Guantanamo Boy (29 page)

“Me neither.” Khalid smiles.

“How’s the ear doing?” Wrinkling her nose, she places her hands on her hips.

“Better!”

Lee-Andy looks him in the eye for a second and Khalid catches the disappointment she feels at having to go.

“You don’t want to leave?”

“No way. What’s the use in pushing paper? But that’s how it rolls.” The feeling that their odd, short relationship has helped him surfaces in Khalid’s mind. She was obviously so bored out of her brains here she decided to talk to him and maybe that’s helped her in some way too.

“I’m snapping my fingers in front of my eyes all the time,” he mutters, instead of the deeply felt thank-you he’d like to give her.

“Don’t forget to keep doing it.”

“I’ll try,” Khalid says.

“Probably won’t see you any time soon. Stay cool, pal.” She turns away.

“Yeah.” Khalid sighs. Pleased by her genuine regret. I mean, now he has Tariq close by, why should he care what happens to her? But he does, because she’s been kind to him, and besides, he’ll never forget how delicious that chocolate bar tasted. In a way her concern has helped him to forgive Tariq. She didn’t care that they knew each other from before. She stood nearby, letting them talk, and no, he doesn’t really believe she was spying on them. Lee-Andy allowed them to chat for no other reason other than she thought it would help him.

The idea that she’s going alarms him for a second until she swings her reddish ponytail, smiles briefly, then rushes off, but this time the door shuts with a certainty which feels lighter than it’s ever done before. Lee-Andy has gone but Khalid is coming back to himself. Even the movie in his head of the girlfriendless hell he’s endured here—that just rose up in front of him—is shrinking back. Aware of how his brain is creating the sudden feeling of a lifetime’s future loneliness by flashing up pictures of all the girls he’s ever liked, he can’t help going right back to the beginning, to the girl in elementary school whose bag he once carried to the gym.

“Bye, hugs ’n’ kisses,” eleven-year-old Ariella whispered in his ear before Khalid had time to catch his breath. Throwing open the door to times when girls are people to like instead of ignore.

Realizing he has the power to change his feelings by deciding what pictures he allows in his mind, a rare feeling of peace rises in Khalid. Ariella’s gone, and so have all the others, probably Niamh too. If only he’d told her just once that he liked her.

Rubbing his face, Khalid finally admits to himself, yeah, Lee-Andy, he fancied her a bit. So what? At least it proves he’s not quite dead inside, and anyway, she is the only attractive female he’s seen for a long time.

The sound of slow, plodding footsteps forces Khalid to turn quickly to grab the door. Desperately tweaking the fence to try and part the strong wire, all he can see is a ruddy-necked, chunky soldier standing with his back to him. Legs apart, completely blocking Tariq from view.

“Get out of the way,” Khalid mutters. But Marvin doesn’t move. Instead he slowly edges Tariq into the cell, but even though Khalid can’t see him, a wave of pleasure passes over him as he breathes in the smell of vanilla soap coming from Marvin’s still-bulging pocket. Tariq’s returned and knowing that makes him smile.

Khalid doesn’t get the chance to tell Tariq how he feels because none of it matters anymore. Anyway, there’s nothing to explain because his cousin carries on as if everything has always been fine between them. Now that they’ve joined forces, they keep each other going and are making up for lost time as good friends.

Later that week, after lunch, Marvin and another guard arrive for Khalid with an armful of shackles and unlock the door.

“Hey, Marvin,” Tariq calls from next door, but they haven’t come for him today.

“Not now, bud,” Marvin replies, his low tone of voice giving Khalid the impression Marvin’s on serious business right now. What, he can’t imagine. Marvin’s giving no clues away as he and the other guard enter the cell. His shirt pockets are flat. No smell of vanilla soap today, just the faint whiff of cigarettes, so Khalid knows he’s not going for a shower. Plus he went for exercise yesterday, so unless everything’s changed he won’t be going again until the day after tomorrow.

Marvin’s an expert with shackles, fastening them not too tightly. Smiling broadly to show he means no harm.

“Where we going?” Khalid asks, shuffling behind, trying to keep up with him.

“You’ll soon find out,” Marvin says solemnly, leaving Khalid in the dark as they cross the yard and walk round the corner to enter a small building. This place smells of white paint; it’s cleaner and brighter than the others. The long, low building has small windows in the roof that throw patches of sunlight on the immaculate concrete floor.

Marvin flings open the door to a small room with a black desk and two chairs.

Khalid’s first thought when he sees the two floor bolts is,
Oh yeah, another interrogation room
, but seconds later a man who looks like a teacher comes in and he changes his mind.

“Hi, Khalid, I’m your new lawyer. Name’s Harry Peterson.”

“Eh?” No one has called him Khalid in that way for the last two years. Looking him up and down as the guard undoes the wrist shackles and motions him to the chair to bolt his ankles to the floor, he’s sure he misheard him.

“What did you say, man?” It comes as a huge surprise to hear words like that from anyone, let alone this guy, Harry, who has a big, gentle face and fair, scruffy hair. “You’re my lawyer?”

“Yes,” Harry says. Khalid takes in the loose, navy shirt, the same beige corduroy trousers that Mr. Tagg always wears. He looks old-fashioned, way uncool. Plus he nods all the time, but he smells of a nice aftershave that reminds Khalid of one he used to wear at home.

“Yes, I’m your lawyer.”

“Pardon?” Khalid almost chokes he’s so shocked, which makes Harry laugh.

“Here. This has been a long time coming, I’m afraid.” Harry hands over a white envelope addressed to him here in Guantanamo Bay. His first letter. Trembling, Khalid tries to settle the wave of surprise and excitement that’s bubbling in his stomach.

“That’s my dad’s writing.”

“Yes, it is.” Harry lowers his eyes out of respect for Khalid, whose sweating fingers fumble awkwardly with the corner, which is stuck down tight. The ordinary, small, delicate task is an ordeal for him. He hasn’t even tied a shoelace in the last two years. Sighing heavily, he taps a knee with the envelope for a moment before mentally snapping his fingers in front of his eyes and starting over. This time he gently peels back the obviously glued and messy re-stuck edge with a fingertip, slowly working along it until it tears. Pulling each slice back until the neatly folded letter appears inside. With a badly trembling hand, he rustles the thin sheet from its sleeve and opens it carefully to read the letter in silence. Doing his best to hold in his emotions, he’s unable to stop the odd tear racing down his face.

Meanwhile, Harry is busy shuffling papers, trying to give him the space to take in the sudden, amazing news that Dad’s fine.

“I’m sorry it’s taken so long to get to see you,” he says when Khalid folds the letter away. “Your family is well and sends you their deepest love.” Harry explains he’s spent months attempting to get the Americans to follow the due process of law by giving Khalid access to a lawyer and family and friends.

Khalid drops his eyes. He doesn’t want to talk about anything—not yet. A few minutes’ silence passes before Khalid says, “What are they accusing me of?”

“Well, the trouble is you signed a confession, albeit under duress, and they’re using that to detain you indefinitely. I have to be honest—this might take a while, Khalid. There’s a paranoia out there about people they refer to as evil terrorists that’s difficult to dispel.”

All this is too much for Khalid. It’s the first conversation he’s had with an Englishman who looks and talks like one of his teachers and probably went to university and all that. Plus he speaks so properly and friendly, it sounds weird. But at least he doesn’t talk down to him. Feeling suddenly grateful for the last few weeks spent chatting to Tariq, Khalid realizes he’s not as out of his depth as he would have been before.

“The fact you were picked up when you were just fifteen might work in your favor.” Harry frowns, nodding slowly.

“How come? It hasn’t so far.”

At this, Harry laughs. “I know. It took us a while to find you. Your dad traveled all over Pakistan looking for you, refusing to go home to Rochdale until he discovered what had happened. When he returned to England they confiscated the family computer and hauled him in for days of questioning but were unable to find anything.”

Harry goes on to tell him what’s been happening in the past two years. The various bombings in India, Turkey, Indonesia, Bali, the Philippines. The capture of Saddam Hussein. Most of which is lost on Khalid, because he can’t bear the thought that anyone might think he was involved in something as terrible as the events Harry describes. The fact there’s a small window behind Harry through which Khalid can see a truck going past distracts him for a moment from fully imagining the pain these people have suffered.

Harry seems to think with his fingers; he keeps patting his open laptop while trying to reassure Khalid that everything will be OK. Then he clicks his short nails together when he explains how long it took to get permission from the American government to visit him here.

All the while, the letter from Dad is safely folded in Khalid’s shaking hand and its words pierce him with pleasure as Harry talks.

“Is there anything you want to know?”

“Don’t suppose you have Rochdale’s soccer results by any chance?” Khalid asks.

With a long, deep laugh, Harry throws his head back and flicks his forehead with two fingers. “Why didn’t I think to find that out? Your dad told me you’re an avid fan. I’ll do my best to get that information for you as soon as I can. Don’t worry, Khalid, one day all this will be over and you can go back to your normal life, even though it might not feel normal for quite a while!” Looking him straight in the eye, Harry frowns. “Are you OK?”

“Not really!” He guesses Harry’s trying to tell how this conversation, the letter and his time here are affecting Khalid, and by the way Harry’s pursing his lips right now, maybe he’s wondering whether Khalid’s all right mentally.

When they come to take Khalid away, Harry glances at the floor, clearly emotional but doing his best to hide it.

“I’ll be back tomorrow to take a statement about everything,” he says.

“About how they tortured me?” Khalid says loudly for the guards’ benefit.

“Anything and everything.” Harry smiles to give him confidence and keep him going until then.

As soon as Khalid’s back in his cell, the flap in the metal and wire door slams open with an earth-shattering bang. Dropping the letter on the bed, Khalid moves quickly to take the plastic tray smelling of rotten fish from the soldier outside. Hardly bothering to glance at the bread roll and ball of rice, the foul-smelling fish in runny tomato sauce, he rests the tray on the floor, ignoring Tariq’s whispers as he rushes to read Dad’s letter again.

My dear, dear son,

So much sadness that you are knowing nothing about has been in all our hearts since you are gone. My heart is breaking in two as I write this letter. Everything in my life comes to nothing when I count the days since I last saw you in Karachi. Now we have found out where you are we are doing everything in our power to get you home. We will not stop until you are with us again. This you can be sure of, son. Don’t worry. I will make certain of it.

First I will tell you what happen to me in Karachi. It is a long story but I know you must be thinking of this many times. Perhaps you been imagining I’m not in this world any more. So I tell you about it so you don’t worry. I was walking down the street when a bike came into me there. Knocking me to my feet. A young man took me inside his house and offered me tea. I’m thinking this is kind and of course I was still in shock because actually my leg was painful and I was feeling dizzy at the same time. But something bad he put in the tea and then he robbed me and locked me in the basement. This is sounding like a film, no? But it is true. Every bit.

There I remained for three days until the man returned. He was most shocked to find me still alive. He freaks out, as you would say, then he runs off. Extremely weak and ill, I manage to make it up the steps and then it’s too much for me and I pass right out. For how long I’m there, son, I’m not certain, but when I wake up I’m at home in my sisters’ house. Luckily, a neighbor went by and when he glances down on the steps for no reason he recognizes me. Everyone was knowing I’m missing from the house. Almost dead I am. Then, son, when they brought me home and brought me back to life, Fatima says by feeding me her special spicy chicken curry, I eventually got myself better again for you. Only informing me when I was well enough to sit up that you had gone missing soon after me. I looked down every street for you. I walked and walked until I became sick from worry. I could not eat. I could not sleep. None of us could. Your poor mum, every day she cries and cries.