Cairo to Afghanistan? Why I stay Kabul for months? Why I having much money in pocket? I am telling them about my business, but no believe, and I’m having no birdcages, just necklaces in pocket.”
“What about your friend?” Khalid asks. “What happened to him?”
“They say he have no visa. What happening to him? I’m not knowing this. Then they say my passport out of date. I telling them I got typhoid. Very ill I being for months, but they not hearing.”
“Maybe they just wanted your money?” Khalid says. “They stole my watch.”
“This is possible.” Masud sighs. “But now they got money, you think they free me? They say Americans wanting me. They accuse me of being enemy combatant.”
“An incompetent? Why?” Khalid knows that word well. Remembering Mr. Tagg calling Nico an incompetent when he handed in his essay outline on the Spanish Inquisition with only three words on the page and plenty of space in between: beginning, middle, end.
Masud looks a lot cleverer than Nico to him. It doesn’t make sense.
“Combatant. Enemy combatant.” Exhausted, Masud closes his eyes.
“Oh, right. Sorry!” Khalid nods.
“Look at me!” Masud shakes his head.
“I’m looking,” Khalid says. Hoping for more.
“They are thinking I fighting against them. Against America. But I have no gun. No bullets. No knife. Only turquoise necklaces and money in pocket.”
“They can’t keep you here forever,” Khalid says quietly, trying to comfort him.
“No, they telling me in morning I’m going Kandahar in Afghanistan for processing. Why they bringing me all way here first, I’m not knowing.” For a second, silence overtakes Masud.
“Kandahar.” Repeating it, Khalid rests his head on his chest. Reminded of what the guy Dan said—is he still going there too? The memory of his abduction comes back to haunt him, speeding round and round inside his head. Why didn’t he try and stop them? Why didn’t he fight or try to run away? Why didn’t he scream? Do something? And though he and Masud are in the same situation now, they have nothing in common. Two weeks ago he was playing football in the park in Rochdale. Rochdale, for heaven’s sake—nowhere near any war zones or dangerous borders, any bombing or kidnapping. Masud is a grown-up who was found with a bunch of money in his pocket in a dangerous city, while he—he was just returning from the loo to the computer at his aunties’ house. Somebody sold Khalid to the authorities, made up lies about him, he’s certain now that’s what happened. It’s the reason no one listens to him. It must be. But what can he do to change their minds and convince them he’s innocent?
The faint tapping of footsteps resonates down the corridor. Khalid glances at the door, still half expecting someone tocome and tell him there’s been a mistake.
“In the name of Allah . . .” Masud responds to the call of prayer coming from a nearby mosque.
Khalid mumbles something about being tired, blushing slightly, but he has no desire to join in. The one thing he wishes he could change right now is the religion he was born into.
9
TO KANDAHAR
Inspired by Masud’s calm dignity, Khalid finds plenty to think about when they take him back to his room and he lies down—but he can’t sleep. There’s a car outside that keeps honking its horn and there’s no comfort to be found on this hard floor and itchy mat. So there are others here who have lost not only their families—Masud had a wife and four children in Cairo—but their businesses too. Masud has lost everything. What’s going on in the world that this can happen? Khalid cannot get his head around any of these crazy facts and each day he feels weirder than the day before.
Not until the first glimmers of daylight begin to peep through the gap in the window and he spreads flat on his stomach does Khalid finally fall asleep.
Waking up hours later to another quivering bolt of blue sky at the top of the window doesn’t
“What about your friend?” Khalid asks. “What happened to him?”
“They say he have no visa. What happening to him? I’m not knowing this. Then they say my passport out of date. I telling them I got typhoid. Very ill I being for months, but they not hearing.”
“Maybe they just wanted your money?” Khalid says. “They stole my watch.”
“This is possible.” Masud sighs. “But now they got money, you think they free me? They say Americans wanting me. They accuse me of being enemy combatant.”
“An incompetent? Why?” Khalid knows that word well. Remembering Mr. Tagg calling Nico an incompetent when he handed in his essay outline on the Spanish Inquisition with only three words on the page and plenty of space in between: beginning, middle, end.
Masud looks a lot cleverer than Nico to him. It doesn’t make sense.
“Combatant. Enemy combatant.” Exhausted, Masud closes his eyes.
“Oh, right. Sorry!” Khalid nods.
“Look at me!” Masud shakes his head.
“I’m looking,” Khalid says. Hoping for more.
“They are thinking I fighting against them. Against America. But I have no gun. No bullets. No knife. Only turquoise necklaces and money in pocket.”
“They can’t keep you here forever,” Khalid says quietly, trying to comfort him.
“No, they telling me in morning I’m going Kandahar in Afghanistan for processing. Why they bringing me all way here first, I’m not knowing.” For a second, silence overtakes Masud.
“Kandahar.” Repeating it, Khalid rests his head on his chest. Reminded of what the guy Dan said—is he still going there too? The memory of his abduction comes back to haunt him, speeding round and round inside his head. Why didn’t he try and stop them? Why didn’t he fight or try to run away? Why didn’t he scream? Do something? And though he and Masud are in the same situation now, they have nothing in common. Two weeks ago he was playing football in the park in Rochdale. Rochdale, for heaven’s sake—nowhere near any war zones or dangerous borders, any bombing or kidnapping. Masud is a grown-up who was found with a bunch of money in his pocket in a dangerous city, while he—he was just returning from the loo to the computer at his aunties’ house. Somebody sold Khalid to the authorities, made up lies about him, he’s certain now that’s what happened. It’s the reason no one listens to him. It must be. But what can he do to change their minds and convince them he’s innocent?
The faint tapping of footsteps resonates down the corridor. Khalid glances at the door, still half expecting someone tocome and tell him there’s been a mistake.
“In the name of Allah . . .” Masud responds to the call of prayer coming from a nearby mosque.
Khalid mumbles something about being tired, blushing slightly, but he has no desire to join in. The one thing he wishes he could change right now is the religion he was born into.
9
TO KANDAHAR
Inspired by Masud’s calm dignity, Khalid finds plenty to think about when they take him back to his room and he lies down—but he can’t sleep. There’s a car outside that keeps honking its horn and there’s no comfort to be found on this hard floor and itchy mat. So there are others here who have lost not only their families—Masud had a wife and four children in Cairo—but their businesses too. Masud has lost everything. What’s going on in the world that this can happen? Khalid cannot get his head around any of these crazy facts and each day he feels weirder than the day before.
Not until the first glimmers of daylight begin to peep through the gap in the window and he spreads flat on his stomach does Khalid finally fall asleep.
Waking up hours later to another quivering bolt of blue sky at the top of the window doesn’t
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