Guantanamo Boy (9 page)

“I’m saying nothing until I get a lawyer. That watch cost my dad thirty-five pounds. Give it back.”

“This is Karachi, not England,” the man says. “You don’t have any legal rights here. Tell us what you know and you can go home.”

“I’ve told you the truth. Get me someone from the British Embassy. They’ll help me out. I haven’t committed any crime.”

“You don’t understand. You are wanted. We can’t intervene. I’m sorry.” For a moment the man does seem genuinely sorry, which surprises Khalid.

“Someone wants me? Come on. I haven’t done anything. Are you crazy?” Confused and nervous in equal measure, Khalid quickly tells him about himself, about his family and Dad going missing. Everything about Jim and looking for the flat. “I’m only just fifteen,” he adds.

“We are living in terrible times,” is all the man says. As if his hands are tied and the truth’s unimportant. “You look much older than fifteen. It’s late. I’ll see you in the morning.” He gets up to leave.

“You can’t leave me handcuffed like this!” Khalid shouts. “My arms hurt!” The door slams. “You stole my watch!” The lock snaps.

Baffled and shocked, Khalid’s no closer to understanding the reason for being kidnapped, beaten up and brought here, and the more this goes on, the weirder and sicker he feels. The thought of how Mum will cope when they find him gone in the morning crushes him. He feels guilty even though none of this is his fault. All of it on top of Dad disappearing is too strange and mad to take in. How can something of this sort happen to an ordinary family like his?

Now there’s a horrible pain in his side which makes him think they’ve shattered one of his ribs, and what with his aching arms and shoulder, the throbbing pains in his chest and legs, his stinging face and sore eye, he’s so tired and weirded out he can hardly think.

Too messed up to sleep, Khalid shouts out a list of vile swearwords as he walks around the room. Magnifying them in his mind as he yells. Stabbing the air with them. Angry beyond belief with himself for not keeping his mobile phone in his pocket, even though they would have taken that too. Picturing it beside the computer in the cupboard where he left it, he wonders whether it’s worth trying to kick the door in with his bare feet before he lies down on the cool, concrete floor. Within minutes, he’s asleep.

A while later he wakes suddenly, due to the unbearable aches and pains throbbing in every part of his body. The ceiling light is blazing down on his eyes. He turns to face the door, gazing at the bleak shadows of the table and chairs, and cries his heart out.

In the morning, still half asleep, Khalid settles into an upright position, determined to stay clear-headed enough to get himself out of here. Believing these people, whoever they are, must know by now they’ve got the wrong person. Khalid Ahmed isn’t such an unusual name, he reassures himself.

Listening to footsteps approach the door, Khalid decides to do as Jim advised him, to cooperate as much as possible. He knows he was reasonable last night, but things might go better today if he’s more helpful. Calling the podgy guy “Uncle” will show respect. Khalid smiles, now feeling confident he’ll be out of here within hours.

When the lock turns in the door, Khalid’s ready and smiling. But instead of the guy from last night another younger Pakistani comes in with tea and flat bread to tempt him.

“Where’s the other man?” Silence. Khalid tries being friendly. “What’s your name?” Silence. Then the man leaves without saying a word, clearly unable to speak English, taking the tea and bread with him.

“Bye,” Khalid calls. No response. The door clicks shut.

A few minutes later, a woman with straight brown hair, about thirty-five, in a gray suit and white shirt, comes in with a clipboard. Two men in navy trousers with blue and white pinstriped shirts accompany her. Standing at the door, they say nothing while she pulls up the other chair. Then another guy in a black suit slips in behind them.

“Hi, Khalid,” she says in a friendly American accent, as if she’s going to help him. “I’m Angela and this is Bruce.” She points to the man in the suit. The other men she doesn’t bother introducing. “Now, what exactly were you doing in Afghanistan last week?”

Khalid’s mind is scrambled again. “My name’s pronounced
Haleed
,” he says, surprised at himself for mentioning it, some-thing he gave up doing years ago in infant school. “I’ve never been to that country!”

Angela smiles sweetly at him. “Come on now. We know you were there. We have your passport.”

This was getting ridiculous.

“That can’t be true. My dad keeps all our passports. How come you’ve got mine? Have you got my dad?”

“Your father? Why do you keep talking about him?”

“What? I told that other guy—he’s missing.”

“Your father works for al-Qaeda?”

“What? No! He’s a chef in Manchester. Don’t be daft. You can phone the restaurant. They’ll tell you. Ask my aunties, my mum.”

“You have no idea where your father is?” Angela frowns.

“Don’t you?” Now Khalid’s getting really confused.

“Why would we?” Angela leans back in her chair, exchanging glances with the men at the door as if to say,
This might take a while
.

Khalid is totally baffled. “I’m only fifteen,” he says. “You can’t do this. I haven’t done anything. Where’s my watch?”

One guy butts in. “My name’s James. I’m from MI5.” The silent one nods briefly, staring at Khalid with a stern expression.

“Then get me out of here!” Khalid yells.

“I’m afraid we can’t do that,” James says.

“You have to! I’m only a kid!”

“It’s best to cooperate with the Americans and tell them what you were doing in Afghanistan and why you were at the demonstration.”

“What demonstration? That thing the other morning? I just pushed through the crowd on my way to look for my dad. You’ve mixed me up with someone else.” If the British guys won’t help him, who will? Khalid finally crumbles. “Please!” he begs, tears springing into his eyes. But the men are expressionless, unmoved.

Soon the door opens and the men leave. Angela’s joined by another guy who is about forty years old with a round, smiling face. Getting Khalid’s hopes up for a second. But after whispering to the woman, all he says is, “We’ve got the others.”

“What others? Have you kidnapped my mum and sisters?”

If only they’d tell him what they suspect him of doing, he could put them right, but they turn away whenever he glances at them. Talking quietly to each other out of earshot.

“WHAT OTHERS?” Khalid yells.

Then the round-faced guy begins tapping his foot. At this, Angela gets up and two Pakistani guards grab Khalid by his handcuffs.

“Am I going home? Where are you taking me?” Khalid shouts as they walk him to the door, then down the mildew-smelling corridor and outside into blazing sunshine towards a dusty brown truck parked right outside. This time they don’t bother with the cloth hood. They know he has no idea where he is and there’s nowhere to run.

It’s then that Khalid first begins to think they won’t be taking him home. Shoved in the back, pushed face down again, he can just about make out four more men in shalwar kameez as they climb in to sit on the edges of the truck. Holding on with their hands, they lean over Khalid in case he decides to escape. Their tobacco-smelling breath makes him want to heave but there’s no room to move, their sandals and hairy toes are right in his face. Nobody speaks. The driver speeds off down a wide, busy highway, jolting Khalid again on the uneven metal floor. Dirt in his face. In his eyes and mouth. He bumps around like an empty brown bottle, trying to avoid another jolt to his ears and bruised head.

Suddenly the truck brakes sharply and Khalid’s quickly bundled out of the back, sweaty men on either side of him. They push him towards a tall building with high windows and shove him through a black shiny door to the poshest place he’s ever seen. Full of gilt-framed pictures, luxurious red and gold chairs, the marble hall smells of silver polish. If it wasn’t for the men beside him with their hands on his shoulders, Khalid might think this was the home of a famous Pakistani cricketer.

Two men from the truck disappear inside one of the rooms. The others stay close to Khalid as they push him into a smaller room at the far end of the hall.

Once inside, the door closes quickly behind him and the key turns in the lock with a loud double clunk, giving him the feeling it won’t be opened again any time soon. Khalid runs to the window to see if he can escape. But there’s another two men outside in a parked car and, in any case, the window’s bolted. Down the wide street, there are other tall buildings, some with black gates in front of them. Across from him is a park-like open space, marked out with narrow railings. It looks nice out there. Safe. Rich. The kind of area Khalid goes out of his way to avoid at home in case someone thinks he’s a burglar or up to no good. The kind of road that makes him feel poor and scruffy. Out of place. Uncomfortable.

Why didn’t they just ask him to come with them? Why kidnap him with a gun and beat him senseless? Why the stupid hood and cuffs if all they are going to do in the end is bring him to a flash place like this?

With little idea what to do or think, Khalid sits on the dark yellow sofa with his feet on a small coffee table, rubbing his sore wrists against his T-shirt behind his back in an attempt to shift the cuffs farther up his arms. His aching shoulder hurts worse than ever. The pain in his side forces him to sit leaning forward, almost doubled up, staring at the ornate rugs on the wooden floor while wondering what on earth they are going to do with him next.

He doesn’t have long to wait before two men in jeans and blue shirts creak open the door. Khalid quickly drops his feet from the coffee table and sits up straight, trying his best not to look scared. More Americans, they introduce themselves as Dan and Bobby. Like last time, no surnames.

“We’re here to help you,” Dan says unconvincingly as he lounges in the chair opposite with his big hands clasped in his lap. The gentler-faced Bobby nods several times as he holds out a blown-up photo of Khalid jumping high, arms in the air, at the demonstration in Karachi.

“Is this you?”

Khalid nods, surprised to see the photo. Do they have photos of everyone at the demonstration? Was it an al-Qaeda event or what? Or have they been following him?

The two men look at each other. “Right,” says Dan. “Good. Now, tell us what you are doing here and we’ll let you go.”

“I told you! I got caught up in that, trying to look for my dad. I didn’t even know what it was!”

“What were you doing at the demonstration?”

“Who was the guy in the skullcap next to you?”

“What’s the name of the man to your right?”

“Why did you return to Karachi from Afghanistan?”

“Who did you meet in Afghanistan?”

“What did you bring with you?”

“Why did you go to the demonstration?”

This was beginning to feel like a scene from
Groundhog Day
. The same questions going round forever. With the same answers being ignored because they don’t fit the answers the Americans want. Dan’s and Bobby’s freshly shaved faces and neatly combed hair, together with their wide, toothy smiles and stupid questions, force Khalid to suspect they are completely out there, on drugs or something.

He does his best to hold his temper. Patiently telling them again and again who he is and why he’s in this photo they have. Reminding them he’s never been anywhere near Afghanistan. Wondering if he’s going to lose his mind if this carries on much longer.

“I’m fifteen,” Khalid says for the millionth time. “I’m still at school.”

This time Dan leans back on the chair, shaking his head impatiently. “Come on! Answer the questions.”

“Admit you’re twenty-two and a member of al-Qaeda. Go on,” Bobby says with the kind of smile that’s worse than nasty.

“What? No way. How come you think that?” Khalid pleads.

Dan finally looks like he’s given up. “OK, Kandahar for you,” he says smugly, flicking a finger at Bobby, who rushes to the door. “You’re wasting our time!” he adds with a smirk.

“What do you mean ‘Kandahar’?” Khalid shouts, a part of him thanking his dad for making him learn the map of Asia when he was young. “That’s in Afghanistan! I told you I haven’t been there and now you want to
take me there
? Are you crazy? I want to see my family. Where’s my mum? Someone’s made up lies about me—I know what goes on here. Don’t pay them. Was it Abdullah, that maniac?’

“You should have trusted me!” Dan heads for the door, ignoring his outburst.

Five seconds later, the guard reappears and Khalid jumps up, ready to fight, though there’s little he can do with his hands cuffed behind his back. But all that happens is the guard roughly pushes him away, then waits beside the door as Dan and Bobby leave the room and quickly follows them to ram the key in the lock.

Once Khalid is alone on the dark yellow sofa once again,
the thought slowly dawns on him that they really are going to take him to Kandahar. His mind races back through their questions in a desperate attempt to figure out who they think he might be.

“Do I look like a terrorist?” he says aloud, totally confused by the whole thing. His thoughts scatter to consider every possibility.
Is it because of Dad? Did he do something bad? Was the demonstration about al-Qaeda? What do they think I’ve done? Why do they keep talking about Afghanistan?

All he knows is that something’s gone terribly wrong, and, with his dad not around, it’s probably going to get a whole lot worse.

An armed Pakistani guard comes in with a bottle of water. His movements and face are gentle, unlike those of the last one. Khalid gets the sense he can talk to this guy and gestures to him that he needs the loo. The guard uncuffs him. At last Khalid can see the damage the truck journey has done to his arms, which are covered in red marks, cuts and bruises and ache with a sudden, dragging pain as they fall to his side.

The guard eyes Khalid’s arms, then frowns to himself. He leads him outside, where another guard throws a white towel over Khalid’s head to prevent him from seeing where he’s going. The first guard clutches his elbow, walking him slowly to the toilets at the other end of the corridor.