Guantanamo Boy (16 page)

It’s a room Khalid gets to know well, because every single half-hour over the next three days the soldiers barge in to wake him. He fades in and out of the most disturbed sleep ever conceived as his mind wanders to thoughts and images he had no idea were even stored there.

The lights are on . . .

. . . Apart from a blue mat, there’s nothing else in the cell, which is the size of the bathroom back in Rochdale.

Nothing,

except a steel toilet in one corner.

No window.

Only gray walls and the smell of burning, dust and sweat . . .

. . . They drag him out—they throw him back.

Now he’s staring at the air conditioner again.

Breathing in the smell of his own flesh.

On his own.

For

how

long

this

time . . . ?

. . . If

he can close

his brain down for a bit,

then maybe he can forget?

Perhaps if the guards stay away, he

can fall into a long, timeless sleep instead

of the half-hour here and there before another bitter

wake-up . . .

. . . Khalid turns over

on the mat

to lie on his back,

listening

to his

beating heart.

Vaguely wondering

if he’s got          

                         the energy

to               pull                  himself                  up

and                  take                  a                     leak.

Can he be bothered?

Not

really

Now, this is the third day in a row they’ve disturbed him. Aware he might never sleep again, Khalid decides not to try again. Especially as he’s done everything to numb the light. Pulling the mat over his head. Burying his face in his arms—in the wall. Nothing works. Even trying to sleep with his hands on his face only makes his eyes itch more . . .

This is the third day in a row they’ve disturbed him.

He’ll never sleep again, why try? Especially as he’s

done everything to numb the light. Pulling the mat over his head. Burying his face in his arms. Nothing works. Even trying to sleep with his hands on his eyes only makes his eyelids HURT . . . Pulling the mat over his head again and again.

Once more burying his face in the wall.

iiiiiiiiI

IN

T

H   E

Seeing only his own hands over his own eyes.

Red fingers on fingers.

Smelling of sweat.

                   Footsteps down the corridor sound inside a mind of shadows so dark, he can hardly remember what day it is anymore . . .

Finally they unlock the adjoining room next door, taking him into a smaller room with a black table and large spotlight. Three chairs.

The same two interrogators from before march in to question him. The same dull angry faces bear down on him. One flashes up photo after photo of the victims of 9/11. A blazing spotlight on Khalid’s weak, defeated face.

“You see this woman? Her four children are now orphans. See this man jumping from the flames? His mother died the day before and now his daughter is suffering from cancer. See this girl—she was the cleaner. Only her second day there. See this guy? See him . . .?”

The blazing light is left on here too and Khalid is completely delirious. His mind wanders back through his life. His memories change shape the more he looks at the photos. Expanding, shrinking, merging into story forms, adding scenes from films and episodes from football games. Until every detail of the life he once knew becomes too painful to relive.

Khalid’s heart slowly gives up on him at the sight of so much pain. So much heartache. These ordinary people. Dead. Their lives cruelly cut short. By the time Khalid’s dragged back to the cell next door, all he can think about are the things he’s done wrong in his life. The pain he’s caused. Like the time he stole those black jeans from that little Polish guy down the market. Galloping off like a maniac, jeans under his arm. Nico running behind, roaring with laughter. They thought they were so clever. So cool.

He remembers all the people he’s hurt and betrayed. Like when he collected money in the street for Bosnia and, instead of handing it in, emptied the tin with a knife, putting the pound coins in his pocket and leaving only the small change behind. Thinking back to the day he and Tony Banda bunked off school to go to Renzo’s house to smoke cigarettes and swig his dad’s gin. Telling his teacher his mum would write a letter to explain his absence, then writing it himself. That time in the high street he ran away when he saw Dad walking towards him, ashamed of the sight of him in his old-fashioned clothes. And Mum, he’d snapped at her so many times just because she wouldn’t let him go on the computer until he’d done his homework.

The list goes on and on as they drag him back to his cell, adding to the awful pictures flashing through his mind. That poor woman. Her poor kids. Now they’ve got no one.

The next day, hell starts with the dull thudding of footsteps down the corridor. On the mat, Khalid turns from the wall to lie on his back, staring at the green light of the air-conditioning unit until it starts blinking on and off again. An uncomfortable smell of feet hovers over him all of a sudden, while he clocks the same twisting ache of disappointment and loneliness that he felt yesterday, the day before and the day before that.

After yet another endless night without sleep, he can’t even be bothered to wonder what questions they’re going to ask him today. The lack of sleep tears his dreams to shreds. The piercing shouts of the guards waking him up time and time again during the night scramble his brain. Barging in to steal sleep from him every time he grows close to losing himself, sharply pulling him back to these four walls. By the time they come for him, Khalid’s barely conscious.

The sudden ache of being tightly chained and dragged from the room makes him scream like a tiny baby.

Not to worry
, the thought flashes through him.
They interrogated me yesterday and then left me on the floor to freeze, but I slept for three hours straight
.