moment the door closes without the guard even glancing at him. Some things you get over and some things you don’t. Khalid knows this will stay with him for the rest of his life.
With each slam of the door, followed by the sound of hurriedly retreating footsteps, Khalid feels such self-pity it makes him want to faint. Waiting and waiting in this room smelling of grime, that’s bad enough, but the thing that hurts the most is not understanding anything.
8
MASUD
The ear-splitting noise of screeching furniture being dragged across the ceiling wakes Khalid up. For some reason the maroon velvet curtains are open. The strange sight of sunshine flooding the room takes a few seconds to reach his brain. Someone must have come in while he was sleeping and pulled the curtains back.
Nothing else about the room has changed. The small desk is in the same position in the middle of the floor. Two black plastic chairs on either side of it. Bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. The now-familiar smell of filth on the walls.
It’s then he realizes that two pieces of tape fixed to the window have come undone. The curtains are in the same place.
Now he remembers the guard with the wonky teeth coming in last night, fixing him with a sorry look and trying to rouse him as he lolled in the chair, half falling off. The guard uncuffed Khalid from the seat, then gently recuffed his wrists behind his back so he could lie down on the rough coir matting that covers most of the wooden floor. He threw Khalid a smelly blanket from the doorway before shutting out the yellow light from the corridor—he remembers that.
Khalid wonders if it’s possible to pull all the tape off. If the window opens he might somehow be able to get out. The thought makes his arms begin to ache. In whatever position he tried to sleep, he had to compensate for the unnatural place his shackled wrists found themselves. The best was when he lay on his stomach. Only then did the pain in his shoulders ease a little.
For some reason, the sight of the clear blue sky brings a feeling of expectation to Khalid. Perhaps today’s the day he’ll be going home, though by his reckoning this is the fifth day since he was captured and nothing’s happened to give him any hope.
With a sudden burst of energy, Khalid jumps up, runs to the window and, with his back to it, begins scratching at the tape stuck fast to the frame. Eventually, one corner comes away. Threads of tape peel off like string, leaving the main strip behind, which irritates him into getting down on his knees to attack it with his teeth. He soon realizes he’s achieving nothing but getting the odd stringy thread in his mouth—they tear off like cotton.
Then the door opens and yet another new guard smiles at him. Speaking in hesitant English.
“You want go toilet. Yes?”
Khalid nods, getting up slowly from the floor and angrily spitting out masking tape. “Tell me what I’m doing here.”
“Americans they you want.” The guard gives him a concerned grin.
“That’s crap,” Khalid responds. “I haven’t done anything to them. What did I do?”
This time the guard widens his eyes and shrugs, giving the impression after this question that he has no choice but to ignore him. His smile quickly disappears.
Like before, Khalid’s led to the toilet with a cloth covering his eyes. Like before, he’s back inside the plain room in a couple of minutes. Again, the door snapping shut on him feels like some kind of insult. Like a thump in the back.
“How dare you?” Khalid pounds it with cuffed wrists, then switches round to kick the door until it opens again. “You can’t leave me here on my own!” he yells at the same guard, who’s quickly joined by another man.
They both look at him for a second, then agree something between them with a shared look and a few whispers. Instantly, the cloth is thrown over his head again and he’s led down the same corridor as before.
Soon a door opens and he’s pushed
With each slam of the door, followed by the sound of hurriedly retreating footsteps, Khalid feels such self-pity it makes him want to faint. Waiting and waiting in this room smelling of grime, that’s bad enough, but the thing that hurts the most is not understanding anything.
8
MASUD
The ear-splitting noise of screeching furniture being dragged across the ceiling wakes Khalid up. For some reason the maroon velvet curtains are open. The strange sight of sunshine flooding the room takes a few seconds to reach his brain. Someone must have come in while he was sleeping and pulled the curtains back.
Nothing else about the room has changed. The small desk is in the same position in the middle of the floor. Two black plastic chairs on either side of it. Bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. The now-familiar smell of filth on the walls.
It’s then he realizes that two pieces of tape fixed to the window have come undone. The curtains are in the same place.
Now he remembers the guard with the wonky teeth coming in last night, fixing him with a sorry look and trying to rouse him as he lolled in the chair, half falling off. The guard uncuffed Khalid from the seat, then gently recuffed his wrists behind his back so he could lie down on the rough coir matting that covers most of the wooden floor. He threw Khalid a smelly blanket from the doorway before shutting out the yellow light from the corridor—he remembers that.
Khalid wonders if it’s possible to pull all the tape off. If the window opens he might somehow be able to get out. The thought makes his arms begin to ache. In whatever position he tried to sleep, he had to compensate for the unnatural place his shackled wrists found themselves. The best was when he lay on his stomach. Only then did the pain in his shoulders ease a little.
For some reason, the sight of the clear blue sky brings a feeling of expectation to Khalid. Perhaps today’s the day he’ll be going home, though by his reckoning this is the fifth day since he was captured and nothing’s happened to give him any hope.
With a sudden burst of energy, Khalid jumps up, runs to the window and, with his back to it, begins scratching at the tape stuck fast to the frame. Eventually, one corner comes away. Threads of tape peel off like string, leaving the main strip behind, which irritates him into getting down on his knees to attack it with his teeth. He soon realizes he’s achieving nothing but getting the odd stringy thread in his mouth—they tear off like cotton.
Then the door opens and yet another new guard smiles at him. Speaking in hesitant English.
“You want go toilet. Yes?”
Khalid nods, getting up slowly from the floor and angrily spitting out masking tape. “Tell me what I’m doing here.”
“Americans they you want.” The guard gives him a concerned grin.
“That’s crap,” Khalid responds. “I haven’t done anything to them. What did I do?”
This time the guard widens his eyes and shrugs, giving the impression after this question that he has no choice but to ignore him. His smile quickly disappears.
Like before, Khalid’s led to the toilet with a cloth covering his eyes. Like before, he’s back inside the plain room in a couple of minutes. Again, the door snapping shut on him feels like some kind of insult. Like a thump in the back.
“How dare you?” Khalid pounds it with cuffed wrists, then switches round to kick the door until it opens again. “You can’t leave me here on my own!” he yells at the same guard, who’s quickly joined by another man.
They both look at him for a second, then agree something between them with a shared look and a few whispers. Instantly, the cloth is thrown over his head again and he’s led down the same corridor as before.
Soon a door opens and he’s pushed
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