Guantanamo Boy (19 page)

Someone had said Guantanamo was the worst of the worst, but Khalid hadn’t really listened. He half thought they were making the stories up. He doesn’t even know why it’s in Cuba and not America.

Surely they won’t take a kid like me there?

The thought makes him catch his breath, and when he comes to breathe out he gasps for air again. Defeated. Totally shattered. His mind begins searching for that place deep inside where peace happens. Where nice memories are stored. Eyes wide open, he begins wanting. Wanting his mum. Wanting his dad. Wanting his annoying little sisters. Wanting his friends, Mikael, Holgy, Nico and Tony, and a longed-for kickabout in the park.

Drifting back to Rochdale, he’s walking through the town center wondering what the old mill town used to look like before they covered up most of the River Roch that flows underneath the main street. The nice old buildings that are still there with the best town hall in the universe. A majestic building with a beautiful wooden staircase and wallpaper by William Morris, who, the art teacher, Mrs. Dowling, says was a genius.

Then there’re the cheap lunches they do in the town hall for retired people. Khalid helped out, along with two others from school, during Help the Aged Week last year. For three pounds they get a three-course, home-cooked meal in a lovely room with William Morris wallpaper. How good’s that?

Rochdale is a nice place to live. Plus Khalid’s house is only a ten-minute walk from the Odeon cinema.

Now his mind’s right there on the football terraces, shouting for Rochdale to win—at their away matches especially. Seeing the town with its—he’s not quite sure how many exactly, but definitely more than six—mosques. Each of them floats past his eyes. Mixed with people who are Muslims, Hindus, Christians, Jews, Buddhists, Rastas. Plus loads of people who don’t believe in anything. Others who sometimes believe but never go anywhere near the mosques, temples, churches and synagogues. And plenty more believe whatever makes them feel good. Then there’re those who hate everything. Who just get angry and spew up any old crap. All of them live side by side in Rochdale. His Rochdale. Khalid likes that.

As the plane taxies to the runway, Khalid’s totally back there. Down the park, playing football. Skidding on the grass. Racing his shadow up the line. Trying to avoid Adnan, who looks like Jesus and tackles too hard. Delivering a perfect corner kick into their penalty area, with Mac cheering him on.

Dad’s words at the back of his mind: “At the age of sixteen, son, you must decide what kind of man you want to be.”

Now his best friend is this anger that won’t go away.

Khalid had told them the same thing over and over again. He’d given them his address. His doctor’s name. The name of all his Rochdale schoolteachers, including his favorite, Mr. Tagg. Plus the details of his post-office savings account with the sixty-one pounds and eighteen pence that took him five months to save.

Over and over again they’d asked him the same questions.

Perhaps they’d confused him with someone else. With more than two million hits on the Internet when he googled his name, Khalid Ahmed, he knows they’ve got the wrong one even if they don’t.

What more could he do to prove his innocence? But they don’t want to believe him. Khalid even told them about the money Dad and his friends had collected to help the refugees in Albania. Two planeloads of food, plus medicine, clothes, blankets and tents. The local paper said the mayor was “immensely impressed with the efforts of the Muslim community in raising substantial funds for the refugees.”

“Cut it!” The soldier had kicked the chair from under Khalid to stop him talking about the mayor. As if he’d made the story up. Punching him in the stomach for no reason. The heartbreak was that they didn’t care about the truth. Why else leave him half conscious on the floor to rot?

Funny
, Khalid thinks, remembering that feeling of absolute shock.
I’m not even that interested in religion. Any religion. Not even my own Muslim religion.
His family is relaxed about it, though. Dad’s always telling him he’ll work it out for himself before too long. Allah, the bountiful, will happily wait for him.

Dad. Come back to me, Dad.

The reality of the mess he’s in suddenly comes back to Khalid. Unimaginable fury bubbles in him again and he smiles at the thought of taking revenge. Eight months ago they kidnapped him for committing the unholy crime of being in the wrong place at the wrong time and one day he’ll get these maniacs, tip them upside down and shove water down their noses until they drown. Only he’ll leave them to drown. Yes, do the whole world a favor and finish them off.

With that satisfying thought, Khalid finally lets go, closes his eyes and sleeps.

This time no one disturbs Khalid until they land and another kind of hell begins.

The strange smell of the sea greets Khalid as he leaves the plane, finally free of his hood and earmuffs. But this definitely isn’t home sweet home. The bright sun throws dark shadows on the ramp that follow him down—a warm breeze in his face. The unexpected sound of birds brings with it a sticky heat that covers his body in a sudden sweat, reminding him of an old school trip to Blackpool on the hottest day of the year. He had been thrilled at the thought of the bus journey with Niamh close by.

And there it is, that day, flashing through his mind again . . .

Khalid was feeling great after Rochdale’s win on Saturday and he pushed himself forward to say hi, hoping to swing his arm round Niamh’s shoulders. Trying to make his stumbling into her look accidental. Ready to glance back at Holgy with an accusing look if it all went wrong. Ready to say it was Holgy who pushed him into Niamh’s side.

Then, somehow, dorky Gilly got in between them. She grabbed Khalid’s hand and, squeezing it tightly for a second with cold fingers, began licking her lips and fluttering her eyelashes to tease him even more. Holgy pretended not to notice his mate crumple and flush as Niamh scrambled red-faced on to the coach, hurrying to the back row.

The sound of their squealing told Khalid her friends were having the last laugh. Thankfully, Holgy and Nico were on hand to make him feel better.

“Nice one, Kal!” Holgy nudged him.

“Next time, move in closer.” Nico winked.

As if he ever would after that.

But later Niamh waved a chocolate-covered fork at him while they had lunch in a cafe near the pier. Beckoning him over, then sliding up in the booth to give him room. Her mates squashing to the end so Mikael could sit there too.

“Ow,” Niamh yelled as Mikael stamped on her foot in his rush to grab the vacant space next to her. He dumped his plate of steaming pasta on the smooth table and dug in as if he hadn’t eaten for a week.

“Sorry,” Khalid apologized for him, standing there like a fool at the end of the table, more embarrassed than ever. Nico shook his head at Mikael for ruining what could have been a truly romantic moment.

“What? What did I do?” Mikael said, wide-eyed, his mouth crammed with chunks of pasta dripping in tomato sauce.

“You nicked his place, you moron!” Niamh laughed. Making them all laugh.

“Doesn’t matter,” Khalid said.

“Doesn’t matter!” Gilly echoed.

Khalid’s still half smiling at the memory as the sound of a barking voice snaps him back to reality and he’s shoved down on to his knees.

“Welcome to Guantanamo Bay Prison. You’re now the property of the US Marine Corps. Heads down!” Soldiers with black dogs walk along the lines of kneeling men. Khalid lowers his head, but not until he’s taken a peek at the nightmare that is Guantanamo Bay.
Those lying bastards!
A bleached-out expanse surrounded by high fences topped with rolls of razor wire two meters high and watchtowers draped in American flags at either end.

To his right all he can see is scrubby rough ground with patches of thin grass and a heap of masonry with lines of stones and sand marking it out. In the distance, more fences. A tinkling sound like wind chimes starts up in the huge rolls of rusty wire reaching for the sky. Khalid gazes at the hot earth, thinking,
This place has wind chimes? How come?

Then, like a scene from a film, an iguana darts in front of the poker-faced marine who’s busy shouting orders—yelling at men who are unable to do anything but listen while they bake to death in the blazing sun.

Khalid wonders how mad it would be to break open a packet of Doritos. Listen to a bit of hip-hop. Look up the word “maniac” on Google. Watch
The Simpsons
on TV. The kind of stuff he does when he gets home from school. The kind of stuff his mates are probably doing right now. While all the time a vulture circles in the sky above him and the warmth of the sun tickles the stubble on his head. A dazzling, silvery light in his eyes makes it hard to focus on those dusty desert boots for a moment longer.

From the tone of the marine’s voice, it’s obvious they don’t tolerate time-wasters here. This place is far more serious than Kandahar, built to contain highly trained assassins, security threats, enemies of America. The atmosphere grows ever more threatening as the marines march up and down, giving each of them the evil eye.

It’s not often that Khalid can look at his life from a distance. But, instantly, he can see himself clearly for once. He’s another meaningless bent orange shape dropped into some weird world game, the sun fixing him here on this lump of tarmac like a dart in his back. He’s nothing but an orange heap for soldiers to toss around because they think he’s a terrorist who wants to blow up cities. Think he hates the West, even though he lives there and doesn’t know anything about weapons of mass destruction or bombs or buildings crashing to the ground in New York.

“Where’s your evidence, then?” Khalid mutters to himself. Eyes closed, he whimpers like a baby. “Where? You got it all from stupid little me, that’s where.”

Soon they lead Khalid inside a long building done out like the prisons he’s seen in films, with rows of locked, diamond-shaped wire doors. A sign spells out
CAMP DELTA
. The soldiers pause to force him inside one of the small kennels.

“Stand closer, 256,” a man drawls with a strong Southern accent as he clicks the lock.

Khalid shuffles towards the metal door, which has two oblong holes, with flaps top and bottom. Holes the size of three plastic lunch boxes, side by side.

“Closer to the flaps,” the drawling voice shouts again.

“Stand with your wrists and ankles to the beany holes,” another shouts.

Khalid obeys and the guard unties his wrist and ankle shackles through the door holes that he thinks are the beany holes, with great caution, which makes Khalid smile at the sheer silliness of it all. Why can’t they undo the chains outside the cell? Why this stupid, over-the-top arrangement of holes in the door? Do they think he might escape if they removed them beforehand? Khalid can just see himself breaking out by ducking their bullets, charging from the building and across the hot ground while men in watchtowers train their guns on him, only to make the superhuman effort of climbing ten meters of barbed wire and diving into the sea and swimming to safety. His mates would crack up if they could see these soldiers undoing the chains through these stupid holes.

After the metal flaps are raised to cover the holes, the sound of slamming echoes down the lines until all the prisoners are done and the thundering boots march away.

A small room with a plastic bed with round corners built into the wall greets Khalid when he turns. Thin foam mattress on top. Two blue blankets at either end. A copy of the Qur’an in English. One pair of white flip-flops. Two white towels. Wash cloth. Soap. Shampoo. Toothpaste. Bottle of water. Two buckets this time.

And so another routine begins. Breakfast on a plastic tray: a box of cereal, white roll. Bottle of water. Sometimes sloppy scrambled eggs and overdone peas. Maybe an orange.

For lunch: a piece of tough meat, some form of potato,
usually canned and half mashed with sweetcorn or turnip. Peanuts. Water. Sometimes a packet of raisins.

The dinner menu remains unaltered for the next two days: tasteless white rice, hard red beans, revolting gray fish. Bread. Water. On Friday, a banana.

Khalid doesn’t understand how food can be this disgusting and tasteless. He knows some pathetic effort has been made to keep to the halal diet, but anyone with half a brain could have come up with something better than this.

After two days, he’s determined never to eat any of the vile bread rolls again. If he gets a choice, that is. The motto here being “eat or starve,” he chews his way through the slice of white bread with the satisfaction of someone about to throw up. Convincing himself things will change soon. Or so he hopes, because they can’t get any worse. He’s already nearly died and is now slowly going out of his mind.

Since he arrived in Guantanamo, Khalid hasn’t really seen anyone. Just the food trolley man and the soldiers. The only sounds that keep him company day and night are terrifying screams from the other end of the building and then someone who coughs and coughs—he doesn’t know which is worse. Plus the constant slamming of metal flaps gives him a headache, like a pneumatic drill in the side of his skull.