CHERUB: Shadow Wave (19 page)

‘Do you think he’s going to let this police department take you to court on charges of throwing paint and walk out with a thirty-day sentence? He wants a clear message sent to anyone who messes with him. That message will be that insignificant little worms like you get chewed up and spat out.’

‘I’ll confess to what I did,’ Aizat repeated. ‘And I’m not saying another word until I get a lawyer.’

The interrogator picked up a long black baton. She flipped a switch in its base, which set sparks crackling between two electrodes at the far end. She swung the baton, touching the end against Aizat’s kneecap. His body shot into spasm and his chin banged painfully against the table top as he crashed forward out of his chair and lay convulsing on the floor for several seconds.

‘It’s called a stinger,’ the interrogator said pleasantly. ‘And now you can see why.’

One of Aizat’s escorts burst back into the room after hearing the crash. ‘Is everything all right?’ he asked.

‘I’m doing fine,’ the interrogator laughed. ‘But I’m not so sure about him.’

She jabbed the electrodes between Aizat’s shoulder blades. He screamed in agony and rolled into a foetal position facing the wall.

‘Are you sure you don’t want to confess your sins, Aizat?’

Aizat scowled defiantly. ‘Sod you, you old witch.’

He expected another shock, but instead the interrogator looked across and spoke to her colleague. ‘Cuff his wrists and ankles to the table top. Then shock the soles of his feet every three minutes until I come back.’

Aizat had read somewhere that getting whipped on the soles of your feet is excruciatingly painful, so he didn’t want to even imagine what the stinger baton would feel like. He wanted to be strong, but his fear felt like a block of ice in his stomach.

‘Maybe I can sign something,’ he suggested urgently as the two guards moved in to lift him off the floor.

The interrogator stepped closer to Aizat and faked a yawn. ‘You’ve had your chance, Aizat. I need my rest. I’ll be back eventually. Remember officers, every three minutes.’

‘Evil bitch!’ Aizat shouted, as the interrogator headed out and the two cops tipped his books off the table before slapping his body face down against its shiny top. They each strapped one of his wrists to a table top with plastic cuffs.

‘I don’t think it’s gonna be your night, mate,’ one of the officers said, as he used all his strength to tighten the cuff strapping Aizat’s right ankle to the table top.

Aizat screamed in agony as the stinger hit the bottom of his foot. ‘Come back,’ he begged, as tears ran up his brow and hit the floor. But he couldn’t say any more because one of the officers ripped his head backwards and crammed a piece of filthy rag into his mouth.

Helena couldn’t sleep. The hotel room’s powerful shower was no consolation and when she stepped out her nerves sent most of the four-course banquet spewing into the toilet bowl. She tried to calm down by closing her eyes, imagining herself checking out of the hotel and arriving safely at the private jet terminal at Biggin Hill.

She looked up the number for Langkawi airport, concocted a story about a sick grandfather and asked when the next flight to London left. There was a plane to Singapore the next morning, with a connecting flight to London. But at £1,460 the last-minute fare was beyond the limit on her credit card.

Helena was a good runner and the island was small. She thought about abandoning her luggage and running along the coast road to the south of the island. From there she could pick from any of a hundred small boats to the mainland.

But how would that really help? It might buy time, but the police could still pick her up when she tried to leave the country and suspicious behaviour wouldn’t exactly help with any claims of innocence.

As Helena’s brain spun, she kept expecting her door to burst open. But it didn’t happen and by 3 a.m. she was starting to think that it might not. She’d tripped up an officer and met with Aizat, but what other evidence did they have?

Shortly afterwards, she gave up any hope of sleep and switched on the giant LCD mounted on the wall beyond her bed. As she flipped channels she came to a Malaysian news channel and saw the names Tan Abdullah and Joe Wright-Newman on the ticker scrolling across the bottom of the screen.

It wasn’t in English, so she couldn’t understand anything apart from the names. She sat on the end of the bed and watched the screen until Tan Abdullah’s picture appeared in a rectangle over the newsreader’s shoulder.

Seconds afterwards, the screen cut away and showed the attack with paint and feathers. The footage was much clearer than what Helena had seen from her seat at the far end of the room and the horror on the faces of Tan Abdullah and his highly paid celebrity guests was priceless.

The American golfer and the opera singer got spattered with almost as much paint as the governor, and Helena realised this would guarantee the footage airtime on news bulletins all around the world.

Some of those news channels might even discuss the reasons behind the protest. Helena swelled with admiration as she realised just how clever Aizat had been. The seventeen-year-old had devised and executed a scheme that used the power of celebrity to bring his campaign to prominence.

But Aizat must have known that he’d be caught by police thugs who were in Tan Abdullah’s pocket. For the first time since the attack, Helena thought about someone other than herself and hoped that Aizat and his comrades were OK.

*

‘Oh you
messy
pup!’ the female interrogator jeered, as she stepped into the interview room and ripped the gag out of Aizat’s mouth.

His soles had been shocked every three minutes for the past two and a half hours. During the involuntary spasms he’d pissed and shat himself several times and then writhed about in the resulting mess. The room stank, but the interrogator was hardened to it in the same way that a pig farmer can handle the smell of manure.

‘Ready to confess?’ she asked.

Aizat thought about the heroes in his books who’d heroically resisted torture. He felt pathetic as tears streamed down his face.

‘Anything you want,’ he sobbed. ‘Just stop hurting me.’

‘You’re a lucky little bastard,’ the interrogator hissed, before addressing the two guards. ‘Take him out of here. Hose him off with disinfectant, get him clean clothes and put him in one of the air-conditioned cells downstairs.’

The two officers looked stunned.

‘But he’s completely broken,’ one of them gasped. ‘He’ll confess to killing his own granny if you stick the paperwork in front of him.’

‘His little publicity stunt is all over the news,’ the interrogator explained. ‘Star TV, BBC, CNN. So no dodgy confession, no quick sentencing before a local judge. The eyes of the world are on us and the governor says that everything has to be done by the book with this one.’

‘Looks like your lucky day, Aizat,’ one of the officers said, as he cut open the plastic cuffs. ‘On your feet, boy.’

Aizat’s burned soles seared with pain as he put them down in the puddle of urine surrounding the table. Only the officer grabbing his arms saved him from collapsing on to his face as he took his first step forward, but Aizat couldn’t help smiling.

It was all worth it if the world found out what Tan Abdullah had done to his village.

*

Helena watched the story in Malay, before switching to CNN and seeing it in English.
World number three Joe Wright-Newman was tarred and feathered during a protest at the opening of a new luxury golf resort on the Malaysian island of Langkawi.’

There was no mention of the reason behind the protest, but Helena being involved in a global news story at least made her feel a lot less isolated than when it had just been herself and a few local activists pitched against the island governor and his loyal police force.

Just after six the phone beside her bed rang. The call came from the reception desk, saying that a courier was waiting for her with a package in the basement lobby and was insisting that she come down and present some identification to collect it.

This seemed vaguely suspicious, but Helena figured that if the police wanted her they’d just come to her room and arrest her. She dressed rapidly in shorts, trainers and one of her golf shirts. The ground-floor receptionist directed her down a set of stairs into a valet parking area beneath the hotel.

The courier wore the smart uniform of an international delivery company and held a large rectangular package. After inspecting Helena’s passport, he handed her a clipboard with a form attached to it.

‘What is this?’ she asked, speaking slowly in the hope that the courier would understand.

‘Customs declaration,’ he replied. ‘For import.’

Helena nodded and began filling in the form. Full name, passport number, home address in UK, signature acknowledging receipt of package in good condition. After filling the form, she had to repeat her signature on the grey screen of a handheld electronic pad.

Finally, the courier handed her the mysterious box that had been standing on the ground between his feet.

‘Have a good day,’ he said, before walking off.

The package was light and didn’t seem to be particularly well sealed. Helena balanced it on top of a concrete bollard nearby and ripped open the flap. Her jaw dropped as she saw her black pumps and Diesel jeans, now muddy and with a tear in the seat.

She looked around the deserted parking garage in a state of panic. It reminded her of the scene from a hundred movies, where a hit man emerges from behind a concrete post, or a van squeals down a ramp and runs you down at ninety miles an hour.

But nothing happened as Helena hurried nervously towards a row of elevators. Instead she found the door of her room open and realised that the package was just a ruse to enter her room with minimal fuss. A hotel maid was packing up her things, and Michael Stephens stood by the end of her bed.

Helena found a surprising burst of courage. ‘Those are private things,’ she said indignantly. ‘You have no right!’

‘Miss Bayliss,’ Michael said, as smooth as ever as his hand pointed out towards the balcony. ‘This is Mr Singh from the Malaysian immigration service.’

Mr Singh flicked a cigarette away as he stepped inside. He was a slim, effeminate looking man with a shiny plastic briefcase.

‘Sit at the desk please,’ Singh said.

Helena sat warily across from Singh at the narrow hotel desk. An anglepoise lamp hung awkwardly between them.

‘Is this your handwriting?’ he asked, as he slid a piece of paper in front of her.

It was a photocopy of a hand-addressed package of books that she’d sent to Aizat a few weeks after she’d first contacted him.

Helena nodded. ‘Yes it’s my handwriting. Is it illegal to send a package of books to Malaysia?’

‘No,’ Singh said. ‘Unless the books are banned or pornographic. We have no proof of what was in the package. But you did sign a declaration when you filled in your application to visit Malaysia stating that you intended to work as a travel journalist. Did you mention that you knew this Mr Aizat Rakyat? Or that you intended to contact him whilst in Malaysia and discuss his political campaign?’

Helena sat up a little straighter. ‘Isn’t asking questions a journalist’s job?’

Singh shook his head. ‘Your entry visa is not valid for political journalism. Therefore I am cancelling your visa. You will be escorted to the airport and placed on the first aeroplane leaving for the United Kingdom. May I please have your passport?’

Helena had spent the whole night wanting to escape the island, but felt angry and humiliated now that she was actually being kicked out.

‘Do I have a right of appeal?’ she demanded.

Singh nodded. ‘If you do, you will be taken to the immigration detention centre in Kuala Lumpur. Your case will be heard in six to ten weeks.’

‘It’s not as nice as the Regency Plaza,’ Michael added, with a sneer. ‘And if you choose not to leave us quietly, I have some
fascinating
CCTV footage that I could show to the police.’

Helena reluctantly handed over her passport. Singh pulled a large stamp and a red inkpad out of his briefcase. The stamp matched the size of a passport page and comprised a huge X and the words VISA VIOLATION EXPELLED MALAYSIA.
ABSOLUTELY
NO RETURN.

Singh enjoyed playing with his big stamp, so rather than just doing it once he went through the passport inking the message on to every alternate page. This meant that Helena would have to pretend that she’d lost her passport and apply for a replacement, unless she wanted to answer detailed questions on why she’d been expelled from Malaysia every time she arrived in a foreign country.

‘Your flight is at ten,’ Singh said, as he took a quick glance at his watch. ‘Mr Stephens will arrange your transport to the airport. If you do not board the flight, you will not be able to board another without first passing through the immigration detention centre in Kuala Lumpur. Understand?’

‘Yes,’ she nodded.

Singh handed back the passport and smiled. ‘Have a safe journey home, Miss Bayliss.’

Helena sighed as Mr Singh left the room.

Michael looked down his nose at her and shuddered with contempt. ‘I’ll make sure you never work in travel journalism again. You
silly
little girl.’

‘I had no idea about any of this,’ James said, as he sat at his desk and opened up YouTube on his laptop. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about it?’

‘I had to keep it quiet,’ Kyle explained. ‘I screwed up my mission in the Caribbean, I got caught for smoking spliff on our drugs mission. If anyone here on campus had found out that I’d contacted Guilt Trips to try and help Aizat out, I would have been kicked out of CHERUB for good.’

James was slightly put out. ‘But you could have trusted
me
.’

Kyle burst out laughing. ‘Bull crap! Nobody ever keeps a secret on campus. Look at you when you shagged that Lois bird down in Luton. Bruce and Dana were the only ones who were supposed to know, but within three weeks your bath-time bonk was the hottest topic on campus.’