“I think,” said Josh, “that we should wait until it gets dark before we venture any nearer. If Abbas is in there he could still be in danger or, of course, he may have convinced the terrorists that he’s one of them, in which case he could well have some useful information for us. Or he may have gone out the back.”
“The boy wants to speak to us again,” said Ahmad looking down the road at the quickly-approaching, excited, hand-waving boy. When he got to them he spoke rapidly to Ahmad, then cycled off.
“He cycled round to the back of the shop,” Ahmad said hurriedly, “and thinks he has just seen Abbas being abused through an upstairs back window.”
They were quiet for a moment. “I think we should go and have a look and be prepared for anything,” said Josh. Ahmad slowly nodded his head.
They walked across the road and, without hesitation went into the tiny shop, empty except for a man with a black eye and bruised, swollen face standing just inside the door. He casually looked up as they entered, but showed no further interest as they started to inspect the many bottles displayed on the shelves.
Josh’s brain quickly registered all aspects of the shop, the number of doors and windows; types of locks and catches; the solid concrete floor; and the plastered stone walls. There was a counter, one door at the front of the shop and one at the back. Suddenly, he came face- to-face with the man with the swollen and bruised face as he reached for a bottle close to where Josh was standing. Half turning, he started to walk away with the bottle then hesitated, looked back, took half a step in Josh’s direction, then seemed to change his mind. Josh realised that he’d been recognised. As the man spun round to go into the room behind him Josh leapt the metre high counter and crashed a pulverising blow to the side of his already bruised face, sending him sprawling to the floor. Leaping back over the counter, he quickly closed and locked the front door before a surprised Ahmad had time to move.
“Keep talking,” Josh whispered urgently to Ahmad, to try and convince anyone within earshot that all was well. As he stepped over the prostrate and unconscious figure on the floor he gestured to his friend to follow him and opened the door at the back of the shop. This led to a dimly lit, narrow hall and a flight of stairs. Holding on to the wobbly handrail they made their way up the creaking staircase until they came to a door through which they could hear the sound of voices.
As they got nearer the sound of a man’s agonised voice came to their ears and the strong smell of burning flesh. It was Abbas’ voice! Josh quietly tried the door. It was locked. For a second he hesitated, then, with the ferocity and speed of a mad bull and to the sound of splitting timber, he crashed through the door and leapt at the man nearest to him, smashing him in the face with a two fisted attack.
Paralysed with fear and confusion, the second man gaped with his mouth open, until a blow from Josh left it hanging, splintered and broken with his teeth littering the floor. Josh quickly looked around to make sure that there was no one else in the room.
Ahmad was too bewildered and shocked to be of any use in those vital moments but Josh, without waiting for him to regain control of his senses, went quickly to Abbas, sitting on a chair close to a table with both hands tied behind his back. His shirt had been roughly torn off and thrown on the floor. There was blood trickling from small, round, wounds on his shoulders and back made, no doubt, by the many stubbed out cigarettes in the ash tray on the table. He was slumped forward, his chin resting on the table and only able to look up with difficulty. His deformity adding to the tortured man’s troubles.
Moving swiftly, Josh took a knife from his pocket and cut the old man free. After assistance from both boys he managed, shaking and trembling, to get to his feet and tentatively take a few steps, while Ahmad picked up the old man’s shirt and put it around his shoulders.
“We must get out of here as soon as possible in case these,” Josh said quietly to Ahmad and nodding in the direction of the still unconscious terrorists, “have friends. Help Abbas down the stairs while I go on ahead to see what state the other one is in.” He swiftly descended the stairs placing his feet close to the wall where there was less movement and creaking in the timbers.
Going into the shop he could see that the man’s eyes were flickering and he was beginning to move. “I think it would be wise to go out the back door,” Josh said to Ahmad when he came into the room with his arm around Abbas. Moments later they were mingling with the crowd who paid them little attention. Abbas, plainly suffering from his ordeal, limped along the road with a boy either side. His already crippled, withered, and now tortured body, was a burden to them as they tried to hurry away from the shop.
When they were a kilometre along the road Abbas, after indicating that they should all sit on some wooden containers that had been thrown onto the dusty, rock strewn path, spoke animatedly to Ahmad.
“I have something to tell you.” Ahmad said looking into Josh’s eyes. “Abbas has just told me that he believes the man he saw in the trunk of the car was taken to Syria last week.”
Josh looked at the worn out old man with sadness in his eyes. He had suffered greatly and was on the verge of collapse, but had information that could be invaluable to Josh in his search. “Does he know exactly where he was taken Ahmad? Or where he was a week ago?”
“He said that when he went back into the shop, the bottle was still on the counter, so he paid for it, picked it up, and tried to engage the man in conversation. Suddenly the door at the back of the shop opened, and the one who looked as if he was in charge of the kidnapping, walked into the room. Immediately he recognised Abbas and, after a brief chat, asked him to have a coffee with him, so they went into a back room. Later, on the pretence of wanting Abbas to meet a very good friend, he was taken upstairs. On entering the room the man’s personality changed. Abbas was questioned and bullied and accused of being a Western sympathiser who was working for George Bush. He was grabbed around the throat, thrown to the floor and kicked and beaten until he lost consciousness.
“When he came to,” Ahmad continued, “he saw three men in the room, all of whom contributed to the brutality that he suffered. They said that they knew he was a Christian and therefore could not be trusted. They punched him, burnt him with cigarettes, told him he would not get out of the room alive and played Russian roulette, with a pistol held at his temple. The information regarding the prisoner came out when they thought Abbas was unconscious. He heard one of them say that he thought Abbas was asking too many questions about the prisoner. Abbas heard one of them say, ‘If he is so interested in the Infidel, we should take him to share his cell in Abu Kamal’.”
Josh turned to the old man. “Shokran jazeelan.” He said slowly. “My friend you have suffered a great deal for me. I wish I could have been the one to have taken the beating.” He stood up while Ahmad interpreted. “I think we should move as quickly as possible and put a bit more distance between them and us,” he said as he helped Abbas to his feet.
They went farther down the road and on Abbas’ instructions turned into a narrow passageway. After walking for about a kilometre, they came to, what appeared to be a courtyard, off of which they could see six further passages. Abbas nodded his head to indicate the direction that they were to take, and muttered something to Ahmad.
“He said a distant relative lives here who is also a Christian and very good friend. He will look after Abbas.” They walked a further kilometre until they came to a small archway and door. Abbas banged on the door and, after several minutes a quivering old man’s voice was heard asking for identity. Abbas responded and the door was immediately opened by a small, old man of indeterminate age, with a white beard and carrying a stick that came up to his shoulder. He embraced Abbas, who introduced him to Ahmad and Josh as Harroun. They were ushered into a tiny room with whitewashed walls, hardly large enough to accommodate the four of them.
“Welcome to my home,” Harroun said, with a slight bow of the head and in faltering English. “I have known Abbas all my life and, as I’m older I have always been his ‘big brother’,” he said with a smile. Abbas then briefly explained to Harroun why they were there. Harroun was aghast and kept shaking his head when told about the violence that his friend had suffered. “There will never be peace in the world as long as there are men who lust for power and money is their God,” he said in English. Turning to Abbas, and keenly aware of his friends distress he spoke to him gently in Arabic. A second later a curtain covering a small arch in one of the walls was quietly pulled back and an old woman, dressed entirely in black, shuffled into the room. She embraced Abbas and nodded in the direction of the boys when introduced to them as Miriam, before helping him through the curtain and out of the room.