One hundred and ten

The boots echoed down the stone corridor, waking Hicham Omary from a light sleep. He recognized the feet inside them instantly as those of his nemesis, Bruiser.

Following Ghita’s break-in, Omary had fallen into a gloom of terrible despondency. He was losing weight fast, and his bones ached. Were he not so stubborn, he might have regretted ever taking on the system.

Standing in the darkness, he coaxed himself to be strong.

First came the keys rattling on their chain, then the sound of the lock mechanism turning, and hinges creaking open.

And then a tidal wave of blinding light.

‘Turn around!’ ordered Bruiser, striking Omary’s shoulder with his cane. ‘Hands behind your back.’

The prisoner crossed his wrists, and waited for the nickel-plated handcuffs. But they didn’t come. Instead, a pair of rusted old D-lock cuffs were slammed over his wrists and locked twice.

Omary may not have seen them, but he could feel the difference. They were colder, tighter, and somehow far more fearful than simple self-locking handcuffs.

Then came the fetters and a blindfold made from extra-thick hessian. Like the cuffs, they were different, too.

By the time he was led out from his cell, it was clear that Omary was not en route to the interrogation cell.

‘What’s happening?’

‘You’re being moved,’ said Bruiser.

‘Where to?’

‘Do you want me to ruin the surprise?’ he said.