusty pages and runs his fingers over the smooth covers. He uses them as playthings by lining them up in a tidy row on his pillow, then stacks them on the floor to enjoy the small footstool they provide. He even tries to walk up and down with a book on his head. Over the next few days, Khalid reads the three condensed stories in each book over and over again to himself until the characters become his friends. "Come out, you Dam Busters. I know where you are. You want the rest of this bread roll, Atticus Finch? Well, too bad." Everyone, prisoners and soldiers, sigh with relief at the sound of relative normality coming from Khalid's cell, and Khalid sighs, because the words spark a tiny flame of pleasure in his broken heart and mind. Bit by bit the white noise shrinks and the characters in the stories take over. Khalid finds himself poring over the words and thinking about the passages he's read for hours and hours, and some of the emptiness he feels dies away because the books become his family.
Until . . . "Time to go," the guard yells just as Khalid opens _To Kill a Mockingbird_ for the fourth time. It was one of the books on his English GCSE list but they hadn't read it before he left. "Not now," Khalid says, but the door swings open and a bunch of tinkling shackles catch his eye. Forced to drop the book on the floor, Khalid's desperate to have the story back in his lap. Desperate for the special feeling of peace reading brings him, but the guards clamp his wrists and ankles tight and seem to enjoy leading him outside the moment the rain starts. They walk him through endless small puddles on the path towards the building next to Camp Delta and all Khalid can see is the face of Boo Radley in the reflections in the water. The waves of hissing, cold rain do their best to stretch the cracks in Khalid's flip-flops to the limit. He slips and slides past the limp wet American flag hanging from the pole and is transported to another time, the 1930s, and another place, a small town in Alabama, and Scout, the six-year-old girl, and her brother, Jem, and the story waiting for him on the floor of his cell.
Where are the showers? Khalid's not sure. Everything looks different in the rain. There are no shadows for a start and a tingling freshness fills the air when, like magic, the rain suddenly stops. There's a smell of damp earth underfoot and, reaching the line of showers and their weak trickle of watery disinfectant, he's already soaked to the skin and aware this is going to be a pain in the neck. Looking around routinely to see if any of the men are as young as him, Khalid glances briefly from one to the other. No one seems to be under the age of twenty. Unless that man over there with his back to him is younger than he looks? Khalid tries not to stare. It's bad enough he's looking at all. Instead, he concentrates on washing his feet for a moment, but the smell of soap makes his nose tingle and he starts sneezing. "Time's up, 256," someone shouts. But he's only half washed. Why is he ordering him to get dressed when he's covered in suds? The next man steps hurriedly under the trickle to take Khalid's place. A man who requires not one but two guns on him. Why two, when everyone else has one?
Khalid glances at him: a tall man with a firm, quiet look. There's nothing to mark him out from the crowd apart from a disfigured left hand with stunted fingers the size of a child's. He's standing proudly even though he's naked, so Khalid reckons he's someone important. The kind of bloke who holds his own in every situation, no matter what. His natural stance is dignified, almost regal, while Khalid knows his own is more like a beggar these days. Lost. Pathetic. Weedy. Suddenly feeling worse, Khalid turns away embarrassed. Cross with himself for staring, even though he was only trying to work out why the man warranted two guns pointed at him. Maybe he's a suicide bomber or a real terrorist? A leader of some crazy group? Whatever he is, he stands out from the crowd. Without warning, instead of going back to the cells, they march Khalid with dried soapy skin to a new recreation area which is nothing but a large open cage in the middle of a concrete yard. A yard surrounded by razor wire, enclosed by wire fencing, open to blossomy clouds and smelling of rain. They undo the shackles and lock the wire door.
Khalid stares at the shimmering wet concrete space which is about twenty steps wide. He's never been here before, although he's been in the camp for, he thinks, about—how long is it? They brought him here autumn 2002, he knows that much. He was fifteen then. The festival of Eid came and went without any celebrations and Tony Blair joined Bush and went to war in Iraq. When was that? Ages ago. He was sixteen at some point, March 11, although he doesn't know exactly when that was, because no one told him it was his birthday. And now, with Ramadan over, it's nearly December, so he's been here about a year. At this rate he'll be an old man and in a coffin before he gets out. Before he can run and jump and yell and do all the stuff he used to do without anyone making a fuss. The thought makes his heart sink. He walks to the end of the fenced yard, testing out his new-found space, and the sun suddenly peeps out from behind a sparkling spider's web criss-crossing the wire. The gray clouds part and a wide-open soft blue sky opens up. In that moment the vast space takes Khalid out of the yard and into the source of a bigger, deeper blue that's more blue than anything he's ever seen. So perfect a sight he can almost touch it.
A sudden whiff of wet grass lingers for a moment as Khalid imagines hours of walking round here, gazing at the light, and his heart skips a beat at the deep, sudden peace breathing fresh air gives him. Two minutes later, the sound of padding footsteps breaks his trance. Khalid widens his eyes as the guards bring two men through the gate. Both are as surprised as Khalid to be here. Their shackles are undone and, smiling from ear to ear, the men gaze round the yard as if it's a football stadium or something. For a minute, Khalid's annoyed. Why did they have to come? He was enjoying having the place to himself. The guards lock them in and wander off to one side. Leaving the three of them staring at each other, all wondering if they're allowed to talk or not. Unaware what the rules are and bewildered by the sudden freedom to move about as they like. " _As-salaamu alaikum._ " The black guy speaks first. " _Wa alaikum as-salaam_ ," Khalid and the smaller man quickly answer. Luckily, the first guy also speaks English.

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