Ninety-seven

The boots echoed down the corridor again.

Omary had become expert at working out which guard they belonged to long before he heard the grunt of their owner’s voice. The guards may have all had the same standard issue uniforms and footwear, but they all walked differently.

The most fearful was six foot three, mid fifties, without an ounce of fat, and with hands capable of crushing stone into dust. Having nicknamed him ‘Bruiser’, Omary dreaded him because of the way he dehumanized the prisoners. He treated them worse than animals, and thought nothing of beating them senseless for no reason at all.

Even before the guard had unlocked the gate at the far end of the corridor, Omary knew it was Bruiser. He had slow heavy footsteps, a self-assuredness garnered from three decades of tyrannical rule. It took Bruiser forty-one strides to get from the gate to Cell No. 3.

Omary counted them as he always did.

Counting was a way of keeping oneself sane.

At thirty-seven paces Bruiser stopped. The keys rattled on their chain and the door to Cell No. 2 was opened. Saad groaned for a moment, and was struck for his sins. Then he was cuffed, blindfolded, and hauled away to the interrogation cell.

Crouching on the concrete floor, Hicham Omary coaxed himself to be calm, to believe in the eventual triumph of justice over evil. The worst thing of all was not raw fear, nor the sense of abandonment, but the uncertainty – not knowing how or when it would end.