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.”