Chasing Freedom Home (Malinding) (3 page)

5

‘Give me my baby; I want him, please let me have him. He’s mine. Mine and Ed’s. Please let me hold him. My beautiful baby.’ Jane sobbed into her pillow. The birth had been easy, the child had cried loudly and long. The midwife had whispered something to Jane’s mother then hurried away carrying the child.

‘She’s just gone to check him, make sure he’s all right. He’ll be back as soon as the consultant has had a look. Nothing to worry about. Try and rest, pet.’

‘There’s no need to check him, he’s perfect. Please, Mum, let me have him. I’ve not properly seen him yet. And where’s Ed? Ed should be here to greet his son. He’ll be so proud. Mum, do something. I’ll get out of this bed and find himself if you don’t. Honestly.’ Her mother hurried away and found Geoff in a huddle with the midwife and the consultant.

‘I don’t like this, don’t like it at all’ the doctor frowned. ‘There’s nothing the matter with this child. He’s in fine health, great pair of lungs on him. All he needs is a good long suck on his mother’s breast.’ The midwife looked anxiously at the grandparents.

‘Doctor’s right, Mrs Bibby. I don’t like this at all. Jane’s mother was quietly furious.

‘You think we like it, do you? You want my daughter, my only child, to be reminded every day of the bastard who raped her? You want this, this yelling lump of black filth to be attached to her for the rest of her life? What chance would she stand then of finding the right sort of man? You’ll do what me and my husband tell you to do. Kill the child, sew my daughter back up properly so she can be a virgin again and the next time she comes here will be as the lawfully pregnant wife of a respectable white man. Now, do it or we’ll report you to the Department. Now.’ She turned on her heel and walked back to the delivery room, followed by Geoff.

‘I’m buggered if I agree with this’ said the consultant. ‘I am not putting down a perfect baby just because his grandparents think he’s the wrong colour. Look, Annette, get this child out of here. Find him a bottle, get him sucking... Then leave him to me. Go and look after your other mothers. I’ll deal with this when the screaming stops.’ Jane had obviously just learned of the supposed death of her child. Another doctor had been on hand to sedate her, and eventually the screams subsided, then stopped completely. Jane was hurried to a waiting ambulance and driven to another institution a few miles away. Geoff and Karen drove home in silence. A cosmetic surgeon had been summoned to perform an urgent piece of surgery on her vagina and labia – just tidying things up a bit down there, as he described his task while making out a hefty bill as reward for his delicate work.

‘You’d never know she’d ever been shagged in her life before.’ He photographed his handiwork and labelled the file ‘secret’ before returning to his comfortable riverside home.

6

‘Breakfast, gentlemen?’ The armed guard ordered them to stand against the wall, hands above their heads, while two other guards shackled the prisoners’ legs to the long chain.

‘Good boys. You’re learning. There’ll be more lessons, just pay attention and do as you’re told. Follow Mr Jones out through the door, turn left, carefully up the stairs and stop when you all get to the landing. Can you remember all that? O.K., Mr Jones, lead the way please.’ Slowly the chain gang made its way out of the cell, stumbled up the stone staircase, and came to a ragged halt on the landing, facing another steel door. My Jones threw the door open and the line made to follow him through. Hell broke loose. The armed guard stuck his gun into the back of the first prisoner and fired. The man collapsed. Another shot was fired into his head. More guards, most armed, poured through the doorway. The survivors were forced to their knees, flinching as the blood of the murdered man trickled across the concrete floor towards them.

‘Oh dear. A slight accident, Mr Jones? They moved before you instructed them to?’ The official who had greeted them the night before frowned as he looked down on the body.’ Let these gentlemen bury their comrade, and then they can have their breakfasts. The last one in line can scrub the stains off the floor. Soon as you like, boys.’ He wiped a trace of blood off his shoe on the body, and walked away. The body was unshackled and the last man in line was released from the chain. The remaining prisoners were instructed to drag the body of the murdered man out into the prison yard. The last man looked at the pool of blood, then glanced round for something to help him clean the floor.

‘Sorry, boy. No buckets or mops available today. Just do your best with what you’ve got. Come on, lad. Lost your tongue? Lick it up. Down on your knees, son. Lap it up. You’ll soon get a taste for it, if you live long enough. Good boy. Good boy. Try not to vomit till you get outside. You’ve missed a bit, look, over there. Thank you ever so much. Mr Jones will be pleased.’

Outside in the yard the remaining prisoners stared disbelievingly at the body of their companion.

‘Any of you want anything? Boots? Clothing? No shops here lads. Just strip him then you can decide who has what later. Come on, get a move on. No? Nobody? Right then. See that hole in the wall there? Drag him across and slide him in. The inside team will deal with him. That’s right, you’re getting the idea. Oh, look who’s here! Feeling sick, lad?’ The cleaner rejoined the group and they gazed in disbelief at the bloodstains round his mouth. ‘Take no notice. He’s done as he was told and he’s alive. You’ll learn, if you live long enough. Now, get in line again. Breakfast. Follow Mr Jones.’

Fortunately, Ed didn’t know who, some one had the sense to obey. The group moved away from the stench of the hole in the wall and shuffled back to the open doorway which led towards their cell. The men tried to avoid looking at the stained floor and were directed past the stairs and into another room. There was a serving hatch on the far wall.

‘Sorry we’ve not had time to issue you with eating irons, but then we wouldn’t, would we? Course not, we’re not stupid. We don’t want any nasty accidents; one of you might cut himself. Cuts can turn nasty. So, listen. You’ll get a thick slice of bread. Whatever’s for breakfast or supper is served on the bread. Saves on washing up as well as nasty accidents. You just eat the bread. Today it’s porridge. Enjoy.’ As they approached the hatch each man was given a thick slice of bread onto which a measure of almost solid porridge was poured. They ate standing up, except for the bloodstained man, who seemed to be in a perpetual daze. He held his food and was about to drop it when his neighbour seized and ate it. A guard noticed, and nodded. There was a bucket of water, from which each man drank before the group was shepherded out into the yard again.

‘Work begins. It is the right of each and every one of you to earn your keep. No work – no food. We’re going to remove your handcuffs, not your leg-irons, of course, and you’re going to tidy this yard up, nice and clean, for inspection. Do it well, and you’ll earn your supper. Do it badly and you won’t need a supper, or anything else. Simple. Get to work.’ Handcuffs were removed and the men stood, massaging their wrists, looking around at the empty yard. How could it be tidied?

The bloodstained man dropped to his knees and started to lick the ground. The nearest guard kicked him, so hard he collapsed, gasping. Mr Jones laughed.

‘See, he’s a keen one, isn’t he? But he’s a bit confused. You lick it clean after you’ve removed all the dust. Scrape up the dust with your hands; dump it through the hole in the wall where you dumped your rubbish friend. Then, when all the dust is gone, every speck of it, mind, then you can lick it clean. Got it? As it’s your first day I’ll give you a clue. Start scraping over there, then when it’s a dust free area, you start licking. Keep close together, work as a team. You don’t want to make mistakes. Of course you don’t. Off you go.’

They moved, like robots, to the far side of the yard. On their knees they crawled, scraping the yard with their fingernails, standing as one when they each had a tiny handful of dust. Shielding the cargo carefully from any stray draft, they carried it to the opening in the wall. Taking careful turns, they brushed the grains of earth and sand off their hands and, as automata might, resumed their labour. The guards sat and watched, chatting and laughing together, moving their chairs when requested to do so, only occasionally stepping on fingers or delivering a kick to a helpless victim so as to make the time pass more quickly. Slowly the sun moved across the sky. When it seemed that every mote of dust had been removed the men sank again to their knees and gagged as they engaged with the final stage of their task.

‘Dry work, lads? Here, this will help moisten your throats.’ The guard who spoke stood up.

He walked to the front of the line and opened the zip of his trousers.

The bloodstained man charged at the urinating guard, making him stagger and wet himself. Another guard fired, and the prisoner collapsed, holding his hands to his belly. The man who had fired walked closer, watched his victim writhe, than fired again, killing him.

‘You know what to do, lads,’ he said. The body was picked up, carried to the hole in the wall, and pushed through; but not before some one had removed his boots.

They were handcuffed, shackled together and dragged back to their cell. This time the manacles were not removed. Most managed to use the toilet bucket and then collapsed against a wall, too shocked to speak. There seemed no point in exchanging names.

Ed was too tired to think. Thought was alien to this place. Time crawled. Some one sobbed, quietly. The air was too sodden with violence to breathe comfortably. They choked, gasped, vomited. Their stench filled the room. Ed tried to count the days, and failed. How long was it since he had been living a happy, loving, carefree life?  He had been secure; his wife-to-be, Jane, where was she now? Would she have had their child, his child, yet? Surely that would be some comfort to her. Their life together had seemed so safe, solid, and, that word again, so secure. Please God, let her parents take care of her and the child. God? Where was God in all this? If the worst happened she would have the insurance money, the value of the house. His own father had built a life on the ruins of disaster, and lived a happy life with Sirra, his mother. Surely Jane could do the same? His child would be deemed black. What would happen to her, or to him? If these doors of hell opened for the child’s father, what might become of the child? If Jane could get to Malinding, his home village in The Gambia, there wouldn’t be a problem. Africa had accepted his father. It had accepted and loved his children. Somehow it must be possible for Jane to make the journey. It must be. He stared into the darkness. His neighbour was mumbling prayers, over and over, to himself. Night thickened around them, cold, comfortless.

The Watcher smiled as he observed them through the night vision cameras.

‘Softening up nicely. Soon be ready for the games.’ His companion nodded.

‘Another twenty-four hours, without food?  Kick the water bucket over, perhaps? They’ll be well ripe by then.’

Morning crept like a traitor, slowly, secretly, into the cell. He had slept. Such a stupid thing to do, he thought, waste his remaining hours in sleep. Death would come today. They were in hell, their lives already forfeit, breathing borrowed air, counting borrowed hours, minutes, seconds. Life could not go on in this manner. Each of the survivors would make some unknown mistake and die for it. The only doubt possible would be the order of their deaths.

The guards entered the room. Mr Jones, the only one known by name, smiled.

‘Time for a shower, lads; that’ll set you up for the day. Nice shower, hot water, soap, dry in the sun. Sounds good?  I said, sounds good?’ He stamped on the foot of the nearest prisoner. They nodded, ‘Yes, sirred’ him and he smiled again. ‘Right, let’s get these chains off you. Back up stairs, second door on the right. Take as much time as you like. No hurry today.’

Suspecting a trap, a trick, a cruel death, they waited their turn to be released from their chains and made their way slowly up stairs. The second door on the left stood open and a smiling guard waved them inside.

‘Strip off your clothes, gentlemen, and put them in this laundry sack. Then through those swing doors into the shower room. There will be clean clothes waiting for you when you’ve had a good wash. No rush today. Expecting a hail of bullets, praying for a quick death, Ed stripped and pushed his way through the swing doors.

The room was warm. Steam filled the air and he could hear the sound of running water. He walked on, found a shower cubicle, and stood still while the water rushed over him. There was a bottle labelled ‘shampoo’ which contained shampoo. Slowly, like someone who showered for the first time, Ed washed himself clean. Somebody, in a neighbouring cubicle, sang. He stood under the stream of water, closed his eyes, and thought of sharing a bath or shower with Jane. The flow of water ceased. He looked for a towel but there was none. Shyly he left the cubicle, hands covering his genitals. His remaining fellows stood in a line outside their respective showers, similarly covering themselves. They looked at each other, and laughed.  ‘Better find those clean clothes’ said one.

There were none to be found. The men stared at one another.

‘OK. Service is a bit slow today. Can anyone remember where the canteen is? Spot of breakfast, maybe? I’ve not noticed any women round here so we won’t be offending any. Then back here to check the laundry then back to our room for a spot of shut-eye before the chores begin?’ Ed had taken the lead. They found the canteen. The counter top held six thick slices of wholemeal bread spread with butter and orange marmalade. There were six large plastic beakers containing sweet, strong, black coffee. One by one they ate the bread and drank the coffee. They carefully placed the empty beakers back onto the counter top, then left the room, closing the door behind them. They looked at one another then returned to the shower room. It was locked. They stood, waiting for the guards to collect them, to give them orders, to kill them. One by one they shrugged, muttered something to themselves, then turned and walked slowly back to the only place they knew, back to their cell. The toilet bucket had been emptied and rinsed clean. The water bucket was full of clean water. The chains were nowhere to be seen. Six thin mattresses lay on the floor, alongside the walls.

‘Guess we’d better wait for room service to be resumed’ said one man. ‘My name’s Henry Benjamin Whipple, by the way. I’m a reverend. Just call me Ben.’ Cautiously, it seemed, they introduced themselves. They were all professionals; apart from the priest and Ed, the lecturer, there was a medical student in his final year of study, a journalist, a head teacher and an author. Not one of them mentioned family, not one of them spoke of their arrest. Conversation failed, died. The men found a mattress, looked at it, slowly sat down, lay full length, dozed, and waited for something to happen.

The Watchers watched.