The Castle (12 page)

TWENTY-FIVE

A
mina arrived with a bowl of rice and wolfed it down, saying little, looking miserable and exhausted. Karim explained that the castle went quiet at this time of day, when the sun outside was super-hot. Building works stopped for a few hours. The family went into their rooms for long siestas. The servants sneaked a bit of nap time. The slaves kept themselves very quiet, so nobody would give them anything else to do.

I turned my back to give Karim and Amina privacy while they went into separate corners of the room to pray. Then Karim loosened the stone in the wall, bringing out a book and pencil from their hiding place. He practised writing,
while I lay down and Amina started to spread the henna goo on my forehead, smoothing it on with a lolly stick and her strong, rough fingers, muttering almost under her breath to her brother. She hadn't said a word to me since she'd arrived.

I assumed she was telling Karim about her morning. It obviously hadn't been good, from the frown on her face and the low, fearful tone of her muttering. Karim looked up from his writing, first confused, then angry, then . . . something else. He was staring at me, I realised, and even though I was covered in goo and probably pretty funny to look at right now, he wasn't smiling.

‘When I left you, did you enter any rooms in the castle?' he asked me. His voice was quiet and tense.

‘Yes. How did you know? Did Amina see me? I thought nobody had, apart from—'
Apart from the man who sold guns like they were sweets.
Maybe I should have mentioned him. ‘Why?' I asked, seeing the scared look on Amina's face, and the stony look on her brother's.

‘A visitor saw a girl in the special study of Mr Wahool. We are not allowed in that room. The master has said Amina must be punished.'

I scrabbled to my feet, almost knocking the henna bowl out of Amina's hands. She wouldn't look at me.

‘No! But they can't! It wasn't her! We must stop them!'

‘There is nothing we can do.'

I saw Amina's frightened eyes and felt ashamed. Her lips trembled as she focused on the henna bowl, trying not to cry. She didn't want to blame me, I could tell. Through all the kicking and shoving and general life-saving I owed her so much, and now . . . this.

‘I'm so, so sorry, Amina.'

She nodded and said nothing.

‘Look, I'll own up,' I sighed, sinking down again. It was the only solution. ‘I'll tell them that I'm here.'

‘And they will kill you,' Karim huffed, swatting the idea away like a fly.

He wouldn't let me consider it. For now, all I could do was apologise, which I did, over and over, while Amina replaced the henna I'd caused to fly everywhere, and put more on my eyes and cheeks.

‘It's not your fault, Peta Jones,' Karim sighed. ‘
Insha'Allah.
All will be well. It is always worse before a beating. Please, ignore our rude sadness.'

But I couldn't ignore it. All I seemed to do was get them into trouble. I couldn't even cry, because it would make tear tracks in my new henna face pack.

‘I . . . I was trying to call for help,' I muttered, not that my pathetic excuse made any difference.

‘Who did you speak to?' Karim asked sharply, sounding alarmed.

‘Nobody. Not really. I tried to call Mum, but a man answered. I panicked. I—'

He groaned. ‘You must not do this. They talk about your mother in the guardhouse – they are paying someone close to her to find news of you.'

They were armed. They were everywhere. Suddenly it hit me what a terrible mistake I'd made.

‘They'll see the castle's number on her mobile . . .'

Karim paused, thinking. ‘Did you say anything?'

‘No. I put the phone down.'

‘Perhaps . . . perhaps if they check, they will think that one of their own people called from here. They are stupid sometimes.'

I nodded. They weren't always stupid. The wide man
wasn't stupid. But their stupidity was our best hope.

You have the power to totally mess things up, Peta Jones.

For a while, there was silence, while Amina finished smearing the henna on my chin and neck, and started on my hands. In the end, Karim spoke up again. Anything, I sensed, to distract his sister from what they had planned for her.

‘Tonight we will be visiting three prisoners, Peta Jones. They are called “One”, “Two” and “Three” by the guards. “One” is the girl, Parissa. The young man is “Two”. His name is Sammy, and he is sick. They are both from Marvalia, from the Blue Revolution. The Grandfather hates them. So does the master. Mr Allud is “Three”. We are not allowed to talk to them, but I do so quietly when the guards are busy and not listening.'

I nodded. So Dad was a number.

Karim must have noticed my bite my lip. ‘Tell me about this man,' he said softly. ‘Why have you come so far to see him?'

Hadn't I said? I must have been so busy explaining
how
I'd got here that I never told them
why
.

‘My father was a soldier,' I began. It was weird, lying there with my eyes closed, but it made the memories so vivid. ‘One of the best in the army. His job was to go behind enemy lines and report what was happening there. But when the last war finished, the army binned him. Made him redundant, I mean. Dad wasn't happy about it, but I was kind of OK with it. It meant he was coming home for good.'

‘And Mr Allud . . .?' Karim prompted.

‘I'm getting there. A few weeks before he was due to come back from Afghanistan, Dad said he'd found a new job as an IT adviser, working for a big company in Iraq. Mum said the
job was very well paid and we needed the money. But Dad never did anything for the money, he wasn't like that. And he hated big companies. Anyway, he went to Iraq to do this stupid IT job – supposedly – and someone put a bomb under his car – supposedly – and it blew up –' Amina gasped – ‘and I haven't seen him since.'

‘Ah!' Karim said, sounding like he'd just spotted a clever move on the chess board. ‘So you think the bomb was a trick? And Mr Allud is your father? Yes?'

I opened my eyes to check his face. He'd got it exactly, of course, but even he looked unconvinced.

‘Most people say I'm in this thing called denial,' I admitted, ‘but my friend Luke believes me. At least, I think he does.'

‘Who is Luke?'

‘Oh, he's my Crazy Psycho Mirror Twin.'

‘Excuse me?'

I explained about Luke losing the feeling in his legs when he got the news about Sergeant McCrae. ‘He believes too deeply what people tell him, and I don't believe it enough, I suppose . . . I was just starting to, but then I got your message.'

‘Never forget, you have the power,'
Karim muttered, nodding to himself. ‘Mr Allud made me learn it very specially.'

‘I don't know why Dad would be here, but that's something only my dad would say.'

‘You are a crazy girl, Peta Jones!' he grinned. ‘You pin your hopes on very little things!'

I couldn't help smiling. Six words. That's what had brought me here.

‘Yeah, maybe I do.'

TWENTY-SIX

K
arim and Amina left me lying flat on my back while they went off to their chores and the henna worked on my skin. I stayed very still, but though I was worn out with guilt about Amina's beating and my nerves about tonight, there was no way I could sleep if I was going to be visiting the dungeons so soon . . .

What felt like five minutes later, I woke up feeling cold and stiff. I was still alone in the cellar room, but there was movement and talking in the corridor outside. I checked my watch: it was nearly seven in the evening. I'd slept for four hours straight.

Karim and Amina were probably still upstairs. I shifted
myself into the corner behind the door, in case anyone should open it without warning, and used Amina's abandoned lolly stick to scrape some of the henna goo off my hand. The skin underneath was orangey-red. Not exactly golden, like Amina's, but nor was it the pale whitish-pink of a wanted English girl. The henna had worked well enough, so I scraped it off the rest of me, tipping it as best I could into the bowl. I wiped my face and hands with a cloth. Still no sign of Karim and Amina. I tried to calm my nerves.

Suddenly there was a shout outside. Shock, and panic, and running feet. Silence. Stomping boots. More silence, and then a cry I'll never forget. A girl's cry. Two more of them, and by now I was panicking so much myself I could hardly think. The boots stomped away. Sandaled footsteps scurried along and died down.

When the corridor had been silent again for a while, I risked opening the door and running towards the place where I'd heard the cry. There was a small room near the kitchens, whose door was half open. A woman in a black scarf like mine was coming out of it. I nipped into the nearest cupboard and shut myself in as she walked by. Once she'd gone, I went back.

Inside the room, a tap dripped relentlessly into an old-fashioned sink. Amina lay with her chest resting on a sack of potatoes, moaning gently, while Karim crouched next to her, holding a damp cloth to her forehead. He looked up as I came in.

‘I heard . . . What happened?' I panted.

‘Master Max found out about the beating,' he said in a low, precise voice. ‘He asked to do it. It is incorrect for the family to intervene in such matters, but . . .'

But nobody says no to the masters.
I pictured Max
accompanying the guards down here. Tall, fit Max, who had a punch bag in his bedroom . . .

‘Was it bad?'

Don't be an idiot, Peta. Of course it was bad.

‘A kind lady has bathed the wounds,' Karim said dully. ‘My sister must rest now.'

I went over and lifted Amina's damp tunic as carefully as I could, but she still flinched with pain. There were three long, angry red marks criss-crossing each other along her back. They went from shoulder to waist.

I wanted to throw up, but I had to focus and make this better. Even Karim looked used up by sadness. It was time I actually helped these people. I owed them.

I remembered a bonfire night long ago. They boy next to me was hit by a stray firework that burnt half his face. The shock of that night felt similar to this, and most of the crowd had panicked, but Dad had stepped in, cool and certain. Dad was never flustered or upset. Not when there were practical things to do.

‘Ice,' I said, swallowing the bile in my throat and turning to Karim sharply. ‘Go and get some. Wrap it in a cloth. Oh, and Karim . . .'

‘Yes?'

‘Chocolate.'

‘Chocolate?'

‘Yes. It's got some . . . I can't remember . . . ingredient that makes you feel better. Can you get some of that too? What she really needs is painkillers, though. Maybe we could . . .'

I was thinking about raiding one of the bathroom cabinets upstairs, then I remembered the cache of pills from my backpack. Karim ran to get them and I looked through the
packets while he went off for the other things. There were three packets and, like Goldilocks and the Three Bears, one set looked too weak, one looked too strong (I was worried they would knock Amina out completely) and the other looked just right.

I gave her a couple of pills with some water, bathed the wounds again, and held her hand. All the time, I sang to her:

‘Incy wincy spider climbed up the water spout . . .'

It was the only song I could think of, and it had worked for me, a little, on the boat. Amina turned to me and smiled slightly.

‘It will get better,' she said.

‘Yes, it will,' I assured her, stroking her hair. ‘It will get better soon.'

Karim rushed back bearing ice cubes in a plastic bag and a few squares of thin dark cooking chocolate. Only then did I notice that he was walking oddly, hobbling a little.

‘Are you OK?'

‘I am well, Peta Jones,' he replied stiffly. But he wasn't.

‘What happened?'

Eventually he admitted that he had stepped forward, unable to help himself when Amina cried out. He'd received four lashes.

I bathed those too, despite his protests, wiping my tears away when he wasn't looking, and made him take two pills. Then I shoved the packet up my sleeve in case he needed more later.

‘What about your chores?' I asked.

Karim gestured towards his sister and shrugged, wincing as his shoulders moved. ‘Tonight we do not need to work. Because of . . . this. Miss Yasmin gave the order. She is upset. She blames her brother.'

‘Oh. Good.'

‘She is very annoyed. She had a dress for this evening that it is difficult to put on without assistance. Another servant had to help her.'

‘Poor Yasmin,' I said, poker-faced.

‘Indeed,' he answered, with just a flicker of mischief in his eyes.

TWENTY-SEVEN

W
e made Amina as comfortable as we could on a mat in her own cellar room, and Karim focused on getting me ready for the visit to the dungeons. My excitement was laced with more guilt than ever.

‘Do not blame yourself,' he instructed briskly. ‘What is done is done. Now, when you walk, you must do . . . like this,' and he demonstrated limping and hobbling, as if I was an old lady in a great deal of pain. So I did. I pretended to be his sister, with my scarf pulled low over my head and my hennaed hands held close to my chest.

‘That is good,' he said. ‘Now, come. We will collect the food and you follow close behind me. Go to Parissa and
Sammy first: prisoners One and Two. While I talk to the guards, you will slip quietly into the other cell. I will distract them for as long as I can. When I say goodnight, you must come immediately.'

‘Goodnight?'

‘Yes. That is the signal. Bow low, and be quiet, so they do not notice from which cell you came.'

In the kitchens, we collected a tray of food: three red bowls with plastic lids, and two plates stacked using metal catering covers like the kind the chefs used at the Smugglers' Inn to keep food warm. Karim had fitted the tray with a long piece of string, tied through the handles so he could hang it round his neck, which made it easier to carry as we walked. Every step clearly hurt him, so I quickly took the tray from him. He didn't want me to, but even he had to recognise that he couldn't always be the gentleman.

He led me down the passageway at the far end of the kitchens and we started to descend the spiral staircase. Halfway down, he turned back to me.

‘Remember, you do not speak much English. You are shy. Only signs.'

The distant sound of harsh voices punctured the air. For a moment, I wondered if they were interrogating someone (
Dad! Wait! I'm coming!
), but when we rounded the corner into the corridor the two guards were sitting at the small metal table, as before. This time, they were playing cards, smoking and drinking from a tall bottle of bright yellow liquid on the table beside them. They were shouting at each other, slamming cards down on the table. When we arrived, they held up their hands and called to Karim.

‘Ah!
Cena!
Dinner time!
Vieni qui
.'

Karim took the tray from me and carried it over to the
table. I stayed in the shadows, head bowed. It helped that the light was low and flickering. It helped too that I was supposed to be recovering from a beating: it gave me an excuse for bending down.

‘The chef made special soup for number Two,' Karim said to the guards. ‘I will wait while my sister gives it to him. And I have something to show you.'

‘Is it a trick?'

I froze. Were the guards on to me already?

‘One of the best,' Karim said, sounding quite relaxed. ‘While you eat, I will show you. I have been practising. Sister, come.'

I hobbled forward. Karim picked up the abandoned pack of cards. Oh – they meant a
card
trick. While Karim shuffled the pack, I picked up the three soup bowls in a stack. The guard nearest me took a large old-fashioned key from a ring that hung on a hook nearby and unlocked the door at the end of the corridor. While he was up, he unlocked the one to the right too. That must be the one that led to Mr Allud's cell. (
Dad! Just two minutes more . . .
)

My heart pounded in my chest as I walked through the first door and into a small bare cell. Two faces looked up at me. Both had filthy, matted hair and looked dirty, hungry, freezing and desperate. The only furniture was a long wooden bench, and the young man was lying on it with his head in the girl's lap. Their wrists and ankles were attached by long chains to iron rings cemented into the stone.

With shaking hands, I put the stack of bowls down by the door and carried two of them over. All the time, the shivering girl didn't take her eyes off me. She'd noticed straight away that I wasn't Amina, and she stared at me, confused. Her eyes were piercing blue and mesmerising.

I put my finger to my lips. She watched me silently as I took the lids off the bowls for her. Inside was rice and more of the vegetable stew. She looked starving – literally starving, not just hungry like me – but she didn't fall on the food. Instead, she took some in her fingers and offered it to the young man, who seemed too weak to move. His forehead was glistening with sweat and his breath came in small, shallow gasps. There was no ‘special soup' for him, though. Karim had lied about it to the guards, to give me my chance.

He needed more than special soup anyway. I suddenly remembered the packet of pills hidden in my sleeve, and as I took it out the girl's blue eyes fixed themselves on it. I handed the whole packet over and it disappeared into the folds of her clothes in an instant. Her friend needed hospital treatment, but a few painkillers might bring his temperature down at least. Those eyes flashed me a look of gratitude, then turned back to him.

Outside, Karim raised his voice. ‘Have you seen this one before? I will pick the seventh card from the pack. I promise I can do it.' Under his calm exterior he sounded agitated. It was a signal to me to get a move on. Oh my God – Dad. This was the moment.

I gave the girl the biggest sympathetic look I could manage (yeah, right, like that was so going to help), and scuttled out, clutching the last bowl to my chest.

The door to the other cell was still open. Everything I had done since the moment I got on the coach had brought me to this place. The guards were distracted. I hurried silently across the corridor, and I was in.